Read Soul Thief (Blue Light Series) Online
Authors: Mark Edward Hall
Soul Thief (Blue Light Series)
SOUL THIEF
SOUL THIEF
Copyright ©2013 by Mark Edward Hall
Published by Lost Village Publishing. All rights reserved.
Book Description:
The Brotherhood of the
Order is one of the oldest and most mysterious organizations on earth. Its primary mission is to protect one of the most carefully guarded secrets in human history, an object so enigmatic and powerful that in the wrong hands it could wreak havoc upon the earth. In the right hands it just might have the power to save humanity from its own destructive impulses.
Doug McArthur, hit in the face by a young friend at the age of seven, is suddenly able to see a supernatural creature who calls itself Collector. Doug’s life is turned upside down when he realizes that it’s not just the creature he sees, but the atrocities it commits.
Since marrying Annie his visions have been quiet and Doug is grateful. Now Annie is pregnant with their first child—a child that promises to be special—and their world is in the process of coming apart, beginning with the destruction of their home and forcing them to run for their lives, back into the world of Annie’s childhood, the De Roché dynasty, to a murdered mother and a cruel and enigmatic father.
Doug, whose love for Annie borders on the obsessive, has a deep and abiding hate for her father. He is nearly insane with grief over their plight, but soon finds that De Roché is the least of his worries when he begins to hear the pleading voice of a lost child that he cannot possibly save.
And then, in the midst of Annie’s mother’s funeral, Doug is given a strange artifact, along with a dire warning by a dying priest. He must leave Annie and his unborn child and begin a sojourn into the darkest regions of the human heart.
In his attempt to save his wife and unborn child, Doug finds that there is much more at stake than the lives of two people, perhaps the very salvation of the human soul.
Soul Thief
is the second novel in the
Blue Light Series
, a supernatural thriller that will keep you guessing until the startling conclusion.
Look for
On the Night Wind,
the third book in the
Blue Light Series,
scheduled for publication in 2014.
This book is a work of fiction. Names characters, places and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to actual events or locales is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.
Visit the author’s website:
ONE
ARIEL
April 19th
The Callaghan family from Exeter New Hampshire was watching television when death came knocking on their door.
“Would you please see who
that is?” Ben asked his son Jason.
Survivor
was on and the interruption was an irritation.
Ben
Callaghan, husband, father and little league coach worked in the plumbing and heating business. Peg was a full time mother and housewife. They had two children: twelve year old Jason and six year old Ariel.
When
the knocking began, the family dog, a yellow Labrador retriever named Ringo, raised his hackles and began to bark.
“Sure,” Jason said, getting up off the couch and heading for the door. There were two doors, actually, an inner door that led out onto a glassed-in porch and an outer door that led to the front steps.
When Jason opened the inner door the dog rushed past him barking frantically. This did not bother Jason much, for the dog always barked when someone came to the door. It was usually an excited, tail-wagging bark, because the Callaghan family had many friends and sometimes these friends brought treats for Ringo.
Jason switched on the outside light and saw the silhouette of a person standing beyond the glass of the outer door. Jason could not discern any features; just the vague form of someone who seemed very tall, dressed in what looked like a black raincoat with an attached hood. Outside the howling wind of a spring storm gusted sheets of rain against the door’s window.
Ringo saw the silhouette too, and this only heightened his frantic baying.
“Come on,” Jason said, taking
Ringo by the collar and dragging him back into the house. The dog did not want to go. He began to yelp and yowl, pulling to get free. His teeth were bared and a ring of white foam had formed around his mouth. This was not like Ringo at all.
“Who is it?” Peg asked in irritation, looking up at her son from the program on the television.
“Don’t know yet,” Jason replied in exasperation. “But the dog’s acting really weird. Would you keep him in here?”
“Sure
.”
“It’s the
Collector,” Ariel said.
“What did you say?” Peg asked, looking over at her daughter in puzzlement.
Ariel sat forward in her seat staring at the door. “The Collector. He collects special souls and I’m one of the important ones.”
“What are you talking about,
Ariel?”
“The Collector. I
have to go with him.”
