Classic Audiobook Collection - The Soul Stealers by Chester S. Geier ~ Full Audiobook [scifi]

Episode Date: October 1, 2025

The Soul Stealers by Chester S. Geier audiobook. Genre: scifi Bryan, a battle-worn newspaper reporter, thinks he has seen every kind of death until a string of baffling cases lands him in a hospital ward: men whose bodies still breathe, yet whose minds are gone, as if the essential spark inside them has been stolen. The trail leads to Chicago's Grant Park, where nighttime shadows hide impossible shapes and witnesses swear they have seen translucent, insect-like beings moving with silent purpose. When Bryan encounters Leeta, a luminous young woman who seems only half of this world, the mystery turns into a desperate moral struggle. Leeta is tied to a failing realm poisoned by a strange, deadly radiation, and her people's survival may depend on taking what humans can least afford to lose. Pulled between skepticism and awe, Bryan is drawn across the boundary between worlds, where beauty and ruin exist side by side and every choice carries a cost. Blending pulp-era wonder with eerie metaphysical stakes, The Soul Stealers asks what a soul is worth when survival is on the line. For ad-free listening try our premium subscription Chapters (Approximate) (00:00:00) Chapter 01 (00:15:47) Chapter 02 (00:34:53) Chapter 03 (00:49:47) Chapter 04 (01:17:35) Chapter 05 Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

The Soul Stealers by Chester S. Geyer, Part 1 A chill touched Brian as he looked down at the figure on the hospital bed. Too many of them. He had seen them sprawled on European battlefields, had seen them huddled and wrecked cars or lying waxen and stiff on morgue slabs. But he had never seen a dead man like the one who lay there on the bed. For, paradoxically, this man was still alive. He still breathed, his heart still pulsed.

Yet it was clear that these were. little more than automatic processes. In the only respect that mattered, he was as truly dead as though in the last stages of dissolution and decay. He lay on the bed with an unnatural supineness, his head lolling at a slack angle. His eyes were open in a blank stare, eyes as empty as a waiting grave. He did not move. He made no sound. A thread of saliva ran from a corner of his gaping mouth and made a glistening path down the side of his jaw. A mindless, idiot would have shown more animation than this man. Something vital and precious had gone from him, leaving him a mere shell.

His was a death in life, a thing somehow more terrible than a shattered skull or a torn chest. Brian fought back a shudder and turned to the balding white-clad man at his side. What can you tell me, Dave? Just what seems to be wrong with this fellow? The doctor sighed. Wish I knew, Terry. I've never seen anything like it. and over 20 years of medical practice.

Not even the specialists seem to know, and we have several good ones here who donate their services to the hospital, men with experience in unusual cases. But don't you have any ideas at all about how he got this way? Brian persisted. Isn't there any possibility that he had some sort of rare brain disease?

We gave him a careful examination, Terry. The doctor returned. We could find no evidence of disease, no evidence of concussion or injury, except maybe for one thing. What's that? Brian asked quickly. When he was first brought in, we found a sort of reddish mark near his left shoulder, as though something hot had touched him.

The skin wasn't broken or burned, however. The doctor shrugged, It's gone now. I doubt if anything so light and temporary could have been important anyway. This might be a case for the psychiatrist, Brian suggested slowly. Maybe this fellow had a terrific shock of some sort of something. kind, a psychic trauma or whatever they call it. That's quite possible, but we've done the best we could at this end. The doctor's voice dropped. I don't think there's going to be time for anything

else, Terry. You mean that he? The doctor nodded. He's dying. I've seen the signs. It's as though he's lost all will to live. Brian looked at the man on the bed again, grim speculation in his eyes. His voice was solemn and soft. Maybe I'm just a superstitious Irishman, Dave, but I think I know what's the matter with this fellow. I knew at the first time I looked at him. He's lost something, something you can't see with microscopes or x-ray machines. It's something damned important, and that's why he's dying. What he's lost, Dave, is his soul. I'm not laughing, Terry. Oddly enough, I have the same opinion. A doctor keeps running into situations like this,

where ideas thrown into the discard by the so-called scientific attitude have to be dusted off and put back to work. There was silence. An elevator made distant noises somewhere in the building. White-clad nurses moved crisply by in the hall beyond the open door. Late spring sunshine was bright behind the drawn shade at the window. Life and movement, the mundane and familiar. but in this room thoughts probed beyond the earthly facade and found a mystery, a wonder as old as man.

Brian moved his muscular shoulders as though against an invisible resistance. Then, slowly, still fighting that resistance, he reached into the breast pocket of his rumpled tweed jacket and produced a pencil and a wrinkled but otherwise clean envelope. Most reporters carried notepads about with them. Some even went to end for stenographer's shorthand notebooks. But to Brian, news was something more than mere details. It was a thing of human and emotional qualities, and these he carried in his head like songs.

Some, gay and humorous, many more tragic and sad. This characteristic had given his byline its great popularity with courier readers. When he needed to remember details at all, comparatively unimportant facts like dates and numbers, he recorded them on envelopes. Anything else you can tell me about this man, Dave? Who he is, where he lives. The doctor fingered a slip of paper from a pocket of his white smock.

Here's his name and address. I had an intern copy them down from the stuff we found in his clothes. Knew you'd want them, Terry. He grinned briefly. A grin of real affection, then sobered. The police did some checking on him. I talked to a detective just before you showed up. Seems this patient lived alone at a rooming house.

A widower, no family. Worked as a dental technician for a small company in the loop. It appeared he was in the habit of spending his evenings in Grant Park. He was found there this morning, you know, just the way he is now. Grant Park, Brian echoed. That makes three. Three, Dave. The doctor looked puzzled.

I don't get it, Terry. I didn't get around to this business until now, but two other men were found in Grant Park. Like this, they were taken to private hospitals. Good Lord, the doctor breathed startled. This goes deeper than I thought. There must be something in Grant Park. Something that I intend to look into, Brian said quietly. There's a story here, if I can dig it out.

He thrusts the envelope and pencil back into his jacket, together with the slip of paper he had been given. I'll be running along, Dave. Thanks for your tip. It was swell of you to remember me. The other gestured as he followed Brian into the hall and toward the elevators. Maybe I had an ulterior motive. Ruth and I have been wondering why you never drop in anymore.

I've been running a rat race, Brian said. You look at Terry. You don't look as well as you did when you first came back from overseas. What a big medicine bottle you have, Doc? I'm serious, Terry. I've had an idea you weren't happy about things. And now I'm sure of it. What seems to be the trouble?

Your job? The job's all right. You won't tell an old friend? Brian lifted his hands. "'Hell, Dave, I don't know. Just what is wrong. "'But it might be something like this. "'I've fought a little war of my own, a personal war, "'to make the world a better place.

"'Now that I'm back, though, it's the same old world, "'only a lot worse. "'And a reporter gets to see too much of the worst side. "'One man can't change the world, Terry,' the doctor said. "'All he can do is make the best of his small piece of it. "'What you need to do is get married and raise a family. "'And while on the subject, what became a pretty girl reporter you brought around with you a couple of times?

Joyce? She's still with the paper. She seems like a sensible person. Make a nice wife. Yes, Brian said. He stopped in front of the elevator and held out his hand. Thanks again, Dave. I'll drop in some evening when the rat race slows up a little.

My love to Ruth. Take care of yourself, Terry. The doctor stood watching as the elevator doors closed on Brian's figure. A worried frown deepened the lines in his forehead. Outside on the sidewalk before the hospital, Brian lighted a cigarette. He stood there for some minutes, a big man in a rumpled tweed suit, his hat pushed back on thick brown hair that had coppery glint in the bright sunshine. He had powerful shoulders and the hands that went with them,

but his face was fine carved and sensitive, the face of an artist or a dreamer. There was that paradox in him, and in that paradox was his personal tragedy. For while his strength took him easily through the deceit and cruelty of life, the stupidity and ugliness, the memory of each encounter remained with him like a scar. The scars were beginning to show a bit too plainly. It had taken Dave to make him realize that.

Dave. What was it David said? There was an importance in the words. One man can't change the world, Terry. That was it. Brian considered the remark now, intently. Was that what he really wanted to do? change the world? He groped among old ideals and ambitions for the answer. In the beginning he had

wanted to create, to create by writing about people, about life. But to write about life required knowing it. He had become a reporter. What he had learned of life was evilness, greed, suffering, ignorance. He could not write of that and still create as he had dreamed, but he could fight it. He could fight it wherever he found it, little by little, and he had to write. And he had to write. He had had fought. It was all that had kept him going. A fool's mission, doomed to failure. Dave was right. Brian had his answer now. He didn't want to change the world. He wanted to do something even more impossible. He wanted to make a world of his own. He grinned sourly and flipped the remains of the cigarette away. Hailing a cab then, he rode to the courier building. The city room was

filled with the old familiar clamor, the rattle of typewriters and teletypes, the shrilling of telephones, the undulent babble of voices. Brian waved in answer to greetings as he threaded his way to his desk. He rolled a sheet of paper into his typewriter, lighted a cigarette, and rubbed his face. Then he straightened with a jerk and began hitting the typewriter keys with the first and second fingers of each hand. Managing editor Frank Sanders hurried past with a bulging file envelope,

his vest open, and his stiff white hair a usual disorderly tangle. He whirled as though Brian's presence had only then registered on him. Terry, where the hell have you been? He jerked a thumb. My office, right away. Brian finished a paragraph and then followed Sanders into his glass-enclosed cubicle. He slumped into a chair and waited. Sanders tried without success to light a clogged pipe.

