The Truth Collector by Corey Pemberton

“That poor, sweet girl...”
    Malcolm grabbed her by the shoulders. “You know about that? You know where she is?”
    The woman's face filled with tears. “I – I can see her. But she's so far away. Too far gone for me to bring her back.”
    Malcolm and Paul were standing now, and they yelled at her in unison. “Where? Where is she?”
    The tremble in the woman's hands spread through her body and left her shaking like a plastic bag flapping in the wind. She looked at Malcolm, then Paul, then Malcolm again. “She's trapped. Not dead like her poor mother and father...” A sob caught in her throat. “But that would have been a mercy compared to what's going to happen to her.”
    “Where is she?” Malcolm said.
    She ignored him. All of her attention went to the cigarette that had fallen onto the strand to join thousands of others. “It's complicated.”
    “Bullshit,” said Malcolm. “Who's to say you don't have her right now? Who's to say you weren't the one who killed Eric and Miranda?” He reached for her wrist again. She tried to pull away, but he was faster. But when he went to circle his fingers around it they slammed into the telephone poll. Malcolm reached again and bruised his knuckles on the wood.
    He looked down and the woman started laughing. Her wrist still rested on her makeshift seat – right where she'd left it. Slowly Malcolm's fingers traveled around it and squeezed. They came together without meeting skin or any resistance. “Go ahead,” she said. “Try to grab me again.”
    Malcolm looked at her and back at Paul, who stood right behind them with his mouth hanging open. Malcolm poked and grabbed. His fingers went right through the woman's flesh. Where the woman's flesh should have been. Paul reached for her elbow and watched his hand travel through it. He moved a fist back and forth through the woman's shoulder, slowly at first and then faster until he was punching at thin air as hard as he could.
    The woman laughed again and wiped the tears from her face. She held up a hand and they leaped backwards, nearly fell over. “Relax.” She stretched out her hand. “Now touch my hand again.”
    They did.
    This time their fingers found warm flesh.
    “Now you know,” she said, reaching for another cigarette. “You don't know much, but you know enough to understand where I'm coming from.”
    Malcolm and Paul looked at each other and shook their heads. The woman was a liar. Or clinically insane. They didn't understand a damn thing.
    “Save it,” she said, smoking again. “You need to listen to what I have to say. Listen close – if you want to make it in this world or the next. Understand?”
    Malcolm's legs began to shake. He lost his balance and nearly fell over. Things got a little better when he lay down on the strand again, and Paul followed suit. But then the hollow woman stood above them… and she was speaking.
    “I appreciate you not making too big of a scene about my… condition.” She looked around the strand and her shoulders sagged. “Most people don't react well. Anyway, that thing that was after you – that man – he was demon marked. I'm afraid you're in terrible danger.”
    “Demon marked?” Paul said.
    Malcolm kept his mouth shut. A few days ago he would have told her to take her new age bullshit elsewhere. But now, after the things he saw…
    “Demon marked,” the woman said. “That glowing symbol on the side of his face. Every demon has their mark. I wager ours is a card-playing man. He doesn't seem like much of a gardener.”
    “Wait,” Malcolm said. He sat up and held his stomach to fight off a wave of nausea. “How do you know it was a… demon? And why not a female?”
    She flicked away a chunk of cigarette ash. “I said to save your questions. But I'm not entirely sure. The presence just felt masculine. You stick around long enough, and you start to pick up on these things.”
    “Tell us more,” Paul said. “Please.”
    The woman nodded. “I will. But