THE SOUL STEALERS
By Tom Johnson
THE ELEVATOR
The city sidewalks were bustling with activities; shoppers wandering from store front to store front, and workers arriving at their jobs, seemingly indifferent to the crowds of people around them. I was no different. I was the typical "man in the gray flannel suit," although very few of us wore a gray flannel suit any more. We dressed more modem. But we were still the invisible workers. Each of us was rushing here and there, doing this or the other thing. Our daily lives were the same. I seldom noticed the crowds on the sidewalks, nor did I absorb the individual faces. If someone spoke to me, I nodded my head in greeting, or mumbled a "Good morning," or "Good afternoon."
Today being Monday, I wore my best white shirt, tan trousers with a dark brown suit jacket, and spit-shined shoes. No tie. I hated ties, and anyway, they were not required in my office. In my mid-thirties, my hair was still thick and dark brown, which matched my eyes. Although I'm of average height, I do not stand out in a crowd. I would be surprised if many of my co-workers knew my name. That's the way it was in the city.
Oh, you knew your boss. You knew his wife's name and how many children they had. That was also to be expected. But you didn't have to know anything about your co-workers. You arrived for work Monday through Friday, the same time every day, took the elevator to the floor where you worked, and then you left for home every day at the same time, riding the elevator back down to the lobby. For ten years now, I had done the same thing five days a week. Routine. I couldn't tell you if any of my co-workers rode the elevator with me or not. That, too, was the way it was.
But this Monday was different. I noticed the little man as he got on the elevator with me. He was small, and appeared so gray that I thought he might be ill. He looked at me with sad eyes, and then suddenly he brightened, as if I was a long lost friend of his. We started talking, and I was drawn to him like a magnet. All the other passengers on the elevator were forgotten as this little man and 1 talked for what seemed hours. Yet, I knew the elevator ride could not have been more than a minute.
When I got off at my floor, I knew that the little man knew all about me. But 1 didn't mind. For some reason, 1 liked the small, gray man. But the day's work took my attention, and he was soon forgotten, replaced with everyday things that kept my company running. My mind was on my work, and the day passed normally. Before 1 knew it, it was time to quit for the day. 1 went out into the hall and waited for the elevator.
The first person I saw when I stepped onto the elevator was the small, gray man from that morning. Our eyes met again, and his face lit up with pleasure. We conversed as the elevator dropped to the ground floor. My mind was in a whirl. Again, I felt that we had talked for hours; yet the evening was still young when I stepped out onto the sidewalk.
I drove my car out of the parking lot and headed home. It was an hour's drive from the city. My wife wouldn't live in the city, and I felt the same way. We had a small house in a small town, miles from the big city where I worked. I had driven the route so many times that over the years, the landmarks had all faded, and I could have slept during the long drive. At least that was what I told everyone. Truth is, half the time I didn't remember the drive. My mind was elsewhere. Like the pedestrians on the sidewalk that I didn't see, the roadside also became invisible during my drive home. It was always the same.
Tuesday morning he was there again. That evening, he left at the same time, and we rode the elevator together. Sometimes I caught the sadness in his eyes; at other times, he smiled and laughed and talked, and we were happy. I didn't know what the other passengers thought about us. They were quiet, rode the elevator up or down, and went about their daily lives. They paid us no attention. We were just two men on an elevator, talking and laughing. What was that to them?
Wednesday and Thursday were the same. I had grown used to finding the little man on the elevator with me. 1 never bothered to inquire about his work place. After all, what business was it of mine? Evidently he belonged in the office building. He was here every day, wasn't he? If he wanted to tell me where he worked, he would. That was his business. It was enough that he had brought a little sunshine into my own life.
There was a change Friday morning. When I entered the elevator, the little man wasn't there. At first, I was concerned for him; after all, I remembered how ill he had looked. But as I turned upon entering the elevator, I saw him leaning on the elevator doors, something clutched in his hand. He was muttering something soft and low as I came close.
