Proprietor of Souls

8/9/2019 Proprietor of Souls

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THE PROPRIETOR OF SOULS

By

Sandy Sessler

Greg wouldnt exactly call himself evil. At least, not consciously. Perhaps, somewhere

deep down in his being, he knew that he had the propensity for wickedness, but then,

didnt everyone? Wasnt that what mankind accepted as the basis for their religious

fanaticism? Good vs. evil within each of us?

So why was he feeling so uneasy? There wasnt anything particularly unusual about

his actions on this particular morning. He made his way into the office with his usual

aplomb, greeting his secretary in his accustomed cordial manner. She said, Good

morning, Mr. Harris, just as always and then, brought him his cup of black coffee and

jelly donut. Nothing out of the ordinary.

So why the tightness in his gut? Why the thickness in his throat? Why the feeling of


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impending disaster from something nameless he had doneor was about to do?

Finding he couldnt shake the feeling, he threw himself into his work, not coming up

for air until well past lunchtime. Not even noticing the growling of his stomach, he

stopped only for a bathroom break, when his morning coffee finally kicked in. Then, as if

driven by some unknown force, he buried himself at his desk.

It wasnt until Nancy rapped on his door to ask if there was anything he needed before

she left for the day that he realized he passed the entire day away without coming up for

air.

No, thanks, Nancy. Im all set, he said.

Okay. See you tomorrow, Mr. Harris, she smiled and closed the door as she left.

Greg sat back in his chair and ran a hand through his hair. He realized he was weary

and hungry. What happened? It was as if he had been possessed by some force that took

over. Almost surreal. And the feeling in his gut, it was still there. He had only forgotten it

for those hours his boss would have considered extremely productive. To Greg, the day

was just a blur and he sat baffled by his own behavior, as if he were not in control of

himself.

Deciding that he needed to get the hell away from himself, he took his briefcase,

locked his office and headed for the elevator. He realized that he was alone. It appeared

that the rest of the office had already headed for their respective homes at the end of their

workday. Normally, Greg was one of the first ones outcertainly, not the last. Much as

he liked his job, it was still just a job and he had far better things to do with his nights and

weekends than to spend even an extra minute at work.

So, as he entered the elevator alone and pushed the lobby button, he closed his eyes to


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shake off his still-lingering, unaccustomed uneasiness.

Greg, he heard whispered.

His eyes popped open. His heart raced and then started to slow as he realized he must

have dozed off. He was still alone in the elevator. Good grief, Gregget hold of yourself,

he mused.

Greg!

This time his eyes were open and the voice was loud enough for him hear without

question. His heart leapt. He could feel the dryness of his mouth, like cotton. Im just

punchy and hungry, he convinced himself.

GREG! Im talking to you!

Greg felt his knees go weak beneath him. What? Who are you? he whispered,

feebly.

Who do you think? the robust voice asked.

Still disbelieving his own senses, he shook his head.

II dont know. Nobodynothing. Youre not really here, Greg mustered.

Really? the voice said and at that, the elevator screeched to a halt, mid -floors. Greg

was thrown off his physical balance, not to mention his mental one. He fell to the

carpeted floor and realized the cleaning lady had not been doing her best. The carpet was

filthy and hinted of old urine. Greg, get hold of yourself, he told himself again.

But no use. He knew he was in trouble. He just didnt know what kind of trouble he

was in. Was he having a breakdown? He sure hoped so. If not, he was in the twilight zone

and he was never fond of science fiction, of any sort.

No, Greg, youre not crazy, the voice stated, reading his mind.


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Greg managed to find enough strength of will to stand up.

Well, thenwho or what are you and what do you want with me? he said,

tenuously. He had seen enough movies in his lifetime to come up with a host of

possibilities from aliens to angels. The entire realm of them, however, were unfathomable

and unthinkable.

Well, Im not an alien, the voice whispered.

Glad of that, Greg managed to joke.

Are you sure?

The image of a flesh-eating, brain-sucking alien came to mind and he shook his head.

Yes, glad its not an alien, he thought.

Then what? he thought. Angel?. That would be pretty cool. My own personal guardian

angel, to help me on my way in life. I can handle that.

Are you sure? the voice asked, shaking his confidence, as it again read his mind.

Ive seen Touched By An Angel and it always turns out okay in the end, Greg said,

feigning self-confidence.

And if Im the Angel of Death? the voice asked.

Gregs heart sank. Hadnt thought about that.

Im not ready, Greg cried.

Too bad, said the voice.

No! I dont want to die, yet! Greg was gripped with an icy fear and he realized he

might possibly add to the offensive carpet odor at any time.

Its not your call, the voice asserted.

