Paranormal WIP
An Unholy Alliance by Deb Sanders
He’s alive. I’ve found my vessel.
The man slumped across the automobile seat, staring at bent and twisted limbs. Blood flowed from a long gash in his temple, trickling down his arm and forming a crimson pool near his outstretched hand. A faint breeze floated through the window, cooling beads of sweat forming along his brow. He attempted to smile but wasn’t sure if his mouth actually moved. His body was numb.
He feels nothing. It will make the transition easier.
For the first time in six months, the man experienced relief from the pain shredding his insides like a rusty razor blade. Cancer had consumed most of his internal organs and now crept mercilessly toward his brain. The doctor had offered two options. Spend his final months in a drugged stupor or endure an agonizing end.
He’d bravely chosen the latter. Until tonight. A third option suddenly presented itself. A fatal dose of self-inflicted “pain management.” After a farewell cruise over the Devil’s Backbone in his beloved 1957 Cadillac Coupe Deville, he’d spied a sturdy tree on the side of the highway and pressed the accelerator to the floor. It should have been his final act.
It wasn’t.
His life force is ebbing. I must move quickly.
A pungent smell wafted past the man’s nose, alerting him to the thick cloud of smoke rising on either side of the car. It hovered like a menacing predator above the convertible, extending black tentacles toward the star filled Texas sky.
Sparks flickered under the crumpled dash, alerting him to the imminent fire. His eyes widened. He wanted to die . . . but not by burning to death.
As quickly as the flames licked upwards, they flickered and died. It was as if someone, or something, had snuffed them out. His breath came in short, shallow spurts as an eerie hush filled the night. He wasn’t alone.
I call upon the Overseers to assist my transition.
His tongue flicked over dry lips but the rest of his body remained immobile. It was as if his brain had short circuited. An odd, prickly sensation spread across the man’s feet and crept like a silent marauder along the muscles and tendons in each leg. Every cell exploded with a sudden burst of heat.
He hoped it was a sign he was dying. He wanted death. Had prayed for it. And when prayers hadn’t worked, he’d strategically planned his demise.
An attempt to swallow failed as a pale orb materialized just inside his peripheral vision. At first he thought it was swamp gas, a phenomena often associated with ghostly appearances. But this wasn’t a ghost. It was real, moving over him and expanding until it covered his body like a vaporous canopy.
The Angel of Death? Laughter gurgled in the back of his throat. It’s about fucking time. His heart raced as anticipation surged through damaged organs. What was waiting for him on the other side? Forgiveness for taking his own life? Or would the devil escort him straight to Hell?
A loud hum filled his head. He squeezed his eyelids together in an attempt to shut out the deafening drone. The night air grew insufferably hot like a furnace. He wondered if his skin was burning. Melting from the bone.
Without warning, shockwaves ripped through his limbs, tossing him about the leather seat like a ship on stormy water. He shuddered. His heart pounded against his ribs, echoing the thundering roar between his ears.
Something was wrong. This wasn’t dying. He’d researched “near death experiences” and not one person reported a sensation similar to a cattle prod being rammed up their ass. Where the hell was the bright light? Why wasn’t his soul floating above his body?
The pain was back. A different pain, worse than the cancer. All encompassing and completely diblitating. A scream built in the back of his throat. Spittle spewed from between clenched teeth as violent tremors shook his body. In his final moments, the man found his voice.
“Oh … fuck ….”
As quickly as the ordeal began, it ended. The night retreated into an uneasy silence as the lifeless man stared upward through vacant eyes. After a few minutes, a brave cricket signaled its position, soon followed by the croak of bullfrogs from a nearby pond. One by one, nocturnal creatures emerged from hiding. An underlying agitation filled their song. They warned of an intruder. One disguised as a two legged human but far more dangerous.
A gurgle rattled from deep in the man’s chest, followed by a series of snaps as his limbs extended. Hundreds of glowing orbs materialized out of the vapor, floating over the crumpled automobile like translucent jellyfish.
The orbs grew brighter, emitting a greenish glow until they linked together and formed a net over the man’s body. Bones straightened. Wounds closed. Muscle and tissue filled out the sagging skin, restructuring the sickly frame into a toned and robust body.
Suddenly the man’s chest heaved. His mouth gaped open as he gasped for air, coughing and sputtering until his lungs expanded and deflated several times
It is done. It . . . hurts.
Narrowed eyes darted from left to right before settling on an obscure point through the broken windshield. He lifted a hand in front of his face, slowly curling the fingers into a fist, then relaxing them. Offering a curt nod to the observant balls of light, he watched as they floated away, dimming their incandescent shells until fading into obscurity.
The man folded his legs under him, bringing his feet to the seat. With a single leap, he launched into the air, springing effortlessly over the edge of the car door and landing sure footed on the other side. He straightened, paused and patted his right hip before extracting a billfold from the pocket. Flipping it open, he glanced at the picture on the driver’s license.
The features were perfect for his mission. Strong lines. Warm, coffee colored eyes crinkled from beneath a crown of black hair. By human standards, he was handsome. A throaty chuckle rose from deep inside his chest and exploded through bared teeth.
He looked at the name beside the photo. Maximillian St. Cloud. He said it out loud, savoring each syllable as it rolled off his tongue.
It was now his name. The man’s body was now his body.
And soon, when he‘d mastered the awkwardness of the vessel, he would use it to kill.
Chapter One
The stench was overpowering. Reyna Blair covered her nose with a folded handkerchief, trying hard not to vomit. After two years active duty in Iraq and one as a beat cop in a drug infested district of Tulsa, Oklahoma, she still couldn’t stand the smell of a decaying body.
“How long?”
The medical examiner’s head popped up from his meticulous examination of the corpse. “Hard to say, Officer Blair. Damn heat’s accelerated decomposition. But since the Blowfly larvae are at third instar, I’d say our vic’s been dead four, maybe five days. Once I get him back to the lab and run some tests, I can give you a better estimate.”
She nodded, stepping back. There was no need to inquire about cause of death. A gaping wound in the man’s chest made speculation unnecessary. Someone had split his sternum from throat to abdomen. The exposed tissue now hosted an infestation of slithering maggots spilling from the rotting flesh.
Another beautiful day in Purgatory, Texas.
