Stolen Souls

23

BILLY CRAWFORD LEFT the girl to answer the thing upstairs. Always it called. Always wanting more. Never letting him be. One day it would take the light from his eyes, he was certain.

He climbed the stairway to the attic room, his shoulders brushing the walls as he ascended. It called again, its voice tearing at him like a claw. He stood still and quiet at the door, wincing at each screech.

“God help me,” he said, his voice not even a whisper. A private exchange between him and the Lord. “God give me the strength to endure it.”

He opened the door and stepped inside. He breathed shallow lest its odor overcome him. Six paces took him to within its vision.

Its eyes focused, its toothless mouth opened. It cried out, claws flaying.

“Quiet,” he said.

Its voice cracked as it rose, a broken wail that scratched at his hearing like a rat’s claws.

“Quiet,” he said, more forceful now.

Again it cried, its pale blue eyes wide and tearful.

He placed a hard hand over its mouth, forced it back down. It stared up at him. He felt its gums slip and slither on his calloused skin.

“Quiet,” he said. “Or I’ll hurt you.”

It grew still. Its toothless mouth stopped seeking purchase on his skin.

He knelt beside it. “Pray with me,” he said.

He brought his hands together, bowed his head, closed his eyes.

“Our Father,” he said.

He prayed that God on high would take mercy on this creature and end its suffering soon. He prayed for a time when he could sleep through the night without hearing its wounded howls. He prayed the Lord would take pity on whatever it had for a soul, festering inside its breast.

He prayed, and it wept.