"Yea, though I may walk ... "
"Psalm 23?" I asked, as I noticed a Bible clutched in his hand.
."Yes," he replied, looking up at me with those sad eyes of his.
"I was afraid 1 had missed you this morning," I told the little man.
"No," he said, "I am always on time. I was called to the side of a dying little girl this morning, but 1 knew I would be here on time."
Nodding my head, I could imagine his feelings to be called to attend a dying child, and I wondered if he was a preacher. The Bible in his hand could certainly mean he was.
"You recognized the 23rd Psalm," he stated, rather than asked. "You've read the
Bible, then?"
"Oh yes," I told him. "We attend a little church in a small town not far from here. I enjoy reading the Bible."
"That's good," he said.
All too soon, we were at my floor, and I had to exit the elevator. But I was perplexed at the little man's behavior this morning. He appeared distraught, angry, upset. I knew it had something to do with the death of the child. But I couldn't help but wonder why. Preachers usually tell us how better off the child is, now that it is in Heaven. Something was wrong with his story, or the appearance of the story at least.
Once I was seated in my office, I turned on the little radio to my favorite music station, and instead of music, I heard the radio announcer telling about a vicious crime that morning.
"At a few minutes till eight this morning, a rapist abducted little five-year old Jessica, raping, and then strangling her. Her nude body was found in the park near her apartment. Authorities suspect that the rapist climbed through an open window and carried the girl from her bed just minutes before her mother checked on her. The rapist is still at large, and the police have no suspects in the case."
Turning off the radio, I reached for the telephone. Didn't I know who the rapist was? It had to be the little man from the elevator! But before I dialed the police, I thought about the scene of the crime. It was miles from my office building. And the little man had arrived at about the same time as the little girl's death. It couldn't have been him! I replaced the telephone. Until I knew for sure, I wouldn't report my suspicions to the police. Perhaps the little man was innocent. I would ask him. I would tell him what I suspected, and I would ask him about the little girl's death.
That day passed ever so slowly. I though it would never end. I became a clock-watcher, hoping the time would pass more quickly, so I could speak with the man on the elevator.
When five 0' clock finally came around, I quickly rushed from my office and stood at the elevator, waiting anxiously. When the doors opened, I was disappointed to see that the little, gray man was not there. Stepping into the elevator, I knew that this made him look even more suspicious than before. But what could I do? I didn't even know his name. Foolishly, I had not asked him his name, nor did I know where he worked in the building. I only had his description, but hopefully that would be enough.
I retrieved my car from the parking lot and headed home. I would call the police from there, and tell them my suspicions about the little man from the elevator. My mind was wandering as usual. Ten years I had driven this route, and every mile looked the same. I could probably sleep and drive the route blind. I smiled as I thought of that. How easily we slip into routines. I wonder how many drivers there were like me, who sometimes don't remember their drive home. That's happened to me a lot. Just get behind the wheel and drive. Your car knows the way home! Again, I laughed at the thought.
The claxon brought me to full alert. My head swung to the left. I was on a railroad track, and the train was just yards from me. Ten years I'd driven this route, and never had I seen a train on this track. I could not react. The train was already upon my car. I knew that this was the end. I was going to die here on this railroad track.
And suddenly time stood still. I could have reached out and touched the train from the window of my car, but I didn't. Instead, I felt a presence in the car with me. I looked toward the passenger side of the seat, and there, smiling up at me, was the little gray man.
"I'm here," he said.
"What's happening?" I asked.
"I'm here to help you pass to the other side," he said.
"I don't understand," I told him.
"I - we are assigned to those who are about to die." He smiled up at me. "And we are with them when they cross over."
"We?" I asked, still not comprehending.
"There are many of us. We are only assigned to those who will cross over. There are many who will not. If we are given an assignment, then we attend that person until he passes, removing all fear, all pain, and all terror from the death that awaits them."
"The little girl this morning?" I asked. "You did not rape her? You were with her, though?"