He dropped it back into the ashtray and said abruptly, That Holsheiber story, Terry, you did a nice job clear in the kid, but your copy was pretty rough on the district attorney. Too rough, Terry. I should have thrown a streetcar at him, Brian said, trying to frame a kid and build up a record. Circumstantial evidence and re-election, Terry. It happens all the time you ought to know.

And you ought to know we're politically on the DA's side of the fence. Stories like the one you wrote about the Holzheimer case will only hurt the campaign this paper is putting on. Sometimes there's too much incompetence to whitewash, even if it comes from the right side of the fence. Sanders shook his disorderly thatch. You ought to know better than that, Terry. You've been around long enough.

There's no time to get a rush of ideals to the head. I've never pulled my punches. Brian returned quietly. I know. But we just can't have any more stories like the one on the Holzheimer case. Sanders leaned forward at his desk. His eyes suddenly shrewed. What's eating on you, Terry?

Brian shrugged. Things like the Holzheimer business. It's all part of a system, Sanders said slowly. You can't change that system any more than you can change human nature, Terry. All you can do is make the best of it. I hope you'll look at it that way. I've seen too many good reporters go sour over what they keep running into. A telephone jangled on the desk.

Sanders spoke into it briefly and returned his attention to Brian. Working on anything now, Terry? Brian explained about the three weirdly afflicted men who had been found in Grant Park. I'm planning to look into it. He finished. Sounds like something big is involved. Sanders approved. Go ahead with it, Terry.

and take things easy, will you? He added, as Brian started toward the door. Sure, Brian said. Back at his desk, Brian finished typing his copy. He was penciling corrections when Joyce Mayhew appeared. Hi, Terry, she perched on the edge of a neighboring desk, a slim dark girl with a wide humorous mouth and expressive hazel eyes. She was simply dressed as always,

but gave a characteristic impression of fashionable elegance. What have you got there, a scoop or a love letter? It could be my last. Will and Testament, Brian said. He stood up and called to a copyboy. Have you had lunch? Yes, Joyce then. I was hoping somebody would ask me.

Somebody like you, Terry? Consider yourself asked. Let's go. They sat in a booth in a small restaurant on a side street near the courier building. Joyce's eyes were grave as she studied Brian's face over the top of her menu. Anything in that last Will and Testament crack you made, Terry? She asked at last. I saw you coming out of Sanders' office. He shrugged, mobile lips twisting and awry grin.

Eh, nothing that serious. I just had my wrist slapped over the way I handled the Holzheimer story. There was quite a bit of talk about that up at the office. Sanders let you off easy, but Terry, you seem to have been hitting out at things a little too hard. What's the matter? A disappointed love life? You know as much about my love life as I do. Really? She looked down to finger a spoon, sudden pain and wistfulness in her averted face.

I saw Dave at the county hospital, he went on. You remember Dave? Yes. And his wife's cooking and his lovely children. Dave mentioned you. He seemed to feel I've been neglecting him. Maybe you've been neglecting a lot of people, Terry. He drew a deep breath and let it out slowly,

an action compounded of agreement, weariness, and despair. I suppose that's true. People and I seem to have been going off in opposite directions. Take Dave. He's satisfied with what he's doing. I can't talk to him without being reminded of my own dissatisfaction. He can't talk to me without knowing that something's wrong. Joyce reached across the table and caught his hand. Terry, don't let it get to you. He forced a grin. With me, it's work as usual, and this time it's something off the beaten path. Something darned queer.

He told her of the dead-alive man at the hospital and of the link to the other Grant Park victims. He straightened, animation quickening in his face, his melancholy forgotten. Three men, he finished grimly. There's a kind of continuity to the thing. I'm going to watch the park, Joyce. I have the idea that what happened is going to happen again. I want to know just what was done to those men. Just what sort of agency is at the bottom of it.

Her face was troubled. Terry, it frightens me. If something strange is really going on, you might get hurt. the way those men were hurt. I wish... She broke off with a helpless gesture. Be careful, Terry. Please be careful.

End of part one. Section 2 of the Soul Stealers by Chester S. Geyer. This Libervox recording is in the public domain, read by Ben Tucker. Part 2. Brian sat on a stool in one corner of a small dimly lighted bar. frowning down at an envelope on which he had drawn a diagram of Grant Park. He had spent part of the afternoon checking on the locations where the three men had been found. These, it appeared, were concentrated roughly near the middle of the park,

around a large sandstone memorial pavilion, which was the center of numerous converging walks. He had visited the spot while daylight remained, familiarizing himself with it in preparation for his night vigil. Glancing at his watch now, Brian slid off the stool and went to a telephone alcove. He dialed the number quickly. There was a delay while an extension connection was made. Dave? He said then.

Terry at this end, how's the patient? Dead, Terry. Not half an hour ago. We tried everything. Oxygen, heart stimulants. It was no use. I knew it was going to happen all along and stayed to do what I could. I was just getting ready to go home.

I checked up on the others who were found in the part, Brian resumed. They died too, in about the same length of time as your patient. "'Good Lord, Terry. It's horrible somehow. What in the named reason could be back of it?' "'I'm working on that angle right now. I'll let you know if I turn up anything. Thanks, Dave.'

Brian hung up and went back to the bar. He finished his drink, lighted a cigarette, and strode outside. Darkness had thickened along the street. A soft warm darkness, rich with the promise of approaching summer. A blocks walk brought Brian to the boulevard. Grant Park lay just across from him. lights shining fairy-like throughout its shadowed length. He crossed with the traffic light, hands in his pockets,

a man just strolling along on a pleasant evening, but his gray eyes were alert and grim. Vivid in his mind was the memory of a man in a hospital bed, a man who breathed and yet was not alive. The park swallowed him. He walked directly toward the memorial pavilion, moving without haste, without apparent purpose or destination. The pavilion took shape in the quiet gloom,

a temple-like place of flower beds and radiating walks. On the benches around it was a scattering of romantic couples and lonely men sprawled in sleep. The atmosphere was one of serenity and peace. To Brian it seemed briefly incredible that danger could threaten here. Yet, in this vicinity, three men had been struck down by something that had left them mere shells of flesh without the will to live. He made a complete circuit of the pavilion without a glimpse of anything unusual or suspicious. Finally, choosing a bench thick in shadow and partly screened by bushes, he sat down to wait. Time passed slowly in the lolling murmur of leaves and the distant drone of passing automobiles.

The sleeping men on neighboring benches awoke one by one, stretched, and plotted away into the darkness. The spooning couples shared a last embrace and vanished in turn. Before much longer the benches around Brian were deserted, but he knew that other persons might still be lingering in spots not visible. to him. The quiet had deepened. Brian shifted, cramped, and protesting muscles, and peered impatiently at the radium dial of his watch. The hour was already a late one. Soon it would be too late for what he had hoped would happen. Everyone would have left the neighborhood of the pavilion. Hope was fading in Brian, but he forced himself to remain where he was. More time passed. A deep, somnolent hush lay over the pavilion. Even the continual rustling of leaves now seemed muted and

remote. The sky pressed down, a soft dark blanket, lavishly strewn with points of brilliance. In the silver gloom, the lamps spaced along the walks shone with an ethereal phosphorescent quality. Brian slumped on the bench in resignation. He was certain now that nothing would happen, not tonight at least. And in his disappointment he wondered if there had been some warning of his presence, or had what he had been waiting for already taken place without his having been aware of it. His tiredness blunted the question. Rest seemed more important now. He'd go to his furnished room and sleep.

This was just the first night. There would be other nights. He had wait and watch until something finally happened. But right now there was no further need for caution. He could have a smoke. He could stand up to ease his aching muscles. He was reaching for his cigarettes when he heard the sound rising above the murmur of leaves. The sound of wings.

There was a rushing power to them, a massive beat. And listening, Brian had the swift certainty that it was nothing familiar that flew through the night. He crouched on the bench frozen, searching the jeweled sky. Then another sound, a girl's questioning voice, shrill with alarm. Brian swung and saw two figures against the pale outlines of the pavilion. One, evidently the girl he had heard and the other that of a man accompanying her. They must have been nearby without his having noticed them.

The sound of approaching wings had drawn them into view. Brian's pulses leaped in dread excitement. Was it going to happen now? Like this? Did whatever it was that had deprived three men of the will to live ride the air on great wings? The thought brought a chill dismay. His eyes widened on the two figures before the pavilion. If some strange attack portended, he could not stand idly by and watch it happen.

