Orgy of Souls

The living room wasn’t what Samuel expected to see from his brother’s place, every bit the enigma Samson had become. Clean lines. Everything meticulously in its place. The pile of coasters neatly stacked on the corner of the coffee table. Rows of alphabetized CDs alongside a shelf of books arranged in descending size. The incomplete set of samurai swords. The sole item warming the sterile feel of the room was the framed photo on the mantle. Samuel picked it up, noting that not a speck of dust rested on neither the mantle nor picture. His mind drifted to the story of Moses.

People knew the burning bush Moses. The “let my people go” Moses. The parting the Red Sea Moses. The Ten Commandments Moses. They forgot the “I’ve sinned and can’t go on” Moses. For forty years, he had wandered the desert alongside the Israelites, listening to their grumbling and complaining. Though the Lord had provided for them at every turn, sending manna and quail from heaven for food, leading them, providing signs for them, still they murmured. Until one day, Moses snapped. Slamming his staff into rocks, he summoned water. However, the act dishonored God, demonstrated a lack of faith, and for that, he was not allowed to lead them into the Promised Land. At the end, though, Moses charged his people with a message of hope. Though disappointed, he had come to accept God’s judgment.

Samuel longed for that peace, then wondered who was he to think that he deserved peace.

He sat on the couch, imagining what life would be like if he had made different choices. Stretching out his arms, he sank into its embrace, a knot of jealousy working itself in his belly. To be Samson. To have women at his beck and call. To have “the life.” The pangs of envy gave way to something else. He barely noticed it at first, like a slight breeze on a hot day. He sensed that something was off. That he wasn’t alone.

All about him, something powerful and old poisoned the air, perhaps toying with his mind. The coffee table suddenly pulled back. The lines of the room canted to odd angles, as if the veil of reality were being tugged back. His ears filled with the roar of ocean waves crashing into rocks. He studied the couch. The surface was clean, but beneath, the stains remained. Something bad had happened here. Something…defiling. The couch bled; life sprayed from it as if from a severed artery. His soul shriveled against the gnawing that threatened to overwhelm him. An ancient hunger demanding more. Never satisfied, all consuming, a shadow devouring his very being. The roar in his ears turned to laughter. Deep, mocking laughter.

And the blood. On his hands, on his clothes, in his mouth. His stomach lurched. Samuel made a mad dash toward the bathroom, diving for the toilet before spilling his meal into the porcelain. He staggered back to the couch. It seemed ordinary enough now, and he prayed that no one would show him anything different. He reached for a mint from the bowl of candy that sat on the end table when he noticed the book of matches.

Requiem.

20

Jacque’s soul crawled beneath Samson’s skin, worming its way into his muscles and vascular system, pumping through his veins into his heart and invading the thin capillaries of his brain. As he walked the dark streets on his way to the nightclub, he could feel it working deeper and deeper until it invaded every cell. This was the sensation he had expected to feel with Tara’s soul, this marrying of his flesh and spirit to hers, but he had felt nothing. With Jacque, the man’s soul had become a part of him until, at some subatomic level, they were joined.

Samson walked faster, eager to get to the club. His adrenaline was racing. Sweat beaded on his skin as he nearly jogged the remaining blocks to Requiem.

A cold chill raised goose bumps on his neck and arms, causing Samson to stop suddenly in the middle of the sidewalk. As if he had walked through a frozen spider web, and now it was all over him.

Samson began to tremble as he felt the presence of another soul. Tara. He could feel her fly to him as if she had been lingering around all along waiting for someone to show her the way inside. She followed Jacque, letting him lead the way. Tara’s whimsical spirit shrieked in horror as it coated his skin and began to slowly seep into him.

“Welcome home, Tara.”

Samson started walking again, though his flesh felt bloated as he neared the club. He was certain that everyone he passed on the street could see the other entities within him, rippling beneath the surface of his skin like cats fighting beneath a blanket. Gradually, the riot of souls quieted down as they submerged deeper and deeper, migrating from his flesh into his own immortal spirit. Samson smiled as their warmth filled him, replacing the chill in his bones with their vibrant energy, like warm brandy on a cold winter night. This was not an unpleasant feeling at all.