The Soul Thief

By Ann Steele

After her only living relative is unexpectedly killed in a car accident, Alyce Hampton inherits more than a luxurious estate. On a shelf in the manor’s study rests a collection of ominous crystal globes. Amidst the swirling, opaque mist of each globe appears to be a person, trapped inside. Alyce soon learns the globes contain souls that have been stolen over hundreds of years by a demon named Orson. Orson invades the living host and forcibly evicts the soul, which is imprisoned in a crystal sphere as a trophy of Orson’s mastery over life itself. He moves from person to person, enjoying the advantages of the mortal existence he was denied. Now, angry at having lost possession of his globes, Orson will do anything to get them back. With her life in danger and time running out, Alyce is in desperate need of help. But how does one fight a demon?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ann Steele
• Release date: Apr 17, 2016
• ISBN: 9781311876829

Ann Steele

I have been writing fiction since 2002. I am married with three grown children and four grandchildren.

Book preview

The Soul Thief

By Ann Steele

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2016 Ann Steele

Alex Steele, Editor

Cover Picture by Melissa Gibb

Cover Art by D.P.

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

This ebook is a work of fiction. Names, characters, events, and some of the places are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to any actual event, place or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

Chapter 1

There has to be a better way, thought Orson in frustration as his most recent host, like all the others, crossed the threshold into madness. Although two souls were never meant to inhabit the same body, Orson attempted it over and over, each time resulting in the physical and mental deterioration of the host. As the two separate souls struggled for control, the host would be driven mad until it was no longer feasible for Orson to remain. At that point, without apology or remorse, he would abandon the host to its last days of miserable existence and move on to satisfy his ravenous desire to live in mortality as an immortal.

Orson knew the solution was to inhabit the body alone, but how could that be achieved? If he killed the body to force its soul to leave, entering the now-deceased form would not bring it back to life. For Orson to be successful in taking the body over as his own, the soul would somehow need to be expelled while the body was still whole, alive, and functioning. That was the stumbling block. As far as he knew, it had never been done before. Plenty of demons, having been barred from gaining their own bodies, parasitically inhabited mortals down through the centuries, flitting from one person to the next in order to experience life with all its glorious senses, appetites, and passions. Some were even desperate enough to occupy the bodies of animals. That was never an option for Orson; it was much too vulgar for someone of his ego and intellect. His sights were set much higher—he sought to acquire his own body, live that life to its fullest, and, after casting it aside, do it all over again. It was a formidable enterprise; could it be done? Orson was determined to succeed.

After centuries of trial and error, and with countless destroyed lives left in his cruel wake, Orson perfected the complex procedure and managed his first successful appropriation in 1759. The time and effort he expended were worth the results. The body belonged to a young, wealthy aristocrat in London. Orson watched with amazed satisfaction as the bewildered extricated soul left its body and drifted away like a wispy, translucent cloud, perhaps lost forever because it was not his time to go and he didn’t have the requisite beckoning to move on. Orson felt no remorse about the poor soul’s fate but it did cause him to consider a further endeavor. Now that his technique was perfected, why shouldn’t he keep the evicted souls of future conquests for himself? What good were they drifting unfettered around the universe for all eternity when they could become a souvenir-homage to his brilliance? The idea intrigued him. This became Orson’s new obsession: find a way to capture and confine the soul as it left the body. He was sure he could do it; hadn’t he already proven his prowess?

When he decided it was time to leave the aging body of his first successful conquest and prepare to transmigrate into the next, he temporarily possessed a gifted craftsman and forced the artisan to create the perfect repository for his needs. A sphere was blown from fine crystal and an ornate base was fashioned from pure, gleaming silver. Orson lured his intended victim to the craftsman’s workshop, commandeered the young man’s body, and was successful in capturing the evicted soul in the globe, which he sealed and fastened onto the silver base. The soul was imprisoned within the crystal dome with no means of escape.

Orson held the globe up and watched with smug satisfaction as the captive soul struggled with horrified futility against the confines of his crystal prison. Tsk, tsk, Orson chuckled in a silky tone, it won’t do you any good. You’re mine now and there’s nothing you or anyone else can do about it. He tipped the globe back and forth and laughed with impish glee as the soul was knocked about inside. To his amazement, the globe’s interior began to fill with a strange opaque vapor; it resembled the exhaled breath of a person on a cold winter’s day. After a moment, the soul was enveloped by the mist. Confused, Orson shook the globe harder to determine if the soul was still inside. It was. The vapor, its composition and purpose, however, was inexplicable to Orson.

As he placed the globe on the shelf, he grinned with amusement at the muted sound of the far-off scream that emanated from within.

Through the years, as each hijacked body grew old and frail, the process was repeated. Each new captive soul was added to his collection of trophies and each new globe acquired that same mysterious opaque vapor.

