Paul Kohler - The Borrowed Souls, A Novel

Paul B. Kohler is the author of the highly acclaimed novel, Linear Shift, and the remarkable novel series, The Hunted Assassin. Aside from his longer works, a number of his short stories have been included in various anthologies. His latest short, Rememorations, has been included in The Immortality Chronicles - a Top 5 SF Anthology and Hot New Releases. Rememorations was also nominated for Best American Science Fiction.

When not practicing architecture, Paul works on his writing. He lives in Littleton, Colorado.

To learn more about him and his books, visit www.Paul-Kohler.net.

The Borrowed Souls, A Novel is the combination of seven independently published parts of Jack Duffy’s adventure through the afterlife. It’s a speculative glimpse of what “might be” once we pass on to the next world. I’ve used my creative license to develop a story that explores those possibilities. Please consider that when reading the following story. But, more importantly, enjoy the read!

For Alicia

Everything was a blur, and I had to force my eyes to focus on the hand touching my shoulder. With effort, the watch on his wrist became clear. It read 1:45. My eyes followed up his arm, to his shoulder, and finally to the person the hand belonged to. The face was covered by several days of growth, and he had crystal-clear eyes.

“Hey, buddy. Last stop,” he said, standing above me.

It took me a few moments to realize what was going on. Was this … heaven? Or was it hell? I tried to stand up but slumped back again.

“Easy now. Had a few too many tonight?” asked the driver.

“Uh, I…” is all I could form in my mouth.

“Don’t worry, buddy. I’ve been there before. You know I’m supposed to call the police when I find a drunk on my bus, but you look harmless enough. Let’s get you out to the bench and you can take your time waking up.” The driver pulled me up and led me down the aisle of the bus. He helped me down the steps and over to the bench.

Bidding me farewell, the bus driver climbed back in and drove off. I glanced around but nothing looked familiar. To say I was feeling a bit disoriented would be an understatement. As I sat on the cold steel bench, I tried to piece together what might have happened to me. I looked at my watch: 1:53 a.m. Where had the time gone? All I could surmise was that I was extremely late getting home from work and that Cyndi was probably worried.

Despite my throbbing head and the strong desire to curl up on the bus-stop bench to take an extended nap, I forced myself up and began to stagger down the block. As I neared the corner, I looked at the street signs. Neither of the cross streets sounded familiar. I looked in all four directions, wondering which direction home was, and chose the one that looked the most promising.

As I slowly stumbled along the vacant sidewalk, my mind began to retrace my evening. For the life of me, I couldn’t even remember even getting on the bus. The last thing I could remember was leaving some café after work. I tried to remember who I was with and kept coming up blank. I must have been with Cyndi. But every time I thought of my wife, I began to feel anger creep into my head. Where was the anger coming from?

After another block of foreign surroundings, I realized I wasn’t alone. With my head clearing more by the minute, I slyly glanced back over my shoulder and noticed a man. He was older, dressed in a tan suit with a white fedora. He followed me, keeping pace about a half block behind. Looking forward again I mumbled, “Cyndi, where the hell am I?”

Speaking her name jarred something loose in my head, and the memories from the past twenty-four hours began to resurface. A feeling of loss and despair rushed in, but I could not pinpoint the reason behind it. I felt my pulse rise, anxiety shot to the surface, and my pace quickened. I looked back at the man following me, and he also increased his pace. Not wanting to discover his intentions, I turned the corner, and, once out of sight, I sprinted to the nearest alley.

Ducking into the darkness of the backstreet, I stood in the shadows until the man passed by. He never did. I waited several minutes before I decided to move, and just as I stepped away from the dingy brick wall, a voice came from behind me.

“Feeling a little lost, Mr. Duffy?” The voice was little more than a harsh murmur, but the echo in the alley was thunderous.

I spun around, and the man was standing calmly in the alley. Next to the brightness of his hat, the color of his skin paled in comparison. His eyes were deep and sorrowful as he looked upon me with determination.

“Come again?” I asked.

“It’s completely understandable. Riding the M-5 for six hours nonstop would certainly cause bewilderment for anyone,” said the mysterious man.

Dumbfounded, I stared at the man. He was a stranger to me, but there was something about him that seemed familiar. “I’m sorry, have we met? You seem to know me by name and know where I was tonight.”

“We’ve not been formally introduced, but rest assured, I’m not here to harm you. What do you remember from last night?” he asked.

“I tell ya’, not much. I woke up on the bus, and all I can remember is leaving a café sometime after work. The rest of my day is a blur,” I replied, rubbing my temples to soothe an ever-present headache.

“I sometimes find that starting at the beginning of the day is best. Shall we have a seat and begin?” asked the man as he led me across a dimly-lit street to a park bench that I hadn’t noticed before stepping into the alley. As unusual as the situation was, it seemed like the right thing to do at the time, so I didn’t protest.

“Now then, Mr. Duffy. What was the first thing this morning that you can recall?” asked the man.

“Wait up. Seeing as you know me, maybe you should at least tell me who you are,” I stated, hoping to glean as much information about the stranger as I could.

“Come now, Mr. Duffy. You know who I am.”

“Sorry, but I really don’t. You seem familiar, but I don’t remember ever meeting you.”

“Oh, that is quite correct. We’ve not been formally introduced.”

“Then what do I call you?”

“Whatever you wish,” he said smiling.

“I don’t understand. Haven’t you got a name?”

“I do, but it doesn’t matter what you call me.”

We sat on the park bench for several moments in silence; all the while I was racking my brain as to why the last twenty-plus hours were missing from my memory.

“As I mentioned, it might help starting from the moment you woke this morning, or yesterday morning, rather.”

The stranger held his closed hand toward me, and when he opened it, there was a large gold coin in his open palm. “Take this coin, Mr. Duffy. Take it and turn it over in your hands. Examine the two faces of the coin, and try to focus on the moment you woke.”

I took the coin and did as he asked. The coin was quite old, the surfaces worn nearly smooth. I could just barely make out the words, “In God We Trust,” but nothing more. I turned the coin over, and as I did, my morning came flooding back to me.

I rolled over and glanced at the time: 6:43 shone in amber on the nightstand. I reached over and clicked off the alarm. Isn’t it strange how one day you can set your alarm and wake up moments before it goes off, but another day you forget and you wake an hour late?