Greg hung his head. His life wasnt particularly valuable to anyone but himself. He


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had no wife, no kids, only a distant aunt he hadnt kept in touch with and he could die

without leaving a trail of weeping mourners at his grave. He had no particularly

redeeming qualities and a few un-redeeming ones to boot. He knew he was sunk. He had

absolutely no bargaining power. Of course he realized you dont argue with the Angel of

Death.

Well, what are you waiting for, Greg asked impatiently. If it was going to happen,

lets just get it over with, he thought Why torture me?

Torture you? the Angel asked. Greg kept forgetting that it could read his mind.

Yeah, he said, miserably.

Do you consider death torture?

Sure. What else? It is death. The end of everything, Greg said, impatiently.

Are you so very sure?

Oh, you mean Heaven? Greg asked with no comfort.

And Hell, the voice responded.

Oh, Greg said in a quiet voice. He had never seriously considered the after-life

before, unless it was to tell a joke about a priest, a rabbi and an Irishman. It was never

real to him and it was an inconceivable concept, even now with the Angel of Death

playing 20 questions with him.

Well, whats it to be then? Greg said, as he managed to muster up courage enough to

ask.

Any preference? the Angel asked.

Boy, you sure have one warped sense of humor, Greg snapped back.

Actually, no sense of humor, at all, the voice quipped back.


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Thats for damn sure, Greg said and was instantly sorry for the use of the word

damn. He knew he was already dangerously close to the fire, as it was.

Well, where do you want to spend eternity, Greg? the voice asked again.

Heaven, Greg blurted out. He knew that he had no say in the matterthat the

decision was certainly not his to make. So, he might as well play the game.

Okay, the voice said, evenly and the elevator began to move again.

Greg felt the slight lurch of movement and braced himself for whatever was going to

come next. But what came next was the lobby. The elevator stopped; the doors opened

and he was in the lobby. Henry, the night watchman looked as his watch and said,

Worked late tonight, Mr. Harris?

Greg looked at the clock on the wall and it read midnight. He had left his office at

7:03. He nodded his head at Henry and expected a thunderclap to zap him either

upwardsor downwards. Heaven or Hell, but nothing happened. He stood for a moment

and then walked through the lobby and out the building to the deserted street. As he did,

he heard a voice whisper.

Take care, Greg.

You said it! Greg said as he hailed a cab.


7/12

THE PROPRIETOR OF SOULS

By

Sandy Sessler

Greg wouldnt exactly call himself evil. At least, not consciously. Perhaps, somewhere

deep down in his being, he knew that he had the propensity for wickedness, but then,

didnt everyone? Wasnt that what mankind accepted as the basis for their religious

fanaticism? Good vs. evil within each of us?

So why was he feeling so uneasy? There wasnt anything particularly unusual about

his actions on this particular morning. He made his way into the office with his usual

aplomb, greeting his secretary in his accustomed cordial manner. She said, Good

morning, Mr. Harris, just as always and then, brought him his cup of black coffee and

jelly donut. Nothing out of the ordinary.

So why the tightness in his gut? Why the thickness in his throat? Why the feeling of

impending disaster from something nameless he had doneor was about to do?

Finding he couldnt shake the feeling, he threw himself into his work, not coming up

for air until well past lunchtime. Not even noticing the growling of his stomach, he

stopped only for a bathroom break, when his morning coffee finally kicked in. Then, as if


8/12

driven by some unknown force, he buried himself at his desk.

It wasnt until Nancy rapped on his door to ask if there was anything he needed before

she left for the day that he realized he passed the entire day away without coming up for

air.

No, thanks, Nancy. Im all set, he said.

Okay. See you tomorrow, Mr. Harris, she smiled and closed the door as she left.

Greg sat back in his chair and ran a hand through his hair. He realized he was weary

and hungry. What happened? It was as if he had been possessed by some force that took

over. Almost surreal. And the feeling in his gut, it was still there. He had only forgotten it

for those hours his boss would have considered extremely productive. To Greg, the day

was just a blur and he sat baffled by his own behavior, as if he were not in control of

himself.

Deciding that he needed to get the hell away from himself, he took his briefcase,

locked his office and headed for the elevator. He realized that he was alone. It appeared

that the rest of the office had already headed for their respective homes at the end of their

workday. Normally, Greg was one of the first ones outcertainly, not the last. Much as

he liked his job, it was still just a job and he had far better things to do with his nights and

weekends than to spend even an extra minute at work.

So, as he entered the elevator alone and pushed the lobby button, he closed his eyes to

shake off his still-lingering, unaccustomed uneasiness.

Greg, he heard whispered.