Peg Callaghan
stared at her daughter, a small expression of alarm on her face. “Don’t be ridiculous, Ariel. You don’t have to go anywhere.”
“Oh yes I do.”
The dog began to howl again, long and mournful, like a wolf baying at the moon.
“
Will somebody shut that dog up?” Ben Callaghan hollered, picking up the remote control to raise the volume.
Jason
backed quickly out onto the porch and closed the inner door behind him, hoping to block out the dog’s incessant caterwauling. In the distance he heard his father yelling angrily at Ringo.
“Coming!” Jason
said to the caller whose tall, dark silhouette was still visible beyond the rain-smeared glass. But something made Jason hesitate. He had this strange feeling in his chest, like there was a hand around his heart giving it a squeeze. His breath had gone shallow and an eerie coldness surrounded him. For a moment he thought he might throw up. He stood for a long moment looking at the door listening to the dog wailing behind him. He’d answered the door hundreds of times to dozens of friends and family and had never felt this way before. He could not understand what was happening to him.
Open the door, Jason!
A cold voice inside his head seemed to say.
Open it now!
Jason obeyed the voice
. Walking trance-like to the door he put his hand on the knob and pulled the door toward him. And the last thought to enter his mind before he died was,
there’s something wrong with this man.
Inside the house, the dog bayed so loudly it sounded like a scream of terror.
The telephone call that saved their lives, and nearly destroyed them, came at five o’clock on a rainy, windy morning in April.
Doug McArthur was having a terrible dream.
No . . . please, God. Not after all this time. I need to wake up before this gets out of hand.
But it was already too late; he was fully immersed in the nightmare and there didn’t seem to be any way out of it. He saw the shape standing on the door stoop—tall, impossibly tall—wearing the familiar black robe, the
hood covering the head, the single burning red eye bright as a miniature sun. And he saw the kid’s startled expression a split second before his body calcified—like Lot’s wife hardening into a pillar of salt for venturing a glance back at Sodom. And it was so
real,
like he was somehow a part of it, connected to it in some fundamental way. Yet he knew it was impossible. He was asleep in his bed with Annie beside him.
But the dream that could not be real would not end. He knew the
Collector was aware of him watching, knowing that he knew, and taking some sort of perverse pleasure in knowing. He saw the shape streak like stretching metal past the fossilized kid and move into the house.
He heard the dog’s hysterical baying halt in mid-stream, and then he again saw living human beings turn instantly to
fossils, the little girl running, hiding under her bed, the red eye watching her, ancient and implacable, like a permanent rent in the fabric of space-time.
Come out, little girl. I’m not going to hurt you.
You hurt my
mommy and daddy,
the little girl said.
And you hurt my big brother.
I had to, little one.
It was time for me to come for you and they would have tried to stop me.
I know I have to go with you,
the little girl cried.
But I don’t know why.
Because
you have been chosen for a very special purpose.
Wh
at purpose?
I’m afraid you won’t know that for a
very long time, love, but you can trust that it is so. Come now, I won’t hurt you, I promise. You can live with me in my House of Bones until your time comes round.
But I don’t want to live in your House of Bones!
You must, little one; it is your destiny. Come so that I may prepare the way.
The burning red eye exploded suddenly inside Doug’s head,
fragmenting his psyche and scattering it into a thousand black and flailing creatures, like pieces of living confetti. Doug sucked ragged breath into his lungs as he tumbled from the edge of a cliff and fell into an abyss. His raging howl of desperation resounded in his head even as the fluttering bits of confetti morphed into birds—hundreds, perhaps thousands of them—squawking, squealing, shrieking, trying to drive their evil noise into his brain. He was sweat-soaked and trembling with fear. His saliva tasted like acid on his tongue and his heart pounded out a brisk rhythm in his chest.
He tried to come awake, knowing somehow that he must, that his life, and probably Annie’s, depended on it. He felt himself rising
slowly up out of his thick stratum of slumber, panic fighting fatigue, lunacy battling common sense.