The man and girl were too clearly exposed, in possible great danger. Brian was tensing his muscles when the beatings. wings swept by overhead. His glance jerked upward. He stared in numbed disbelief. A huge bird-like shape was gliding down toward the pavilion. Flying beside it, grotesquely like fighter planes escorting a giant bomber, were a number of smaller shapes, vaguely manlike. But it was not this sight alone that filled Brian with nightmare amazement. For astride the bird thing was a slender-limbed figure and veil-like garments, a girl. And against the dark backdrop of the sky, girl and winged creatures alike, all seemed to shine with an eerie glow,

a luminous radiance. Impossibility. Madness, Brian's thoughts whirled and chaos. This bizarre scene couldn't be real. He was suffering a delusion. His long vigil on the bench had lulled him into a dreamlike state in which he was experiencing a fantastic vision. But even as he told himself this, he knew he was very much awake. And he knew that what he saw was no mere vision. And he knew that what he saw was no mere vision. For a scream from the girl before the pavilion testified that she and her companion saw it also. The fantastic winged shapes were slanting downward. Brian realized they were moving directly toward the man and girl. The couple stood immobile, rigid, as though spellbound by the utter weirdness of what they saw. Brian shouted a hoarse warning and started forward. He did not know what he

could possibly do. No rational purpose motivated him. His action was instinctive, an appalled protest against what he feared was about to take place. Brian's warning registered upon the couple. They seemed abruptly aware of their danger. The man caught at the girl's arm as if to draw her with him in flight. But now terror struck her with its full impact and her body began crumpling in a faint, even as she turned to follow.

Her companion hesitated in dismay, concerned for the girl obviously struggling against desire for escape. One of the smaller flying monstrosities had pulled ahead of the others, skimming several feet above the ground, it darted at the man. Closer now, Brian was able to make out details that previously had escaped him. The creature was the size of a child,

with two pairs of arms, its lean body human in shape. It had large bulging eyes in a small hairless head, its face projected in a long, tapering needle-like proboscis, which together with delicate gauzy wings gave the appearance of an enormous insect,

a mosquito. The luminous radiance that glowed from the thing was not the only remaining unearthly feature. Brian discovered that it was mistily transparent as well, somehow unsubstantial. The man saw the winged apparition coming at him. His hands lifted in defense, but in the next instant the creature's needle-shaped snout plunged into his chest like a thrust sword. Then with a blur of wings, the creature pulled free and circled away.

The man did not move again. He stood with hands still defensively raised, statuesque, frozen. It was as if a lightning paralysis. had struck him. Brian checked himself sharply, shocked by what he had seen. There was a wrenching, unexpectedness about it, a chilling weirdness, and yet it held a certain logic, a deadly significance. For Brian recalled what Dave had told him about the previous park victim.

The man had been found with a queer, reddish mark near the shoulder, a mark that presently had vanished. Now Brian thought he knew how it had been caused. But how could an object penetrate flesh and bone, as he had seen the moment. the flying things needle-like proboscis pierced the chest of the man before the pavilion, and still make no wound, leaving only a reddish mark that soon faded. Only a few instants had passed. The winged band was still descending toward the pavilion, but Brian's presence on the scene

had been noticed. Two of the mosquito men, their appearance automatically suggesting the term, were even now curving toward him. Brian saw them approach, he tensed, fighting back his dismay. Flight was out of the question. He had seen the mosquito men in action and knew they could easily overtake him. That left only. Brian whipped off his jacket.

He flailed at his attackers with it as they closed in. They darted back, their huge eyes widening as if in startled confusion. There was a quality about them as childlike as their shapes, appealing, and somehow not evil. It was a thing Brian did not understand in which at the moment he had no time to fathom. He pressed his advantage, beating at the shapes with the jacket. It was as though he beat at phantoms. He could feel no contact with solidity through the cloth. And the mosquito men seemed to realize their immunity,

for abruptly they closed in, their sharp snouts thrusting at him. He twisted aside to evade one, but the second reached him before he can move again. Its needle-shaped organ speared his shoulder. Brian felt a brief pain, a sensation as though electricity had surged through him. Then a complete, terrible numbness gripped his body. He could not move. He could still see, could still think, but his muscles were fettered by an overwhelming paralysis.

He could still think, but it was difficult. His mind seemed detached and vague, and somehow touched by a pulse of thought not his own. Alien rhythms beat in it, formless, confused, and then, "'Lita, this one resisted. He did not fear us, as did the others.' Childlike piping filled with excitement. And yet, through the thought, ran. in an undercurrent of wistful yearning, of trembling hope. Then another thought,

Take him, Lita, he is brave. Patience, little ones, strangely soft and clear, this thought, ringing like delicate silver chimes. At the edge of his field of vision, through eyes he could no longer control, Brian saw movement, the sweep and flutter of great wings.

Then a slim figure moved into his sight, a figure in a simple draped garment, walking as lightly and gracefully as low. though on air. Lita, he knew. Wonder rose in him, and sudden fascination. Spector, which? He could not decide. His eyes told him that she was woman, a woman like few he had seen, slender yet softly rounded, dainty yet with a suggestion of strength. Her small features held in odd, startling loveliness, belfin somehow, other race. Her eyes were tilted and strangely large, the nostrils of her tiny nose deeply indented and flaring, her chin pointed.

Her gleaming black hair was long, thick, gently curling, a contrasting frame for flawless white skin. She glowed luminously, and he could see through her. Like the mosquito men. Like the giant bird. She was mistily transparent, inexplicably unsubstantial. She stood before him, then. Her great liquid eyes gazed at him in wonder with a searching curiosity. There was a tenseness and urgency about her, as though she were driven by some desperate, all-important

purpose. And there was an air of tragedy about her, a despair, a quality of wistful yearning like that Brian had sensed in the childlike piping thoughts. The mystery of this woman caught at him, drew him. Which? Again, he wondered. He could find nothing evil in her face, nothing of cruelty or guile, behind the compelling anxiety in her eyes,

the sadness that touched her full lips was innocence. The curiosity faded from her face. The tenseness and urgency that had been lurking in her abruptly became dominant. Her hands lifted. Brian saw now that she held an object in them, a globe of cloudy gray crystal, within which seemed to lay a core of pale rose light. And the light, he noticed, waxed and waned in a slow pulsing.

Brian detected a sudden eagerness in the winged shapes that hovered beyond, and with the eagerness came the childlike piping. Take him, Lita. He has courage. This time you may succeed. An answering thought, soft, holding a delicate note. Patience. Then Brian saw the crystal globe being lifted still higher toward his face. Behind it the girl's large exotic eyes seemed very intent. Within the globe, the pulsing of the pale rose core quickened.

Brian felt something drawn at him, a strange force, like insistent hands, hands immaterial and yet tangible that reached into him and pulled. It was not a physical sensation, nor was it purely mental. It was something that went beyond even this, something that gripped at the very foundation of being. Brian felt himself being drawn, and he did not understand. There was a purpose here, and a means he could not grasp. He resisted. In a moment the force left him.

The globe lowered. Over at the girl peered at him, startled, perplexed, and from the background came a piping despair. Failed! It has failed! He has his strength I have not met before. An echo of that other despair lay in the silver chiming, and an overtone of awe. He cannot be taken, and that is strange.

He has qualities I cannot quite explain, but his will is great, great enough, I think, to penetrate the veil unaided. He could not be taken, the piping again, sorrowfully resigned. Brian was aware of the girl's eyes on him. The wistfulness in them seemed to have grown, and from some deep recess within him rose a sudden queer aching. Farewell. Farewell, protest surged in him.

He struggled to make a detaining gesture, but it was futile. She turned away. The hovering wing shapes followed her. Moving swiftly and lightly, she went toward the pavilion, before which the statuesque man stood beside the prone figure of the unconscious girl. She lifted the globe to the man. Its inner pulsing quickened. A radiance grew in it, as though some energy were being absorbed.

The pulsing was very rapid now, triumphant. Then the girl turned, hurrying back to the giant bird which was waiting nearby. Behind her, even as she turned, the man swayed, fell. He fell loosely, emptily, his eyes open. The girl leaped to the bird's back. In another moment, it sprang into the air, huge wings beating. Higher it lifted and higher. The mosquito men followed.

All soared beyond Brian's range of vision and the beating of wings faded. Died. Slowly the paralysis left Brian. He flexed his limbs stiffly. His muscles ached, as though from cramp. He went over to the sprawled figures of the man and the girl then. The man had the same terrible, unresponsive limpness as the man Brian had seen at the hospital. He was beyond any aid Brian could give.

Brian turned his attention to the girl in an effort to quicken her return to consciousness. Shortly her eyes opened, then flared with recollection. She glanced swiftly about her, fright twisting at her face. In the next instant, she saw her fallen escort and seemed to realize for the first time that Brian was a stranger. She went quickly to the other man and lifted his head. Tom, she cried. Tom, what is the matter? Horror grew in her voice.