His eyes popped open. His heart raced and then started to slow as he realized he must

have dozed off. He was still alone in the elevator. Good grief, Gregget hold of yourself,


9/12

he mused.

Greg!

This time his eyes were open and the voice was loud enough for him hear without

question. His heart leapt. He could feel the dryness of his mouth, like cotton. Im just

punchy and hungry, he convinced himself.

GREG! Im talking to you!

Greg felt his knees go weak beneath him. What? Who are you? he whispered,

feebly.

Who do you think? the robust voice asked.

Still disbelieving his own senses, he shook his head.

II dont know. Nobodynothing. Youre not really here, Greg mustered.

Really? the voice said and at that, the elevator screeched to a halt, mid -floors. Greg

was thrown off his physical balance, not to mention his mental one. He fell to the

carpeted floor and realized the cleaning lady had not been doing her best. The carpet was

filthy and hinted of old urine. Greg, get hold of yourself, he told himself again.

But no use. He knew he was in trouble. He just didnt know what kind of trouble he

was in. Was he having a breakdown? He sure hoped so. If not, he was in the twilight zone

and he was never fond of science fiction, of any sort.

No, Greg, youre not crazy, the voice stated, reading his mind.

Greg managed to find enough strength of will to stand up.

Well, thenwho or what are you and what do you want with me? he said,

tenuously. He had seen enough movies in his lifetime to come up with a host of

possibilities from aliens to angels. The entire realm of them, however, were unfathomable


10/12

and unthinkable.

Well, Im not an alien, the voice whispered.

Glad of that, Greg managed to joke.

Are you sure?

The image of a flesh-eating, brain-sucking alien came to mind and he shook his head.

Yes, glad its not an alien, he thought.

Then what? he thought. Angel?. That would be pretty cool. My own personal guardian

angel, to help me on my way in life. I can handle that.

Are you sure? the voice asked, shaking his confidence, as it again read his mind.

Ive seen Touched By An Angel and it always turns out okay in the end, Greg said,

feigning self-confidence.

And if Im the Angel of Death? the voice asked.

Gregs heart sank. Hadnt thought about that.

Im not ready, Greg cried.

Too bad, said the voice.

No! I dont want to die, yet! Greg was gripped with an icy fear and he realized he

might possibly add to the offensive carpet odor at any time.

Its not your call, the voice asserted.

Greg hung his head. His life wasnt particularly valuable to anyone but himself. He

had no wife, no kids, only a distant aunt he hadnt kept in touch with and he could die

without leaving a trail of weeping mourners at his grave. He had no particularly

redeeming qualities and a few un-redeeming ones to boot. He knew he was sunk. He had

absolutely no bargaining power. Of course he realized you dont argue with the Angel of


11/12

Death.

Well, what are you waiting for, Greg asked impatiently. If it was going to happen,

lets just get it over with, he thought Why torture me?

Torture you? the Angel asked. Greg kept forgetting that it could read his mind.

Yeah, he said, miserably.

Do you consider death torture?

Sure. What else? It is death. The end of everything, Greg said, impatiently.

Are you so very sure?

Oh, you mean Heaven? Greg asked with no comfort.

And Hell, the voice responded.

Oh, Greg said in a quiet voice. He had never seriously considered the after-life

before, unless it was to tell a joke about a priest, a rabbi and an Irishman. It was never

real to him and it was an inconceivable concept, even now with the Angel of Death

playing 20 questions with him.

Well, whats it to be then? Greg said, as he managed to muster up courage enough to

ask.

Any preference? the Angel asked.

Boy, you sure have one warped sense of humor, Greg snapped back.

Actually, no sense of humor, at all, the voice quipped back.

Thats for damn sure, Greg said and was instantly sorry for the use of the word

damn. He knew he was already dangerously close to the fire, as it was.

Well, where do you want to spend eternity, Greg? the voice asked again.

Heaven, Greg blurted out. He knew that he had no say in the matterthat the


12/12

decision was certainly not his to make. So, he might as well play the game.

Okay, the voice said, evenly and the elevator began to move again.

Greg felt the slight lurch of movement and braced himself for whatever was going to

come next. But what came next was the lobby. The elevator stopped; the doors opened

and he was in the lobby. Henry, the night watchman looked as his watch and said,

Worked late tonight, Mr. Harris?

Greg looked at the clock on the wall and it read midnight. He had left his office at

7:03. He nodded his head at Henry and expected a thunderclap to zap him either

upwardsor downwards. Heaven or Hell, but nothing happened. He stood for a moment

and then walked through the lobby and out the building to the deserted street. As he did,

he heard a voice whisper.

Take care, Greg.

You said it! Greg said as he hailed a cab.

Proprietor of Souls

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