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  One Loan Soul

  A Loan Soul Novel

  L.B. Carter

  Copyright © 2019 L. B. Carter

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN: 9781081136277

  This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, without the express written permission of the author L.B. Carter, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Edited by Dawn Yacovetta

  Cover by Black Fox Design

  BOOKS BY L.B. CARTER

  The Climatic Climacteric Series

  (Complete Upper YA/NA Disaster Adventure)

  Silent Siren

  Faded Flare

  Arid Alarm

  The Loan Soul Series

  (Dark Paranormal Fantasy)

  One Loan Soul

  Two Sold Mates - Coming Soon

  Stand-Alone Novels

  (Mystery/Thriller)

  Fish(y) out of Water

  Newsletter Stories

  (Horror/Thriller)

  Apple Pickings

  (Dark Mythological Fantasy Serial)

  Felled: The Trials of a Tree Nymph

  Newsletter Stories are FREE for subscribers;

  sign up at LBCarter.com.

  All her published books are available for purchase

  or FREE on Kindle Unlimited at Amazon.com/author/LBCarter.

  For all who have loved and lost … and sinned

  Contents

  One Loan Soul

  Copyright

  BOOKS BY L.B. CARTER

  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

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  CHAPTER ONE

  Today's possession sucks almost as much as dying does. I don’t show it, of course, sitting primly in front of the massive mahogany desk, blissfully basking in all of the compliments being bestowed upon me. I am, however, grateful the desk prevents my host’s spit-tastic boss from also bestowing his saliva upon me as he waxes on about upholding company values.

  I always revel in the praise even if I’m not the precise soul for whom it’s intended. I take what I can get in these brief reprieves from Hell, even putting up with being a guy for a short time. A bird with a worm is worth two in the bush.

  In my ninety-nine jaunts back to Earth since my death, I have quickly learned that manspreading is totally justified. I’d apologize for my feministic sneering at the male passengers sitting with splayed legs on the BART … if that were my worst sin.

  With a murder on my eternal rap sheet, being rude on the subway is a duck in the ocean — barely a ripple. Which is why I’m a perfect angel, so to speak, of a substitute soul in my afterlife.

  “… contract will be sure to elevate the value of our stock shares, encouraging invaluable investors to … invest in our novel synergistic business solutions.” He’s no wordsmith, but I’ll take the extra feather on my mantle. “It won’t be long before the company appreciates, dividends soar, and expansion is in the cards. I could oversee a branch downtown.”

  I nod my head to conceal the fact that I almost just puked in my mouth at all the MBA jargon. My double chin makes that a difficult feat. It might even be a triple or one of those ones that just kind of connects mouth to chest, skipping the actual neck part; I was injected into Wallace Brown’s casing as soon as he sat down in this pompous man’s office, I think, so I’ve had no chance to find a mirror to admire my current self. Based on the ballooning stomach stretching the threadbare suit, I’m not sure I want to.

  “Wise of you to listen to my advice and pursue this direction,” the man trumpets.

  Come to think of it, some of these backhanded compliments are not even owed to Wallace Brown, who’s paying off part of his loan in my new home realm. The magical life boost I get to witness from this tiny chair is all thanks to the Big Guy with the pitchfork with whom Wallace Brown is currently having a grand old time. Neither my possessed casing nor I, Darcie Rose, signed the client noteworthy enough to inflate the balloon of a head belonging to this toad costumed in a suit. A suit that is far more expensive than the one my casing is wearing.

  Yet, I smile because I do deserve some acknowledgment for my hard work. I’m the numero uno damned — literally — worker in Hell’s Souls On Loan Exchange (SOLE) Program. And there’s no chance in… well, my home as of the last year and forever more that my boss will offer me thanks. That’s not really the Devil’s shtick.

  He may seem great. I mean, offering loans for those who aren’t willing to go all out to the selling-my-soul-to-the-Devil level … that seems pretty reasonable. People still get an invaluable life boost, though bite-sized — fortune favors the sold, after all — and He still gets … whatever He gets from them. I’m not asking Him what that is … or how He manifests his promises.

  For one, you do not question the head honcho of the Overworld as I like to call it.

  The name makes it just a tad less depressing, and frankly, I’m not convinced his realm isn’t up — somewhere in space or a parallel dimension. I’m no rocket scientist, just a deceased taxidermist.

  And two, I’m not sure I want to know. I remain in blissfully ignorant since I never took out a loan while I was alive. My loss. Quite explicitly.

  No, I work hard at my job because then Nix gives me the good sub stints. This one, while being uncomfortable and boring, isn’t as bad as some of my first ones. In fact, although my afterlife is destined for eternity in Hell, I think I benefit the most from these deals, not the Devil nor souls like Wallace Brown. I savor the short respite from the realm of the mopey and unsurprisingly morbid, and in addition, I get to be the lucky goose luxuriating in my boss’s omnipotent manipulation.

