Velli

I could still trap her. My original plan involved using those around me as a distraction and the Old Soul never noticing me until it was too late. That’s done. I can scramble and still make a rough plan to capture her or at least kill her. This still ends with me burying her alive inside the tanning bed. She can’t… live. Not something like her.

Well, no need to scare yourself, Velli. You remember the guy who stopped her last time? Be like him. Do what he did.

What guy?

Oh, yeah, he doesn’t exist. Good luck, champ.

The Old Soul strips to a bikini. Her sweater and pants full of souls gape at her. She mocks them, mimicking their inability to speak and their limited expressions—surprise and fear. Their jaws go up and down in a desperate and futile attempt to communicate some message.

I can’t decipher their words. Their present forms are too simplistic. Every motion with their mouths is either a perfect circle or a straight line. And of course, none of it is in Morse code. No one bothers to learn it anymore except Dream and a couple of our now-dead friends.

I see it served them well.

In her gray bikini, the Old Soul gives me as clear a view of her skin as I’ll get, skin as dry as fallen leaves—leathery, paperlike skin that looks like it’s been crumpled and unfurled then crumpled and unfurled at least ten times.

She figures out the tanning bed. It flashes blue twice and booms to life, staying a consistent blue. I take one more look at the three dead bodies in the waiting room and one look at the Hell Sweater to steel myself. The Old Soul will either serve me, or I’ll make that tanning bed her casket. The blue lights in the machine glow. Slow, smiling, and knowledgeable, the Old Soul turns around.

She stands straight, with no bend in her back. It appears it was the sweater and its weight that curved her spine. Surprisingly erect, domineering, and confident for someone her size and in her bare state, she revels in her near nudity. She seems to enjoy that she frightens me on multiple levels. It takes a lot to not back down from her gray gaze.

Earlier, when I saw her put down her sweater, I asked how much it weighed, and she laughed, saying, “However much you think a human soul weighs times sixteen,” and again, left me with a menacing wink.

“Boy,” she says now, half naked, exposed, yet looking at me like I’m her next victim and vice. “How do you know me?”

“I don’t.”

Her mouth curves into a wrinkly, crumpled smile. “Don’t lie to me again.” Her sweater reflects the light from the bottom half of the tanning bed. Every soul on there is tight-lipped and still.

“I read up on legends because I’m scared. So yes, I know the Old Soul.”

“And did you know I would be here this evening?”

“Yes.”

“And did you plan”—she does a half chuckle at the word plan—“to do something to me?”

“I did.”

“Don’t.”

I nod and lower my gaze.

“Head up again, boy, and listen. You’ll have one job once I get in. Wait five minutes then raise the temperature three notches. I’m very particular with my body. You understand?”

“Yes.”

“Good, good.” She shimmies in self-satisfaction and turns to hop into the machine. Her cane rests at the end of the bed by her head.

“Shut the booth, boy,” she says, and I do, hopeful that I can slam it on her like a coffin and refuse to let her out.

No, I don’t get that lucky. It doesn’t lock. The top of the booth and the bottom have a clear separation. The bed is shiny silver. The whole room sits in its reflection. I could steal her cane. I don’t dare glance at the thing. I don’t dare let her know what I’m thinking.

“Oh, and, boy. Don’t move an inch before raising the temperature on the booth.”

“Hmm, okay.” I tell her and regret that “hmm” before she speaks again.

“What are you thinking?” she asks.

“You tell me.”

“You don’t like me very much. That’s apparent. And you’re trying not to show it. It’s the eyes. I see so much in your eyes. Your disdain—you make little squints then overcompensate to pretend you didn’t make them. That’s how I knew you knew me and hated me.”

Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.

I need to mislead her. I can’t have her asking why I would hate her before I even knew her. “You killed those people. It was wrong—”

“No, that isn’t quite it.” She snuggles inside the tanning booth. “Jealousy? Ah, how’s your mother doing?”

Feed a lie by telling the truth. “Not good.”

“Do you hate that I get to live like this?” she asks. “Immortal. Is that it?”

Now that she mentions it, I do hate her for being able to live while my mother dies. Let’s throw her for a loop, though. I laugh. “No, because I know what happens to you.”

“Oh?” Her hand twitches.

I bet she can grab that cane at surprising speed, but she doesn’t.

She’s serious about her tan. Instead of striking me down, she looks at me with hard, piercing gray eyes and smiles with her missing teeth. “Is that a threat, boy?”

“Never, just a fact of life.”

“Tell me, then. I love to learn more about the true nature of the world from children who can’t grow facial hair yet.”

Ouch.

“You end up alone and regretful and with a wasted life.”

“Oh, you’re one of them.”

I have never heard a sentence drenched with so much apathy before.

She enters a state of absolute indifference to my presence. Her head turns. Her eyes close, a body in such a state of rest, my instinct is to believe she’s fallen asleep. A dead man’s chest rises and falls more than hers. It’s bait. She knows I want to know. She knows I want to know who “one of them” is. That answer and this act she’s pulling—she wants me to scream from the top of the mountains, “What do you mean ‘one of them’?”

