The Soul Collector

Chapter FOUR

There are those that shall never see the light, for the wealth of their evil has made their soul incapable of being salvaged�

The seedy hotel was located just off the last exit of the major interstate, somewhere deep in the bayou of a distant southern state. A foreboding sense of malaise emanated the dilapidated structure and caused many travelers to suffer second thoughts about pausing. Often enough, vehicles would accelerate past the ramshackle lodgings, desperate to leave the crumbling structure behind.

Despite the lack of lighting, and the abundance of refuse and weeds consuming the vacant parking lot, an elderly man ambled across the cracked cement. His gait was joyous and there was a crooked and dizzying parody to his childish skip.

In one hand, he swung a room key. In the other, he held a relentless grip on a half-empty bottle of cheap whiskey. He spun and paused before leaping gracefully into the air. A wild cackle of insane laughter burst from him when he reached the assigned room, his hands oddly steady while he unlocked the door.

The hotel room reeked of decades of stale cigarette smoke and urine. Outside, the sound of rapidly passing interstate traffic rose to a deafening crescendo. Noise and odor were of much concern to the room's single inhabitant, nor the obvious lack of cleanliness. In the span of his lifetime, he had slept in far worse lodgings, and this wasn't as unpleasant as it appeared.

The stooped and crooked figure kicked shut the warped door. The action was that of a much younger man but the thought was ridiculous. The man was elderly, appearing ancient beyond his years, the passage of time unkind.

In truth, he was older than he appeared, or humanly possible.

His face was horrendously pock marked, the pitted scars running deep and only separated by heavy wrinkles. The yellowed whiteness of his hair hung in brittle and limp strands about his shoulders. Each lank lock exuded the stench of smoke, alcohol, and some other underlying odor.

The hand that brought the weight of the whiskey bottle to his cracked and dry lips was gnarled and twisted. Despite his advanced age, his hands didn't quiver. His hold was strong, firm, and slightly unsettling. Taking a long swallow, minute trails of fluid trailed from the sides of his mouth. He gulped loudly, lowering the bottle and wiping at the dampness with the cuff of his tattered coat.

Displaying the agility of youth, he tossed his lean weight onto the soiled blanket covering the bed. He cackled as the mattress protested, and his grip on the bottle didn't relax. The fluid never splashed from the bottle as he situated his body on the misshapen pillows, ignoring the scurrying of roaches. He traced the tip of his tongue over the chipped and yellow contours of his teeth, the action more of one to wet the dryness filling his mouth.

Always parched, he was forever seeking an ever-evasive drop of moisture just beyond his reach.

He sensed the return of the small creatures to the comforter. To his finely tuned ears, he heard the scurrying of their legs, muffled by worn fabric. He remained rigid as the brown forms came closer before his unhindered hand lashed out. His speed was unimaginable, more akin to the lunge of a striking snake, as he captured the struggling body of a roach.

His narrowed eyes focused on the rapidly moving legs of the creature he held between his over long and cracked nails. He was still, brooding as the insect struggled. He watched the creature’s antenna spin and swirl, seeking escape.

Humorlessly, he chuckled, increasing the pressure until the insect's narrow body oozed a mucous-like fluid. The legs of the pest shuddered for a moment, then stilled. The man opened his mouth wide, placed the carcass on his tongue, and relished the ensuing crunch as he closed his mouth.

As if by unseen hands, the set at the foot of the bed clicked to a predetermined channel. He squinted at the apparatus, the faded color of his glassy eyes fastening on the images projected on the flickering screen. His vision cleared and he took an extra deliberate swig from the grimy bottle he held. The sultry and appealing image of the female host remained. A lulling sound filled his ears and his eyes drooped downwards, his intent focus vanishing as crepe papery lids closed over nearly colorless orbs.

Whether the numbing effects of the liquor or the weariness of his aching bones brought on the drowsiness, he didn't know. He preferred sleep, the fingers of Morpheus teasing his numbed brain. Sleep would ease him of the hunger and the need to seek what his damned soul craved.

The woman's voice from the program was soothing and seductive, he thought dimly, paying attention to the gentle cadence. He felt himself drifting in and out of consciousness, faint glitches of her words dropping into the depths of his slumber.

She was an oddity, he thought, intelligent and appealing. Dimly, he admitted she was sexy. She boasted the build of the women of his past, not like those half-starved waifs cavorting about the stage and screen in this age. She had a lusciousness that begged a man to seek the silkiness of her thighs and her ample bosom.

He dozed, her voice spinning in his mind.

Lucien

The name brought him awake. He didn't stay on the soiled coverlet, as most would, wondering if the name was a figment of his imagination or a sleep-numbed mind.

He shook himself, remembering he didn't suffer from such a human frailty.

He shot upwards, awake, and alert. He rubbed at the gritty dryness of his eyes with his knuckles, the half-empty bottle falling to the blanket, unheeded fluid seeping free. He wiped drying spittle from the corners of his mouth and blinked, forcing a semblance of moisture to his eyes, his attention riveted to the flickering images on the set.

A slow and triumphant smile curved his cracked lips while he eyed the man whose face appeared.

Ah, it had been so long!

It had been eons since they had last met.

He listened to the interview, the sultry looks, and husky voice of the anchor no longer appealing. The other held his rapt attention, his carefully placed and antiquated speech flowing familiarly over him.

Memories flooded him, instigated by the words seeping from the man's pale lips. Brutally, he shoved the thoughts aside and focused his anger on the television set. He chuckled as the framed images flickered and danced, the reception instantaneously distorted as the mechanism emitted a mysteriously plume of smoke.

Life had dealt the old man an unfair hand, one he intended to rectify.

New York wasn’t so far away, he thought, calculating the hours it would take to reach the state. Haste was imperative, and he wouldn't allow one more moment to slip by while Lucien D'Angel basked in the lights of fame.

“The time has finally arrived, dearest brother,” Julian sneered and fell back on the bed.