Why don't you answer me? Empty eyes that looked sightlessly into the night. Slack gaping lips that did not move. The girl turned to Brian with an expression of bewildered grief. How did this terrible thing happen? Brian hesitated. What he had experienced now seemed too wildly improbable to discuss. The very improbability of it could only add to the girl's suffering.

And for a reason he did not fully understand he wanted to keep to himself the knowledge of that strangely lovely apparition whose name it appeared was Leta. He shook his head. I'm afraid I don't know. The girl's control seemed to break. She covered her face with her hands, convulsive sobs shaking her. Brian waited helplessly with a feeling of guilt. In another moment over the muffled sobbing he heard. heard the sound of approaching feet.

A flashlight beam bobbed into view up one of the radiating walks, and presently Brian was able to make out the blue-clad running figure of a patrolman. What's going on? The patrolman demanded. I heard a scream. He moved his flashlight beam from the girl and the prostrate man to Brian. He added in surprise. You hear, Terry?

Brian nodded a greeting, recognizing the other now as Pat Mulvaney, a park officer. This man seems to be hurt, Pat. we'd better get him to a hospital. Mulvaney bent over the sprawling figure, then returned to Brian speaking low-voiced. Her ain't the word for it, Terry. This case is like the other ones we found in the park, and it would have to happen tonight.

Olsen was supposed to be on duty at this end, but he sprained an ankle. We're short-handed. What with the department being on a budget? With the girl tearfully following, Brian and Mulvaney carried the stricken man to a call-box, where Mulvaney telephoned his report and requested that an ambulance be sent.

Brian was asked to accompany the girl to headquarters in a squad car for questioning. End of Part 2. Section 3 of The Soul Steelers by Chester S. Geier. This Librevox recording is in the public domain. Read by Ben Tucker. Part 3. It wasn't until shortly before dawn that Brian reached his room and began undressing for bed. He examined his bare shoulder in a mirror.

There was a reddish patch on the skin, the size of a half-dollar piece, where the sharp snout of the mosquito man had pierced him. The mark convinced him further that the whole thing had been no mere hallucination. He felt no pain, but his body seemed faintly, oddly, feverish, and he had a light-headed feeling that could not have been entirely due to tiredness. He took a stiff drink of whiskey and crawled into bed. Sleep would not come at once. Confused thoughts revolved in his mind.

He saw himself at police headquarters, answering questions. The girl had told her story up to the end. instant she had fainted, mentioning the flying shapes. She was unable to describe them except to say the strangeness of their appearance had terrified her. Brian was reluctant to discuss his own experience, but the girl had told of hearing his warning, and this placed him squarely on the scene. He could not claim ignorance of ensuing events without laying himself open to suspicion. He had told of seeing the flying shapes also, but claimed he had been unable to make out details. They had moved too swiftly, his explanation went. It had been too dark. One had rushed at the man.

knocking him down, then all had flown out of sight. A vague story, evasive, but the police had seemed satisfied to the extent that the story checked with the girls. The flying shapes, Lita, a curious excitement surged in him as he thought of the wraith-like girl. Who was she? Where'd she come from? He recalled something she had said, something about his will being strong enough to penetrate the veil unaided. It seemed important, but what had she meant by that? What, and and where was the veil? And how had he been able to understand her? He realized now that neither she nor the others had used audible speech.

Yet, he had the impression of intelligible spoken words, of voice tones. He pondered the mystery with a growing fogginess. He slept. And then he was not sleeping. He was standing on a mountain ridge looking down into a broad green valley. It was daylight. In the sky hung a great red-tend shone. son, which immediately struck him as alien.

But for the moment his wonder remained concentrated on the valley. There was something there that drew him, that had drawn him there. A bond of some sort existed, an indefinable ethereal linking over which he had crossed like a bridge. A bond he sensed that even now was somehow fading, dissolving. The valley was a pleasant place, idyllic. Peace and quiet were cupped within it. He had the such. an insistent feeling that he had been seeking a place like this, a place where he could be

happy, where his blind strivings would find fulfillment. A place where? He turned to gaze on the other side of the ridge and saw horror. The land here was a ghostly desolation, blackened, charred, lifeless, bathed in an eerie, shimmering blue radiance, an unutterably deadly radiance, he knew in some strange way, and he knew too, that the radiance lay everywhere, except in this lone valley. He returned his attention to it with a mounting urgency. The scene was growing dim, blurring. It was escaping him.

He made a frantic exertion of will, seeking in what few moments that remained an answer to a certain question. There was a shifting. The ridge was gone. He stood within the valley at the foot of a rocky slope up which ran a curving stairway of a building of some pink stone. The building was exotic and designed. sign, terraced, domed, fairy-like. All around it, strangely beautiful flowers and shrubs grew

in riotous profusion. He had the nostalgic impression of heady fragrance and warm breeze, of serenity and peace, and he felt a queer ache of longing. Then, breaking abruptly through the deep stillness, he seemed to hear a faint piping. He turned in search and saw a flagstone path through a lane of trees. At the end of the lane was movement, a flutter as of wings. He wailed himself toward it. Again there was a shifting, and now he stood at the edge of a broad, shallow depression, like a sunken garden.

The path dipped down into this by a short stairway and ran on to circle what appeared to be a pool at the center. All around the pool, flowers grew with an incredible luxuriance and splendor, thick masses of flowers, startling in their size and beauty, that made the air almost solid with their mingled perfume. It was as though they found some abnormally, rich nourishment here that stimulated their fantastically prolific growth.

The very atmosphere of this place seemed charged with a vital energy. Brian had a feeling of surging life, of boundless power, and he sensed that it came from the pool, something more than water was contained within it, something strange, supernal, godlike. The pool was filled with a pearly opalescence, alive and seething with delicate pastel hues, swirling, changing. Sparkles of chromatic brilliance raced over its surface, blazing and vanishing. A glow rose from it, like a gorgeous rainbow-colored mist,

spreading, charging the air with vibrant energy. But the weird magnificence of the pool held Brian's attention only momentarily, for kneeling at its brink like a nymph in an enchanted setting was Lita. In a semicircle behind her, A score or more of the grotesque mosquito men made a fascinated audience. The giant bird, too, was visible, squatting, motionless. In her hands the girl held the crystal globe, shining with its stolen radiance. Now she leaned forward, lowering the globe to the surface of the pool.

It seemed to float, pulsing. Sparkles from the pool ran to it in a growing boil of motion and were absorbed. The activity grew swifter and yet swifter, until the pool seethed and foamed with brilliance. The air turned electric with a sensation of vast striving, of superhuman effort. Watching puzzled from his vantage point above the depression, Brian saw the globe began to swell. Its radiance blazed feverishly, its pulsing increased to a frenzied beat.

Larger it grew, larger, became misty, unsubstantial, unreal. The rose core of it grew also, elongating, paler. to pink. And now it was taking shape, the shape of a man. Features began forming, and then. Stunned amazement hit Brian as he peered intently at the figure being so weirdly created. For recognition had come. He was looking at the man who, a short time before, had been attacked in the park by Leta and her bizarre followers. The shape was taking on solidity. Dazed, Brian recalled the events in the park. Lita's strange globe, he realized, had absorbed some vital essence from its victim, perhaps the soul, and this essence was now being

released by the pool, released somehow in a perfect replica of the fleshly covering that originally had housed it. The man hung over the pool, his closed eyes fluttered, opened, animation touched his face, fear showed in it, a rising horror, a frantic desperation, he struggled, and began dissolving. The pool boiled and seethed as though in a mighty effort to hold its creature. creation intact. It did not succeed. The shape thinned, shrunk, faded, was gone. There was a moment of stricken stillness. The pool had quieted. Its aura of supernal power had dimmed. An air of exhaustion lay over it now, an exhaustion in which even the surrounding flowers seemed to pale and droop. Then a piping murmur rose like a sigh of mourning.

Failed again! And Leta covered her face with her hands. sagging. Her bowed shoulders shook with great sobs of mingled grief, disappointment, and despair. Brian wanted to make some sign of sympathy, of consolation. But again this scene was growing blurred, fading. He fought to hold it together, fought as the pool had fought, futilely, and then a hovering blackness rushed over him, and he seemed to whirled dizzily across an enormous gulf. He awoke in bed soaked with perspiration, breathing hard. He had a feeling of anger, dejection. He swung his legs to the floor and glanced at his watch. He had been asleep for

less than an hour, but at the moment he was too upset by his strangely realistic nightmare to return to bed. He lit a cigarette and fell to pacing the length of his room. Thinking back over his disturbingly vivid dream, he wondered why he should have experienced it in that particular way. The events of the preceding night had been unnerving enough, but he felt there was a deeper reason. Was it possible that the queer wound he had received in the park had something to do with it? He recalled his feverishness, his lightheaded sensation. Then he thought of the man he had seen in the dream and came to an abrupt stop. In another instant he sprang back into motion, hurrying to the telephone near the bed. He dialed the hospital to which the man had been taken

from the park, waiting impatiently while the doctor in charge of the case was put on. Identifying himself then, he asked quickly, How was the fellow, doctor? Afraid I have bad news. He died about five minutes ago. There didn't seem to be a single thing I could do to prevent it. I see. Brian muttered his thanks and hung up.

