“Three easy questions,” the hand-written sign said, “to save your soul.” Being soul-threatened, as horror writers are wont to be, Brian and I skipped the carnival booths offering chances to win cheap stuffed bears and a hundred variations of the same lamp and stale funnel cakes made fresh. We went straight to the soul saving folk, and waited patiently for someone, anyone, to offer to save our souls.
No one did. They busied themselves asking questions of other intrepid carnival-goers. They chatted amongst themselves and stared at the small Ferris Wheel at the other end of the carnival. They looked to the left of us, and to the right of us, and even over our heads.
We refused to disappear.
Brian and I had to get pro-active. We stepped closer and flanked one of the poor kids. Brian asked, “Aren’t you going to save our souls?”
“Of course, of course,” the kid said. He looked nervous. He looked at Brian, really looked at him, and managed to open his mouth but couldn’t say anything. Finally, he turned to me. “Is that really Brian Keene?”
“Yes,” I said.
“And you…you’re John Urbancik?”
“I am.”
He didn’t seem to know what else to ask. I’m not sure how he knew who we were, but this was his time to ask questions, not mine. However, I kept his gaze. On the other side of him, Brian grinned.
“And, uh, are you willing to repent your wicked ways and join our church?” He held out a pamphlet, with the church’s name printed boldly upon it, and I was only a little surprised. I took the pamphlet, which tingled in my hands, but didn’t actually answer the question.
“And you,” the kid said, turning on Brian and offering another pamphlet. “Would you repent?”
“I might,” Brian said, looking at the pamphlet and frowning. “I’ve got a question for you.”
“No,” the kid said. “Not until I’ve asked my three. Then, if you’ve still got anything to say…” He trailed off from that thought and went immediately into the second question. “Do you accept him as your lord and savior?”
“You can’t…”
“It’s a yes or no question,” the kid said.
“Obviously, yes,” Brian said. “But you can’t do this.” He waved the pamphlet.
“We who serve,” the kid told him, “are not bound by the rules of man. I have to ask again, do you repent?”
Still frowning, Brian said, “Yeah, sure.”
The lad turned to me, winked conspiratorially, as if I’d arranged for the whole thing, then shoved a knife into Brian’s gut.
Two of the other questioners were suddenly behind Brian, and put their knifes into his kidneys from behind. A third had a genuine copy of the Daemonolateria, which is a lot rarer than you might think, and was reading from it.
When I tried to move, to aid, to fight, whatever might’ve been in my head, I found myself held back by no less than four of other worshippers.
“Now, then,” the kid said, using the blade again to open Brian’s throat from ear to ear, “we have the only fit and proper receptacle for our master.”
Brian dropped to his knees, still clutching the Church of Ob pamphlet. They held him there, not letting him fall any further. The kid bent and whispered in his ear–I barely heard it. He said, “Welcome back, Master.”
Then, for a brief moment, Brian Keene was dead. His eyes rolled back, his head lolled to the side, the blood stopped spurting and merely oozed. Then his eyes opened again and he was someone else entirely.
~~~
We (I’m not the only one killing Keene today) are doing this to help raise awareness and money for the Shirley Jackson Awards. Go, and make a donation!
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