  But really, I’m ready for the next sinner. I can feel sweat droplets snaking down the crevasse of my substantial behind. And this cheap suit itches.

  I get a thumbs up, which, based on the meticulous desk and the clear compensating size of it, is a high accolade from this uptight narcissist. He looks the type to offer his wife a pat on the shoulder in gratitude after a tousle in the love shack, the kind who only relents to such uncouth activities after loosening up post-work with a single glass of aged scotch. He probably even keeps his socks on.

  “Good job —” The man’s mouth pulls down at the sides as he tries to summon my casing’s name from the paper shredder in his mind.

  I don’t offer any clues, just smile patiently and subtly scratch a thigh, hiking up the already too-short trousers.

  The man pulls up a second thumb to fill the awkward silence, replacing the gap where a name should be. Wow, a double wield. I resist clasping a hand to my heart and tearing up.

  Yesterday, I finally got to possess an actress in that ultimate moment she won an award, and conjuring those tears had been an exciting challenge. The amount of graciousness I spewed without feeling had probably been about as heartfelt as the actress’s would have
been and as over-the-top. I thought I’d played the part so well that the award really should have been for me. I am the best in Hell for a reason.

  Conjuring up my award-winning acting skills, I begin my pitch while the man is momentarily quiet, watching as the thumbs slowly lower along with his eyebrows. This is a less fun character to portray, but the challenge is tougher. I squirm in my seat as I talk fast, creaking the chair’s joints. I have to pee — probably Wallace Brown’s pre-meeting nerves. Although I’ve had to do it on longer jobs, it’s a bodily function I try to avoid as a guy. That task is outside my field house.

  Finally, we reach an agreement, and I stand, offering a fawning “Thank you. You won’t regret this, sir” to remove the tension that filled the room with my negotiating. We do that manly over-tight knuckle-gripping handshake, and I escort myself back into anonymity, leaving the glass fishbowl as a stressed secretary rushes to respond to a bellow.

  Waddling back into the massive cubicle cluster where the nobodies spend too many hours of their short lives toiling at menial and inconsequential chores, I scout the open area for a restroom. Thank Go — Hell I never had an office job; I’d mostly lived my snipped life to its fullest … at least, I thought so until those last five minutes or so.

  Spying a sign, I toddle in that direction. This casing is getting the super deluxe service. The best acting, the Darcie Rose touch of a promotion on top of the Devil’s Deal that landed him an important client and saved his job along with a much-resented bladder emptying. It’s not a unisex single room either. I should get a promotion myself.

  Satisfied customers mean repeat customers that toad would confirm. But Luci is not one on whom to try a promotion pitch. I’ve never met him and hope that fact never changes.

  That is my ultimate reason for being the perfect employee. I avoid getting fired, which in Hell is the toastier meaning of that word, dropping down the circles, to use Dante’s tangible description of the realm’s hierarchy.

  Thankfully, the men’s restroom is empty, so I’m able to accomplish my mission without anyone noticing my gagging. Making my way back, I identify the only empty desk, and I slump down in the swiveling office chair in front of a decrepit monitor that displays way too much math for my taste, even if Beelzebub’s mumbo jumbo magic gives me all of the skills needed to accurately depict my role. I wedge my wide derriere between the rickety armrests. If I’m still in this body by the end of the day, I vow to take it for a run.

  I haven’t exercised since my death. There’s no need. My soul stays exactly as it was when I passed, and I admit I’ve lost the joy for exercise since it prompts memories of the days my fiancé and I were gym rats together.

  Shoving that errant out-of-character thought into the grave it crawled from, I debate calling Wallace Brown’s wife. She’s going to be so grateful. I foretell that Wallace Brown is getting an additional reward from this deal in the form of couple’s time, too. I mean the kind of grateful that commences with putting the kids to bed early and switching the granny panties for the single piece lingerie at the bottom of the drawer. Maybe they’ll even splurge in anticipation of his higher paycheck to go out.

  You know what? I am even going to get this guy home on time for once. Though, it’d be great if I’m not there for the grateful part. Peeing is weird enough as a guy. Anything else —

  Slurp.

  ◆◆◆

  That familiar sucking sensation that feels almost like the urge to vomit lurches me sideways from my casing, leaving it to stare off into space for a few seconds while the trade happens.

  Whirling through colors and lights and sounds that had at first overwhelmed me like being drunk on a roller coaster in an IMAX theater after eating fried butter, which is a real thing on Earth and not a torture device from Hell, and wearing a kaleidoscope instead of 3-D glasses all at once now feel like a typical commute home.

  The soul of Wallace Brown, identical to his casing, slides past me, and I tip an invisible hat at him. Enjoy the better standing, buddy. You’re most welcome. Stop working overtime, and take up Jazzercise or something, I urge silently. He doesn’t smile back. They never do, solidifying my intentions to never ask what Luci wins from His bargains. It’s probably a blessing that they never remember the event or Luci’s reality upon their return.