He sat staring into space. Five minutes ago, that would be shortly before he had awakened, about the time the image of the man in the dream had dissolved and vanished. That afternoon, Brian sat at a secluded corner table in the small restaurant he frequented. near the courier building. The remains of a fourth cup of coffee stood before him. The saucer littered with cigarette butts.

He was staring into the cup brooding. His mind kept returning to a strange dream and its incredible implications. Entangled in the thread of his thoughts was the picture of Leta, dainty and elfinly lovely, struggling toward an end he could only dimly grasp. A slim figure dropped into the chair opposite Brian. It was Joyce, crisp, fresh,

giving her usual effect of elegance. "'Hi! A little bird told me I'd find you here, Terry,' she studied his face in a swift concern. "'What on earth happened to you last night? You looked like a fugitive from a horror movie.' "'Maybe I am,' Brian grunted, and he grinned Riley at the element of truth in his retort. Joyce was solemn, probing. "'Terry, I heard what happened in the park last night. One of our fellow wage slaves is posted at headquarters, you know. And from what he told me, I gather you were mixed up in something with a spook angle. but Terry, it seems the police have the quaint idea you didn't give him the whole story.

He shook his head. I'm not ready for the booby hatch just yet. Then you didn't tell the whole story. She leaned forward, her face eager. I'm dying with curiosity over what really happened, Terry. Want to tell me? Or are you saving it for your memoirs? He lighted a fresh cigarette considering.

Joyce was an understanding person he knew, and she had an imagination. She could be trusted not to misinterpret the fantastic nature of his experience. Speaking low-voiced, he told her of Lita's arrival at the park, of the attack on the other man, and himself by the grotesque and somehow unsubstantial mosquito men, of the complete paralysis that had resulted. Joyce broke in. But Terry, if the things weren't solid, how could they possibly have affected you? I've been trying to figure out that angle, he said.

I think they were energy projections. of some kind and were able to use this energy to stun their victims. It should work both ways. That is, some forms of energy from our end should be able to affect them too. He went on to describe the crystal globe and the use Lita had made of it. Finally, he mentioned his dream and his telephone call to the hospital. Joyce looked shaken. It's gruesome, Terry.

If anyone else had told me those things, I'd have said they were plain crazy. She hesitated. This girl with this strange woman. way of making men friends? What was she like? She was beautiful, Brian said. He stared into distance, seeing Leta in memory again. His voice softened. I've never met anyone like her. She's a witch, joy said abruptly, an unnatural sharpness in her tone. A vampire, a ghoul. What she'd done is horrible, Terry. Someone should put a stop to her. She isn't a monster, Brian returned in swift.

defense, not depraved or vicious. I don't quite understand it, but I feel there's a good reason for what she has been doing. She's a murderous, Terry? According to our standards, yes. But I don't think she realizes she has been causing harm. Well, that's generous of you, Joyce said. Her mockery held bitterness. But your lady Bluebeard has to be kept from doing any more killing, Terry. Aren't you going to try to do something about it? He nodded grimly. I'm going to keep watching the park. If she shows up again, and I think she will,

I'll make an attempt to talk to her, reason with her. I have an idea about how it can be done. That's fine, Terry. I'm glad I don't have to do anything drastic to make an honest man of you. He stared at her. What do you mean by that? This is a serious business, Terry. Men have died, and more men might die.

If you don't do something about it, then somebody else will have to. She reached for her purse and rose abruptly. I'll be running along. See you around. About to turn away, she paused and looked back at him. Her lips quivered. Her hazel eyes held an odd swimming brightness. Then, before Brian could overcome his bewilderment,

she whirled and hurried toward the door. He stared after her with a disturbing sense of alarm. He had always considered Joyce a friend. But now he realized her own feelings went deeper than that, deep enough so that she seemed fiercely to resent his interest and sympathy where Leto was concerned. He felt danger. Joyce, he knew now, had become an enemy.

End of part three. Section 4. Of the Soul Stealers by Chester S. Geyer. The Slibervok's recordings in the public domain. Read by Ben Tucker. Part 4. He walked slowly through the darkness, a big man whose tweed suit was more rumpled than usual. The park was oddly deserted to not. night. No couple strolled along the walks. No figures occupied the benches. And Brian knew the reason for that.

Patrolman, on emergency duty, guarded all the approaches to the park. People were being turned away. He himself had gained admission only because he was personally acquainted with the captain in charge of the guard detail. The only formality had been a warning to remain alert. An expectant hush lay on the air. Even the warm spring breeze seemed stilled. the rustling of leaves muted. Brian felt the atmosphere of tension and his excitement grew. He wondered if Lita would appear again, if he would be able somehow to attract her notice, speak to her, Lita.

He recalled the way she had looked when she had stood close to him, with the crystal globe in her hands. Lovely, strange, wondering. He recalled the wistfulness that had radiated from her, the urgency. And in his mind seemed to ring an echo of the delicate silver chiming. voice-like, that seemed associated with her. He couldn't deny his longing. The pavilion took shape in the lamplit gloom.

Brian was walking toward it, when a burly figure stepped out of a patch of shadow a few yards ahead. "'Hold it, mister. Nobody's allowed in the park tonight,' Brian chuckled and recognizing Pat Mulvaney. "'Take it easy, Pat. Oh, it's you, Terry.' Mulvaney strode forward. "'How'd you get in this time?

sneak past the men we have around the front of the park. Miller passed me through, Brian explained. He and the patrolmen spent several minutes discussing what had happened the previous night. Brian revealed nothing more than he had already told the police, but he mentioned the death of the man he had seen attacked. Mulvaney was grim. Think anything will happen tonight, Terry. There's a good chance it will.

Well, I'll be ready for it. Mulvaney slapped his holstered gun. He left then to continue his patrol of the area around the police. pavilion. Brian sat down on a bench and lighted a cigarette. An uneasy thought had risen in his mind. He didn't know if Mulvaney would be able to cause any real harm in the event that Lita appeared, but he didn't want the girl hurt. Time passed with torturous slowness. The tense hush that lay over the park seemed to deepen. Brian spoke to Mulvaney when the patrolman reached him on his rounds, but otherwise the monotony of the weight remained unbroken. Brian was fighting off a growing sleepiness.

when at last he heard the sound he had been alternately hoping and dreading would come, the sound of wings. He saw the flying shapes then, low against the star-studded sky, beginning their descent toward the pavilion. The structure seemed to be a favorite landmark, perhaps because it was situated in a comparatively remote location and was easy to find in the darkness. Mulvaney seemed to have heard the approaching sounds also.

He came running from some point on the opposite side of the pavilion, cutting through the columned structure itself as he returned to Brian. His burly figure appeared on the pavilion steps, and then halted an amazed surprise as he caught sight of the eerily glowing shapes that were now winging downward. Eagerness had pulled Brian to his feet. The soaring figures were rapidly coming closer, growing more distinct. He saw the giant bird and its escort of mosquito men.

He saw Leta, slender-limbed, elfin, her gossamer draper he's fluttering behind her. The appearance of Mulvaney momentarily tore his attention from the scene. He realized that the patrolman was silhouetted against the pavilion's pale backdrop, a clear target. Lita and the others would be drawn to him, unaware this time that possible great danger impended. Anxiety hammering within him, Brian launched himself into a headlong run toward Mulvaney. Already two of the mosquito men were pulling ahead of the others, skimming directly at the patrolman. Mulvaney seemed to overcome the shock produced by his first sight of the approaching shapes. He reached swiftly for his gun, raised it in deliberate aim and fired.

There was a burst of luminous brightness. One of the two unrushing childlike winged figures was abruptly gone. Gone as swiftly and completely as though it had never been visible. Brian stumbled in his frantic stride, caught himself, numbed by sudden dismay. Lita and her people could be hurt. It was as though the glowing energy of which they seemed composed existed in a state of delicate balance that could be disrupted by the impact of a bullet, or its shockwave. He reached the pavilion steps, leaped up them toward Mulvaney.

He had to keep the man from firing again. Somehow he had to show Lita that his intentions were friendly, sympathetic. He had to talk to her, make her realize what she had been doing. Perhaps even he could help her. Mulvaney's blue-clad body loomed up before him. He caught desperately at the patrolman's arm. Wait, he gasped. Don't shoot!

