Vicarious

For the next three hours she proceeded to pull each book off the shelf and scan through it as fast as she could. In that time she saw all manner of personal accounts of the occult. Enough to convince her that even though it was the 21st century, evil had always lurked on the fringes of society and would most likely continue to do so.

In her fourth hour, she found the book.

Written in the twelfth century by a monk named Gerhardt in the monastery at Schwarzwaldheim, a small town in Bavaria known for its close proximity to the Black Forest, the book catalogued every known creature and demon available to help the Devil in his work.

Even as Lauren scanned the pages, roughly translating in her mind what she read, she felt a shadow of fear pass over her. The names and spells within the pages told of incredible evil and untold power for the person who swore eternal allegiance to the Dark Lord.

They also warned of the unbearable agony inflicted upon those in his service.

A cold gust of air swept through the room.

Lauren shivered and looked up.

The room had no windows.

The light hairs along her forearms stood up straight.

Where had the wind come from?

She bent back over the book and read some more.

Another gust of cold wind swept over her, this time flipping the pages of the book in front of her. The old paper crinkled and crackled as sheets flew by under her nose.

The wind died.

And Lauren looked down.

The book now lay open at a chapter dealing with servants of the Devil.

Lauren looked up again.

There was no one in the room with her.

The wind had vanished.

Her heartbeat had drummed up again to a steady staccato rhythm. She tried to grin. Get a hold of yourself, Lauren.

She turned the pages, reading and translating. Toward the end of the chapter, she stopped and felt very cold. But this time she felt cold on the inside.

Soul Eaters.

She ran her finger down the page to the text and began reading…

Little is known of the Soul Eaters except that they have been

imbued with the ability to steal the very essence of man from

him with little more than a touch of the hands. All that makes

up the man himself, his memories, his thoughts, his very

emotions, is robbed from him. For what purpose the

Soul Eater exists is not yet known, but care must be taken

in dealing with them, for their power is truly directly

given from the Devil himself.

Lauren sat back and inhaled a long deep breath.

A Soul Eater.

What if…?

What if there were one actually living here in Boston? What if he had killed her brother? What if he was planning something right here in the city itself?

But what?

She frowned. Would Steve believe her? He didn't necessarily appear to be a very trusting soul himself. She'd never met many cops who were. Most of them stuck to hard facts only. It was understandable, being a prerequisite for the job. They couldn't put someone away on speculation or the supernatural.

And Steve himself had told her he was firmly rooted in facts and logic. He would be difficult to convince.

Still, she wondered.

After all, Steve had invested years of his own life trying to get to the bottom of the strange murders that plagued him. Perhaps he would be able to see the possibility.

Perhaps.

She traced her finger lower on the page reading again…

The Soul Eater himself is apt to be cunning in his own right.

By virtue of his job for the Devil, he must be careful to remain

hidden. If discovered, he would be unable to complete his

nefarious objectives, whatever they may be.

Something had been written in pencil in the margin of the book and then erased. Lauren peered closer, barely able to make out the letters and what they spelled out.

Graham Westerly — 1907

She frowned again and continued reading, but there was little else, except for several documented cases that happened during the third, seventh, eleventh, and nineteenth centuries. The nineteenth century instance was hand-written in German scrawl, which Lauren could not read. She knew it must have been details of the Soul Eater for that time.

She made a quick notation in the small red notebook she carried and then closed the book.

The air in the room suddenly changed.

It felt heavy.

Oppressive.

Lauren felt glued to her chair. Like she couldn’t get up.

She tried taking a deep breath. It did little good. The earlier joyful smell of must and leather cloyed at her, now almost suffocating her as she tried to breathe.

It felt like…something was in the room with her.

Lauren glanced up at the door. Was someone outside watching her?

The air grew cold again.

But a line of sweat broke out along her hairline.

And then she heard it.

A soft sound that snaked through the stacks, slowly circumventing the room as it came closer to her, caressing her ankles and slithering up her body past her shoulders until it kissed her ears.

Sooooooooooooooooon.

Lauren sat very still. She lifted her eyes toward the ceiling and saw a small crucifix on the wall. She closed her eyes and pleaded.

God, don't let anything happen to me here.

She kept her eyes shut and began praying softly. After a dozen Hail Mary's she felt better and opened here eyes, able to breathe again.

Whatever she felt had passed. She gathered up the book and placed it back on the shelf, pushing it back into its resting place with care.

Pushing the chair back to the table, she gathered her things and left the room. As soon as she opened the door, the air seemed lighter. She could breathe again.

She walked back through the rooms, but paused when she saw the same nun still bent deep in study.

“Excuse me, sister?”

The nun, older than Lauren, looked up. “Yes?”