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Thirteen
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Devourer of Souls Fourteen
FOURTEENJake brought his bike to a skidding stop along Bassler Road’s gravel shoulder. I followed suit. We walked our bikes the rest of the way. As we turned onto Mr. Trung’s property, his trailer leaped from the darkness, a dim white ghost partially lit by one porch light.To our left the rows of blueberry bushes looked like dark, impenetrable walls of a maze. On the other side of the trailer lay Mr. Trung’s beautifully manicured flower gardens and his koi pond . . .Mr. Trung, praying in the koi pond.The koi praying to him.. . . and I felt a surge of inexplicable relief that Mr. Trung’s trailer blocked my view of the garden and that koi pond.The koi.Praying to Mr. Trung.“Here,” Jake whispered as he cut off the road, across the shallow ditch and along the edge of Mr. Trung’s property. “Quieter than the driveway.”I followed him—still tugged along by some strange insistence I didn’t understand—looking at Mr. Trung’s darkened trailer. No lights shone in the windows. Only
Devourer of Souls Fifteen
FIFTEENI crouched at the edge of those blueberry bushes, quietly afraid. Jake left his bike with me, hoisted his backpack over his shoulder, hefted his hammer once more and melted into the darkness soundlessly like a cat.I couldn’t help but shiver, thinking about Dad saying James Burns could do the same thing as a kid. That’s why he’d been picked to be a Green Beret, because he could fade into the misty Cambodian jungles like he’d never been there at all. Here Jake was, doing the same, leaving me alone. The night closed in around me, darker than I’d ever seen it, so dark I could barely make out my hand.After what seemed like forever finally it came: the sharp ring of metal striking stone, Jake swinging away at that stone chest under the gazebo. On the first strike every muscle in my body tensed. I gripped the flashlight so hard my knuckles ached, expecting the shrill sound and its echoes to bring something from either the shadowed depths of the blueberry bushes or from Mr. Trung’
Devourer of Souls Sixteen
SIXTEENSomehow I made it in the house undetected. Dad had gone to bed, sleeping soundly as always. Amy hadn’t come home yet from hanging out with her friends. Mind and body numb, arms and legs limp, I managed to stow my bike against the garage, sneak inside without waking Dad up, and somehow crawl into bed without a sound.Believe it or not, I fell asleep almost instantly. I’d expended all my energy in my mad dash home. Overloaded, my mind also shut down. I burrowed deep into the covers, closed my eyes and dropped into the black abyss of sleep.But it was not restful.I dreamed. Worse yet, I couldn’t wake myself up. Instead of dreaming and jolting awake, my mind slogged through a nightmare that I couldn’t drag myself free of. A nightmare of being Jake and swinging at that stone chest under the gazebo in Mr. Trung’s flower garden . . .***I swing and swing, repeatedly hitting the lid to the stone chest under Mr. Trung’s pagoda, hating that goddamn gook bastard with every breath
Devourer of Souls Seventeen
SEVENTEENFor several days afterward I stumbled about half-aware of the world around me, hard at work convincing myself that I certainly hadn’t seen what I’d thought I had. I couldn’t have. There hadn’t been legions of bullfrogs croaking in Mr. Trung’s koi pond, it had only sounded that way. That hadn’t been a strange pale green mist floating up from the pond and filling the flower gardens. It had been a motion lamp from the back of Mr. Trung’s trailer, tripped by Jake skulking around in the flower gardens, and the lamp had lit up the fog and mists.Most importantly, there hadn’t been something squishing its way out of the koi pond. Jake hadn’t been screaming. I hadn’t glimpsed something wet and glistening in the light. Obviously Mr. Trung had moved his car and hid, waiting for Jake to make his move, and had jumped out and surprised him. That’s why Jake screamed.Obviously.Regardless, I spent Thursday and Friday drifting from one activity to another. As luck would have it, Dad had
Devourer of Souls Eighteen
EIGHTEENJake Burns was never seen in Clifton Heights again. The news broke in the churches that Sunday morning, the local pastors requesting prayer for James Burns because it appeared that his only son Jake had ‘run away.’ Kevin called me about it later that afternoon.Amazingly enough I felt nothing at all, initially. I’d returned from my journey along the railroad tracks Saturday exhausted, drained, my mind emptied. I passed a restful night after a quiet evening listening to old re-runs of The Shadow on AM radio while cooking hotdogs over the campfire with Dad and Amy.I knew Jake hadn’t run away (or at least I thought I did) but something had happened in my head on that long, mostly forgotten ramble along the railroad tracks. The terror had leaked away, leaving only vague images and impressions. I never shared with my friends what I thought I’d seen that night. I agreed with their assumption that Jake had finally decided to flee the domestic abuse all of us so tactfully never di
Devourer of Souls The Skylark Diner
THE SKYLARK DINERFather Ward closes the journal but doesn’t look up for several minutes as he taps its cover with a fingertip. His expression looks similar to the one I’ve always imagined wearing after finishing Gavin’s latest batch of stories: one of incredulous, amazed unease.Of course, neither Father Ward nor Fitzy has read many of Gavin’s stories. They apparently decided early on there was a limit to what they wanted to “know” about this town. It’s become understood that Gavin’s stories are strictly for him and I. This story, however, felt intended for Father Ward. At the very least, he figured so largely in it I believed he needed to read it.When Father Ward still hadn’t spoken after another minute, I broke the silence. “When’s the last time you saw Nate Slocum?”Father Ward glances at me, his expression thoughtful. “Months. Think maybe I ran into him at The Great American one day, buying groceries. We chatted briefly about nothing in particular. He seemed okay. I mean, not
Devourer of Souls The Man in Yellow
THE MAN IN YELLOW
Devourer of Souls One
ONE. . . so I’m not sure how this goes. ‘Forgive me Father, for I have sinned?’ Except I’m not Catholic. I’m not much of anything, anymore.”I leaned closer to the confessional grate, amused. Back when I was fresh out of seminary I might’ve offered a mild rebuke or advised the penitent to seek counsel at either the institution of their denomination, or from a professional counselor. However, after years of experience I’ve come to realize that sometimes folks simply need relief from their burdens. These days I’m more than happy to offer an ear, regardless of their denomination, or lack thereof.“That’s quite all right. You’ve come here because you need comfort. I can’t promise you freedom from pain in this life, or that I’ve any advice that’ll solve your problems. I can promise, however, that I’ll listen and offer you what comfort I can.”The man shifted on the cushions in the adjoining booth. “Thanks, Father. This isn’t a problem anyone can solve, really. It’s just . . . ” More sh
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