When Evil awakens E-Book

Jonas Bleicher

• Herausgeber: epubli
• Kategorie: Erotik
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Beschreibung

When Evil awakens Roland Greitner, an unemployed homeless man, lives a life on the fringes of society - until he is suddenly confronted with memories of a brutal bank robber. As the lines between his own identity and the dark deeds of the man whose life he now carries become blurred, Roland begins a dangerous hunt for the prey that holds the key to his past and a cruel truth. Pursued by merciless pursuers and tormented by visions from another time, he must decide: is he the man he was - or the man he has become? In a desperate race against time, the question arises as to how far he is willing to go to defeat the evil within himself. But sometimes the real enemy is not the one we are hunting - but the one who lives within us.

Leseprobe

Title:When Evil awakens

Author: Jonas Bleicher

Biography:

Jonas Bleicher was born in Berlin in 1983 and

grew up in a district that was just as full of contrasts as his later life. Even as a teenager, he was drawn to the dark corners of the city,

to the unexplored streets, where he spent many years as a night owl and casual worker. The encounters and stories he collected shaped not only his view of the world, but also his passion for writing.

At the age of 24, he began to put his thoughts into the form of stories. For many years, Jonas worked in various jobs, none of which were

permanent - as a bartender, taxi driver and even as a night watchman in an old, abandoned factory site. During this time, he collected impressions of the lives of people on

the fringes of society, whose fates repeatedly led him to profound anddark stories. prolog

What if memories were not just traces in a person's mind? Not fleeting thoughts that fade into nothingness with the last breath? Imagine them as seeds yearning for new soil.

A consciousness dies, but its memories drift on, searching, clinging to the life that had to leave it so suddenly. And when they find a

host - a lost one, one with space in their mind and nothing to fend them off - they grow. They proliferate. They become part of something new.

Maybe the memories will then become more than just images. Maybe they will become the echo of a lost soul grasping for a second chance. Or for revenge.

Chapter 1: The Lost Man

Roland Greitner was sitting on a torn sleeping mat under the Hacker Bridge in Munich. It was cold, as always. His jacket, so thin that you could count the holes through the

threads, offered little protection. A cold wind blew through the pillars, tugging at the plastic bags hanging from a rusty shopping

cart as food bags. Roland drained the last lukewarm can of beer that he had bought with the few euros deposit and hung his head. "Shit... it's all fucked up," he muttered,

rubbing his temples. Yesterday's hangover was a monster. His head was pounding as if someone was using a sledgehammer inside.

"Hey, Greitner, are you still drinking, you bum?" Hannes, a friend from the street, came rolling up. He was pushing his own shopping cart, packed full of fabric scraps, empty

plastic bottles and an old gas cooker. "Give me some, man, I haven't had anything for days."

“Shut up, Hannes,” Roland growled and

threw the empty can in his direction. It hit the car and clatteredon the floor. "I don't have anything left myself. Piss off." Hannes laughed harshly, then coughed and pulled a crushed cigarette out of his jacket pocket. "You're a really shitty guy, Greitner. No wonder everyone hates you." Roland didn't answer. He didn't feel like

arguing. His head felt like someone had a vice on it. Then came the first blow. Not on his skull, but

from within. An image. A scene. Without warning. A man, tall and bulky, burst through a bank door. He was wearing a balaclava, the black

gun in his hand looked like something out of a bad action movie. "Down, everyone down, or I'll shoot you!" The voice, loud, hard - it was

his. Roland felt his fingers gripping the trigger, even though he had no gun in his hand.

"Greitner? Is everything okay?" Hannes' voice

sounded like it was coming from a tunnel. Roland felt the world around him blurring. The next image was even worse. A woman, screaming, kneeling on the floor. "Please, I

have children!" The answer came as a gunshot. A bang that echoed through the bank,as if someone had blown up a concrete pillar. Roland saw the blood, felt the recoil of the gun shooting through his arm - but he was still sitting under the bridge, his hands empty, his heart racing. "Dude, are you high?" Did you take something?" Hannes grabbed his shoulder

and shook him. Roland slapped his hand away. "Don't touch me, man!" Hannes raised his hands. "Okay, okay, chill,

you psycho." He giggled and walked backwards. "You better check what you're taking before you go on a rampage." Roland trembled. His stomach clenched. The

images had been so real. He could have sworn that he had held the gun, that the shot had come from his finger. But that was

impossible. He had never been in a bank, except to close an account. He stood up, staggered a few steps and leaned against a pillar. The world is spinning.

Another memory appears. Again the same voice, again those hands - his hands - on a shovel throwing earth onto a dark object. A grave? Roland heard the sound of earth

hitting wood and smelled themoist forest floor. "What the hell..." He clung to the pillar, panting as if someone had beaten the air out of his lungs. It had to be the hangover. Or something he had drunk. Maybe one of the other bums had touched his dose and slipped something in. Drugs? Mushrooms? Roland shook his head, but the image remained. A corpse, a grave, a shovel.

And he had done it. That was certain.

Chapter 2: The Vision of Death

Roland woke up on the cold concrete floor under the bridge. His skull felt as if a train had run over it. The night had been restless -dreams, flashbacks, hallucinations. He could

no longer distinguish what was real and what wasn't. He sat up, leaning his back against the arrow,

and rubbed his eyes. The morning sun flashed through the concrete beams, blinding him, and the noise of the city began to bore into his head. His stomach growled. It was a

familiar sound that reminded him of his own insignificance. But then there was something else. A weight in his chest, as if something

heavy was raging inside and wanting to get out. An image flickered into view. Again, it wasn't his.