"Yes," he replied, "she was my assignment. I held her little hand as he raped her, and I took her essence - soul - as he wrapped his fingers around her throat. She felt no pain or fear, for she was under my protection."
"Damn it, why didn't you save her," I asked him. "You were there. You could have done something."
"No," he shook his head. "We cannot interfere or be seen except by our assignments. Man, after all, has a free will. But we can take away the pain and the fear."
"What about me?" I asked. "In a second, that train is going to crash into me, and I'll feel all kinds of pain."
"Give me your hand," he said. "It is time. I will take your fear, and you will feel no pain."
Holding my hand in his, I could suddenly feel a strange sensation, as if my whole essence was being drained. Once, I looked up to see the metal monster hovering over my automobile, and I knew the crash was coming quickly, but oddly I felt no fear now. I understood, finally. This little man had been assigned to me at the beginning of the week. Somehow, they knew that death was coming to me. And though they could not stop it, they could help me pass from this life.
His opening was the elevator. I guess it could have been some other way. But the little man had chosen to ride the elevator with me, to get to know me, before my death. Perhaps he had done the same with the little girl. She trusted him in the end, and he helped her pass.
As blackness overtook me, I heard a loud, grinding crash as the train collided with my car. But my soul was gone, and I felt no pain. He had removed me from my body.
THE END
THE BAG LADY
Francis Martin had joined the police force to make a difference. She wanted to be a cop the citizen could rely upon. But she learned early on that once she put on the uniform, she alienated herself from the public. The more she tried to help, the more foreign she became. After two years on the force, she came to accept the fact that she was a cop, and the mean streets of Chicago would always consider her an alien.
As tough as a man, and stronger than most men, she had proven herself more than once, winning the admiration of her male peers. They had long since quit arguing about a woman being among the elite. Instead, to the men on her shift, she'd become known as Frankie. If she called for back up, any of them would have responded. If Frankie responded to a call for back up from one of them that was okay too. She was one of them.
Tonight was one of those times!
Frankie heard the frantic radio call from Johnny Morales. He was leaving his vehicle in foot pursuit of a possible armed robbery suspect a few blocks over from her own patrol section. She could be there in a couple of minutes.
Wheeling the fast police cruiser through the heavy night traffic, Frankie called her position to the desk sergeant, and reported she was responding to the back up request.
As she spun the car into the street two blocks over, she arrived in time to see Johnny
Morales enter a run down tenement house. Two shots were fired from within.
Her voice snapped over the radio as the cruiser slid to a halt in front of the tenement house.
"Shots fired, officer may be in danger. Repeat, shots fired, address follows..."
After giving the address, she was opening the door to her cruiser when she heard the voice of her sergeant ordering her to wait for more back up before entering the tenement.
She was chagrined at the order, but she obeyed without hesitation. Positioning her body in the darkness outside the doorway to the tenement, she tried to peer inside. She made out a dimly lit hallway, but she did not have a wide range of visual content from her position.
A shadow passed in her peripheral vision, and she looked behind her to see an old bag lady staring at her strangely. Frankie gave her a passing glance, and then looked again towards the hallway.
The arrival of another patrol car pulled her attention back to the street. Her patrol sergeant was getting out of his vehicle. She shined the light of her flashlight on the sidewalk a few feet from her to attract his attention. Once the sergeant knew which doorway to direct his attention, he made his way over to Frankie.
"What happened?" he asked.
"I arrived just as Johnny entered this door," she said. "Then I heard two shots from inside. I didn't see the suspect. I don't know who fired their weapon."
"Well, I've got an idea that if it was Johnny who fired his weapon, he would be back out by now," he said; "On the other hand, if Johnny is still on his feet, I don't want him to shoot us when we enter this damned door!"
"Let me go in first, Sarge," Frankie requested. "Johnny would recognize me."
"Okay." Sergeant Holland sighed. "But go in low, and to your right. I'll be right behind you, and I'll go straight down the hallway."
Holding her back with one hand, the sergeant yelled, "Police! We're coming in!"