Are you out of your mind? The other cried. Let go of me. They struggled. Brian's foot slipped on the steps. He fell. The mosquito men seemed disconcerted by the loss of one of their band. They swerved away as though in sudden terrified realization of danger. But the great bird with Lita astride its back continued toward the ground a short distance from the pavilion, its huge size evidently preventing swift evasive action. Lita was almost in point-blank range, and again Mulvaney was lifting his gun. On hands and knees Brian

threw himself back at the other. He caught Mulvaney about the legs and pulled. The patrolman went down, his gun blasting harmlessly into the air. Brian was climbing back to his feet when he saw the luminous childlike shape of a mosquito man darting at him, its needle snout spearing toward his chest. He sought to twist aside, too late.

He felt the brief pain, the electric sensation, and then paralysis held him in its rigid grip. A second of the mosquito men dove at Mulvaney as he too struggled erect, its needle snout piercing his back. Mulvaney remained bent over, frozen, statue-like. There was a nod

hiatus, poignant, holding a realization of hopes lost forever. Then a slim, pale figure moved into Brian's line of sight, Lita. She approached to stand before him, holding the crystal globe, a vast wonder in her small face. He felt a pulse of thought, soft and clear, holding a ring of silver chimes. "'It is you. He whose will cannot be overcome. Strange that we should meet again. stranger still that you should save my life. I do not understand, but I am grateful, and I wish— The silver melody broke as though against some cold unyielding wall. Then it came again, sad, despairing.

But what I wish cannot be, man of the mighty will, for you would not willingly journey through the veil. You are bound to this aspect of existence, as all the others were bound. But somewhere must be one who, was not. And so my quest must go on. Again, farewell. Once more she was slipping from him, and once more he could do nothing. Despite his frantic, violent inner struggle, he could make no sound or movement, could give no slightest indication of the purpose that drove him. He was imprisoned within a cage of flesh as unresponsive and immovable as stone. She turned to Mulvaney,

held the crystal globe to him. Its pulsing quickened. It brightened. And Mulvaney. And Mulvaney, Rainy fell, limp, empty. Watching through his despair, Brian saw Lita stand, hesitating. Slowly she glanced at him, as if somehow, throughout the weird proceedings he had been at the back of her mind. Her small face seemed to hold a reluctance, a regret. Then she turned and moved beyond his sight, and presently he heard the flapping of wings, drawing away, fading.

Stillness closed over the park again. Brian felt the paralysis draining from him, more swiftly this time. It was as though his body had adjusted to it since the first attack. He was straightening awkwardly, painfully, when he heard a sudden faint rustling of branches, followed by the sound of light running feet. A figure appeared in the open space before the pavilion hurrying toward him, the figure of a girl, and then he recognized her, Joyce.

He felt a sharp surprise, an unease. What was Joyce doing in the park? I saw what happened, she gasped, breathlessly, as it came up. Her face looked pale and straight. Are you all right? He nodded. Just getting back to normal. She bent to make a brief repelled examination of Mulvaney.

Can't something be done for this man? There isn't any hope for him. Brian returned. He's in the same condition as the others. He studied Joyce for a moment realizing that she was oddly changed, somehow deliberate, hostile. What are you doing here? I wanted to see what your girlfriend looked like, Terry. I sneak past the police in front of the park.

Her voice took on a sudden accusing edge. I saw what that half-naked witch did to this policeman. And you helped her, Terry. I saw you knock him down so he couldn't shoot her. It was murder, Terry, murder. He isn't dead yet, but you know he's going to be. I had to stop him, Brian protested. The girl deserved more of a chance than she was getting.

I told you she really didn't know she was doing wrong. I thought I could reason with her, keep her from doing any more harm. But things happened too fast. Joyce shook her head coldly. It's still murder. And you're in it up to your eyebrows, Terry. If the police find out what happened here, they'll lock you up and throw away the key. In another moment her features softened.

Her voice grew pleading. It isn't too late, Terry. Forget that girl. Tip off the police so they'll be ready for her the next time she shows up. They don't have to know exactly what you saw or what you did. We'll keep that to ourselves, Terry. We'll start over again. You and I.

Brian stared at her, shocked by the bargain she was suggesting. She was asking him to doom Lita, to sacrifice his pride and his hopes in return for her silence. It was a kind of blackmail in which she was seeking to use the tragedy of Mulvaney for her own purposes. He found in this a wrong somehow vastly greater than in what Lita had done, for this was knowing, calculating. He had always regarded Joyce as a friend, understanding, and sympathetic. Now he realized these qualities were only a veneer. And in the stress of what had happened, the veneer had been stripped away. An underlying ugliness was revealed.

An ugliness that seemed to be the very foundation of a world he had come to despise. Slowly, grimly, he shook his head. You're asking too much for what you have to sell, Joyce. If I have to pick between you and Lita, then... She stiffened as though struck. Lita, she spat. So you know her name, do you? Now I see you must have been cozy with her all along.

That's why you helped her commit murder. Her voice grew shrill and breathless of fury. All right, Terry, you're asking for it. I've made a fool of myself in front of everyone chasing after you, throwing myself at you. This is where I even up to score. The police might not believe what I just saw, but I'll tell them a story they'll swallow without tasting. They just love people who help kill cops. And they already have a crush on you over the whole runaround you gave him after the last killing.

If you aren't sent to the chair, you're dead certain to get a job cracking shells in a nut house. Everybody knows you've been going to pieces, and they won't be surprised to hear you've finally blown your. top. She stood facing him a moment longer, her eyes blazing with deadly promise. Then she whirled and was running swiftly toward one of the paths that led away from the pavilion. Brian gazed after her, realizing that he might have made a serious mistake, but he was somehow unable to care. He had an enormous sense of futility, defeat. All his hopes, the very course of his life, had come to center about this evening's meeting with Leta, and she had slipped from

him. There would not be another chance. Joyce had made it clear that the sands of time were running out for him. He glanced down at the prone figure of Mulvaney, hesitated. It seemed callous to leave the patrolman like this, but there was nothing that could be done for Mulvaney now, except perhaps to answer the questions of the police about what had happened to him. And Brian didn't feel like answering questions. He had had little sleep that morning,

and exhaustion made his body leaden, and he had the feverish, light-headed feeling again, the aftermath of his paralysis. He turned aimlessly and walked down one of the paths until he found himself at the edge of an invitingly dark grassy expanse. He dropped to the ground behind some tall bushes and closed his eyes. He seemed to be floating in a lightless, depthless sea. Soothing waves of sensation washed over him. He drifted away on warm tides that held nothing of sound or feeling.

And then the nothingness was gone. He stood on a flagstone path that ran between a lane of trees. At one end the path led to a curving stairway that wound up a rocky slope to a building of pink stone. Peaceing quietly over the scene, like a crystal blanket of supernal clarity. Realization came to him, bringing with it an electrifying amazement. He was back, back in that strange and exotically beautiful other place which seemed to be Leta's home. Lita! Eagerness and wild joy flamed in him then.

There was still a chance. It was not hopeless after all. Not too late. His senses rushed toward the other end of the path, and now he detected a muted piping, like the shrill whispers of excited children. He sent himself toward it. The familiar shifting again, he stood at the edge of the broad, shallow depression he had seen before with the pool of inexplicable force at its center.

The flowers that crowded here were as incredibly luxuriant and gorgeous as he remembered them, filling the air with their thick perfume. And once more he felt the aura of vital power that radiated from the pool, boundless, awesome, godlike. And kneeling beside the pool as before was the slender figure he was seeking, Lita. Only dimly was he aware of the other shapes around her. The giant bird, the mosquito men. She was holding the mystically shining crystal globe.

Even now she was bending to lower it to the surface of the pool. Into his mind flashed the chilling picture of Mulvaney, horribly sprawled, motionless, empty. He knew he had to prevent what was a little. about to take place. Urgency leaping in him, he sent himself toward the pool. Lita had to see him this time. He threw all his will into the thought in a mighty burst of effort. She had to see him.

And she saw him. With the globe extended in her hands, she stiffened. Her tilted liquid eyes flared wide. A stark, unbelieving amazement seemed to grip her slim body. And, in a fashion that was somehow a normal function of his senses here. He realized that she saw him as he had seen her back at the park, mistily unsubstantial, weirdly glowing. You, she said at last. The silvery chime of her thought held the quality of a gasp.

Her stunned incredulity was echoed by the other presences before the pool. He is the strange one. He is here. He of the great will has come. Then the silvery chiming again, stronger now. You followed me here. man of the other aspect? Were you able so easily to penetrate the veil? I don't know just how I got here, Brian returned, but I do know that this is where I wanted to be. She seemed to grasp the implications of the thought, for a sudden delight stirred in her, yet for the moment her wonder remained dominant. I do not understand how this can be.

The others could not penetrate the veil without the aid of the vessel. It is as though they were somehow bound to their aspect of existence. Bound as you, man, of the mighty will, are not. But why have you come? His answer was grave, deliberate, partly to ask you to stop the harm you've been causing in my world, Lita. Harm? A silvery peal of shock burst from her. I do not understand. You took something from those men in my world, Lita, something they could not live without, and because of this, they died. Died!