He saw a street - loud, chaotic. Blue lights flickering, people screaming. He ran, panting, adrenaline pumping through his veins. Bullets whizzed past his head, smashed into parked

cars, shattered windows. His hand was clutching a gun, and blood was on his fingers. Not his blood.

“Get down, I’ll shoot you all!”

The voice – that damned voice again, which was his and yet couldn’t be his. Roland screamed, shook his head, but the images didn't stop. He saw himself stumbling,

saw himself running in a hail of bullets. A bullet ripped through his shoulder, another hit his thigh. He fell, the asphalt beneath him

cool and rough. The last memory was a gaping wound in his chest, blood pouring out of him like a river, and the cold gaze of a policeman with a gun drawn.

"Stop! Stay down!" the policeman had shouted. But Roland - or whoever he was in that memory - hadn't done that. He had shot. And then there was nothing.

"Shit... what is that?" Roland gasped, his hands shaking. He felt the pain, even though he knew it wasn't real. He felt the burning in

his shoulder, the tearing in his chest. But when he reached under his dirty T-shirt, there was nothing there. No wound, no blood. Just scars from the road, but they had nothing to do with the images in his head. “Hey, Greitner! What’s wrong with you? You look like the devil is standing behind you!” Roland jerked his head up. It was Franz, another homeless man, staring at him from afar. Franz was tall, bald, and had the kind of face you wanted to forget immediately - a face that smelled of trouble.

“Leave me alone,” Roland growled, still tormented by the flashbacks. "Oh, come on, man, I just want to talk." Franz came closer, and Roland knew that this meant

nothing good. Franz was an asshole, always looking for someone to intimidate. “I have nothing, Franz,” said Roland, raising his hands defensively.

"I see that, you little bastard. But you're still teaching me something from last week. Do you remember?" Franz grinned broadly, a grin that showed more gums than teeth. "I don't owe you anything, fuck off." Franz's face hardened. "I see it differently." He grabbed Roland by the collar, pulled him

up and pushed him against the pillar. "Maybe I can find something with you." Or should I help?"

At that moment, the next vision struck. A face

similar to Franz's, but twisted with fear. Roland - or the bank robber in his head - held a gun to the man's temple. "You want to rip me off, you wanker?" Where's the money?"

"I don't have it! Please, I..." The shot interrupted the begging. Blood and brain matter splashed against a concrete wall. Roland felt the gun getting hot in his hand.

"Are you even listening to me, Greitner?" Franz's voice brought him back to the present. Roland looked at him, saw the ugly

face, the anger in his eyes. And suddenly he couldn't think anymore. His fist hit Franz right in the face. A dull crack, then a scream. Franz staggered back, holding his nose, from which blood spurted. “You miserable bastard!” Franz yelled, pulled a knife from his pocket and attacked Roland.

But Roland reacted faster than he himself would have thought. He ducked, pulled Franz's arm to the side and hit him in the ribs with his elbow. Franz fell to the ground,

gasping, andRoland kicked the knife until it clattered and slid a few meters away. "You want to stab me? Try again, you asshole!" Roland was beside himself, adrenaline pumping through his body. Franz raised his hands, coughed and spat blood onto the ground. "You're completely crazy, man!" He picked himself up, threw himself against the pillar and staggered away without looking back.

Roland dropped back to the ground, gasping for air. The visions, the violence, the memories - they were part of him now. And he knew it would get worse. Much worse.

Chapter 3: The Prey Calls

Roland sat on a park bench at the main train station, a cigarette between his shaking fingers. The last few hours had felt like a fever dream. First the flashbacks of

shootings, then the fight with Franz. He didn't know what was happening to him, but one thing was clear: it was getting worse.

And then there was this image that was burned into his mind - a gravestone with the inscriptionAnna Seidel.

He had seen it clearly and distinctly. The

name, the weathered writing, the moss that surrounded the letters. And the cold certainty that something was hidden beneath that gravestone. But was it?

He took a drag on the cigarette, inhaled deeply and blew the smoke into the cold morning air. His thoughts raced.Why the hell

am I seeing this? Why do I feel like I was there? An older man in a worn coat sat down next to him. He smelled of urine and cheap liquor. "Got a cigarette, kid?"

Roland snorted, pulled the crumpled box out of his pocket and handed itthe man. "Have one, but shut up."

"Thanks, buddy." The man lit his cigarette and looked at Roland with bloodshot eyes. "You look like shit. Trouble with the old people?"

"I don't have an old woman." Roland put out his cigarette and stood up. "Now piss off." “Hey, don’t rush! I’m already quiet.” The man raised his hands, but Roland no longer heard him. His head was somewhere else again. The image of the tombstone returned, clearer this time. He saw himself - or rather, someone else's hands - pushing a shovel into the damp

earth. Sweat ran down his forehead as he dug a hole. It was deep, deep enough to hide something.

A name came to his mind. A single name that pressed itself into his mind like a burning iron:Anna Seidel.

Roland started to run without knowing where

he was going. He ran through the streets, past cafes, offices and shops. His gaze was fixed, his thoughts like in a tunnel. He had to find out if thistombstone existed.

One late hour he stands outside a public library. The smell of old paper and stale air hit him as he entered. The librarian, a young woman with a thick bun, gave him a skeptical look. "Can I help you?"

"Yes," he said curtly, ignoring her disgusting look at his dirty clothes. "I'm looking for a name. Anna Seidel. Is there a cemetery somewhere where someone with that name is buried?"

The woman raised an eyebrow. "That's a rather unusual request."

“Please, I don’t have all day.” She hesitated, then went to a computer. "I can't guarantee that we have that information. But I'll check."