The Prophet: Collector of Souls

By L. Kay Bryden

On a cold, rainy, October night, 1889, in the quiet, rural town of Willow Grove, AnnyahLissa Calvan is found brutally butchered. Her lifeless body is discovered floating in the icy, turbulent water of the Delaware River.
Now, well over a century later, history is about to repeat itself . . .
When Lissa awakens to find herself standing on the edge of the Delaware River ravine one stormy, autumn evening, she could never begin to imagine the incogitable connection between this frightening event, her daunting childhood memories, terrifying recurring nightmares, and the series of savage murders that were discovered at this ravine over a centuries ago, until they inexplicably begin to repeat themselves. And all too soon, Lissa finds herself struggling for her sanity, and fighting, not only for her life, but for her very soul.
Simultaneously, Homicide Detective, Lieutenant Robert Arton, hunts this very killer. A psychopath, who unbeknownst to him, is also the abductor of his infant daughter. Suddenly, he too, finds himself tangled in an inexorable web of intrigue, and the hapless pawn in a very deadly game. A game he'll soon realize, is impossible to win.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Trafford Publishing
• Release date: May 29, 2012
• ISBN: 9781466938533

L. Kay Bryden

L. Kay Bryden has enjoyed writing for well over three decades now. In 2011 she published her first novel, The Keeper, followed by The Prophet: Collector of Souls. Now she introduces her third thriller, Dead Sleep. Lisa resides in Bridgeville, Delaware, with her husband and her beloved menagerie, working on her next novel.

Book preview

Copyright 2012 L. Kay Bryden.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the written prior permission of the author.

This story is a work of fiction. It is the creation of the author. Any resemblance to actual persons, places or events, is entirely coincidental.

Printed in the United States of America.

isbn:

978-1-4669-3852-6 (sc)

isbn: 978-1-4669-3854-0 (hc)

isbn: 978-1-4669-3853-3 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2012909067

Trafford rev. 05/23/2012

7-Copyright-Trafford_Logo.ai

www.trafford.com

North America & International

toll-free: 1 888 232 4444 (USA & Canada)

phone: [phone] * fax: [phone]

Contents

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

DEDICATION

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

CHAPTER THIRTY

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

AUTHOR BIOGRAPHY

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

With sincere appreciation to my copyeditor Devin Govaere,

For your invaluable critical assessment and well-advised direction.

Special thanks to Lt. Robert Hudson, Delaware State Police,

For the treasured privilege of your amity.

I’ve been truly blessed to have you as a friend for the last 28 years.

Here’s to the next 28.

All my love and admiration to my adopted sister Tina L. Ketterman and family,

Never forget, you’ll always be the wind beneath my wings.

With humble heart, I extend my gratitude to Amy Burnett, Terry Fibelkorn,

Herma Scott, Su Chaffin

And Nancy Boone, you’re the best co-workers ever.

Thanks for always being willing to lend an ear.

As for my husband Michael, and my entire family,

Without each and every one of you, I wouldn’t be who I am.

I love you all more than you’ll ever know.

Finally, I couldn’t close without a word of thanks to my readers,

Your patronage is humbly appreciated.

I truly hope you enjoy!

DEDICATION

For Thurston Robert Bob Bryden.

Dad, you will live in my heart forever. Save me a seat, you promised.

For Bobby,

You’re a remarkable inspiration.

And for Tina,

Thank you for all your support and encouragement.

CHAPTER ONE

OCTOBER, 1889

Lissa had no time to think. Her reaction was purely instinct. In a split second she acted, by doing the only thing she could do . . . run.

Darkness was falling, and in its wake, the heavy veil of night was ominously descending. Lissa quickly glanced up at the sky as she ran. She could still see some remnants of daylight filtering through the trees, although it grew increasingly faint the deeper into the woods she ran. This forest was dense, and with the rapid onset of evening, getting eerily darker by the minute. Sinister shadows began to follow her, devouring everything in their path. Lissa’s surroundings were quickly becoming enveloped in a thick, foreboding blackness.