The catalog of his trophies was diverse at first—it included men of every race, creed, and socio-economic background. He even lived for a time—a very short time—as a woman but the conflict of gender disturbed him. He chalked it up as a failed experiment and swore he’d never make that mistake again. He also shunned the bodies of children. He despised children and could see no useful purpose in being one.

After more than a century of experimentation and learned experiences, Orson’s preference settled on young, healthy, American males in their mid-to-late twenties with plenty of money and no close friends or familial ties. He took his time to study every new viable host, learning all he could about them, and, just as important, familiarizing himself with the man’s looks, which would soon become his own. His haste in the past to procure a new host without the proper preparation resulted in difficult transitions, most of all with the change of appearance from one man to another. One’s physical identity, Orson learned, is an integral part of mortality.

He also discovered that with each body he acquired, he inherited its addictions and habits as well; it was essential to be choosy about the man’s lifestyle. He needed their bodies, not their compulsions.

By the time the body’s age reached fifty-five years he moved on, causing it to die. It was never a moral dilemma for Orson to do this over and over because, being a demon, he had no morals. Furthermore, he enjoyed the power it gave him to steal the precise thing he wasn’t entitled to have and to keep the evicted souls of his conquests from moving on. He found a way to live an immortal-mortal life. He basked in the brilliance of his extraordinary success.

The unfortunate, evicted souls, however, were doomed to watch him live their lives from their crystal prisons, powerless to escape.

* * * * *

At age twenty-six, Everett Jarvis never expected to be moving back into his parents’ home. That all changed when their private plane went down in the Atlantic eight miles offshore from New York City during a freak hail storm in May of 2014.

Before their deaths, he lived in the family-owned townhouse in Manhattan’s Upper East Side. He earned an MBA at Princeton and was already making a nice living from his position as vice president of his father’s lucrative Wall Street firm, not to mention the two and a half million dollars he inherited from his paternal grandfather at age twenty-five. His affluent standard of living would now become even richer. As their only child, Everett was the sole heir of his parents’ vast estate.

Everett resigned his position as vice president while retaining his ten percent ownership in the company. With the help of Samuel Weinberg, his father’s attorney, Everett sold the townhouse and moved into his parents’ twenty-room manor, The Dearborn, in Westchester County, New York. Although he grieved his parents’ deaths, he still appreciated the fact that the world was now his oyster.

Soon after moving in, Everett started feeling under the weather. It wasn’t anything specific like the flu, he just didn’t feel like himself. His thoughts were jumbled and he was anxious for no apparent reason. Standing in front of the bathroom mirror one morning, he noticed that his once bright green eyes now looked dull and murky. You need to see a doctor, he advised his reflection. With a feeble sniff, he climbed back into bed, unable to make himself do anything more.

As fast as the strange illness came over him, it went away. Everett woke late one morning feeling like his usual self again. A bit drained, perhaps, nothing more. After a long hot shower and two cups of strong coffee, he decided it was time to get out of the house. He would drive into the city, have an expensive meal, and charter a boat for the afternoon. The weather was perfect to be out on the water. After being holed up in the house for over a week the idea of getting out was exhilarating.

His plans were derailed when an acquaintance from college showed up at his door out of the blue. It took several seconds for Everett to recognize him.

Jack? he asked, unable to mask the surprise in his voice. What are you doing here?

The two men’s social circles were worlds apart. Jack Garber was a poor kid from Oregon; Everett was the privileged child of East Coast riches. Jack got into Princeton on a scholarship lottery; Everett was a shoo-in because of his family ties. The two were never close; they shared a couple of classes together and once attended the same party with mutual friends.

I heard your parents died, Jack explained, and I wanted to stop by and express my condolences.

Everett’s brow furrowed as his mind questioned Jack’s sincerity, as well as his intentions. Stop by? Express your condolences? Yeah, right before you hit me up for some money. Everett couldn’t help thinking the worst of the uninvited guest standing on his porch. He didn’t know Jack well; what he did remember about him, though, was that he was an arrogant jerk with no appreciable skills of his own apart from taking advantage of others.

Thank you. Everett’s response sounded robotic and ungracious.

Mind if I come in? asked Jack, undeterred by Everett’s coolness.

Well, I’m kind of busy…

Busy, huh? Jack said with a laugh. Look, man, I’m not here to hit you up for money, if that’s what you’re thinking. I was in the city and decided to take a drive out to see how you’re doing. That’s it. Geez, don’t be so paranoid, man.

How could Jack have known of Everett’s suspicions, was he being that obvious? After a moment’s hesitation and a slight sting of conscience, Everett stepped aside. Sure, sorry. Come on in.

