Illusions of Soul

It was an experiment in which sociologists everywhere could take pride, though the actual intention had been to gather information. I should have known better.

I asked around about the bizarre disappearances, the recent rash of particularly brutal murders that have cropped up. Many people claimed they hadn’t heard. Of those who have heard, a majority are convinced these people are somehow responsible for their own destruction. They are convinced these people weren’t careful enough. That they went off with the wrong person.

A person.

What they cannot see is that they too would have no will to resist if these “people” beckoned them. It’s the same reason that every person stopped with a whiplash-inducing abruptness when I approached and started asking questions. It’s the intrigue, the allure. They don’t understand it, but they feel it. And they will feel it again, if the others come for them, and they will be drawn away, and they will die for it.

But they can’t see that truth.

They don’t want to.

People are dying. Not deserving people. Not terrible people. Decent people. Relatively innocent people. They are dying, because I am always one step behind.

These are still my sins. These are still my crimes… carried out precisely, in the order in which I carried them out. But I remember what comes next only after it has already occurred.

My memory isn’t exactly lacking in aptitude, but it was so long ago, how can I be expected to remember?

But that’s what it is, isn’t it? This is why I’ve been assigned this mission. I’m meant to remember. I’m meant to relive. I’m meant to experience, once more, every single horrific thing I have done.

Am I being punished or saved? It’s hard to tell. I suspect that it is one by means of the other.

There’s not a city that’s safe now. When they serve as your sustenance, you go where the people are. And there are numerous choices here, cities with large populations and people who don’t pay adequate attention.

But they won’t move. Not yet. There is plenty of blood walking these streets night after night. There is so much for them to accomplish here.

I get the notion that the people here are starting to become aware that something isn’t right. But in a place like this, where it is easy to discount disappearances as part of the scene, it might take them some time to really start to show concern.

After all, the clues haven’t even begun to stack up.

And then there are those things for which punishment isn’t necessary. Things that, by no means, make amends, but do make me experience some form of delight in myself again.

I have arrived here, where they are, in Las Vegas. I should have known.

I arrived still hungry. After my fast, it seems I cannot quite get full.

So, I went out.

My, how the bounty is plentiful here. So many people so deserving of the demise I can bring them. And I found one that made me glad in my ability to kill.

She was gorgeous in a way that said that she knew it. And used it.

But it was all that she knew.

And she used it everywhere.

Including at the school where she worked as a junior high teacher, which she told me, but didn’t have to, because I already knew. It’s sort of a psychic ability that isn’t. It’s really more intuition, and it comes from this. There aren’t many things that you can do that I haven’t already done. You cannot hide them from me, because I know what your sins look like.

I knew exactly how to seduce her. With this type of person, the key is to make it all about her; her pleasure, her beauty, her effect on you. She did not crave union. She craved adoration. A fan. I could be that. And I could also be her assassin. It was, after all, what I was there for, why I’d honed in on her in a crowd of beautiful people just like her.

And she’d pleaded, as they all do, told me that she wasn’t guilty of those things of which I accused her. None of them. Not one of the thirty kids she’d made into early adults in ways that were irrevocable. She’d done them no favors, though I’m sure she had convinced herself that she had. And she fought the accusations, did it until the end, until my daggers sunk in and she felt so euphoric that she couldn’t argue with me anymore.

I wish, wish, that I knew a way to make my drinking hurt. For so many of these people death isn’t good enough. I wish I could inflict pain, but it disturbs me now to do so, even if these people are so deserving of it. So, while it doesn’t actually constitute punishment, it still offers protection to those who would be future victims.

Of course, when they discover the body, it will be the woman herself who is considered a victim. And they can think that. But I know. And so did she.

A word to the wise -

If I find you - I know. Don’t try to fight the inevitable. Admit your sins, at least to yourself. Cleanse your heart. Free your soul.

I’m going to kill you anyway.

When I left, the police had no leads. Not all that surprising. And because they had no leads, it is only natural for them to come to the conclusion that the missing son is somehow responsible for the deaths of his mother and his sisters. They hate having to think that. It doesn’t feel natural. It doesn’t feel acceptable.

It’s neither of those things… but they are right. And they are wrong.

The boy did kill his sisters, just as Paul Jr. had done. I am certain of that. By me, that fact is undisputed. But he is not responsible for their deaths. At least not as he was. Not the boy from the picture on the wall. That boy was dead before his body committed the horrendous acts for which they now place blame. The police hold the boy on the wall responsible, because, as much as they hate the idea of it, they want to believe in the alternative even less.