  Then, I’m squelched into existence in sweltering humidity on a rocky ground that never fails to scrape up my hands each time. Graceful landings are not an option here. That sound of materialization reminds me yet again of the splatter of animal organs dumping onto my work table in my past life — or, I guess, life is enough of a descriptor without needing to add “past”.

  “You owe me,” I tell Nix who is slouched over his counter, sorting files as he does pretty much constantly.

  “All clean?” he asks without lifting his eyes, ignoring my demand.

  “Do you know me?” I push to my feet and wipe the blood on my jean shorts.

  He lifts his chin, empty eyes watching me patiently.

  I roll mine. “Clean as pie.” I try not to shudder, remembering that long, long night after I’d first started and slipped up, saying hello to someone I’d known formerly, when I was alive. Since it was only a hello — no damage control needed, thus not requiring the Devil’s SOLE managers to involve Him — I was just docked a few points.

  But when those points indicate your rank in the circles of Hell, I’d been eager to jump back in and redeem myself. It had been a tense time, waiting for a new stint opportunity to arise. Most deals are signed at night when people are lying in bed, ruminating on their life and lamenting What Could Be, but that time had been as empty as a college library on a Friday.

  Jobs are dwindling, Nix confided to me when one finally came, and I almost peed myself with relief while sprinting to his desk. It can’t be that people are becoming more righteous — puritans are long since extinct, and the internet makes it so easy to become envious of what others have. I deduced it was more a case of increasing intensity of naughtiness; many are going for the gold, making a deal for the full-scale soul sale rather than the lowly loan.

  Little do they realize that they won’t get to enjoy their side of the deal for long; the Devil always collects on His deals, and you have to read the fine print to know it’s always right after the moment of ascent. The Devil writes the details.

  Nix shakes his head. “You never get your idioms right,” he mutters, almost repeating my old taxidermy mentor’s complaint to a P.

  I continue magnanimously since he demanded I elaborate, and I strive for perfection always. “Neither rule was broken. Our end of the deal went off without a glitch, and in fact —” I lean forward conspiratorially. “— I worked in a raise and promotion in addition to the business contract. So, you’re welcome for the excellent service. As per usual. Wallace Brown might even be willing to sign another contract after the night he’s going to have,” I confide, waggling my eyebrows sagely.

  Nix doesn’t respond to my premonition. He’s back to flipping through papers. “Get the paperwork back to me ASAP.” He dips his head briefly, indicating a binder-clipped stack that looks impossibly thick, comparable to some kind of manual or terms and conditions. Unfortunately, this one I do have to read completely and fill out if I want to stay in the program and, more importantly, in Nix’s favor.

  “ASAP?” My eyes widen, and I give a few frog hops of glee, clapping my hands together. My purple-tipped hair flounces around with the movement. If I’d been so fortunate as to die with my hat on, I could keep the dark brown waves out of my face. Of course, if I’d been lucky at all, I wouldn’t be in Hell … or have died at age twenty-nine. Never even made it to my thirties. Tsk. “You’ve got something for me?” I stop and shift my hands to my hips. “This one better actually be a good one.”

  With how much I detest being in Hell, which means it’s succeeding in its intention, I’m overjoyed to shrink those once in a new moon occurrences when I’m between stints. On those rare occasions, I can be found mimickin
g a lawn gnome, perched cross legged below the massive sign that might otherwise be found in a sports arena, waiting for a name and duration to flicker onto the screen in neon orange letters so I can sprint to Nix and claim it first.

  “As soon as possible.”

  “I know what ASAP stands for.” I grin. “It’s a long one, isn’t it? A few days? A week?” I ask hungrily. “I’ll get to sleep! In a real bed with an actual, soft mattress. I know, I know.” I hold up a palm. “I don’t need it anymore. But sleeping is so restful.” My voice slips to a longing coo. Dreams are another great way to mentally escape my predicament. I point a finger at him. “But not another dude. Promise me.”

  He doesn’t. He simply slides the papers closer to the edge of the counter with a single fingertip.

  I snatch them before they fall, slicing my thumb on the edge. Paper cuts are a donut a dozen up here. They heal instantly, forming a fresh surface to be damaged repeatedly. But they sting like a —

  “Time is ticking,” is all my handler says.

  It’s not. Time is not measured, being somewhat fluid — mostly lethargic — down here.

  Regardless, I turn and blow that Popsicle stand like the wind.

  CHAPTER TWO

  The thing about Hell is that it’s not really designed to be accommodating. In fact, its entire purpose is to be irksome as … Hell. It’s like eternal Monday up here.

  Well, near the top anyway. The lower circles are grander with regard to the discomfort they provide — torture, maiming, horrors of unfathomable proportions, and other agonies in that ilk, Nix has revealed. My level is more of a slow burn kindled with heaping mildly infuriating grievances. So, even though I’m practically Queen of the Damned when it comes to paperwork, it isn’t exactly easy.