As Jack walked in, he made a point of scrutinizing as much of the house as he could see. Did you grow up here? he asked.

Yes, I did. The house is over a hundred years old. It’s been in the family for generations.

It’s a helluva way to get such a nice place. Are you all settled in?

Yeah. Everett hoped Jack wouldn’t ask for a tour of his house; he wasn’t in the mood. He also hoped Jack wouldn’t stay long. Um, can I get you something to drink? he asked after an awkward silence.

Sure, I’ll take a beer if you have one.

Everett nodded and went to the kitchen to fetch a couple bottles from the refrigerator. He twisted off the caps, tossed them into the sink, and hurried back to the drawing room to find his unwanted guest had taken a seat in the study and was looking quite comfortable. With an inward huff of annoyance, he handed Jack a beer, sat down, and took a generous swig from his own bottle. Stifling a burp, Everett asked, So what have you been doing since Princeton?

Jack was slumped back in his chair, legs stretched out in front of him, ankles crossed. I got a job at a marketing firm in Chicago. The money’s good, I just don’t like the firm. Or Chicago, for that matter. I’m interviewing for a middle-management job off Wall Street. The pay is better and I like the idea of living in Manhattan.

It has its advantages, Everett remarked, speaking from experience.

I’m hoping to fast-track my way to something similar, said Jack, gesturing toward the lavish surroundings with his beer bottle. He sat upright, looked Everett in the eye, and added with a smirk, I could be very happy in a place like this.

Everett stopped mid-sip and stared back at Jack as the hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. A sudden, intense wave of terror swept over him. Jack’s dark eyes seemed to flash and become desperate-looking, his body gave a spastic jerk, and a sort of guttural sound emanated from somewhere deep inside of him. The odd, unexpected spell set Everett’s teeth on edge.

Are you alright? he asked.

Jack shook his head as though he were trying to dislodge the cobwebs of staying up all night. Yeah, I’m good. He finished the beer, set the bottle on the floor, and stood up. I’d better get going. He shook his head again and mumbled something inaudible through gritted teeth. Everett couldn’t have been happier the guy was leaving. There was something peculiar about him, without doubt.

Everett escorted Jack outside to his car, an older model Altima with a brand-new U-Haul trailer attached. What the hell? he thought to himself. It seemed ridiculous to drag a trailer all that way if he was only coming for a short visit. Couldn’t you have parked that someplace? he asked, pointing to the orange and white van.

Nope, was Jack’s curt response. His body gave another weird spasm.

Whatever, man, Everett said with a roll of his eyes. Good luck with your job. And don’t ever come back.

Jack got into his car and backed out of the driveway with surprising ease. See you soon, he hollered through the open window.

Not if I can help it, Everett replied under his breath. Shaking his head as he returned to the house, he muttered, What a jerk.

Jack drove half a mile down the secluded, tree-lined road, pulled over, shut off the engine, grabbed the .45 handgun off the passenger seat, stepped out of the car, and shot himself in the head.

Ten minutes later Everett arrived at Jack’s car, unhitched the U-Haul with its precious contents from the Altima, fastened it to his SUV and, with an odd shudder, drove it back home.

Chapter 2

Good afternoon. Are you Alyce Hampton?

With the security chain still in place, Alyce, who was home from work for the day, peered through the space afforded by the chain. She was surprised to see a short, overweight, well-dressed gentleman, briefcase in hand, standing in the hall outside her two-bedroom apartment. He looked to be in his early sixties with salt and pepper hair and blue-gray eyes that peered at her over a pair of reading glasses perched on the end of his large nose. After wary consideration, Alyce answered, I am.

Miss Hampton, my name is Samuel Weinberg, I’m an attorney. He passed an embossed business card through the crack; Alyce took it between her middle and index fingers. Keeping one hand at the ready on the dead bolt lock and her shoulder against the door, she lowered her eyes and read the card: Samuel A. Weinberg, Attorney at Law. She was confused.

Miss Hampton, may I please come in? I have some important matters to discuss with you.

Alyce detected a hint of an accent that suited his Jewish surname. Um, she began in a tentative voice as she eyed the man with suspicion, I don’t know you and I don’t feel comfortable letting you in, sorry. What is it that you want to talk to me about? Although the man looked quite harmless, she was not prepared to let her guard down. A friend of hers from work had been physically and sexually assaulted several months back when she let a harmless-looking stranger into her home. Alyce wasn’t about to make that same mistake.

I understand, Miss Hampton, the attorney told her. Let me assure you that my visit is quite legitimate. I’m here regarding an inheritance issue and propriety dictates that I not discuss the particulars with you while standing in the corridor outside your apartment. He looked around as though prying ears were everywhere, just waiting to hear what he had to say.

