Rise of the Fallen 1 - My Soul to Keep Read online

  My Soul to Keep

  All Rights Reserved

  Copyright © 2012 by Sean Hayden

  Cover Illustration © 2012 by Sean Hayden

  First Untold Press Publication / May 2012

  All rights Reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author's imagination and or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Published by Untold Press LLC

  114 NE Estia Lane

  Port St Lucie, FL 34983

  www.untoldpress.com

  PRODUCED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

  Dedication

  When you write a story that is special to you, you need to dedicate it to someone very special. I have so many special people in my life. This one goes to the three who are nearest and dearest to my heart. This one is dedicated to my family.

  To my Angel

  To my Bug

  To my Bud

  I love all three of you more than you can possibly imagine.

  Special Thanks

  To my spelchekrs! When you've been over a story a couple of hundred times, the words tend to blur as the story is so ingrained in your mind. I have three awesome people who keep me from looking like an idiot.

  My Mom

  My Angel's Mom

  Erin Hastings

  THANK YOU!

  Prologue

  Ever have one of those bad ideas just pop into your head? You know the ones. They seem like a great idea at the time, but if you had stopped to think about it a moment…

  I'm talking about those ideas where you just seize the moment and do what your heart tells you to. Then, after the dust settles and you get bandaged up, your parents say, "What the hell were you thinking?"

  "But, Dad, I wasn't!"

  I had one of those moments.

  I guess if you want to be technical, I had a whole chain of those moments leading up to the big bang moment. The problem was I didn't have anyone standing around saying, "What the hell were you thinking?"

  The moral of this story?

  There are several.

  First, stores don't sell black candles for a reason. They're bad news. If you happen to come across one in the mall that sells questionable items…walk away. Trust me on this one. Black candles are bad.

  Second, always know what you want out of life. Coasting along, not caring about anything will get you into trouble. Maybe more than you can handle.

  Lastly, if someone offers to grant you your fondest wish, wish for something you really, truly want. Wish for something that will make the world a better place or you a better person. Never ever wish to be a monster…

  Chapter 1

  I kicked at the latch on the heavy wooden door and got it on the first shot. I felt a sense of accomplishment as it clicked open and the warm air from inside my house poured out into the chilly October night. Early evenings have always been my favorite. I always feel more alive just as the sun starts to set.

  A nice quiet house after a long day of dreary school never failed to make me smile. Both of my rents would be at their jobs for at least two more hours, and my little sister would be at cheerleading practice just as long. Life can be complicated unless you figure out what you love and abuse the hell out of it.

  My love is solitude, and I planned on enjoying it. I dumped my backpack on the floor just inside the door and placed the books I held in my other hand on top of it. I probably should have set them down outside and used my hand to open the door, but they were books. You don’t put books on the ground, ever. Besides, I'd gotten quite proficient in opening our usually unlocked house with my feet. Thankfully we had one of those old style thumb latches. If we had doorknobs, I’d have to grow a thumb on my foot. That would suck in gym class. The jocks already made my life a living hell. Having a thumb on my foot would just make it more unbearable.

  I walked onto the set of a 1970’s sitcom. Just kidding. My parents had all the house decorating ability of a pimp named HuggieBear. I tried not to stare at the red and yellow plaid couches as I practically ran to the stairs. They hurt my eyes. Before my foot hit the first stair, I remembered I had homework. I turned and ran back to get my backpack and books. Before Playstation, there must be homework! My parents enforced very few rules, but homework first had always been numero uno. If I hurried, I could still abuse the hell out of the “me time” remaining.

  Backpack on shoulder and books in hand, I ran up the stairs two at a time and straight into the bowels of hell. Or as my sister calls it, my room. Few have entered, none have returned needed to be stenciled on the door. I’d been begging for permission for months. Slowly wear them down, Connor. Slowly wear them down. My parents rarely said no, but we were renting the house. I bet myself two weeks ago I would have it up by the end of the month.

  My wondrous new literary finds, I set on my bookcase for later perusal. I tossed the backpack on my beat up, looked like it came out of a 1920’s schoolhouse, had more chemicals spilled on it than a science lab floor, carved up, broken, battered, little wooden desk and pulled out my algebra book. Without opening it, I held my hand over the cover, palm up, and slowly curled all but one finger back into a fist. Yes, I gave my algebra book the finger. It’s childish I know, but algebra deserved it for making my life a living, miserable hell. Actually, it deserved worse, much worse. When my sophomore year was over, I planned on sacrificing it to no one in particular. I was thinking ritualistic burning or maybe saying a few words in Latin before chucking it into a wood-chipper. Either idea would make me giggle like a little school girl as I watched its demise.

  I sat down and looked over at my Playstation 3. It silently called out to me, pleading with me to not do my homework, but to come caress the buttons of her controllers. She promised to help me defeat the soldiers of the opposing team. I could hear her. “Don’t pick up the pencil…pencil…pencil.” It never ceased to amaze me how electronic devices always spoke with an echo. Stoically, I held my hand up to my shiny source of endless entertainment in a gesture of denial. Keep thyne mother and father happy.