Without regard, she ran, blindly. She tripped and stumbled her way through the thick underbrush. The slick, wet leaves that blanketed the ground made her flight through the woods that much more treacherous. Still, she ran, frantically.

With each painful step, the realization of her incomprehensible situation became terrifyingly more apparent. Suddenly, the nightmare that had so often plagued her had become startling clear. She was living the nightmare that had tormented her for so long. And this time, it had become her reality. This time, she found herself truly running, running to save her very soul.

Although she had covered very little distance, Lissa was already insentient to the icy rain that continued to beat down on her exposed skin unrelentingly and numb to the bite of the frost-covered ground to her bare feet. Her mind was also becoming numb. She tried to think. She tried to rationalize this unimaginable horror, but her thoughts seemed as frozen as her body. Mercifully, with every step, her broken body grew that much more desensitized to the brutal elements and unforgiving terrain. But Lissa still shivered, violently, uncontrollably, from both cold and fear. She ignored the bite of the October wind that chilled her to the bone, as well as the immense pain that threatened to consume her. She was fighting for her life, and there was no room for self-pity. Although she had had little time to think, Lissa was cognizant of one thing, the need to keep running. She had to escape him, or surely die. Of that, she had no doubt.

Only adding to her difficulty, the forest floor was littered with sharp twigs, briars and branches that ripped at her flesh as she tore a path through the underbrush. Devoid of any extraneous emotions save self-preservation, determination, and repulsion, she pressed on. But night was almost upon her, and with every passing moment, the sun set lower in the sky, its light getting dimmer and dimmer as it continued its descent, leaving only the faintest rays in the evening sky. The moon would soon take its place. What little daylight remained was only visible beyond the trees ahead. Instinctually, Lissa knew what lay there just beyond the trees.

As Lissa forced herself to focus on the clearing, a profound feeling of dread and familiarity crept slowly into her being, breaking through the numbness and settling into her soul. She realized, as she ran toward the light, that this was the place she had visited so many times in her hellish dreams. She had indeed lived this nightmare before. And she knew, without a doubt, what lay ahead, and she raced toward that steep ravine that cradled the icy, tumultuous river. She had no place else to run, so she willed her broken, bloody body toward that ravine. As Lissa ran, the tree limbs, like outstretched arms, with long, boney, gnarled fingers reached for her, clawing at her, tearing away strips of material from her nightgown and clumps of hair from her scalp.

She could hear him in the distance, his panting, labored breaths, loud and resounding. They sounded almost animalistic, like a predator sniffing the air as it pursued its prey. His breathing echoed in her ears. His moans of rage were so horrendous they resembled the cries of a dying animal as they reverberated through the forest. She sensed him immediately behind her. He was closing in. He was getting nearer and nearer. She heard the branches snapping beneath his heavy steps, making her even more keenly aware of his proximity. He was close. Very close.

With blind determination, Lissa kept running. Summoning every bit of will she possessed, she pushed herself harder, faster. Her body was so tired and weak and battered that every muscle was screaming in protest, but she didn’t slow down. Regardless of her pain and exhaustion, she didn’t give up. She wouldn’t give up. With sheer volition, she pushed herself to the brink of collapse.

Her lungs were burning, nearly bursting from exertion. Each breath she took was a short, painful pant. Tears flowed down her face. Those salty tears, mixed with rain and her own blood, were nearly blinding her, and she continually tried to blink them away. She could taste the bitterness of her own blood in her mouth, blood, and bile as it burned her raw throat, causing an almost overwhelming urge to fall to her knees and vomit. But Lissa battled that urge, and she battled the urge to simply give up and give in. The thick scar tissue that banded her back felt, once again, as though they were freshly inflicted. But there was no time to dwell on the pain or the horrors of the past. That pain was insignificant in comparison to the hell she was now experiencing.

The thin nightgown that Lissa wore, what was left of it, was drenched and heavy. It continually wrapped itself around her body as she ran, hindering her progress even more. What remained of her gown was torn, soaked with blood and rain, and hung from her body in tatters.