Alyce’s brow furrowed. Inheritance? What inheritance? Her internal radar heightened. It sounded like a scam. She was an only child and both her parents died years ago. From whom could she possibly inherit anything?

Please, Miss Hampton, let me come in and I will explain everything. Beads of sweat began to appear on the man’s forehead. Alyce took that as a sign of nervousness. She didn’t budge.

Very well, he conceded with exasperation. If it would make you feel better, I can meet you in a public place. I noticed a coffee shop across the street. Would you be willing to meet me there, say, in ten minutes?

Alyce glanced at the business card one more time and back at the man. After a long silence she replied, Fine. Without another word, she shut the door and set the dead bolt lock. With her ear against the door, she heard him walk away. A moment later, she heard the faint ding from the arriving elevator. She waited a full minute before unlocking the dead bolt and easing the door open, keeping the chain secure. The man was gone, the hall was empty.

Shutting and locking the door once more, Alyce went to the spare bedroom of her apartment that served as her office and opened her laptop. She Googled ‘Samuel A. Weinberg New York City’. In less than two seconds, a long list of Samuel Weinbergs in the Big Apple appeared on the screen. Samuel A. Weinberg, Attorney at Law, was first on the list, followed by an accountant, a jeweler, and a florist. Clicking on the attorney, Alyce was informed that he was an estate lawyer with the firm Goldstein, Abrams, and Weinberg. The address matched the one on the business card. He must be legitimate. Still, the question remained: why would an estate lawyer from New York come all the way to Bethlehem to talk to her? Why didn’t he just call? Alyce decided it would be in her best interest to make sure that the man she would soon be meeting at Jake’s Coffee Shop was who he claimed to be.

She called the office telephone number listed on the business card. A mature-sounding woman answered. Mr. Weinberg’s office, how may I help you?

Alyce was hesitant, knowing how odd she might sound. Hi, she responded after a short pause. My name is Alyce Hampton…

Yes, Miss Hampton, what can I do for you? Did Mr. Weinberg find you okay?

The woman’s question made Alyce feel more at ease. He did, thank you. I haven’t sat down with him yet; he’s waiting for me at a coffee shop. I, um, didn’t know who he was and didn’t want to let a stranger into my home.

I completely understand, the woman agreed. I would have done the same thing. Mr. Weinberg has legitimate business with you, I can assure you.

Can you tell me what that is? He said something about an inheritance.

I’m sorry, Miss Hampton, I’m not at liberty to discuss that with you. You should speak with Mr. Weinberg.

Sure, okay. Thanks for your time. She was about to hang up when she added, Um, Ma’am, for my own peace of mind, could you please describe Mr. Weinberg to me?

The woman on the other end gave a polite chuckle. Of course. He’s sixty-three years old, not too tall, a bit overweight, with graying black hair. And he always wears a Star of David tie clasp. The description, tie clasp and all, was spot on.

Thank you again, um, I’m sorry, I didn’t get your name.

It’s Roberta. And you’re welcome.

Before leaving her apartment, Alyce changed from the oversize tee-shirt and sweat pants she was wearing into a pair of dark skinny jeans and a forest green sweater. The dark color of the wool accentuated her light green eyes. She stood in front of the full-length bathroom mirror to see how she looked. Her five-foot-five-inch frame carried her hundred-forty-pound weight well. She removed the band that held her thick brown hair back in a loose ponytail and let it spill in soft waves over her shoulders. Satisfied with her look, she glanced at her watch and realized she was already late for her meeting with Mr. Weinberg. She grabbed her purse and left her apartment, securing the deadbolt on the way out.

Across the street, at the far end of the block, was Jake’s Coffee Shop. At one time, it was a regular staple in her life; Alyce seldom patronized the place anymore, however. Its former comfortable, neighborhood-feel ambiance had given way to a trendy clientele of twenty-somethings bent over their laptops and iPads, ordering from a handwritten menu offering an over-the-top selection of bizarre-sounding beverages and gluten-free muffins.

A small melodic bell tinkled as she opened the glass-pane door and stepped inside. The place was full of customers. Scanning the room, she did not see Mr. Weinberg right away, even though she thought he would stand out in a crowd like this without difficulty. Perhaps he got tired of waiting for her and had already left. Well, if it was that important for him to speak with her, he should have waited. As she turned to leave, she heard a voice call out, Miss Hampton? Turning, she now saw the stocky attorney standing by a booth across the room. She made her way over to him through the asymmetrical arrangement of small Formica-topped tables. He extended a hand to her, which she shook. His hands were soft and warm.

Thank you for meeting me, Miss Hampton. Please, sit down. He motioned to the bench opposite him and politely waited for her to take her seat before he took his.

The smell of fresh brewed coffee hung heavy in the