Taking Souls

Chapter 1

A person never truly realizes how thin the connection between life and death is until it snaps.
Somewhere in Seattle, in a dark, musty, abandoned basement a woman screamed. Her hope of
someone hearing her was fruitless. She had been tied by her wrists and was suspended naked from the ceiling.

Her eyes were covered by a blindfold, which had soaked through with her tears. She begged for her life, pleading for her freedom, promising her attacker that she had not seen him and would tell no one about what had happened. He laughed; a sinister sound that echoed through the room.

As he walked by a broken mirror, Michael Boyd caught a glimpse of the man he had
become, now broken like the mirror. He screamed along with the bound woman, but no one other than the depraved entity controlling his life could hear him. He understood the need to survive -- to keep trying, hoping for a miracle.

Just two weeks ago, Michael was a healthy thirty-two-year-old man working a second-shift
factory job, aspiring to become the next David Copperfield. He had aimed to be a magician since he was a child.

Michael began dating Holly Carey approximately six months ago. She had shared with
him that she practiced Black Magic and promised that she could help him achieve his dreams. She made the whole process sound so safe and common. When she brought out an Ouija board as the catalyst, that should have been sign enough that what she was proposing
was ludicrous. However, it wasn't, and that was the last night Michael had authority over more than his own thoughts. And it was also the same night Holly became his first victim.

Since that night, his possessed body had been on a killing spree he could not stop. He had become a prisoner in his own flesh, trapped in his mind. It was as if he were watching someone else commit these heinous acts, but it was he who watched through his own eyes, felt the changes in his system, the movements behind the crimes. The only emotions he couldn't feel were his captor's; the only thoughts he couldn't hear were his warden's. He wasn't sure if the same held true for the evil spirit controlling him.

Michael felt the cold metal of the knife in his hand as his arm rose, he knew what would come next—the same ritual that had occurred with every victim. His cursed body would start with her
right thigh, cutting three deep horizontal gashes, one on top of the other. He could feel the tingling in his system as his adrenaline surged with each scream that passed her lips. The puppet master pulling his strings would repeat the same slashing pattern on her left thigh. It would wait for her to lull a bit, worn out from the thrashing, screaming and pain. Then it would continue.

Next were her arms -- her biceps facing out with her left wrist fastened atop her
right. Always the same. It used his hand to cut the same pattern on the inside of her right bicep. She jerked, trying to pull away. Her screams continue, but her voice had grown hoarse. Whatever this was that has possessed him relished this part.

Michael could sense the 'darkness' coursing through and around him like oil smothering him.
Again with the sinister laugh. She was whimpering and panting. It seemed as if it was just watching her lose her will to fight before finishing her off, finding pleasure from her pain.

Even though it had administered this ritual numerous times, Michael still yelled 'no' within his
personal cage in an attempt to regain control of his self this time. His right arm lifted again and proceeded to cut two horizontal slashes, one on top of the other, on the inside of her left bicep. Then came the one last fatal wound to her exposed left wrist.

The knife sliced through the thin skin just below the rope, deeper than all the other
wounds. Her blood began flowing down her arm, spilling onto her head before streaking her black hair, angelic face, and then the rest of her upper body. The
blood from the wounds on her legs was slowly cascading down and dripping from her feet onto the floor beneath her.

Michael watched as her breathing became shallower and her body began to spasm. Her blood flow seemed to keep pace with her heartbeat, slowing as her heart gave up the struggle to live. Michael was wailing so loudly he felt like anyone looking upon him would have to see his skin vibrating. He heard the vicious laugh once more and wondered if it was him or the dying girl who was so amusing to the reprobate holding him hostage.

Michael's body halted in front of the broken mirror. He didn't want to see the image before him, but couldn't turn away. He looked like a strung-out junkie -- he had lost weight, his cheeks sunken, his skin ashen and he had dark circles under his eyes. Michael watched his bloody right hand lift a cigarette to his mouth then heard the click of the lighter. He felt the deep inhale of smoke and heard the moan that always follows escape with the first exhale.

No wonder he looks so emaciated, his body has somehow managed to survive on black coffee and cigarette smoke alone. Michael knew there would be no recess coming in order for his body to attempt a recovery. It would begin its search for the next victim. He was beginning to realize that this darkness within him would exploit his body as its killing vessel until it expired.He wasn't sure which form of death was worse.