Thirty Five

And Then

   The spirit of worship has found ways to do the impossible over the millenia of his existence. He has turned oxygen to gold, brought to life that which can not breathe, and crumbled mountains with just his voice. He has become a God amongst men thousands of times over. By inhabiting the mask that cries acidic sludge, He has become something more than life.

   The only thing he can never seem to do is get used to the way his hosts fight. The sounds of their distress as the mask's putrid ooze fills their lungs, and veins swallow him whole each and every moment. Their bodies writhe and squirm as their marrow is split at the molecular level to become something rotten and acrid.

   Even now, as his new host lays slumped against the door of the now ruined apartment unit, The Soul wishes he could make the transition easier. He is not evil. He feels no malace towards these people. The agony he must cause them rivals the pain his first body felt. This man he has consumed is alone in his plight. The darkness of his body choosing unconsciousness over feeling the trauma of the change.

   This iteration will be different. This man will not be alone.

   The Soul brings his host's fingers to the necklace of talismans hanging limply against his flesh. Each coin hung in this chain embodies a part of his energy, allowing him to dive within the æther. This is how he can show his hosts so many of his own memories, but it is also how he can offer this man comradary. The coins are stamped with the numerals I through V, denoting the number of hosts he can safely take on.

   To suffer alone is truly hell. Even those who drown are offered the companionship of the creatures of the sea.

   There isn't some special spell or an action to be done for The Soul to find a new host. He simply calls into the collective of all human minds that connect in slumber. Those who yearn for freedom from a loneliness that is so harsh it can be tasted on their breath stand at the forefront. They reach up like the damned within the lake of fire, begging for a type of salvation their fingers could never touch.

   Not without The Soul.

   One by one, three other men start their transformations. Their bedrooms once a place of solice and peace now echo with the cries of a pain unknown to all but them. They begin to vomit just as this vessel had. With no mask to fuse to them, their faces simply slough from their skulls as their eyes well with sludge that spills over and down their cheeks.

   The First Vessel is stirring slightly as his comrads pour their voices into the night. He can hear them on the wind and in his head. The torment of men feeling lifetimes of anguish travels over each hill and valley in his brain. Each time one of the new followers cries out, an electrical storm rolls through The Host. His limbs twitch and his spine contorts. Groans find their way up his throatpastd the ooze, threatening to spill from his lips. Though he can not feel their pain, The First Vessel is bound to them as he is the mask. Their pain effects his body, as will their pleasure.

   Each moment of silence between the screams of tormented men bursts like an air bubble in the sea. Sirens blare through the streets as concerned neighbors make panicked phone calls to the police. While the change for The Second, The Third, and The Fourth is swift, it is also violent. Unlike the host of the mask, their bodies and their minds fight for solitude. Their fears wash away The Soul's pleading for them to settle.

   You are not alone in this pain, and you will never be alone again