Frankie did a great imitation of Chuck Berry's Duck Walk when she slid through the doorway. Sergeant Holland went in behind her, the big cop hitting the floor and rolling away from the entrance as quickly as he could.
Frankie's searching hands happened on a pair of feet tracing her fingers up the legs, she found the rest of Johnny Morales lying prone on the floor. A large pool of blood soaked his uniform on the left side. She felt for a pulse, but found none. Johnny Morales was dead, and it looked like two chest wounds had killed him. His note pad lay on the floor next to him. After glancing through it, she put it back in his pocket
"Sergeant?" she called.
"Yeah, I'm over here."
"I found Johnny," she said.
Several nights later, as Frankie's shift began, one of the off-going patrolmen called to her, saying that she was wanted in the sergeant's briefing room. She put on her holster and gear, and inspected her uniform before she proceeded to the briefing room.
Knocking softly, she heard a voice within telling her to enter. She found Sergeant Holland sitting behind the desk, going over some papers. Johnny Morales' personal effects were also scattered on the desk.
"Did you want to see me, Sarge?" she asked.
"Yes." He nodded towards a chair on one side of the desk. "Sit down, Frankie. I'm trying to finish up the paperwork on the shooting the other night." He leaned back and looked at Frankie.
"Something's wrong with your statement, Frankie."
"What's wrong with it, Sarge? I wrote it up as I saw it. How I found Johnny after we entered the tenement and all."
"And the bag lady, Frankie?"
"What about her?" Frankie asked.
"There was no bag lady. Your statement is the first I heard about her."
"But I saw her. She was there when we entered the tenement. She wasn't five feet from me."
"Frankie, I was there, remember? You and I were alone at the door. There was no bag lady.
No one saw her but you."
"Then what about this?" She picked up Johnny's note pad from among his personal effects.
Opening the little book, she pointed to Johnny's handwritten note on one of the pages. "Read this."
The sergeant read the passage that Frankie indicated.
"Strange. For several days now, an old bag lady has followed me. I've seen her at the donut shop, the convenience store, and other places in town. I've been watching a suspect for several minutes now, and I just noticed her watching me. I've got to catch the suspect now before he gets away. "
"Are you saying that you saw the same bag lady that Johnny saw that night, Frankie?"
"I'm sure I did, Sarge," she said. "She was a small woman with an awfully gray complexion, and wearing rags. She gave me a funny look."
"Funny look, Frankie? What do you mean?"
"I can't explain it, Sarge. She kind of stared at me, like she knew me. Or wanted to know me, maybe. I don't know."
"Frankie, before you go on duty tonight, I want you to see the chaplain. I'll tell him you're coming. Talk to him, and tell him anything that might be bothering you. If he says it's okay for you to go on duty tonight, then we'll discuss your statement again tomorrow night.
"I don't know who or what Johnny saw. But there was no bag lady anywhere near us that night. That you think you saw her bothers me, Frankie, and we need to work this out quickly. I can't have you seeing things while on duty. Things that aren't there!" He waved his hand, indicating that his interview was finished.
"Yes, sir," Frankie said. With that, she left the briefing room.
After she left, an inner door opened, and the chaplain walked in. "She looked okay, Sergeant Holland. I didn't see any nervousness, and she spoke clearly. I don't know what to think about this bag lady she thinks she saw."
"Well, talk to her one on one. You were a cop before you put on that cross; you'll recognize her answers if they are screwy or something. I need clear heads out there. If Frankie's messed up, I can give her a few days off to pull herself back together."
Nodding his head in understanding, the chaplain left the briefing room and made his way back to his small office in a comer of the building.
All cops hate the midnight shift. They usually called it the graveyard shift because most of the crimes went down during that time, from convenience store robberies to drug related murders. A full moon in the sky added a touch of suspense that tickled the hair on the back of Frankie's neck. Part of her expected to see a werewolf bound from an alleyway, or a vampire bat fly across the surface of the moon.
