The Borrowed Souls: A Novel Read online

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Books By Paul B. Kohler

  About the Author

  Free Book

  From the Author

  Dedication

  BOOK 1

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 1.5

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 2.5

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 3.5

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 4.5

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 5.5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 6.5

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 7.5

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 8.5

  Chapter 9

  BOOK 2

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 2.5

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 6.5

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 7.5

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 8.5

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  BOOK 3

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 9.5

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  BOOK 4

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  BOOK 5

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  BOOK 6

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  BOOK 7

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 2.5

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 3.5

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 4.5

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 5.5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 6.5

  Chapter 7.5

  Chapter 8.5

  Chapter 9.5

  Chapter 10.5

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 11.5

  Chapter 12.5

  Chapter 13.5

  Chapter 14.5

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Epilogue

  Dear Reader

  The Borrowed Souls,

  A Novel

  by Paul B. Kohler

  The Borrowed Souls, A Novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright 2015 by Paul B. Kohler

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form by electronic or mechanical means including photocopying, recording, or information storage and retrieval without permission in writing from the author.

  Edited by Amy Maddox

  Cover design by Paul B. Kohler

  Cover image by Sergiy Trofimov

  (used and modified with permission)

  Interior design and layout by Paul B. Kohler

  ISBN-13: 978-1-940740-14-0 (tpb)

  ISBN-10: 1-940740-14-2 (tpb)

  Books By Paul B. Kohler

  The Hunted Assassin

  The Borrowed Souls

  The Immortality Chronicles

  Rememorations (contributed)

  Linear Shift, A Novel

  Silo Sage: Recoil

  An Anthology of Short Stories

  Something to Read: A Charity Anthology

  Four Stories Contributed

  About the Author

  Paul B Kohler is the author of the highly acclaimed novel, Linear Shift, and the remarkable novel series, The Hunted Assassin. Aside from his longer works, a number of his short stories have been included in various anthologies. His latest short, Rememorations, has been included in The Immortality Chronicles - a Top 5 SF Anthology and Hot New Releases. Rememorations was also nominated for Best American Science Fiction.

  When not practicing architecture, Paul works on his writing. He lives in Littleton, Colorado.

  To learn more about him and his books, visit www.Paul-Kohler.net

  To get your free copy,

  just join my readers group here:

  http://bit.ly/pk-bs1

  From the Author

  The Borrowed Souls, A Novel is the combination of seven independently published parts of Jack Duffy’s adventure through the afterlife. It's a speculative glimpse of what “might be” once we pass on to the next world. I've used my creative license to develop a story that explores those possibilities. Please consider that when reading the following story. But, more importantly, enjoy the read!

  For Alicia

  Chapter 1

  Everything was a blur, and I had to force my eyes to focus on the hand touching my shoulder. With effort, the watch on his wrist became clear. It read 1:45. My eyes followed up his arm, to his shoulder, and finally to the person the hand belonged to. The face was covered by several days of growth, and he had crystal-clear eyes.

  “Hey, buddy. Last stop,” he said, standing above me.

  It took me a few moments to realize what was going on. Was this … heaven? Or was it hell? I tried to stand up but slumped back again.

  “Easy now. Had a few too many tonight?” asked the driver.

  “Uh, I . . .” is all I could form in my mouth.

  “Don’t worry, buddy. I’ve been there before. You know I’m supposed to call the police when I find a drunk on my bus, but you look harmless enough. Let’s get you out to the bench and you can take your time waking up.” The driver pulled me up and led me down the aisle of the bus. He helped me down the steps and over to the bench.

  Bidding me farewell, the bus driver climbed back in and drove off. I glanced around but nothing looked familiar. To say I was feeling a bit disoriented would be an understatement. As I sat on the cold steel bench, I tried to piece together what might have happened to me. I looked at my watch: 1:53 a.m. Where had the time gone? All I could surmise was that I was extremely late getting home from work and that Cyndi was probably worried.

  Despite my throbbing head and the strong desire to curl up on the bus-stop bench to take an extended nap, I forced myself up and began to stagger down the block. As I neared the corner, I looked at the street signs. Neither of the cross streets sounded familiar. I looked in all four directions, wondering which direction home was, and chose the one that looked the most promising.

  As I slowly stumbled along the vacant sidewalk, my mind began to retrace my evening. For the life of me, I couldn’t even remember even getting on the bus. The last thing I could remember was leaving some café after work. I tried to remember who I was with a
nd kept coming up blank. I must have been with Cyndi. But every time I thought of my wife, I began to feel anger creep into my head. Where was the anger coming from?