As he began to close the distance between them, Lissa made one more attempt to scream, but she couldn’t. Her voice simply came out as a whimper. Her mouth was too dry and her throat too raw. She swallowed over and over, in an attempt to fight the nausea, incapacitating pain, and fear that threatened to paralyze her.

He was directly behind her now. She could feel him. She could feel the heat of his proximity, even without looking back. She couldn’t look back. Looking back would only slow her down. He was much faster than her, and she was acutely aware that she was almost within his reach. She could actually feel his evil as it radiated from his very being. It was tangible, palpable. Lissa wanted desperately to scream, but trying was not only impossible, it was pointless. No one would hear her. No one would save her. She had only one chance for survival, and it lay just ahead. She knew she had to make it to where the last rays of light penetrated the shadows. She had to make it to the clearing, the ravine. She was so close. She could hear the river. She could smell it. She had seen it, again and again. But this time it was real. And Lissa knew what lay at the bottom of that ravine. She squeezed her eyes shut, but only for the briefest moment, trying to dissolve the memory. She knew what she had seen floating in the frigid, raging cauldron. She squeezed her eyes shut at the memory of seeing her own lifeless body floating at the bottom of that ravine!

Lissa knew her fate. She had already faced it, and she knew it was death that now awaited her, but she’d rather die fighting than die at his hands. Lissa had already lived this nightmare. She had seen how it ended, but she ran.

As she continued, she felt herself growing weaker. The loss of blood, pain, cold, and exhaustion had taken their toll. But, she forced herself on. She had to reach the light. Although she knew what lay ahead would probably mean her death, there was still a remnant of hope, hope that it could also be her salvation . . .

CHAPTER TWO

Seven-year-old paperboy, Samuel Ezra Lank, stood on the dirty, uneven, cobblestone street at the juncture of Oak and Pine, calling out to passersby, " Extra! Extra! Read all about it," just as he’d done every morning before school, rain or shine, since he could walk and talk. Today, he barely had to shout out at all, and the morning papers were selling faster than he could pull them off the pile. He had even dared to raise the price to two pence so he could pocket the difference and had yet to receive a single complaint.

He stood at his roadside stand in his tattered, torn, and threadbare suit, the nap worn completely through at the knees and elbows. The misty autumn air chilled him to the bone, but he didn’t own a coat. The set of clothes he was wearing was the only clothes he owned. He stood in the cold and continually picked up one foot after the other in an attempt to keep his exposed toes from freezing. He was wearing the only shoes he owned, and they were several sizes too small. He had long since worn holes in them and split the soles. Before he’d put on his shoes this morning, like every morning, he had wrapped his toes with a page of old, discarded newspaper, but the paper was now damp and no longer provided any insulation against the elements.

Although the weather was miserable, and he was cold, tired, and hungry, Sammy was happy. Fate had smiled on him. The gruesome morning news, with its bold, graphic headlines, had buyers lined up in unrestrained anticipation. Sammy smiled, showing a row of broken, rotten teeth. He couldn’t help but smile because he knew that today there would be a double printing. And, he knew that today he would make at least a month’s wages in one morning. He would not be cold again tonight. And, he knew that this night, he and his mother would not have to go to sleep hungry.

Although Sammy couldn’t read, he knew what news the paper held. The front page held the gruesome details of yet another murder in the sleepy little town. Everybody from miles around was talking about it. The October 6, 1879, Willow Bend Gazette headline that blazoned across the front page read,

GHASTLY—MURDERER STALKS WILLOW BEND

Dreadful mutilation. Woman found butchered at bottom of ravine.

Another murder of the most revolting and fiendish character occurred in the early hours of yesterday morning. A young, partially clothed woman was found brutally butchered last night. Sources say she was savagely assaulted and grotesquely disfigured. She is purported to be, by the man who found her, Willow Bend native, AnnyahLissa Calvan. Her identity has not yet been verified by authorities."

The paper went on to say . . . .