Thirty seconds until I can grab the cane. Fine. Let’s go. “One of who?”

“Boys who believe in Santa Claus.” She yawns. “Boys who believe something’s coming to make things right. Boys who believe we won’t all die alone and regretful.”

“Is that what happened to you?” I let my hate spew. The Old Soul pretty much reads my thoughts anyway. Let’s play, Old Soul. “Did your boys leave you at a barely functioning retirement home years ago because you were a poor excuse for a mom? I bet they avoided you like you avoid lotion. No visits. Only a Christmas card once a year to let you know how good life was now that you were out of the picture. Awww, and now you demand eternal youth. Oh, so tragic.”

She chuckles then laughs deep and playful, half like a kid and half like a monkey. “How’s your mother?” she asks again. She doesn’t hide her accusatory tone. The childish joy is gone, replaced with a raspiness that could almost be adorable. “Your animosity toward retirement homes, oh so clear in your voice, makes it obvious you would never put her in one. So you’re close. And she’s in some sort of danger. I saw your pupils dilate when I mentioned her. Oh, wow.” Her eyes twinkle with the wonder only a child can have. “That’s why you believe in fairy tales. You think you’re going to save her.”

“I will.”

“You won’t. I can hear it in your voice. You don’t even believe in yourself. Go ahead. Say it again with conviction this time.”

“I will.”

“And again, boy. Again!”

“I will.”

“No, no, that’s it. Take a deep breath first. Can you visualize it? You’ll try, but you’ll find it near impossible. You can’t get the details right because it’s not true. Oh, I’ll stop. Nothing’s wrong with you enjoying your fairy tales.”

The booth beeps. I move. My hand doesn’t believe it, but I grab the cane. At the same time, I pull my lighter from my pocket and toss it in the tanning bed. Unaware of how to use the cane, I go for the best possible option—unlimited force. I raise it over my head and slam it down.

The room booms. I’m weightless. Tossing, turning, flying backward, whipping through the air. A wall stops me. I fly ribs first into it, and I know the drill. Keep rolling away from the sound of my impact. If she can get up, that’s where she’ll attack. Four fierce rolls, and I stand.

Dust is all over the room—a good sign when I’m hoping for destruction. And look, an even better sign. A hole scars the floor from the explosion. A scream rises from it, as planned. I examine the hole to admire my handiwork.

Rubble covers the tanning booth-turned-casket that’s now on fire. Flames leap, dance, and roar out of the hole. The Old Soul does not escape it. Only the outline of her body is visible in the flames. The rest is covered in heat and pain. It’s almost beautiful. Her haunting, childish scream and the smell of burning flesh humanize her. She screams worse than Mrs. Grimm.

Rest in peace, Mrs. Grimm, and your establishment. Your sacrifice won’t be in vain.

“Old Soul,” I call to her.

She tries to pause her screams, but she’s in too much pain. They hiss out in leaks. Excellent. She curses and makes some threats, the usual. I could beat my chest like Tarzan right now. My adrenaline is rampant, and I want another challenge. However, it’s time to gloat. I yawn as loudly as possible and stretch my arms to bring out the dramatics. Though she can’t see it, I hope she can feel it. I hope she imagines she’s defeated and I’m bored with her.

“Old Soul,” I call again. “Just so you’re aware, the jury is still out on whether some benevolent being will come down and give me divine luck. However, know this—if we’re talking about justice, retribution, making sure my mother is safe, and making sure you and your ilk die alone and full of regret, I put that in my hands.”

Mixing in with her shrills, she says something I can’t understand. Doesn’t matter. I glare down at her with a primal sense of satisfaction.

“Now, to more important matters. Recently, I received a proposition for myself. I need to go to the Island of Tselem, and I’ll need an escort. If you enter a Cognomen Oath to obey me and protect me for all your days, I’ll rescue you from your little predicament, or I can watch you die alone. The choice is yours.”

Her pained screams gradually transform into hisses of hate. “Still a fairy tale, boy.” The rubble on top of the tanning bed shakes. The bed itself shakes. She’s pushing her way out. “Your life’s over. You have a Weakness. And you’ve encountered the Old Soul. This ends with you as another collection on my sweater. That’s the wickedly cold truth your little antics can’t shelter you from.” Both the rubble and tanning bed fly off her. She’s free. Still, the hole is deep—twelve feet, maybe. She can’t escape.

Hey, Velli? You’re not going to believe this.

Fate… not now.

No, no, no, c’mon, trust me. Just listen.

What?

Her cane’s not up here.

I had it. No, that’s not fair. I had it.

And you lost it.

I do a quick scan of the room because it should only take that much. I held it in my hand. Even if I let it go, for it to fall right back into the hole would be…

Fate.

I sprint out of the room, jump over the dead bodies I’ve failed, and out the door. I don’t stop running. It’s possible that it was my “fate” to drop the cane. However, a much more frightening possibility exists. Did Fate become physical and throw the cane in the hole?

Oh, c’mon, Velli. That’s not fair to her. Go back and tell her another fairy tale. Go back and tell her everything will be okay.