But the pool could not incarnate them into this aspect. The vital force escaped. I thought it returned to its shell in the other aspect. Brian clearly understood the meaning behind the terms she used. He shook his head. The vital force did not return. Not once, Lita. The shells died.

She looked stricken. I had not thought that happened when the vital force escaped. I'd been certain that it returned through the Vail, drawn back by its bonds with the shell. If it did not return, then it must have perished here. The realization was one she found, startling, dismaying. Brian nodded slowly. It perished in this aspect, just as the energy projection of one of your winged creatures perished in mine,

for I assume that the creature did perish, Lita. Yes, she whispered. It was a thing I did not understand, but, Now, her thought faded unhappily. Sorrow missed at her eyes. He dropped down beside her at the edge of the pool. For the moment, driven by his intense purpose, he forgot that he was somehow immaterial, a projection.

He forgot the strangeness of that bizarre other-world garden and the tensely watching shapes nearby. There was only Lita and himself. That was all that mattered. earnestness heavily underscored his thought. Lita, you must stop what you have been doing. You know now it has caused the deaths of those men in my world. And there is another reason, Leta. Danger. My people will be watching for you to appear again. They will try to destroy you.

She shook her head with a mournful determination. But I cannot stop. I have a duty to fulfill that is greater than any harm I might cause. Greater even than my own life? What do you mean, Leta, what is this duty? I shall tell you, but first, you have seen something of this valley? You have seen that it is beautiful? Very beautiful, Lita. But only the valley is like that. All the rest of my world is bathed in a terrible fire that destroys any life it touches.

I have seen that, too, he said. Was it always this way? Not always. Once the entire world was like the valley, beautiful, filled with life, There were fully as many people as on your own world, and they had great knowledge, too much knowledge perhaps. They lived in vast cities and had many wonderful machines to serve them. They could have been happy, could have climbed to even greater heights, but there was war.

The silver chiming was dulled by sadness and a kind of instinctive horror. It was a war fought with weapons of frightful magic power, weapons that used the very secrets of existence itself. Life of all forms was wiped out, except in this valley. For a small group of people had guessed what the war would do and had taken refuge here. The valley you see was unique, not only well isolated from any possibility of attack, but shielded on all sides by mountains, which contained an element capable of resisting the fire. Thus, while the fire spread like a deadly blight into other refuges, it did not reach here, not entirely. felt an odd wonder at the picture Lita had drawn.

Behind her chiming thoughts, images had moved, images that seemed to hold a tantalizing familiarity. He had been puzzling over the location of Lita's world, and now he speculated startledly whether it wasn't Earth itself. He recalled that she had spoken of their individual worlds as aspects, as though they were different views of the same place rather than completely different and unrelated places. The possibility was supported by the fact that Lita was,

undeniably human. Further, he knew that consuming fire she described was radioactivity, and the people of his world were already well along in their knowledge of atomic weapons. His wonder sharpened. Was Lita's world actually Earth? An earth of the distant future? Was the veil that separated them time itself? She appeared not to have noticed his fleeting thoughts. It was as though her awareness was gripped by the tragedy of what she had been describing. Slowly she went on.

The fire's terrible breath touched the valley, and its effects were felt by the creatures who had sought shelter here, both human and animal. Some died, some changed. The winged ones you see around you now are the results of that change. Even the flowers and the trees became different, and the pool was created. The fire touched something in this particular spot, and the pool came into being. The process was never understood, but I do know that the pool has strange powers, that somehow it is alive, intelligent.

It is the pool which made possible what I have done, supplying the knowledge, tools, and forces that were necessary. But how does it happen that you're the only person left in the valley? Brian asked. She moved her slim, gleaming shoulders. There were not many here, even in the beginning, while the fire was still at its height. After its destroying breath left the valley, only a very few were left. those, that is, who were still human, and they somehow did not care to live.

My father was the last to die, but before he did, he said, I must find a way to keep our race from perishing with me. He explained that I was the first human truly adjusted to the changed conditions of the valley, and only in me was their hope. That was, and remains my duty, to keep humans alive in this aspect. The answer to my problem lay beyond the vassion. Vale. Matter was held by the energy field of the aspect in which it was situated, and thus could not be made to cross without the use of enormous power. But the vital force contained in living

matter could be made to cross easily enough, with, of course, the means of a tool like the vessel. And the pool could incarnate the vital force, give it matter in this aspect according to the pattern of the original shell. All I had to do was bring the vital force of a man through the veil and my race could go on. Still, I have been unsuccessful, for it seems that the vital force is also held to its aspect. I think that's because of what might be called psychic bonds, Brian said slowly. The men you brought here, Lita, they did not want to come. And once here, they did not want to stay. That, it seems, is why you failed. He indicated the globe she was holding. And that's why you'll fail again.

It's wrong to destroy a life uselessly, Leta. Wrong. Surely you realize that. You must release this man if it's at all possible. It can be done, she said. Then her thought grew protesting, rebellious. But I cannot release him. I cannot give up my mission so easily.

I must keep trying until I succeed. Surely you in turn must realize how great my duty is. Will you, insist in it even if you know you are doing wrong, bringing pain and grief to people in my aspect? Don't you know what grief is, Lita? Didn't you feel grief when your father died? When that winged creature of yours died? Yes, she said reluctantly. Yes. And don't you know what love is? Haven't you realize that you were tearing those men away from persons they loved deeply and didn't want to leave?

I don't mean the kind of love you felt for your father, Leta, but the love that exists between a man and a woman who are mated. Don't you know what that kind of love is like? She hesitated, startled, wondering. No, she breathed at last. Then I'll show you, he said. Though he was somehow unsubstantial, a projection, he knew he could still transmit feeling, just as the mosquito men had transmitted their paralysis to him.

He bent toward her, pressed his lips to hers. He felt her surprise, and the same. then her pleasure, her shy response. There was somehow a sweetness in that kiss, an intensity that moved him as no kiss had ever done. Finally he drew away. That is love, Leta, something that would bring a man willingly to your aspect. Her small face was flushed, her liquid eyes shone, then despair washed over her. But if you don't, she gestured helplessly. Where would I find a man in whom there would be such a love? He looked at her intently, searchingly, then gestured at the globe. Lita, if I were willing to stay here with you, would you release this man? For you?

Yes. In her was no guile, only an innocent directness. I have thought of you from the first moment we met, she admitted. I found qualities in you that were not present in any of the others, a strength, and yet a gentleness, a sadness. I could not forget, and I know now that this was love. And if you will truly stay, she broke off eagerly. Watch. She extended the globe toward the pool. She did not lower it, but held it over the surface.

Her slim body grew very still. She seemed to be concentrating, commuting. And as he watched, Brian saw the mists from the pool thicken around the globe. The supernal power that radiated from it took on an atmosphere of tension, strain. For an instant, even though he still saw her, he had the uncanny yet definite impression that the globe was gone. Abruptly, then, dismayingly, the scene dimmed, began fading as it had done on his first visit.

Panic swept him. He couldn't leave now. He didn't want to leave. He fought to keep the garden around him, summoning all the force of will of which he was capable. The scene steadied, but remained oddly blurred. He saw now that Leta had turned from the pool and was holding out the globe to him, smiling. The globe's mystic brightness was gone. Once more it was a cloudy gray, its core a faint rose,

slowly pulsing. It is done, Lita said. He has been returned safely to the other aspect. Then her smile vanished. She stared at Brian in swift concern. Why? What is the matter? What has happened to you? Her question seemed to come from a great distance. The scene was dissolving again, and this time he could not hold it together. Something was wrong. He knew, seriously wrong. He tried to send a last message to Leta. Failed. Darkness closed around him.

And from a distance, even greater than before, he sensed an anguished chiming, stunned, broken. A trick. It was just a trick. End of part four. Section 5 of The Soul Stealers by Chester S. Geyer. This Libervox recording is in the public domain Read by Ben Tucker Part 5

Someone was shaking his shoulder roughly and insistently He strained away in dull protest groping blindly for the fragile ethereal thread that had slipped from him Come on, snap out of it! An impatient voice growled He forced open his eyes, then squeezed them shut again as the beam of a flashlight struck them. His awareness sharpened. He struggled to sit up, felt grass under his fingers and realized abruptly that he was back in the park. Hands that were not gentle caught him under his armpits

and helped raise him to his feet. He saw the figures of two men now, one of them in police form. This man held a gun, its muzzle pointed and silent threat. All right, cop killer, the man in the suit said. He had a detective's unemotional face and flat, hard eyes. Something bright glinted in his hands as he leaned close, and Brian felt the cold steel of handcuffs close around his wrists.

Let's go, the detective's. said then. We've got about two dozen men combing the park for you, friend. They won't like to be kept on the job for nothing. Pete and I were just lucky enough to get to you first. Rough hands gripped Brian's arms, pulled him into motion. He walked leadenly, unsteadily, the two men flanking him. His body was clammy with the perspiration that had bathed him in sleep. He felt exhausted, weak, sick, as though from some tremendous labor. The energy of his body, it seemed, had been heavily drawn upon in order to sustain the projection of himself in Lita's aspect. Lita.

