Dark Places of the Soul: Dark Soul Trilogy - Book 1

Dark Places

of the Soul

(Dark Soul Trilogy – Book
1)

Copyright © 2005 by Paul J
Donaldson

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This book is a work of fiction. Names,
characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the
product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously.

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February 1946

“
Do ya hear any more of
‘em awful screams?” The question reverberated into the silence of
the dark February night.

The query went unanswered.

“
Was horrid,” another
voice plainly stated with a cloud of breath being released into the
cold air.

“
Abner,” a third voice
spoke harshly, “do ya think it’s dead?”

Abner Hollis, six foot three and so thin his
sports coat hung from his shoulders as if it hung from a clothes
hanger, stooped down to peer into the deep hole in the earth, his
jet-black hair in disarray from the recent struggle. “It was an
awful sound wasn’t it?” The question didn’t really need asking. All
four of the men standing by the open wound in the earth heard the
inhuman cry, the voice of something ungodly, an injured, crying
animal, cast to the deep darkness looming at the bottom of the
pit.

“
I don’t hear nothin’ no
more,” Caleb Hawkins said. He’d been the first voice to speak once
silence had re-conquered the moment of screams, as they would come
to think of the instant prior to the quiet they now conversed
in.

“
The true nature of the
dark soul has been shown to you,” Abner said, standing up straight
to let his tall frame tower over the other men. He ran a long
fingered hand through his hair in an attempt to comb it back into
place. “Had it been a man it would not have uttered such an
unearthly cry.”

“
We should close the
earth.” The suggestion came from the youngest of the group, Randall
Hawkins, Caleb’s younger brother. Randall had recently returned
from Europe with a Purple Heart for having taken a bullet in his
right leg and being lucky enough not to lose the limb. He learned
all about explosives during his tour overseas, thanks to the
Federal Government, and this expertise was the main reason Abner
suggested to Caleb they bring the war hero along.

Randall knew his task, closing the earthen
tomb on something so hideous it couldn’t be described.

A man, but not a man.

A demon, but not a demon.

“
The earth was opened from
below,” Abner responded, “we must seal the way up from the world of
the damned.” Abner Hollis picked up what remained of the solid gold
crucifix he’d stolen from Saint Augustine’s Roman Catholic Church.
It, the thing they’d last heard screaming in the depths of the pit,
had broken it in half, laughing at the four men in audience with a
voice possessing very little human quality. Abner used the upper
half of the cross like a stake, driving the body of the murdered
savior into the thing’s heart. He nearly joined the demon in the
pit, were it not for Caleb grabbing hold of him and keeping him in
the world of the living.

“
I sure hope we did the
right thing.” This voice belonged to Lonnie Wilkerson. At
thirty-eight he was two years older than Abner, but Lonnie had
never been much of a leader, just the follower who continually
asked questions of those in authority. Lonnie Wilkerson was also
the town’s most infamous drunkard, beaten out of life by a
bottle.

“
You saw what it was
capable of doin’. You all bore witness to its unholy crimes.” Abner
Hollis threw a large stone into the hole before him.

“
Nothin’ we do is gonna
bring Lilly back,” Caleb said quietly to the man who had become the
groups leader.

“
It wasn’t human,” Abner
insisted, “it took not only the flesh that was Lilly Carpenter, but
also her soul. The Lord has said it must be destroyed and only
through its destruction can Lilly find peace. You, of all people
must place some value on her eternal peace.”

Caleb bowed his head, unable to look Abner
Hollis in the eye. Lilly, sweet Lilly, only twenty the day the
thing, which now lay dead in the earth, came for her. Her love
belonged to Caleb and had for nearly two years. He had hoped to
soon ask old man Carpenter for Lilly’s hand in Holy Matrimony.

Abner Hollis had arrived in town three days
after Lilly’s body had been placed in the grave. The
self-proclaimed minister drew Caleb (who still doubted Lilly’s
virtue), Randall (a reluctant hero) and Lonnie (a lost abusive
soul) to him, like a messiah calling his apostles. He sought to
make the town see the demon, not the man who had raped and murdered
Lilly Carpenter, but the evil spirit drawn into their small village
to steer its inhabitants from righteousness. The town-folk claimed
Lilly had been quite willing to except the advances of the
stranger. The same stranger Abner insisted was in league with
Satan. The naïve community showed an eagerness to hear the tall
tale of an accidental death after a willing moment of passionate
lust.

Lonnie pulled a bottle from the side pocket
of his pants and took a long swig of the addictive contents.

“
Put that away,” Abner
demanded of a man struggling with his weakness.

Don’t cha wanna take the second chance we
bin offered?” Caleb said as he joined in confronting the man known
as the town’s lush. “We all bin given a new opportunity t’ change
what we are. Yours needs to begin here.” Caleb grabbed the bottle
from the startled hand of Lonnie Wilkerson and proceeded to pour
the liquid contents on the ground.

“
Don’t you have any doubts
about what we did?” A defeated alcoholic asked. “I know you doubted
Lilly.”