In a sudden scene-change he was sitting up
right in bed. Somehow the evil creatures—confetti birds—had broken through the windows and into the bedroom. They were streaming in by the hundreds, gathering on the mantle, the chests of drawers, perching on the bed posts. They looked to be some sort of large blackbirds, alien, a species he did not recognize; birds from hell, their bodies and heads streamlined, plumage slick like wet tar, sleek like little winged machines. Staring menacingly out of their streamlined heads were eyes the color of arterial blood. He looked over and noted, in a wholly clinical way, that Annie’s face was completely covered in the grotesque creatures. And as he watched, the loathsome things began to abandon their feast, and he saw that Annie’s eyes had been pecked out. A viscous mixture of pus-like fluid and blood poured from the blank eye-cavities and ran down the sides of her face in variegated streaks. The dreadful mixture pooled on the pillow around her matted blonde hair. Annie’s half-eaten tongue hung bloodily from her mouth.
Doug moaned loudly and came awake with his heart in his mouth. He had to grasp the edge of the mattress to keep from tumbling off the bed. His breath burst from his lungs in a painful gasp as sweat trickled down the sides of his face.
Oh, dear God,
he thought, s
uch terrible dreams.
“Annie!” he cried out, still not entirely certain of his consciousness. But he could see now that she was okay. Her eyes were closed in sleep but decidedly intact, as were the windows. There were no alien birds in the room, no pieces of living confetti, but somehow he still felt their menacing presence, as though they
had
been there and they’d left some sort of bitter residue at the center of his psyche. A phrase suddenly surfaced in his mind, more a plea than anything else:
Please, mister, my name is Ariel. I’m lost and forgotten. You need to find me.
Oh, God no,
Doug thought.
This can’t be happening. I can’t do this
.
But the voice reiterated:
Please,
you have to find me.
“Where are you,
Ariel?” Doug whispered, knowing even as he acknowledged the plea what the answer would be, and that it was futile to begin with; he could not help the child. He had tried to help other children years ago but had failed miserably.
I’m trapped in the House of Bones and I can’t get out. You’re the only one who can help me!
Doug put his hands over his ears, trying to block out the voice. “No!” he moaned. “I can’t help you. I don’t know how. This can’t be happening again. I won’t accept it. I won’t
listen.”
But he knew it was already too late.
He suspected what the morning headline would look like:
FAMILY MYSTERIOUSLY MURDERED IN THEIR HOME! LITTLE GIRL GONE MISSING!
Doug had this . . . connection. He couldn’t explain what it was, why he had it, or from where it had come. Nobody could. Not the greatest psychiatrists, the smartest scientists or the most gifted policemen. And oh how he hated himself for having it.
But he couldn’t think about that now. Something was terribly wrong, something other than the knowledge of the dead family and the missing child. He felt it in every fiber of his being. Awake now, he looked toward the window. The pale light of an uncertain dawn had begun to steal its way into the bedroom.
“Phone,” Annie said stirring, her voice muffled by the pillow.
“What?”
“Phone’s ringing.”
It was then that Doug realized
that Annie was right; the phone
was
ringing. It probably had been for several minutes. “Christ,” he said, leaning over and clumsily grabbing it up.
It was odd, later, when his mind would come back to the events of that morning—as it did often
in those terrible days that followed—how he always remembered the sound of the phone, and how it had somehow become a part of the dream, interwoven with the cries and shrieks of the alien birds.
“Hello?” he
asked, his voice oddly tentative.
“
Douglas, this is your father-in-law.”
Doug stiffened. He was dimly aware of holding the phone receiver too tight. He turned to his wife. “Here, you can talk to your daughter.”
“No, Douglas! I don’t care how much you hate me! Listen to what I have to say!”
“Screw you!”
“Get Annie out of the house, now!”
“What the hell—?”
“—Just shut up and listen to me for a moment! Someone is going to try and take her and they
will
kill you if you try to stop them. Am I getting through to you, Douglas? They killed my wife and they
will
kill you.”
“
Oh, Christ, Ed, when?”
“Last night.”
Annie stretched over and switched on her bedside lamp. She was sitting up now, staring fixedly at Doug, her face pale, like chalk.
“Go!” the man on the end of the line insisted. “Get Annie out of the house
now
before it’s too late. They want her and they’ll do anything to get her.”
