Stolen Souls

40

BILLY CRAWFORD APPLIED the hand brake and removed the key from the ignition. The old Toyota Hiace van shuddered and rattled as the engine died. He sat silent, thinking about the day ahead.

If he got everything done that needed doing, he might have time to attend the late carol service at his church. He enjoyed the event every year, along with the Christmas morning service, and he would have been disappointed to miss them. But the girl had been delivered unto him unexpectedly, and who was he to question the Lord’s will? If he couldn’t attend church, then so be it. God would pardon his absence.

He climbed out of the van’s cabin and walked to the back gate, his boots crunching on the snow. It swung closed with a tired creak, and he refastened the padlock. He returned to the van, opened the sliding side door, and retrieved the drill bit and saw blades he’d purchased. The sack of ballast would wait until later.

Trudging to the back door, he sorted through his keys, his breath misting as he hummed “Silent Night” to himself. He remembered how, as a boy, he had seethed at the other children in assembly mocking the sacred tune. When they sang the line “sleep in heavenly peace,” they would whoop through the last word, making it peeeee-eeeace, and giggling amongst themselves. He imagined Jesus on high, weeping at their disrespect, and he had to fight to stop himself from screaming, Enough! Don’t laugh at our Savior!

Once, his lip bled from biting it so hard, and he had to go to the school nurse. He sat in her room amid the smell of antiseptic and sweat, a wad of tissue pressed to his mouth, anger boiling in his gut.

“Are you feeling all right?” she asked.

He did not answer.

“You’re breathing awful hard,” she said.

He spat blood on her dress. She stepped back, her mouth wide. Then she bent down and slapped him hard across the cheek. He walked home with a stiffness in his trousers, heat in places he’d never felt it before.

Thirty years ago, and he still felt the sting of her palm when he reached for himself in the night.

As he inserted the key in the dead bolt, he glanced up at the kitchen window.

He froze, his heart thudding against his breastbone.

Something was very wrong.

The net curtain no longer hung on the other side of the glass, the room beyond clearly visible.

“No,” he said aloud.

Stop, he thought. Don’t panic.

Forcing steadiness into his hand, he undid both locks and pushed the door open. From the threshold, he saw the upended chair, the shattered mug, the net curtain lying bunched on the floor.

Slowly, he stepped inside and lowered the pieces of hardware to the floor. He closed the door without a sound, sealing out the cold, locked it, put the keys in his pocket. He listened.

Silence. Not even the thing upstairs raised its voice.

He scanned the kitchen, saw the open drawers, cutlery and hoarded objects glittering within.

Odors on the still air caught his attention. Mold and damp, laced with girl scent. He moved to the hall, and knew the dining room had been opened by the stale smell that lingered there. The living room door stood ajar, and he wondered if it had been so when he left. He entered the room. His Bible where he’d left it, the couch undisturbed.

He turned to the writing desk, saw the opened drawers, the broken wood.

His treasures, scattered like rubbish on the leather.

He moistened his lips and left the room.

He climbed the stairs and stepped onto the landing. The closet door stood open. He saw the scattered towels, the fragments of wood, the plaster dust, and he understood.

Rage tore up from his belly, and he roared.