  After another block of foreign surroundings, I realized I wasn’t alone. With my head clearing more by the minute, I slyly glanced back over my shoulder and noticed a man. He was older, dressed in a tan suit with a white fedora. He followed me, keeping pace about a half block behind. Looking forward again I mumbled, “Cyndi, where the hell am I?”

  Speaking her name jarred something loose in my head, and the memories from the past twenty-four hours began to resurface. A feeling of loss and despair rushed in, but I could not pinpoint the reason behind it. I felt my pulse rise, anxiety shot to the surface, and my pace quickened. I looked back at the man following me, and he also increased his pace. Not wanting to discover his intentions, I turned the corner, and, once out of sight, I sprinted to the nearest alley.

  Ducking into the darkness of the backstreet, I stood in the shadows until the man passed by. He never did. I waited several minutes before I decided to move, and just as I stepped away from the dingy brick wall, a voice came from behind me.

  “Feeling a little lost, Mr. Duffy?” The voice was little more than a harsh murmur, but the echo in the alley was thunderous.

  I spun around, and the man was standing calmly in the alley. Next to the brightness of his hat, the color of his skin paled in comparison. His eyes were deep and sorrowful as he looked upon me with determination.

  “Come again?” I asked.

  “It’s completely understandable. Riding the M-5 for six hours nonstop would certainly cause bewilderment for anyone,” said the mysterious man.

  Dumbfounded, I stared at the man. He was a stranger to me, but there was something about him that seemed familiar. “I’m sorry, have we met? You seem to know me by name and know where I was tonight.”

  “We’ve not been formally introduced, but rest assured, I’m not here to harm you. What do you remember from last night?” he asked.

  “I tell ya’, not much. I woke up on the bus, and all I can remember is leaving a café sometime after work. The rest of my day is a blur,” I replied, rubbing my temples to soothe an ever-present headache.

  “I sometimes find that starting at the beginning of the day is best. Shall we have a seat and begin?” asked the man as he led me across a dimly-lit street to a park bench that I hadn’t noticed before stepping into the alley. As unusual as the situation was, it seemed like the right thing to do at the time, so I didn’t protest.

  “Now then, Mr. Duffy. What was the first thing this morning that you can recall?” asked the man.

  “Wait up. Seeing as you know me, maybe you should at least tell me who you are,” I stated, hoping to glean as much information about the stranger as I could.

  “Come now, Mr. Duffy. You know who I am.”

  “Sorry, but I really don’t. You seem familiar, but I don’t remember ever meeting you.”

  “Oh, that is quite correct. We’ve not been formally introduced.”

  “Then what do I call you?”

  “Whatever you wish,” he said smiling.

  “I don’t understand. Haven’t you got a name?”

  “I do, but it doesn’t matter what you call me.”

  We sat on the park bench for several moments in silence; all the while I was racking my brain as to why the last twenty-plus hours were missing from my memory.

  “As I mentioned, it might help starting from the moment you woke this morning, or yesterday morning, rather.”

  The stranger held his closed hand toward me, and when he opened it, there was a large gold coin in his open palm. “Take this coin, Mr. Duffy. Take it and turn it over in your hands. Examine the two faces of the coin, and try to focus on the moment you woke.”

  I took the coin and did as he asked. The coin was quite old, the surfaces worn nearly smooth. I could just barely make out the words, “In God We Trust,” but nothing more. I turned the coin over, and as I did, my morning came flooding back to me.

  Chapter 1.5

  I rolled over and glanced at the time: 6:43 shone in amber on the nightstand. I reached over and clicked off the alarm. Isn’t it strange how one day you can set your alarm and wake up moments before it goes off, but another day you forget and you wake an hour late?

  Not wanting to get up, I rolled onto my back, staring at the ceiling. Why did life have to be so demanding? Couldn’t I just lie in bed and waste the day away? As I lay in silent contemplation, Cyndi began to stir. I looked over. Her eyes were closed tightly against the rays of morning sunshine beginning to peek through the drapes. I often wished I could be as content with my life as she was with hers. Rarely did anything faze her happy persona.

  I reached over and touched the soft skin of her cheek. I could still smell traces of her perfume. The scent was intoxicating. Even after fifteen years of marriage, everything about her made my heart race.

  “I love you,” I whispered.

  “Hrmm?” she mumbled, still in the grasp of sleep.

