Page 137 of Devil Inside

I never linger in one body for long, simply drifting from one vessel to the next, following alongside him. Behind him. There have only been inches between us at times.

So close.

We’ve even shared the same breath, capturing the very air that has left his lungs.

Can’t he feel us? Why doesn’t he see me? We could make our presence known.Tempting.It might frighten him. Push him away. So we simply linger. I drift. We follow.

We have given Jordan ample opportunity to see us, sense our presence, testing the very limits of our surreptitiousness. We’ve occasionally grown bold and spoken to him.

“Excuse me,” we ask in our present flesh. “What time it is?”

“Yeah. Hold on one sec.”

We wait. Watch him fumble for his watch. It almost angers us, these sensations Jordan manifests within. Possessed by these feelings. We don’t want to feel them. Do we?

“Two thirty-three,” Jordan offers.

“Thank you.” Again, we are tempted to say his name. If we did, his world would change. Collapse in a breath. He’d know he is not alone. Never alone. Never again.

Jordan wanders the streets without a destination. We’re right behind him now. He seems so lost. Astray. He barely drinks his coffee, holding the cup as he roams the streets.

He occasionally stops in front of a shop. He doesn’t stay for long. These stores offer him nothing. We sense he wants more.Food offers him no flavor. Music offers no notes. The vibrance of life is lost, and yet, here he is, searching, desperate for a connection.

Jordan stops before a worn-down storefront. We see it now. Where he’s heading. Let’s see if we can get there first.

The bell rings above us. The smell of mildew is thick in our nostrils. Dust suspends itself in the air. Not an unpleasant scent. Pages of decay. Time immemorial. These tomes have been read already once before, no longer fresh, the shelves filled with bent spines. Cracked paperbacks lined like caskets, a mausoleum of stories, yearning to be revisited.

Jordan wanders down the aisles, adrift. Searching for something. What, we wonder.

He hasn’t sensed our presence.

Yet.

We are quick to make our way to the woman sitting behind the counter, a book open in her own hand. “Hello,” she says. All sun. How pleasant. Unassuming. She’s lost in a world of words. Her red hair is held up in a bun by a pencil, piercing the knot of rusty locks.

“Looking for anything in particular today?”

“Just browsing,” we say, quick to see if Jordan is watching.

“Let me know if you have any ques—”

We touch her freckled hand. Lightly, but it is enough. She goes silent as I pour forth from my present vessel and root myself within.

Let me in...

Cassandra. Lovely Cass. A ruby-colored tempranillo. She has lived here for only a few years. Very few friends. This store has become a home for her. Books, she believes, fulfil her. How interesting. Cass will lose herself in a novel. Leave her own body behind, abandoning this sphere and inhabiting the pages of a book. Her own possession.

Are novels vessels in and of themselves? Temporary ones, at least. Caskets of the imagination. Lay your body down and fill this tome. Put on someone else’s skin for a bit.

Let’s swap, shall we?Cass can read in her dreams while we take a turn with her body.Rest, we whisper, pushing her down into the deepest recesses of her favorite book.

My turn now. My time inside.

We slip out from behind the counter, making our way to Jordan. He does not turn when we approach, quietly drawing near, unaware of our closeness. Our proximity.

“Can I help you?” we ask from behind, lifting our voice up an octave.

He turns, offering us the slightest smile. “Just looking, thanks.”