The night started out as she expected. After midnight, several DUI's were arrested. Punks were carjacking new model automobiles, then trying to outrun the patrol units. At 2:00am, a convenience store was robbed by a bandit matching the description of the man who had shot and killed Johnny Morales. All units were notified to be on the lookout, and to use extreme caution in apprehending the suspect.
"Fat chance," Frankie muttered. "He's probably looking for a place to hide!"
She sat up straighter in the car seat. The suspect had disappeared in the vicinity where
Johnny Morales was killed. The detectives figured he had used the tenement as a way to escape pursuit, entering one door, and then exiting one on the other side. "What if he worked the same trick again tonight?" she wondered.
Wheeling into the block where the tenement stood gave her a feeling of de-ja-vu. But this time it wasn't the back of Johnny Morales that she saw entering the tenement door; it was the back of the masked suspect. Instead of stopping the patrol car on this side of the street, Frankie whipped the vehicle around the side street, all the time speaking over the radio, detailing the suspect's movements. She knew that back up was on the way. "We'll get him this time," she promised herself.
When the suspect cut across a yard, and she could no longer follow in her cruiser, Frankie notified her sergeant that she was taking to foot pursuit.
In top physical condition, she could run with the best of them. But obstacles hidden by the darkness lay in her path. When she leapt over one trash barrel, she landed on a toy wagon on the other side, and her feet slipped out from under her. The sidewalk ripped the hide off one arm. She scrambled to her feet, and saw that the fugitive wasn't as far ahead of her as she thought. She put on another burst of speed, narrowing the distance between them.
In a sudden turnaround, they found themselves back near the original tenement house where Johnny Morales had been killed. The suspect was the first to recognize the area, and see the line of police cruisers waiting for him. He must have figured his only chance was to cut back through the area he'd just traversed, even if that meant encountering the lone cop who was pursuing him.
Frankie saw the suspect turn towards her with a snarl on his lips. She brought her gun up as she tried to make herself as small of a target as possible. She watched in slow motion as the suspect brandished his own weapon. She fired a breath before he squeezed his trigger; then the world seemed to stand still.
Several things were happening, but they all seemed so slow. Two bullets were speeding towards different targets, one slightly ahead of the other. Sergeant Holland and the chaplain were both in mid-leap, as if they were running towards her, but not getting anywhere.
Only the bag lady was moving. The small, gray woman came towards her with a smile on her sad face. Frankie watched in fascination as the two bullets sped from two guns, one bullet on a direct path with her head. But she could do nothing about it. She could not move out of its way. Her speed was the same as that of Sergeant Holland and the chaplain.
The bag lady stood next to her now. "Hello, Frankie," she said.
"What's happening?" Frankie asked the bag lady. "Why can't I move?"
"You are in normal time, Frankie. I am the only one out of step. I did this so I could speak with you. Soon, the killer's bullet will hit you, and you will die. I am here to take your essence your soul - before you feel any pain."
"You were with Johnny Morales when I saw you the other night. Isn't that so?"
"Yes, he was my assignment, as you are my assignment tonight. We know when some are going to die, and we are assigned to help them cross over."
"I guess my bullet didn't do any good then. No one is with that scum ball over there."
"The killer? No, he is also going to die tonight, Frankie. But he will feel the pain. He will scream when the bullet tears into his chest. We are not assigned to tend the deaths of people like him. We are assigned only to those who are crossing over to a better place.
"Give me your hand, Frankie. It is time."
It was almost instantaneous, the two bullets striking their targets so close together. Sergeant Holland and the chaplain reached Frankie at the same time. There was no pulse. The bullet had almost blown off her head.
"She's gone," the chaplain said.
"But she got the cop killer also," the sergeant said. "He screamed at first, but he's gone now. Her bullet probably made a mess of his heart."
"I wish now I'd taken her off line tonight," the chaplain told the sergeant. "Seeing bag ladies that aren't there would have been sufficient reason."
"But she really did see the bag lady," Sergeant Holland said.
"What...?"