  “I love you, baby,” I repeated.

  She smiled, eyes still closed. “Me too. You better get up or you’ll be late again.”

  Cyndi was the exemplification of punctuality. I still don’t know why she married me. I was late to my own wedding.

  “I know. I was just lying here thinking about . . .”

  “About what?” she asked, sliding her head over to rest on my chest.

  “Work. Life. You. Take your pick,” I said as I stroked her hair.

  “I’m happy I’m in there somewhere,” she replied as she opened her eyes for the first time. Even having just woken, her eyes sparkled brightly.

  “What are your plans for today? Want to have lunch?”

  She glanced at the clock before answering. Faint frown lines developed between her eyes and she said, “I can’t today. I am volunteering at the Redevelopment Foundation. Remember?”

  I did remember but was still hopeful. “Oh right. The foundation. When will you be done?”

  “The donation center is open until five, so I should be home around the same as you.” She sat up, pushing the covers away. She stretched and tilted her head to the side, her eyes wincing slightly.

  “Does it still hurt?” I asked. Cyndi had fallen while rollerblading in the park a few weeks back, and ever since had had neck and backaches.

  “Yeah. I was hoping I didn’t need to fill the prescription again, but—”

  “If it still hurts, fill it. You don’t have to take them all.”

  “Yeah, I suppose. Would you mind picking it up for me today? I’ll call it in to the pharmacy near your office.”

  “Sure thing. Need anything else while I’m there?” I asked, rolling out of bed and reaching for the ceiling in a giant stretch.

  “I don’t think so. But if something comes to mind, I’ll call your office before you leave. Getting off at your regular time?”

  “Yeah, probably. Unless Pearlman asks me to stay late for something.”

  “Just let me know either way,” Cyndi said as she lay back onto her pillow, closing her eyes.

  Why can’t I go back to bed? I asked myself. I shuffled off to shave and shower. Forty minutes later I was dressed and in the kitchen finishing my breakfast. Cyndi sauntered in and sipped from my coffee.

  “Don’t forget my prescription. I put the slip in your briefcase,” she said before vanishing again to shower.

  Chapter 2

  Feeling beads of sweat slide down my forehead, I used my free hand to wipe them away. I opened my eyes and realized I was still sitting on the park bench next to the stranger. I jumped to my feet, dropping the coin to the ground.

  “What the hell just happened? What’s going on?” I demanded as I turned to look at the man still sitting casually on the bench. “It was like I was there in my bedroom this morning.”

  “I assure you, Mr. Duffy, nothing ‘is going on’. I’m just here to help you. Think of the coin as a hypnotic dev
ice that clears your mind of the unnecessary clutter that slows us all down from time to time.” He smiled as he leaned over, picked up the coin, and held it out to me once again.

  I sat down and reluctantly took the coin from him. I didn’t even have the coin fully turned over in my hand when I was snapped back to my apartment.

  Chapter 2.5

  After finishing my coffee, I grabbed my briefcase and headed for the elevator. A glance at the clock on the way out told me that I was going to be late. That’s all I needed. Punching the elevator call button three times for good measure, I waited a few moments before the familiar ding sounded and the doors parted.

  Happiness enveloped me; the eight-foot by eight-foot metal car was empty. Pushing the button for the parking level, the doors closed and the elevator began to drop. My happiness quickly evaporated as the elevator stopped at floor twenty-three. On came Ms. Eastman. “Good morning, Jack,” she said, smiling up at me from her four-foot-tall frame.

  “Morning, Ms. Eastman.” Hoping to avoid an uncomfortable conversation with the building’s gossip queen, I pulled Cyndi’s prescription from my briefcase and began to read. Thankfully, the elevator doors opened once again a few floors down and on came three more people. Unfortunately, the elevator stopped at nearly every other floor the rest of the way down. After stopping at the lobby to unload most of the passengers, the car dropped two floors farther, letting me and a few others off in the garage.

  I climbed behind the wheel of my aging sedan and turned the engine over. After a few cranks, it roared to life. The problem was that the familiar rumble was accompanied by a new knocking sound. I knew it was time for a service, but as the morning was moving along, my mood was drifting swiftly in the wrong direction. The service would have to wait till the weekend.

  Unfortunately, I left too late to avoid morning traffic. And although I pulled right into the middle of it, the flow of cars wasn’t terrible. I would have been able to make it to work somewhat close to on time if it wasn’t for the old woman driving two cars ahead who ran the red light.