“How can you say the Devil doesn’t
exist, after this?” He said the words in
the church before their bodies were buried, and then he heard it a second
time, somewhat later and altered in tone.
The voice was familiar; it seemed to be that of Devon Wormwood, oddly
accented and mocking. It came
as Soren lay in bed, three months after the deaths.
Soren’s doctor had given him a sedative. At first he used it only at night, but had
begun to take them during the day as well.
But sleep seldom came. Instead,
he heard voices. He thought he heard his
wife calling him, his children's voices raised in gleeful
play. At first he cried bitterly; then,
he grew accustomed to the voices, which became comforting in a sad, distant
way. Then one day they stopped. Soren seemed to suffer again from the death
of his family. He cried without control. Friends and colleagues feared for his
sanity. They were afraid he would drown
himself in the North Sea.
Two
months later the maid knocked on Soren’s bedroom door. There was no answer. She was afraid to open it, so she ran for
Constable Andersen. He rapped hard on the
door. It was locked. He called Soren’s name authoritatively,
asking him to please open the door.
There was no response. After a
few well-placed kicks the door swung open.
Soren Christensen was gone.
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