  I flipped open the dread book of polynomial torture and choked back the gorge rising into my throat. After trying three times to get into the drawer holding my paper and writing utensils, it finally flung open and jabbed me in the chest. My breath shot out with the force of a sneeze. I needed to remember the drawer trick if I ever found myself choking in my room. Screw the Heimlich, open a drawer.

  Battered and weary before the homework even began, I pulled out my pristine sheet of white paper and my famed No. 2 pencil. Okay, it wasn’t famous, but it might be some day. Fine, it was a stubby, overused nub of a pencil without an eraser, but it was still my favorite.

  I set the paper on the desk in front of me and then flipped to the page we were working on in class. Of course it had to be my favorite; multiplying polynomials. I’ll admit it. I had no grandiose desires to be a rocket scientist, geneticist, or anything else that ended in "ist". Why on earth did I have to learn this crap? "Firsts, outers, inners, lasts," sounded like a recipe for disaster. It’s why God invented calculators. We weren’t allowed to use them and they would know if we did. “Show Your Work” really meant prove you didn’t cheat. It took me all of three seconds to make my first mistake.

  Because my favorite pencil didn't have an eraser, it ended in one of those dangerous metal contraptions that could bore a hole through a wood desk in detention. Trust me on this one, I know.
For just such emergencies I kept a fat pink eraser in my desk drawer. Staring at it, I silently prayed to the eraser gods to start making them in different colors. Pink was my least favorite color in the universe. Rubbing it against my paper and watching it disintegrate into tiny dust nodules made me feel a little better. Plus it made my mistake go away, too.

  Knowing my mistake-making wasn't over, I slid my arm sideways across the desk to set it aside. Someone, probably myself, had left a half buried staple in the desk. The half that wasn't buried slit me open like a bag of Doritos. Chips didn't pour from the wound, but blood did. Lots of it.

  Time slowed for an instant. I've never been a squeamish person, nor have I ever been into the macabre. However, I couldn't help myself. I stared at the wound as the blood flowed toward the desk in thick droplets. My eyes shifted from my arm to the tiny puddle of blood on the desk. Eventually the flow stopped, leaving a red streak on my arm. It wasn’t the wound which captivated me. It was the thick red blood forming the shape of an artist's palette.

  Mesmerized, I stared. I couldn’t help but dip the tip of my pencil in it. I brought the tip closer to my face and saw the tiny drop of blood suspended from it. I glanced down at my empty homework sheet and started writing in my own blood. For several minutes, I scribbled a note in blood red ink to nobody in particular. I don’t know if a vague memory of mine inspired the note, or if the fates themselves guided my hand. As I wrote I could feel the importance of it. I knew without a shadow of doubt I'd written a binding contract in my own blood.

  I probably should have crumpled it up and tossed it in the trash, but I wasn't done yet. Something drove me to grab the note and walk over to my stereo speaker. It stood over three feet tall (another leftover from an era before digital surround sound and wafer thin speakers) and had only one thing on it. A black candle I'd gone through hell and high-water to get.

  I picked my unused candle off the speaker and headed through the house out to the back porch. As soon as I opened the storm door and stepped outside, I debated going back in for my jacket. The chilly October air sent goose bumps up my arms and over my chest. I figured I wouldn’t be outside long, so I let it go. I set the candle down and reached into my front jeans pocket and pulled out my red plastic lighter (don’t ask, or at least don’t tell my parents). The wind blew across my arms as I held out the lighter and cupped it with my hand, trying to block the breeze. As soon as I ran my thumb over the lighter, the wind died completely and a bright flame sparked to life. I brought the flame closer to the candle and I swear, it jumped from the lighter to the candle wick. It only added to the craziness of the situation. My mind screamed, "This can't be real." The rest of me wasn't so sure.

  I stared at the dancing little flame for a full minute waiting for the wind to snuff it out. It never happened. The air was still chilly but calm. I pulled my hand away from the candle and pulled the letter out from underneath my arm. I unfolded it and looked at it one last time. The words were no longer bright red. My blood had dried to an almost dull brown. What the hell are you doing, Connor. This is stupid. Nothing is going to happen.

  My hand shoved the paper into the flame of the candle.

  Jokingly I chanted, “I, Connor Sullivan, promise my soul to whomever grants my fondest wish. I do this freely, understanding that this is bound in blood, never to be undone. So shall it be. Please accept my oath of blood.” The words rang and echoed into the cold October evening.

  The sun set, and just as it dropped over the horizon, I swear the vanishing light chimed like a bell. The slowly burning paper flared in my hand. I lifted it higher as a nagging voice in my head urged me to blow it out. I sucked in a lung-full of air to do so when the note disappeared with a soft thwump. I didn't get burned, but I had a handful of ashes. Without another thought, I tossed them up onto the air.

  I leaned over and blew a soft puff of air over the candle, snuffing the flame. The wind picked back up and the crickets that had gone silent without me noticing started chirping again. I grabbed my candle and headed back to my room, trying to calm the sudden fear spreading through my chest. It's official. You've lost your mind, Connor. They're going to lock you in a loony bin.