"Yes, she did," the sergeant told him. "You see, Chaplain, I saw the bag lady tonight. She looked right at me. Almost like she knew me."
THE END
Little Ricky’s Monster
The young boys laughed as they ran across the cemetery at the edge of their little village. Perhaps the giggles were to allay their fears of the dead, although each of them had proclaimed their fearlessness to one another. At ten years of age, the oldest among them often dared the younger ones to prove their bravery. One of those dares had been to sit alone in this very cemetery on dark nights when clouds obscured the moon and stars.
The cemetery was not dark tonight. The white headstones appeared luminous as they reflected the brightness of the full moon. If the young boys had stopped to examine the graves, they would have seen that many of the stones bore the names of young soldiers who had died in the recent World War. Few of them knew that these soldiers mostly died of the Influenza that had killed so many worldwide.
Once out of the cemetery, the boys split up, each going to their homes nestled in the woods and farmlands away from the town proper. No wonder they weren’t afraid of the dead in the cemetery, for out here were panthers, bobcats, and rattlesnakes. Here, it was the living that little boys had to fear. That baby’s cry they heard at night wasn’t really a baby. It was a puma, the yellow panther that carried off their livestock. Small boys could also be carried off. But that was the difference between city boys and country boys. City boys stayed home at night, or went out with their parents. Country boys dared each other to spend the night in haunted cemeteries.
Darkness had settled over the area early in the evening, for this was the fall, and daylight was short. An Indian summer had set in, ushering in warmer temperatures than normal for the autumn.
The boys ran, not out of fear, but because they had to be home by nightfall. City boys may have had electricity and indoor plumbing, but in the country, folks lived by candle or kerosene lamp, and outhouses were next to barns. This was 1930, and there was very little money for country boys. These boys had gone to a traveling carnival tonight, tossing a few balls at targets, or trying to hit balloons with darts, to win prizes, and eating cotton candy. Each had a quarter to spend, and a quarter went a long way in 1930.
Their quarters had lasted longer than expected, and night was falling when their last penny was spent. That was when the race for home started. They would probably get a whipping for being late, even though this was a Friday night, and tomorrow was not a school day. Country boys went to bed when it got dark, and were up early to feed the chickens, gather the eggs, slop the hogs, and milk the jersey cow. City boys might have been pampered, not country boys. So on they raced.
Soon, only two boys were left, ten year old Billy and nine year old Ricky. Their homes were the farthest out, and in the most desolate of the backwoods. When they heard the shot, they slowed their pace, wondering who was in the woods with a gun. Coming over a small rise, they saw an old Model A Ford racing down a dirt path.
“Hey, isn’t that old man Clarke’s Model A?” Billy asked his young partner.
“Nah, I don’t think so,” Ricky said. “What would he be doing out in the woods after dark, anyway?”
“I hear he sells moonshine.”
“Maybe so,” Ricky agreed, “but he don’t deliver it.”
“Reckon he shot a panther?” Billy wondered aloud.
“I hope so,” Ricky said under his breath.
“Hey, this is where I leave you,” Billy told him. “Will you be okay?”
“Sure,” Ricky said, averting his eyes. “I’m not afraid of the dark.”
“Okay, then, but watch out for wounded panthers,” he warned. “They’re meaner than regular ones!”
Little Ricky didn’t say anything. Not out loud, least ways. After leaving Billy, he picked up his pace as best he could. Several times his heart skipped a beat, and a couple of times he even swore like his daddy did when working that old lazy mule. Eyes on a limb in a tree may belong to an owl, but to a young boy thinking about wounded mountain lions, it was a yellow monster ready to pounce on him from that limb.
When he reached his yard, he had broken into a sweat. He figured it was from all that running, though, not from any kind of fear. It kind of reminded him of that story he had read in his schoolbook, by that Washington Irving fellow, The Legend of Sleepy Hollow, when the headless horseman chased old Ichabod Crane out of the county. He laughed as he thought of himself as Ichabod Crane.