Trembling With Fear 7/12/2019

The Case from Hell by Meg O’Connor

A cheery voice came over the office loudspeaker: “Attention all Beholders. Carol from Division 2-1-1 brought some great news to our attention this morning. Nelson Mandela was reborn yesterday at six pounds ten ounces to loving parents in Reno. This go around, he was named Reese Damon Fitzpatrick. That is all. Have a great day.” There was some static as the voice cut out.

Most of Donovan’s division remained silent behind their flimsy cubicle walls. Cheers echoed from down the hall, where those cheery bastards in 2-1-1 were probably cutting into a cake right this moment. They were the golden children of the Office with an inexhaustible supply of good news to share. They assumed all their beloved souls would be just as good as they were the first time around. Usually, they were.

But the opposite was also true, which was exactly why Donovan’s division—while less glamorous—was so crucial. 6-1-1. The Division of Depravity. Where the Beholders diligently searched for evil. It wasn’t easy to become a famous, respected Beholder in Donovan’s department, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t try. 

He removed his spreadsheet from his desk drawer to make sure none of his assigned targets had been reborn in the last twenty-four hours. When a baby was born, a nurse scanned its forehead with a KarmaCatcher Digital Soul-Scanner and uploaded the results into the Beholder database. If there were no new hits, Donovan’s day proceeded as usual. He’d check on one of his active cases, the most nefarious of which was the soul of a bootlegger. Boring. Donovan might as well move over to 2-1-1, if this was all the action he’d see. 

Donovan was so busy griping that he almost failed to notice the hit on one of his targets. Holy crap. He hadn’t gotten a hit in eight months. He squinted at the name. No way. No friggin’ way. His heart was pounding so fast he could hear his blood rushing in his ears like a geyser. Which hospital was the baby in? He checked the entry, then slammed his fist on the desk. His first interesting case in two years of working for the Office, and it wasn’t even human? He picked up his phone and called the point of contact.

“Humane Society of Hartford. This is Julie. How can I help you?”

Donovan ran his fingers through his hair. This was absurd. “Hi Julie,” he said, mustering every ounce of professionalism he could. “This is Donovan Marshall from the Office of Beholding, Division of Depravity. I understand you scanned a little dude with a KarmaCatcher this morning. Is that correct?”

“I scanned a bunch of little dudes,” said Julie. “Is there one you’re calling about in particular?”

Donovan rubbed his forehead. He could feel a migraine coming on. This was so stupid. “Um, yeah,” he said. “…Noodle?”

“Of course,” said Julie. “Is there a problem? Noodle’s a very affectionate kitten. Whose soul does he have? Someone famous?”

Donovan scrunched his eyes together. There was no reason to scare her. What could a cat do? “Nothing to worry about,” he said, then told her to call once the cat got adopted. When he hung up, Donovan called over to Frank in the adjacent cube. “Dude, didn’t you get a hit on Ivan the Terrible once?”

Frank’s coffee cup landed hard on the desk. “Dude. He was a goat, remember?”

“So did you do anything?” Frank was the only person Donovan knew who’d ever gotten an animal as a hit.

“Nah, I was too busy dealing with Hitler the fruit fly,” Frank said, and Donovan could practically hear the eye roll in his voice. 

“Fine, man. You don’t have to be an ass about it.”

Two weeks went by before the Humane Society called to say Noodle had been taken to his Forever Home and gave Donovan the address. He played it cool, waiting three days before visiting the young lady, hoping not to appear over concerned about a godforsaken cat. 

 When he arrived at suburban ranch, no one came to the door. Donovan rang again and waited. He could hear Frank’s glib voice in his mind, but he couldn’t shake the twisting in his gut. The knob turned when he tried it, which made his stomach churn more, but he opened the door a crack. “Miss Smith?” he shouted into the house. The only response was a tiny meow.

Donovan poked his head inside and immediately puked all over the landing. Miss Smith was in the center of her living room carpet, which had once been beige. There was no way a cat could have—

Donovan stepped over his own vomit to enter the room, never looking away from Noodles, who was batting a ball around the living room and paying him no attention. He peered down at the body. Miss Doherty seemed to have two rivers of blood flowing from her neck—one from each carotid. 

Donovan stumbled backwards away from Noodle and tripped over Smith’s coffee table, falling on his backside. When the cat turned around, batting the ball cheerfully in his direction, Donovan saw that it wasn’t a ball. It was a human eyeball, mostly desiccated, the pupil occasionally rolling so that it met his own stare. A prickling spread across Donovan’s scalp and his vision spotted black. He fainted.

When Donovan came to, he was still in Miss Smith’s living room and so was Miss Smith. The only soul missing was Noodle. When Donovan turned around, he saw that he’d left the door wide open behind him.

Donovan buried his face in his hands, speckled with some of Miss Smith’s dried blood. He’d wanted to become a famous Beholder, and now the world would know that he let Jack the Ripper out the front door. He could only hope Noodle was microchipped.