“You set this up—”
“Just do as I say, Douglas, or I promise you, you
will
be dead. Don’t take time to pack and don’t speak of where you’re going out loud. Annie has my secure number. Have her call me when you’re in a safe location.” The phone went dead in Doug’s hand. He stared at it, unable to loosen his numb fingers.
Annie was still staring at him, but now her eyes were glassy with grief. Wetness stained her cheeks. Doug threw the phone away, jumped out of bed and began dressing hastily.
“Is there something wrong with mama?” Annie said.
“
Jesus, Annie, I’m so sorry.”
“What happened?”
“Get dressed! There’s no time—”
“Tell me!”
“We’re in danger. Please, let’s get out of here!”
A noise somewhere—not loud or particularly alarming, just unusual—brought Annie to her senses. She moved quickly and quietly out of bed, slipped into jeans and a T-shirt. Doug slid open the drawer of his bedside stand and grabbed the automatic. He pulled the magazine back and chambered a round.
He knew how to use the gun. Actually he was somewhat of an expert after years of shooting and training under the expert tutelage of Portland Police Lieutenant, Rick Jennings, the man who had helped raise him to adulthood.
“Come on,” he whispered.
In the dim light of dawn he took Annie by the hand and began making his way toward the door, but stopped suddenly, thinking better of it. He could hear the raucous noise of a hundred migrating birds outside in the leafless trees, shrieking in his brain like fingernails on a blackboard.
“Oh, Jesus,” Annie said, her hand tightening in Doug’s. “Is that what I think it is?”
“Birds,” Doug said.
“No, the smell. It’s gas!”
“Shit,” Doug said, turning back toward the window. He let go of Annie’s hand and pushed the window up. Outside rain gusted in sheets. Beneath the window there was a small landing with a narrow and steep set of stairs attached along the side of the house. Doug had added it when they’d finished building the place five years ago. Nothing fancy, but protection enough in case of fire.
He went out first, and as he did so, a flock of startled blackbirds took noisy wing from the balcony railing, their shrieking flight causing Doug’s heart to hammer wildly in his chest. Doug stood frozen. On the railing perched a lone straggler, its head cocked as it stared coldly at Doug with one small
, but very bright, red eye. The second eye appeared to be missing; a milky and membranous film covered it. Doug almost stopped breathing. The Collector, he thought, as a series of unwanted memories began flooding into his mind. But he could not think about that now. He never wanted to think about it again. He had to get Annie to safety. He swiped the grotesque creature from the railing with the hand that held the gun. The bird flew into the gloom, cawing loudly as it did so. Its neck was craned to the side and it appeared to be glaring back at Doug with that one terrible red jewel-of-an-eye. Doug aimed the nine millimeter at the retreating creature and almost pulled the trigger. But something would not allow him to do so. He shivered as a dark and ethereal fluttering in his head tried to paralyze him.
No way,
he thought.
You’re not doing this to me. Not here. Not now.
But the sensation would not go away; it was sludgy in his head, like cold motor oil.
Doug briskly shook his head.
Come on, you need to be alert. You can’t think about this now.
He surveyed the back yard, guessing it looked okay. Hard to tell with the rain sheeting across the lawn the way it was. He took Annie’s hand and helped her out onto the landing. The driving torrents caused her to quake with cold shivers.
On the horizon dawn punched eerie pink light into an otherwise dead eastern sky.
“Oh, God, my paintings!” Annie said, pulling away from him and trying to get back into the house.
Doug grabbed her wrist. “Sorry, Annie, there’s no time.”
“But—”
“No buts. Your life is more important than those paintings.”
He gingerly led the way down the treacherous steps, gun held out before him, amazed that no one was there to greet them. Something didn’t add up. But there wasn’t time to think about that either. His instincts told him to move. They hit the ground, running across the spacious back lawn toward the woods beyond.
Behind them the house exploded in a hive of sound and light. They were both blown forward onto their hands and knees, their backs nearly flash-fried. They were up and running again in an instant. Gunfire exploded behind them, several weapons of the automatic variety, followed by the sharp commands of an authoritative voice. They did not stop, or turn to fight, but kept running. A hundred yards or so into the woods Annie halted, doubling over.