Caleb’s fist squarely caught the jaw of
Lonnie Wilkerson and if Randall hadn’t moved quickly the older of
the two Hawkins brothers would have pinned his fallen victim to the
frozen earth.

“
You have no idea ‘bout
what I feel when it comes t’ Lilly,” Caleb blurted out as he shook
off his brother. “Don’t cha dare judge me ya worthless
drunk.”

“
None of this is important
now.” The voice of Abner Hollis sharply cut through the
disagreement.

Randall kicked the empty bottle of whiskey
to one side. He offered an extended arm to help the older man up
from the ground as his brother turned away from the altercation.
Accepting Randall’s gesture, Lonnie got to his feet, brushing
imaginary dirt from his clothing and attempted to restore his
pitiful pride.

A sharp breath of the winter’s night slipped
through the somber group. Abner rubbed the palms of his hands
together trying to generate warmth. He turned away from the yawning
mouth of stone, now the tomb of a demon. “Now we must close this
gateway to hell and make certain it is never opened again.”

July 1984

Three days had passed since a razor last
touched his face. A wrinkled sports shirt and a pair of faded jeans
looked as if they might have been slept in the previous night. He
leaned against the coarse brick on the alley side of the small town
pharmacy. The establishment’s name failed to register in his mind.
It was ten minutes after seven and the morning offered barely any
life on the main street. Those few who passed by the shadow he
inhabited failed to glance upon his face.

Colonial Street, like a black river dancing
in the heat of a new day, lying between his position and the tiny
diner he’d been led to. A blue Ford Fairmont moved up the road,
heading south, out of town. Two young girls occupied the auto’s
interior; the brunette in the passenger’s seat looked toward the
alley, into the mouth of ungodliness, seeing only what she believed
to be a vagrant, a homeless soul. He watched the vehicle until
three blocks of concrete and brick structures filled the void
between him and them. He was inclined to leave, to go back to the
life lost somewhere in the past, a time before the repetitious
dream began to control his life.

Five feet, eight inches, he registered her
approximate height. Shoulder length blond hair with a tight
spiraling curl. Her mane framed a tired face, worn out by a life
she struggled to survive. She was on time, just as she was in last
night’s dream and all the dreams before. The same garments adorned
her willowy form; tight jeans with well worn holes on both knees
and a light blue blouse unbuttoned one button below what might be
considered conservative.

She entered the diner and he chose to wait a
few moments before proceeding down the course he knew he must
follow. He pushed his tired body from against the brick, stone
which would soon be broken, but for now it had allowed him the
luxury of leaning against its strength. He stepped into the street
going unnoticed by a motorist in a white Toyota pickup. Another
patron entered the tiny restaurant before him, a balding man in his
sixties. This individual had never been a part of the dream and so
he knew the balding man was unimportant.

She sat at the counter. He noticed that her
jeans appeared to have been tumbled dried without previously
finding their way into a washer. Her blouse was clean, as always.
He took a seat on a stool, leaving a vacant seat between them.
Quickly she glanced toward him and offered a smile, mass-produced
for men. Her eyes were blue; a strange sort of paleness tinted
them. He had been able to piece together a complete description of
her from the repetitious dream, the shade of her eyes, the texture
of her skin around her neck, the fact that she had chosen to ban
her bra. All this he could never have gathered from one brief
encounter, but this particular moment had been a dwelling of his
many times in nightmares.

She ordered a glass of Orange Juice and an
English muffin from a waitress who wore a name tag displaying her
name as Joyce. The waitress was robust, in her forties with short
black hair which resembled a curly mass of twisted barbed wire.
Joyce poured the juice and set it in front of the girl before
asking him what he would like to order. He would decide on two eggs
scrambled with home fries, wheat toast, and of course a coffee. Why
change a good thing since this had sat on his plate every night in
his world of sleepless sleep.

A newspaper rested on the counter between
him and the girl. A brown coffee ring decorated the front page, it
was folded in quarters. When he reached for it, interested only in
the sports section, he knew they’d make eye contact. This time the
meeting between her blue eyes and his would be longer lasting. The
smile would be more real. She would want the front section of the
paper and he gladly shared.

He made his move in synch with his coffee
being set in front of him. His fingers raked the newsprint as he
looked away. Her fingers gently touched his. A moment of
embarrassment hung lightly in the air between them and as in the
dream his blues were drawn to hers.

“
Cream and sugar,” the
waitress interrupted. He was expecting her intrusion, she never
failed, but still he was startled by the effort to pull him away
from that which he had chosen to cast his gaze upon.

“
Both,” he responded. “And
thank you.” He was always polite.

“
I was going to just take
a glance at the front section.” The feminine voice touched the
morning like a soft whispery veil.

He acted out the role of being embarrassed
like a skilled performer on stage. “I’m sorry… go ahead… I don’t
mind.”

She pulled the front section free from the
other three sections of the paper. Two of the sections fell to the
floor. They both reached for it and he braced for the collision of
foreheads which always followed.