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Devourer of Souls Three
THREEJuly, 1992“What’s that smell? Geez. That’s nasty.”Bobby Simmons stopped on the well-worn path in the woods behind Tahawus First Methodist, tripped his inhaler and sucked in a wheezing breath. I stopped and sniffed, grimacing at something that smelled sour, like a bag of week-old fried chicken I’d once found in our fridge. That, however, didn’t begin to match this stench, especially on a warm July evening. Whatever we smelled had been rotting all day in 70-degree weather. It was just off the path to our right, in the brush somewhere.Bobby took another wheezing hit from his inhaler, then a swig of his Dr. Pepper. He swallowed and squinted through fish-bowl glasses into the woods. “Wanna check it out?”I shrugged, following his gaze into the undergrowth. We were skipping Sunday evening church, like always. We’d slipped from the balcony during opening prayers, then cut through the woods behind First Methodist along a path to the gas station on Wolton Road. There we bought sod
Devourer of Souls Four
FOURWe made it back to church just as the final hymn rose into full swing. We ditched our empty soda bottles in the dumpster out back. Then we snuck around front, through the front doors, through the foyer and up the balcony stairs. Everything was going according to plan, until we peeked around the corner into the balcony and saw a man sitting in the front row who hadn’t been there when we’d left.Even sitting, he looked tall and imposing. His wide shoulders stretched his impossibly bright yellow suit jacket. Leaning just a bit farther around the corner, I caught the sunny flash of his pant leg and realized his whole suit was a blazing, almost nauseatingly bright yellow. He was leaning forward, elbows resting on his knees, chin perched on folded hands. He gazed down upon the congregation with a hungry, intense scrutiny. Like a predatory bird, I thought, stalking its unsuspecting prey.And then, slowly . . . he smiled.Tapping his nose with his index finger, on which glittered a ri
Devourer of Souls Five
FIVEBobby and I parted that night with very little to say, though at the time I’d thought that was because of the congregation’s rush to the parking lot after the service. Bobby got caught up with his family, me with Dad. Looking back, however, I realize that something had already started worming its way between us, which, of course, I didn’t know at the time.I tried not to think about those dead dogs and that weird altar thing as Dad silently drove home. Like anyone faced with something they didn’t understand, I wrapped it up in a little box and shoved it deep down inside me.We were always hearing about weird stuff like that, anyway. A few years before, folks had found dead skinned cats next to the railroad tracks behind the high school. Most kids thought the abandoned barn sitting in an old cornfield on the edge of town was haunted. A ghost girl supposedly haunted Bassler Road on the way to Clifton Heights.Every small town has its creepy stories. Even though our town was smal
Devourer of Souls Six
SIXWhen Dad came to my room that night, I was doing as always before bed: strumming a few unplugged chords on my fender. The feel of strings vibrating under my fingers always helped me relax. Plus, it was my daily ritual. I was going to be a star someday, a shredder the likes of Slash or Mick Mars or Nikki Six.Of course, I didn’t have much talent. Very little separated me from thousands of other young metal heads across the country. Best I ever managed on the guitar was adequate. The biggest venue I ever played was in a Motley Crue cover band named Dr. Feelgood in the Utica bars a few years later. But still, every kid has his dream. Big-time lead guitarist of a platinum-album rock band was mine.Anyway, that night I was strumming a classic Eagles tune—“Hotel California” —when Dad nudged my bedroom door open, leaned back against the door jamb and asked quietly, “What’d you think of Reverend Alistair’s message tonight? We’re awful blessed to have someone of his stature preaching for
Devourer of Souls Seven
SEVENI had my first nightmare that night, of me kneeling at the feet of the good Reverend Alistair McIlvian in that clearing while he reached to the heavens and prayed in a booming voice . . . .BOW DOWN BEFORE HIM, YE FALLEN ONES, SEEK SUPPLICATION AT THE DREAD FEET OF HE WHOSE CEASELESS ROARING ALWAYS AND FOREVER FILLS THE VOID BEYOND THE GATE, FILLS THE TIMELESS SKIES! HIS MIGHT TEARETH THE FOREST AND CRUSHETH THE CITIES, hear THEN HIS VOICE IN THE DARKNESS, ANSWER HIS CALL WITH THINE WHOLE HEART, OPEN YE HEARTS TO BE MADE OVER INTO HIS IMAGE, THE YELLOW KING OF YELLOW SKIES . . .I thought afterward it was just because I was dreaming, but occasionally his words became garbled, voice grating with guttural consonants that didn’t sound English . . . or even human, at all.And the flies.Buzzing and humming beneath McIlvian’s chant, a droning undertone that seemed to rise and fall in cadence with his voice. The curious thing?The flies were yellow.They weren’t bees or hornets
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
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