must have some means to contain them — be it natural or not.
In the guise of a man, the Soul Eater may be reasonably assumed
to be vulnerable to those things that all men are. In his true form,
however, the Soul Eater would be almost impossible to vanquish.
Of all that I have encountered, none has disturbed me as much as
The revelation that Satan is actively trying to gain access to our
World. I believe that if the Soul Eater were successful, his
Master would be impossible to banish again.
Lauren slumped back against the wall. Her breathing came in fast gulps. This is it, she thought. He’s trying to bring the Devil here.
To Boston.
I’ve got to tell Steve.
She glanced back at the journal. The next few entries scared her even more.
Chapter Twenty
19 March 1947
Few die without leaving some indication of how they have shuffled off this mortal coil. And yet, the victims of the Soul Eater bear no indication of the manner of their death. It was by this means and this means alone that I was able to first pick up the trail of the demon.
I heard of a mysterious rash of deaths in Rio de Janeiro in early March. Four victims, all died without any signs of their death. They simply ceased to live. I’d studied the Soul Eater — scant though the information was — long enough to know his peculiar calling card.
I flew to Rio on two days previous, determined to find and kill the demon if I could.
21 March
Another body has turned up bearing no signs of death. The victim was well known to the police — suspected in over two dozen murders. Evil apparently found a home within him and thus he drew the demon without even knowing it.
This latest body was discovered roughly twenty miles to the north of Rio.
He is moving.
And I am on his trail.
29 March
Is there any time in our lives when we forsake logic in favor of intuition? I know not what draws me out of Brazil now. But I feel it deep in my soul that my quarry has left the country — his work here most likely done. But where will he go next? If he is wandering South America looking for evil, I must make certain assumptions and pray they are right.
My gut tells me he will head for either French Guyana or Venezuela next. One of my guides has secured a small plane and we fly today into a small town named Curanya to see if I am right.
4 April
Curanya turned out to be wrong. As soon as we touched down, I knew he would not be there. I would have thought such a port city would certainly hold some allure with its bands of rogues wandering the docks.
I was wrong.
We fly to Caracas.
12 April
Two bodies have turned up. A rapist I am told and a suspected child molester. Both of them have ceased their evil in this world, but is that evil gone now, or merely pooling in some unholy reservoir of hatred?
And where does he keep it? How does he transport these evil souls? He must have some extraordinary means to convey them, but I’m at a loss to determine how.
Sent a letter home to Margaret. I miss her so. But I would not wish her here. The danger is too great. Hunting demons is better left to those of us too foolish to know any better.
21 April
No news for days and then a corpse outside the city this morning. I got a chance to examine the body myself, granted by the county examiner who allowed me a few seconds with the dead man in exchange for some much needed supplemental income.
Touching the corpse, I half expected him to wake up and speak to me, such was the state of health he radiated. And yet, dead. Surely if the pilot is removed, the vessel will no longer function. Such is the case for those who meet this demon.
Is he moving again? I fear it so.
I have spoken to the locals who tell me of a place one hundred miles outside of the capital. It is a place they say reeks of evil. An old temple dedicated to the gods of the dead. A place of sacrifice and slaughter so many years back.
I feel a pull to this place and fear I must follow it. The journey is hard, through miles of uncharted jungle. Still, we have managed to find a guide who says he knows the way. Whether he does or not remains to be seen. There are many in this part of the world who would simply say so and then rob or kill you at first chance.
And to think, I used to fear the demon only.
25 April
The journey has been truly horrendous. If this be the route to hell it is paved with peril at every instance. Pervez, my loyal companion, took ill with dysentery on the first night of our journey, forcing us to pitch camp at half the distance we had wished to cover. Our guide, however, proved useful in procuring certain medicinal plants which have enabled Pervez to regain his strength in the days since the initial onslaught.
We walked ten miles the next day, each of us hacking through tube vines, reeds, and Savannah grasses with our machetes. I’m sure the chink chink chink sounds carried further than we could have known. I dislike the idea of the jungle knowing we are coming.
27 April
We met a small band of Puchito Indians who live in the jungle and do quite well of it apparently. They stand a good foot shorter than a normal man, their brown skin painted with white stripes. Their heads are shaved save for the shaman who wears a mop top of black coarse hair. We enjoyed a meal at their village, whereupon the shaman appeared before me and squatted at my feet. Without a word, he simply looked at me and then cast a pile of chicken bones on the ground. His spindly fingers probed each one, clucking off a succession of strange noises. He then spoke quickly to our guide who told me he saw death in my future. Furthermore, we were then asked to leave the village immediately for fear that the death would come for them as well.
Such a forecast does not sit altogether well with me. I must be honest. We are in a part of the world where the line between superstition and reality is hard to discern. And given that I am tracking a demon in the employ of Satan himself, the prognosis has left me concerned.
But I will persevere.
1 May
The temperature in the jungle is a humid ninety degrees constantly. Rain soaks us on a daily basis and I have taken to following the cues of our guide who wears one set of clothes throughout the day which are always wet. At night he changes his clothes — this set is dry and protected from the elements by being wrapped in a cloth bag that is then placed in a haversack.
I was doubtful it would work, but to my delight it does. And I enjoy sleeping in dry clothes much more than wet ones.
We have drawn closer to our destination. All told we have traveled half the distance. Not as fast as I would like, but the jungle grows so thick in places we are forced to cut around for hundreds of yards sometimes.