Shadow Lines

Ch. 8 The Scent of Souls

Ch. 8 The Scent of Souls

                Evil comes in many ways. Some come in the form of splendor and fortune. But it is really a wolf in the guise of a sheep. But by the time that you bring the sheep to your home and welcome it, it will be too late. The wolf will shed its disguise, and kill you.

                The wolf came in its guise as soon as Evelyn Arousela refused to enter the church.

                Was it fate that drove Evelyn Arousela to shun away protection?

                Destiny?

                Influence from some higher being?

                Clearly, the answer will reveal itself in time.

                When possibly everything might already be too late.

A Rather Simple Question:

What do you believe evil is?

                “What’s wrong?” I asked.

                Evelyn gripped the wheel tightly. Her knuckles shone white.

                What was I supposed to do?

                Comfort her?

                No, of course not. I could already see Evelyn Arousela slipping away. Words might break her fragile state, even if they held kindness and sympathy.

                I’ve seen and taken countless souls away from their bodies. I, indirectly, have given the official claim that the person is dead. I have seen many souls shun away from me—wallow in their self-pity, howl about their regrets and how it is not their time. But, you see, when you die, it is your time.

                And I can’t help but wonder if that applies to Markus Rivialani. Did he die because it was his time?

                Or has some elements come into play that have affected that?

                “We’re here.” Evelyn said, her voice low and quiet. And frosty. Like a giant icicle waiting to impale you.

                I looked up—and we were not at the church. No, we were at Evelyn Arousela’s home.

                Stupidity might have been another possibility that made Evelyn drive away from the church.

                “Why are we not at the church?” I said, stepping out. The air shivered, as if expecting something horrifying to occur. And maybe it would.

                Evelyn shrugged—a careless motion that didn’t seem to fit her. She unlocked the front door and strolled inside her house, going straight for a cabinet in the kitchen. She yanked it open and pulled out a beer bottle. The sharp reek of alcohol filled the room as she popped it open and began to drink.

                “Evelyn,” I said, quietly.

                “What?” she snarled at me, her voice low and distinct. The single word sliced through the air like a whip. The atmosphere shimmered, became dangerously heated.

                The phone suddenly rang, and the heat evaporated, replaced by cold icy stillness. The kind of feeling that you would get when a predator is about to devour its prey.