Darkness of the Soul (29 page)

Still,
he
did
not
stop;
he
did
not
stand
up
and
tell
them
to
stop,
tell
them
that
what
they
were
doing
was
wrong,
not
in
just
the
religious
or
moral
sense,
but
in
the
way
that
suddenly
making
gravity
go
up
would
be
wrong.
He
continued
to
believe
he
just
had
a
bad
burger—a
blot
of
mustard
or
perhaps
a
bit
of
underdone
potato,
as
Scrooge
supposedly
had
on
that
long
ago
Christmas—and
continued
playing
his
part
in
the
rite.

None
of
them—Damien
included—knew
when
it
went
bad.
There
was
no
sense
of
what
was
truly
coming
until
it
was
there.
He
could
not
describe
to
his
associates,
even
now,
what
he
saw
then,
the
thing
that
came
rushing
out
of
the
darkness,
pouring
through
the
hole
that
had
opened
in
their
circle,
though
he
tried.
He
saw
a
horn,
twisted
and
curling
on
itself
like
that
of
a
mountain
goat,
and
breasts
capped
with
steel
spikes
instead
of
nipples;
there
were
faces,
dozens
of
them,
all
of
them
screaming
in
pain
and
agony,
and
each
one
seemed
to
be
his
own.
The
others
all
fell
from
their
places,
breaking
the
circle,
and
a
massive
claw—easily
the
size
of
a
large
man’s
chest—fell
to
the
floor,
digging
deep
gashes
into
the
stone
as
it
applied
pressure,
apparently
trying
to
pull
the
rest
of
the
thing’s
body
from
its
prison.
Damien
held
his
place,
still
chanting,
for
he
knew
that
to
do
otherwise
was
to
invite
death;
some
part
of
him
knew,
even
then,
that
the
bargain
had
been
made,
that
his
soul
had
been
traded
to
even
see
a
glimpse
of
this
creature,
but
at
the
same
time,
he
thought
that
life
was
preferable.

It
had
dragged
itself
even
further
from
the
hole,
and
he
could
see
that
whatever
else
it
was,
it
was
massive;
the
head
of
it—or
what
he
assumed
to
be
the
head—was
level
with
his,
yet
it
had
sloping
shoulders
and
innumerable
appendages
dangling
both
above
and
below.
The
face
was
the
size
of
a
semi’s
front
end,
and
its
winged
shoulders
were
brushing
at
the
eight-foot
ceiling,
as
it
roared
at
him.
The
force
of
wind
coming
from
its
mouth
was
nearly
enough
to
knock
him
over,
but
Damien
fought
it,
leaning
his
body
forward
and
trying
to
remain
still,
while
his
mouth
moved
on
its
own,
calling
up
the
words
that
would
end
the
ceremony.

The
face
before
him—thankfully
not
his
face
on
this
one—twisted
in
rage,
the
gleaming
catlike
eyes
slitting
and
blinking
twice
each,
once
in
the
way
anything
normal
does,
vertically,
and
then
horizontally.
Sores
blossomed
and
exploded
on
that
horrid
face,
spraying
him
with
gore
and
a
thick
white
substance
in
which
worms
and
maggots
crawled,
all
of
them
trying
to
find
some
way
to
burrow
into
his
flesh.

Some
distant
part
of
his
mind
could
hear
the
others
screaming,
though
he
couldn’t
count
their
voices;
they
seemed
far
away,
unimportant.
So
far
as
he
was
concerned
at
the
moment,
there
were
only
two
players
in
this
scene,
himself
and
the
beast.
The
creature
dragged
another
arm
up
and
out
of
the
abyss
in
the
center
of
the
circle,
swiping
at
him
with
the
seven
hands—each
appearing
to
be
made
of
a
different
substance—but
not
coming
close
enough
to
harm
him.

In
the
dark
corners
of
his
mind,
Damien
knew
somehow
that
this
thing
could
not
hurt
him;
it
might
have
marked
him,
and
his
soul
might
be
forever
forfeited,
but
so
long
as
he
remained
standing
true,
it
could
not
physically
touch
him.
As
he
realized
this,
he
felt
his
resolve
growing,
his
fear
of
it
lessening,
and
he
even
advanced
on
it,
one
hand
snapping
up
to
grab
at
one
of
the
taloned
fingers
of
the
claw
it
had
buried
in
the
floor.

Touching
it
was
agony.
The
thoughts
of
the
thing
flooded
him,
overloading
his
mind
and
pushing
him
so
far
into
the
realm
of
insanity
that
he
feared
he
might
never
escape.
At
the
same
time,
he
refused
to
let
go,
for
he
knew
how
it
must
be
done.
He
could
taste
its
thoughts
and
feel
what
it
felt;
there
was
no
question
of
what
to
do:
continue
and
hope
that
it
could
be
banished.