  Chapter 2

  It took me nearly an hour to figure out three times x equaled four times y. Disgustedly, I shoved my unfinished homework back in my backpack and tossed it on the floor by my desk. I’d hoped my homework would help me forget what I'd done out on the back patio. Half of me said I was being stupid for worrying. The other half said my other half was stupid and that I should be shitting kittens. The conversation going on in my head made me want to throw up. Where did that whole idea come from? I’d never heard those words before in my entire life, but I wrote them out without thinking about them. Something isn't right. Something is very, very wrong.

  I turned around to immerse myself fully in some blood and carnage of the video game variety when the sound of the front door opening and slamming shut made me shudder. Damn, there goes my free time.

  “Connor!” My sister’s shrill voice echoed up the stairs and rattled around in my ear canals causing tympanic hemorrhaging. Okay, she didn’t make my ears bleed, but her voice seriously annoyed the crap out of me.

  “Up here, K,” I shouted out the door, not really caring if she heard me. I called her K, but it was short for Caelyn. My sister was a freshman and all of eleven months younger than me. If a wombat and an alligator ever mated, I imagine their offspring’s personality would be much like hers. She made mean people seem nice.

  I heard her feet stomping up the stairs and I flipped on the Playstation and my television. Without waiting for her I flopped stomach down on my bed and grabbed the controller off my nightstand. I got the game started just as she entered my room. I could feel her standing behind me and heard her tapping her foot impatiently. I just started wondering how long she would let me ignore her when she walked around my bed and stood in front of my television with one hand on her hip. I raised my eyebrows at her. People had been executed in third world countries for less.

  “Get out of the way, brat! Aren’t you supposed to be at cheerleading?” I stared at her with confusion. She had on her blue and gold cheerleading outfit.

  “Um, we’re having our meeting downstairs to discuss fundraising. You told Mom you wouldn’t be home. I don’t want you here perving on my friends! Get out!”

  “Just shut my door, I’ll stay up here.”

  “No! You promised Mom you’d go to Jeremy’s house or something. If you don’t get out of this house right now, I’ll tell her about your little “habit” so help me, God!”

  I gulped and hit pause on my game. I started smoking about three months ago, and if Mom found out, grounded wouldn’t describe what she would do to me.

  “Fine,” I spat and grabbed my jacket. Jeremy wouldn’t be home, he’d gotten a part-time job at his uncle’s garage after school last week. Maybe I could head down to the mall. Not much else to do on a Monday night.

  I brushed past the mutated freak that inhabited my kid sister’s body and made my way downstairs. I could see the gaggle of cheerleaders outside on the back patio smoking cigarettes and lounging like they owned the place. I rolled my eyes and walked out the front door.

  We lived about a mile from the Cedar Hills Mall. If I hurried, I could get there before it closed. I could go for a pretzel or two. I didn’t mind walking either. Especially in the fall when you didn’t sweat to death doing it. I looked down at the cracked and pitted sidewalk as I walked. I hadn't been there for a while. I hated shopping, but my sister loved it. Pretzels forced me to go to the mall even more than her.

  I walked briskly, not wanting to miss my chance for some warm pretzels. Only food could possibly make me stop worrying about everything. Food and video games were my therapy.

  Unlike my sister, I had a high metabolism. I could eat cake for breakfast, lunch, and dinner and not gain an ounce. It was probably why she continually tried to make my life a living hell. I couldn’t remember the last
time I had seen her munching on something other than lettuce. Bunny food sucked. No wonder she was always grumpy.

  The sidewalk started to make its gradual shift north and as I continued walking, the sound of a motorcycle in the distance caught my attention. The deep rumble sounded like a Harley or maybe a modified Victory. Most kids my age drooled over shiny crotch rockets. Japanese motorcycles just didn’t do it for me. Everyone I’ve ever seen on one looked way too uncomfortable. My dad had a Harley before I was born. Seeing pictures of him sitting on it like he didn’t have a care in the world made me fall in love with the massive motorcycles.

  Nobody in our neighborhood owned one as far as I knew. Somebody must have just bought one or else they were incredibly lost. The whole neighborhood we lived in had one way in and one way out. I sincerely doubted anybody would be joyriding through Cedar Hills, Pennsylvania. The winding streets, steep hills, and blind curves had been one of the reasons Mom had made Dad sell his bike. If I had one I would have moved or gotten rid of the mom. You don’t give up something like that.

  I heard the motorcycle turn onto the street I was walking on, and the rumbling grew to an almost painful level. I turned and saw it coming up fast. I expected it to blow past me at an ungodly speed, but as soon as the bike got close, the rider yanked the handlebars and fishtailed to a stop just a few inches from the curb next to me.

  She looked like a supermodel dressed in leather. Dark curly tresses fell over her shoulders and down her back. I frowned a little at her lack of helmet. I never understood people's obsessions with death wishes. Then I gave her a second look over. She looked badass enough to crack the pavement. Maybe she didn't need a helmet. My eyebrows rose as I finally looked at her face.