And the one act which they cannot wrap their minds around, the one that seems too stomach-churning to even deliberate on, he didn’t carry out, but they will never know that. And they blamed the pills on him too, the sleeping pills that killed his mother, the prescription bottle beside her that was emptied and poisonous. They assumed she was forced to swallow them. No surprise, considering the condition she must have been found in.

But neither the boy, nor his mentor, committed the act of the woman’s murder, though they had every part in her death. What the police won’t ever know, because they don’t want to ponder all of the merciless possibilities is that the woman was left alive, lying shattered in a room with her dead twins, and she found just enough strength to get to the medicine cabinet, gather her means, and do it herself.

I have been absent. Not from this place, but from this Earth, from myself. It’s called a soul sojourn. Of course, such a title is misleading, because no matter what traits I may exhibit, no matter what thoughts may flow through my head, I am aware of my constant state of soullessness. No matter what, that never changes, and no matter what, I never forget.

In a soul sojourn, one’s body is present, but his or her essence moves to a different plane. There are ways to do this. Humans always have a problem with such possibilities, but it doesn’t mean that they don’t exist. During a soul sojourn, you are open to the universe, to creation, to life in all its forms, completely receptive, and answers will come to you. But getting there isn’t easy, and it could kill the truly weak. It is, though, the only place where I knew I would find that which I was seeking, my next destination.

I knew after the killings, whoever is responsible for these acts would move on, because, after my binge, I left the place I’d always dreamed of escaping. But just like that continent, here there are so many places to move onto next. I also knew that, on sojourn, I would feel them. It would be only a matter of time. That many vampires rising at once is a difficult sensation to ignore.

And I knew that it would happen. Because it was a long time before I took to killing again after that first night. With Paul Jr. at my side, we made off toward the south, where we didn’t take time to torture. We were far too busy siring an army.

They’ve made to the east though, the person who is doing this and the boy from the picture on the wall of the house. And now I will move as well, only this time I follow.

But first things first, I must find blood. A soul sojourn is not easily entered and is hardly a revolving door. Once you are in, you are in until you are out. It’s like a state of hibernation. And it’s been nearly three weeks, and now… I am famished.

I wonder where the boy is now.

Of course, he is no longer a boy.

Or he is forever a boy.

Whichever way you choose to look at it.

I saw his picture on the wall at the house. He looked seventeen.

Is that why this family was chosen? Did someone go door-to-door, searching for the exact family dynamic of an already gone father, subservient mother, seventeen-year-old son, and two small twin daughters?

They must have, because the universe doesn’t happen upon this much coincidence.

I did hope that I was wrong, but I knew that I wouldn’t be. When I went searching for more bodies, more death, I knew that I would find it. I knew that, along with the man in the fire and the woman staked to the wall, there would be other victims, more merciless scenarios.

There were.

Two miles from the house I went to visit, there was another house filled with murder. An entire family exterminated through cruel and torturous methods the same night.

I knew that there would be more, because the night that I killed Helen’s parents, I wasn’t finished.

Perhaps I was hasty. I could use her warmth tonight. Not just the physical warmth of her body, but the internal warmth. Her soul, her heart. Her blood.

Outside, people emanate heat. Inside, they are on fire. Some of them. Those who allow themselves to be. Others, those who ignore their yearnings, who silence their inner voices, they become as cold as I am.

I went to the house, the one they showed on the news. It was ultra-modern, with all the newest amenities. Yet stepping inside was like walking back in time. I could see Helen’s father lying in the scattered ashes. I could see her mother hanging in the outline on the wall.

I know the scenario absolutely. I did not commit the acts, not this time, but the crime belongs to me.

And now, I think I understand why I am here.

She’s sleeping. She has been for hours. On her stomach, sprawled bonelessly across the bed.

She’s content. Relaxed. I’m about to destroy all of that.

Ten thousand dollars are hidden amidst her things. I hope that she finds it before she has too much time to think about money. Money is the world’s greatest, most unnecessary, stressor. There are really far greater things to worry about. She’ll have enough of them without that one trivial concern. I know it’s going to be cold comfort, but it’s all that I can offer.

There is a bruise on the base of her throat. I must have done it by accident. When I put my face close to the skin there, I can smell the blood, but I’ve still never tasted. It’s proof to me that I am stronger than nature. And stronger than I thought.

If she does stir before sunrise, she’ll think I’ve gone out to do my usual nighttime prowl, to return to her with a small feast by morning. When she wakes in the daylight, the food will be here waiting for her. But I’ll be gone.

I hope she doesn’t hate me.