He thought of her with a crushing sense of tragedy. He knew he loved her, incredible and weird as that love may have seemed. He remembered the shyness of her kiss, the numbed horror of her belief that she had been betrayed, that he had pretended love only as a ruse to obtain Mulvaney's freedom. If only he were able to reassure her. But he had the chill certainty that he would never see her. her again, for she had learned the meaning of pain. Despair rose in him, a despair that submerged even his concern over the situation in which he now

found himself. Cop killer. The implications brought a kind of remote wonder. Joyce, it appeared, had made her threat good. She had told the police a story that they had swallowed without tasting. It was a story that had resulted in a swift and thorough search of the park, a story that had required handcuffs and drawn guns. Brian glanced at the detective beside him.

You've always taken me in because of what happened to Mulvaney? Mostly because of Mulvaney, the other grunted. We don't know what you did to him, friend. But you're going to tell us about it. In the back room at headquarters. You're damn well going to tell us all about it. Mulvaney isn't dead, Brian insisted. Not yet.

But he's going to kick off sooner or later, just like the others. I know about that friend. Brian shook his head. Mulvaney isn't going to die. "'That's so,' the detective's flat gaze studied him without surprise or interest. "'But the other guys did. Four of them. Don't forget that.' Brian fell silent. Mulvaney wouldn't die. But he would tell of Brian knocking him down,

of Brian's cooperation with strange creatures that had taken the lives of four men. Mulvaney, however, wasn't likely to tell exactly what he had seen. His story, too, would be something that could be swallowed without tasting. Then Brian saw that he and the others were crossing one edge of an open space. space. The pavilion rose in the middle of it, a pale ghostly shape against the darkness. It would remain a symbol for him, for within sight of it his life had begun and ended. A path swallowed him in his captors. The pavilion faded from view. Ahead was the sprawling bulk of the city, dotted and splashed with light. It was against this backdrop that the sound came,

rising out of inaudibility, the flapping of great wings. Wings! A vast wind seemed to blow through Brian. He stopped dead, staring up into the sky. The detective and his companions seemed to hear the sound also. They too peered upward puzzled. Brian thought he knew where to look, and glancing back in the direction of the pavilion, he saw a vague, dark shape against the stairs. Sudden urgency roared in him like thunder. The pavilion, he had to go back. He lifted his imprisoned arms and swung them in a sweeping club-like blow. The policeman dropped before he could move his gun back into line. The detective swore in dismay, sent a hand darting under his coat, but Brian was already whirling toward him. He need the man in the stomach, then felled him with a chopping blow to the back of

the head. Beyond hindrance now, Brian ran. He ran recklessly, wildly, eagerness driving away his exhaustion, sending an explosive power into his legs. Behind him voices shouted, a whistle shrilled, then the sharp blast of a gun split the air. He left the path and cut across a stretch of grass. A wall of shrubbery rose before him, and he plunged into it without checking speed. Branches lashed at him, tore at him. He fell, heaved himself erect, fought his way clear. More grass. And then, another path, running parallel to the one he had fled.

He followed this, and presently the pavilion took form in the gloom. Above it a dark shape circled on huge wings, the giant bird. And it was alone. Brian could see no other shapes accompanying it. He was puzzling over the discovery when a flashlight beam speared at him out of an intersecting path. Shouts followed it, filled with a swift excitement. There he is! Stop you!

Brian plunged on. Again a whistle shrilled, then the running sounds of a group of men came in pursuit. The pavilion rose before him. He reached the open space around it, halted, swung his bound hands and an urgent gesture at the sky. Here I am, he called, not knowing if his call would be heard. Here, quick! If it did not act, actually hear him, the giant bird saw him.

Swiftly it descended. And as it dropped toward him, he saw it held an object in its beak. The crystal globe. His perplexity mounted. For added to all the other strangeness of this event, he now detected a desperation about the bird, a consuming anxiety. He sent his thought to meet the pulse that was reaching toward him. Where is Lita?

Has something happened? With a final sweep of its wings, the bird settled to the ground. Its answer came, then, holding an odd, deep twittering quality. "'The fire! Lita is sending herself into the fire. "'Only you can stop her. "'She has commanded the winged ones not to interfere. "'A command we cannot disobey.' "'Lita, planning to destroy herself?

"'But why? "'It is because of this thing called love that you awoke in her. "'She felt that without you there was no longer any reason to live.' "'Anxiety sharpened in the twittering thought. "'Will you help to save Lita, man of this aspect? "'Will you come with me through the veil?' "'Yes. Brian said,

Yes! Eagerly, he leaned close to the slowly pulsing globe that the bird held out to him in its beak, felt himself drawn as though by immaterial hands that reached deep within him. From an increasing distance, sounds came to him, the pounding a feet, shouts, the roar of a gun. Something struck his shoulder, but only dimly was he aware of it. The last physical bonds were parting, and then a pulsing darkness enclosed him. Through the darkness came light, a flicker of motion. in a flash of color, like the beating wings of a butterfly.

The light grew, the darkness vanished. He floated in a gorgeous rainbow-hued brilliance that shimmered and swirled with the throb of a supernal laboring. Beyond the brilliance, outlines were taking form. He had a sensation of swift movement and found himself standing at the edge of the pool in that bizarrely beautiful Otherworld Garden he remembered so well. Haste! Haste!

Lita is going into the fire! All around him the thoughts rose beating at him. He saw the giant bird then and the smaller wing in shapes that hovered beyond. Hast, haste! The dread anxiety communicated itself to him, kindled a swift purpose. Sensing what was required of him, he hurried toward the waiting bird, leaped to its back. It sprang skyward its huge wings beating. The garden dropped away, became a mere patch of bright color against the mottled pattern of the valley floor.

Haste! Haste! Swifter and swifter the huge wings beat. Brian clutched at the feathers under him, rocked by the surges of giant muscles, buffeted by the torrent of air that rushed past. The valley wall rose ahead, and through a deep cleft in the towering masses of rock, he saw a deadly blue shimmer.

The bird descended toward the cleft, and abruptly he felt its stunned dismay. Lita has gone through the portal. She has reached the fire. Anguish flamed in Brian. He had done this. If Lita died, It would be as though he had killed her with his own hands.

Hurry, he pleaded. It may not be too late. The bird dropped to the rocky ground at the entrance to the cleft. Sliding from its back, Brian ran through the opening to the brink of that ghastly desolation he had seen once before. He glanced around in frantic search, and then, below him, he caught sight of a slender white figure, moving through the shimmering blue radiance that blinketed the desolate landscape. Too late. Lita had entered the fire.

For a moment the horrible realization held him rigid, dazed, numbed beyond thought. Then, a bleak purpose filling him, he hurried after her down a twisting, rocky descent. He might not be able to save Lita now, but he could die with her. The blue radiance rose around him, and he felt its lethal touch.

Lita was some distance ahead of him, mistily unreal behind the shimmering curtain. And even as he found her, he saw her stumble, fall. She did not move again. With an inner desolation even greater than that of the scene itself, he made his way over to the girl across the charred, tumbled floor. Gently he lifted her, carried her back to the cleft.

His steps were leaden, faltering, a burning sensation was spreading through his body. Outlines were blurring before his eyes, darkening. He forced himself on. It was not until he emerged through the cleft, not until he lowered Lita to the ground, that he gave his ravaged body the oblivion it had been demanding. Oblivion.

And yet, in some distant remote fashion, he had a picture of the great bird, hovering over Lita and himself on beating wings, grasping them carefully in its claws, carrying them through the air over the valley, and then descending with them toward the pool. Down, down, and then a swirling brilliance, a sense of delicious coolness of returning strength.

He found himself floating in the pool, and beside him, her liquid eyes, even now widening with returning awareness, was Lita. He felt the godlike power of the pool throbbing through him, and he knew that he and Lita had been cleansed of the deadly radiation, that life and not death now lay before them. And the knowledge was a music within him that swelled into a mighty pion of exultation. Then he stood with Leta at the edge of the pool, and she was staring at him in wild disbelief. The silvery chiming of her thought held a vast wonder.

Is it really you? Have you returned? Through the veil? Or is this somehow only a dream? He shook his head gently, smiling. Not a dream, Lita. I've come back, and through the veil, back to stay. Joy was a sudden brimming brightness in her eyes. Then the love of which you told me, it was not just a trick. No, and I'm going to prove it, Leta. He drew her to him, and knew in the answering pressure of her lips that he had convinced her.

He felt a deep content. Here was the world of his own that he had sought, and life had a meaning, a purpose it had lacked. Together he and Leta would create a new race, as two others long before them had done, who had come from a place called Eden. Part 5. And End of the Soul Stealers by Chester S. Geyer.