This was the third such killing in the past week, and this killing shows the extraordinarily brutal character of the murderer

It also went on to describe this killing as "foul and unconscionable." It concluded that, The two prior murders, which occurred in neighboring Granite Cove and Mill Creek, appear to be related. All authorities would confirm is that the four victims were found partially clothed, horribly disfigured, and each had ligature marks on their wrists and ankles. All were similar in appearance, gainfully employed, and none were thought to be unfortunates.

Sammy scurried to collect the coins from the sidewalk as the impatient patrons threw them on the ground at his feet, grabbed their papers, and hurried on their way. He snatched up the coins, stuffed them into his pockets and continued his work, most diligently. The smile he wore never faded from his dirty little face.

CHAPTER THREE

The conveyance proceeded toward him with a loud, deafening rattle. The sound of wheels on the uneven cobblestones was almost unbearable as it passed within a foot of his concealment. When he first heard the conveyance coming, he instinctually took a step back, disappearing into the darkness. He was ever careful, always mindful, to stay well hidden from view. This time was no exception. He took to the shadows because he had to be sure that no passersby would see him as he stood vigil in the alley near the newsstand. He’d dressed in black, purposely. It allowed him security and the ability to meld into his environment, making him virtually invisible. This ability was a predatory skill he had mastered in the course of his career and one he prided himself on.

He leaned against the cold, damp, sticky bricks of the alleyway and held the newspaper in his hands. He had pulled the brim of his hat down and raised the paper in an attempt to completely obscure his face, another trait he used frequently. He reached up and readjusted the brim of his hat, moving it just enough to clear his line of vision as he glanced down at the bold, conspicuous headlines. He knew what it said, and this too made him proud. He had heard the whispering of the people on the streets. They were talking about him. He swelled at their recognition, albeit ambiguous. He was prideful of a job well done, regardless of public opinion. He was elated that everyone was talking about him.

Even in the semi-darkness, he could clearly see the bold, black print. His eyes had long ago grown accustomed to darkness. This ability was born also of necessity, just as many of his other traits were. He had spent the majority of his life in confined, dark spaces. The only exception was when he labored in his beloved garden. But that labor was always a labor of love. He smiled as he realized that the voices were strangely silent. And for that brief moment, he lost himself in his feelings of pride, exhilaration, and superiority.

He felt powerful when he walked freely amongst his fellow citizens, superior and invincible. For years he had been able to evade the authorities. To him, they were all imbeciles. It thrilled him, being able to stand in the shadows, knowing that no one had a clue to his identity. He could walk the same streets, side by side with them, without one single person knowing or even suspecting him. He felt important, cunning, and untouchable.

He stood stoically, reveling in his self-righteousness, as he listened to the dirty little paperboy shouting to the throngs of people that crowded him. Slowly, he emerged from his reverie and back into his bleak, demented reality as the voices resumed. He forced his thoughts to AnnyahLissa, hoping to escape their torment. However, the only thought that came to mind was the memory of his last moments with her. He moaned with pain. His soul was tormented. His intention had never been to kill her. He had been left with no choice. He had been forced to do so. He was now in turmoil, his self-righteous pride now replaced with anger and pain. Yet he felt somehow satiated.

The fury and elation battled within him. Fury at having lost her, yet elated, almost intoxicatingly so, at the memory of the kill, even though it was his beloved AnnyahLissa. He couldn’t help but savor the memory of the kill. His troubled mind allowed him no other recourse, and the mere thought of his last moments with her made his heart pound and his body tremble. However, as exhilarating as these last moments with her had been, his ultimate thrill had come the second he severed her soul. That was what he savored most, the collecting of his victim’s souls, and hers had been no different.

A stillness came as he held their souls in his hand, a quiet, no matter how short lived, that could only be experienced at that moment. Although it would disappear as quickly as it came, it rendered a mollification that even thoughts of his beloved AnnyahLissa couldn’t provide.

His time with Lissa had never been the need for her soul. He took her soul because it was a compulsion he couldn’t ignore. He had to punish her. Her betrayal was inexcusable. The instant she ran from him she had sealed her fate.

He continually tried to rationalize killing her, and although her murder had never been his intention, he rationalized her death by telling himself that she had left him no choice. She had run from him. She had betrayed his trust,