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Seven
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Devourer of Souls Eight
EIGHTI woke, swallowing a sharp cry, sweating. I reached out, flicked on the bedside lamp and sat up. Sickly yellow light spilled onto the floor, throwing the room into a dim glow.Nothing.Empty. No one except me, shivering and sweating in my rumpled bed, as it should be.I blew out a noisy breath, covered my face with my hands, kneading my forehead with my fingertips. Already the nightmare had faded away, leaving me with nothing but a vague foreboding. I recalled scraps of images: those dead dogs in the woods, weird yellow flies buzzing all over them, and that strange altar in the middle of clearing. Something about Reverend McIlvian, also?The nightmare’s dread fingers finally faded. I turned off the lamp and settled back down to sleep. As I drifted off, however, two thoughts bubbled to the surface. One: I thought I’d finally identified the markings carved on the altar. They were, insanely enough, like the yellow sign on the onyx stone set in McIlvian’s ring.Two?Bobby Simm
Devourer of Souls Nine
NINEIn the morning I made sure to get up and out of the house early so I could avoid Dad. The eerie figments left over from the nightmare proved motivation enough to avoid any more talk about VBS and the good Reverend McIlvian.Reverend McIlvian’s a healer.Luckily, I was successful. I’d dressed, eaten and hopped into Bobby’s old 1975 AMC Matador before Dad had even finished showering.It was a pleasant July morning, warm without much humidity. Bobby and I decided to hit one of the few sources of entertainment in Tahawus, our lame little mini-golf course. Done up in an Alice in Wonderland theme, it sported plaster statues of all the main characters: the Mad Hatter, Tweedle Dee and Dum, the Cheshire cat, the White Rabbit, the Queen, and Alice herself. Believe it or not, for such a dinky little golf course, the statues were actually decently done. They bore more than a passing resemblance to the characters from the Disney movie.We were in the middle of our second half-assed game w
Devourer of Souls Ten
TENMy little rant ruined the mood for a good thirty minutes or so. We wandered silently up and down Main Street, looking for somewhere to blow an hour or two. Nothing really caught our interest until we hit The General Store.Yep. It really was named that. It pretty much had everything you needed for just about any occasion: hardware, housewares, linen, toys and books. After wandering our way through the store, using our mutual silence to heal the sores my little outburst had opened, we eventually made our way to its bookstore out back.See, I may love rock’n roll and heavy metal, but I’m not stupid. I love to read, even now. It’s one of the few pleasures I have left. Anyway, I was making straight for the non-fiction section, searching for a Paul McCartney biography I’d wanted, when we came across them: loud and proud, in a screaming yellow cardboard display at the end of the Philosophy/Religion rack.They were hardcover and blazing yellow. The faced-out copies displayed Reverend
Devourer of Souls Eleven
ELEVENI don’t remember much about the ride home. Bobby and I barely spoke as he drove wordlessly, staring down the road, one hand on the wheel, the other resting on his copy of The King Wears Yellow.And me?To be honest, I can’t exactly remember, to this day. I think . . . I believe . . . I must’ve spent the ride flipping through my copy of the book. Even that is still a mystery to me. How I could’ve been walking aimlessly through the bookstore one moment, scorning Reverend McIlvian and his healing powers, and the next unconsciously buying his book, of all things.In a way, I suppose it makes some sort of sense. All my life I’d gone to great lengths to convince myself that I was “okay” with my handicap. Turns out I was a pretty decent liar. However, even though it pissed me off that folks—Dad included—had fallen for this shyster’s shit, deep down inside? I suppose a part of me wanted that healing, too. Or at least, a part of me was curious, wanted to see if there was anything to
Devourer of Souls Twelve
TWELVEOf course, there were decent—if not really convincing—reasons for me not noticing that I was still carrying that book. Not only was I confused, annoyed and maybe even a little hurt that Bobby was buying into that bullshit, but in all honesty I was worried about him, too. Bobby was a lot like me. His asthma wasn’t just some lame wheezing now and then, he had it bad. He got the kind of attacks that closed his throat right up. They could land him in a hospital under an oxygen tent if he wasn’t careful.I’m not gonna lie. My cerebral palsy is no picnic. Everywhere I go, I shuffle-lurch-walk. Running is tragically comic. At the end of every single day my joints throb, feeling like they’re filled with jagged bits of glass. But, I can breathe. I can do things without gasping for breath.Like that walk in the woods. I went slow and picked my way carefully because, as I’ve mentioned, my crooked feet tend to trip more easily than others. However, at least I could walk that path alone.
Devourer of Souls Thirteen
THIRTEENThe man in yellow—Reverend McIlvian—took a drag on his cigarette, snorted smoke out his nostrils and pointed at me, smiling kindly as he spoke. “I un’erstand yer skepticism. Me own dear mowther usta spin me countless yarns bout His healin majesty’n grace, an that’s whot I always said meself. ‘Horseshit, Ma. Plain ole horseshit.’”He replaced the cigarette in his mouth, puffed a few times, then said, lips clenched around his cigarette, “Course, things changed a wee bit intha war. Found meself inna bad place, lookin for answers, most often’n not intha bottom of a pint glass of bitters, or intha busniess enda my service revolver. We all come to Him in different ways, lad . . . an a right pack of us need to come to th’ end of ourselves afore we’ll give Him the time’o day. I spect many a soldier’s come to Him in much the same way overtha years.”I frowned, feeling confused and wary . . . and I’m not ashamed to admit, a little scared. And when I’m scared, I get snarky. “Yeah? Wha
Devourer of Souls Fourteen
FOURTEENI blinked and jerked awake, nearly falling off the stump I’d obviously sat on to rest. A sudden weariness washed over me. I blinked some more, feeling very much like I’d just woken up from a long sleep.I looked around.The clearing was empty. The man in yellow—Reverend Alistair McIlvian—had gone, leaving me alone. Or had he ever been there to begin with? I yawned, thinking how unlikely it was I could’ve nodded off and dreamed the whole encounter.I looked up. The sun had moved on. Time had passed. How much? Enough for the sun to move. How long had I slept, if in fact that’s what I’d done? Was it late afternoon, early evening . . .Sounds.Laughing. Clapping. Singing?Hymns. People singing hymns somewhere past the end of the path, near the church . . .“Brothers’n sisters of His mercy, ‘ere in Tahawaus . . . ”I lurched off the stump (dimly realizing I still clutched that book under my arm) and shuffle-stepped my way out of the clearing and down the path. I rushed as
Devourer of Souls Fifteen
FIFTEEN. . . and jerked upright at the dining room table at home.My vision throbbed and blurred, making me dizzy. Instantly overcome by a bone-deep fatigue, I yawned and stretched. Rubbing my eyes, I looked around, muddled, head fuzzy, trying to get my bearings.I glanced at the sliding glass doors. Darkish outside. Early evening. A look at the clock on the wall in the kitchen confirmed it: seven o’clock.I yawned again, ran a hand through my hair to the back of my neck and rubbed it there, working out the stiffness. Asleep. I’d fallen asleep at the dining room table. I must’ve dozed for a few hours, judging by how stiff and sore my neck felt . . . but what had I been doing that put me asleep? Not school work, obviously. It was summer. I did all my pleasure reading in my bedroom . . .I looked down. An icy chill rippled along my spine at what lay open on the table before me.A hardcover book with a yellow cover, its pages gilded golden-yellow.I bit my lip hard enough to taste
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