THREE DAYS AFTER HE WAS MURDERED, RICHARD PRATT BEGAN TO FEEL MUCH BETTER...
A seemingly random act of violence propels Professor Richard Pratt into The Hereafter. It is a strange, muted, netherworld of the dead-a world in which he is forced to bear...
"Let him in," Tuilla whispered hoarsely. "But be careful. Don't tell him anything! Just learn what you can. Try to get a sense of where he is..."
Richard let out a deep breath and turned his eyes to the featureless white ceiling. He eased back on the riser on his elbows. Then closed his eyes, and opened his mind.
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He had faced the Wanderer in the hot tub where he met Keith. And he had faced him in the bedroom of his own home. So Richard expected his arrival this time to conjure some other iconic stage set from his memories. But instead, Richard found himself standing in absolute darkness.
Like the Tabernacle, this vast and empty space absorbed sound as easily and completely as it swallowed light. But unlike the Tabernacle, the silence here was heavy, tense, and oppressive. The blackness was so complete that Richard felt himself swaying on his imaginary feet, trying to maintain his balance.
"Hello, Richard," a voice in the darkness said. It was a soft and friendly voice, and yet deeply menacing. "How nice to see you again. It's been far too long, don't you think?"
It was the voice of George Drouillard, and yet... it also wasn't. The mind behind the words seemed the same, but not this sound. This wasn't the voice of a man. It was higher pitched, and had a strange, child-like lilt to it.
"I'm glad you're back," Richard said, trying to pitch his own voice with some vulnerability. "I've been afraid. I think... I mean, I've just felt so alone."
The voice just laughed, circling him like a wolf just beyond the glow of his fire. Suddenly Richard was certain—this wasn't the voice of George Drouillard.
This is the voice of the boy that the Wanderer invaded. This is the boy that lost his soul to this evil thing. Or, at least, Drouillard wants me to think so.
"Oh, that's quaint, Richard," the childish voice giggled. Did you think I'd buy that?"
"Well, it was worth a shot," Richard said, actually feeling somewhat relieved that he could stop trying to play games with this thing. "Did you think speaking in the voice of the boy you... hijacked was something that I'd buy?"
There was a tiny chuckle from behind his right shoulder, and he tried to turn. But nobody was there in the darkness. "Oh, perhaps," Drouillard whispered, "I know you better than you think. I know we're both attracted to innocence. And vulnerability. We have that in common."
"I don't think so," Richard snapped, a little too quickly.
"Oh, really? Wasn't Justin just a boy? Wasn't he an innocent? And Keith was barely older. Now be honest, didn't you possess and despoil both of them because they were so innocent and vulnerable? Are we really so different, Richard Pratt?"
"We're totally different, you sick fuck," Richard spat, and swung a fist toward the source of the voice in the darkness. But his efforts did nothing but cause him to sway unsteadily on his feet.
