He flitted around the room, trying to decide his next move. A light flickered. His pulse leapt. He touched the light switch; nothing happened.
A pool of blood. Wide staring eyes. No, that was his death – the death of his body.
Outside, the wind stirred. All was silent. The girl was lying on the sofa, one foot resting on the arm, the other flat on the floor. Her eyes were closed. But she was still dead.
Still dead. Still dead.
She was young. She was special. She was rare. A “trainer”, they would call her. Hers was a soul that could rival others. Hers was a soul that would have ferried others into the afterlife. Psychopomp. There could be only one. But, now, it belonged to him.
No! He wouldn’t! Not again! Not anymore!
But that glimpse of a forgotten energy... The feeling of so much power coursing through him. Another soul. He would add it to the ones he’d inherited already. Countless. Never-ending.
Her body’s energy began to feed him. Her last breath had asked for death. Death because she was ridiculed, outcast from society – they’d said she was “weird”. In exchange for her soul, she wished to be eternally consumed.
It was bittersweet. He cried. But the wondrous power overwhelmed him. Her screams would never subside. He would hear them always in his dreams.
No one would find her. He would make her body disappear in a lake or a forest. His hands had been stained with earth and blood before.
Her soul was sweet. It fed him for hours. And when hunger was satisfied, he retired to his loneliness. What had become of him? What he had been before, he was again.