Death Walks

This is a premise to a story that just popped into my mind a while back, but it's not bad as a tale all by itself.  It's not complete and probably has a few holes that need to be fixed, as it is a first draft.  Any feedback you can give would be appreciated.  Thanks for reading!

    I’m not a psychic.  Such clairvoyance is beyond me.  I cannot see beyond what is, but I see more than others.  Of course, this allows for the question to be asked:  What are you, then?
    That is a strangely difficult question.  One, as I’m sure you realize, with a strangely difficult answer, an answer I am reluctant to say.  I can tell you what I’m not.  It’s probably more shocking than what you may expect.
    I’m not alive.  You have to be born to be alive.
    Of course, I’m not dead either.  The dead cannot talk.  They cannot feel.  They can’t think.  They can’t move.  Well…most of the time.
    I’m not one of the undead.  Those occur out of special circumstances.  By that, I mean that someone decided they didn’t like the rules and decided to make their own.
    So what am I?
    I am in between.  My existence among the living had been snuffed out before it had a chance to develop.  So, I’ve become something else.  Not alive.  Not dead.  Yet, both at once.
    I am a Deathwalker, a severed soul given a new purpose.  There are rules to life and death that must never be broken.  When they are, the guilty meet me.
    Take, for example, Jonas Malt, born August 16, 1832.  He was hanged, on March 3, 1867, for the murder of seven people, including three women and an infant.  That event should have been the beginning of his eternal torment.  Instead, it was the beginning of something worse.
    On March 6, 1867, Jonas Malt killed two gravediggers, stole a horse, and headed toward San Antonio.  He was dangerous before.  Now, he was worse.  No gun could slay him.  No blade could cut him down.  No weapon could return him to the grave.  Well…no human weapon.
    This particular occasion, I was rather perplexed by his return.  Jonas Malt was no extraordinary man.  He was ruthless, cold-hearted, and downright malicious, but he was nothing more.  He knew nothing of the world beyond.  He didn’t know any dark magic that would protect him from his fate, nor was he acquainted with anyone who could.
    He was a rare occurrence, a rejected soul.  Spat out from the depths of Hades, his ultimate torment was to dwell, alone, among the living, never seen, never heard.  A ghost.  Except, his soul returned to his body, not to some dark, old house to haunt.  Someone wasn’t playing by the rules.
    Jonas rode hard towards the town, fully prepared to raise hell.  I was waiting for him.  I am forbidden from being seen as I am, so I came as a man.  I stood in the middle of the road, dressed in a brown duster and a wide brimmed hat.  It hid what I was from human eyes, but the animals were always more perceptive.  His horse slid to a stop several yards from me and panicked.  It tossed Jonas to the ground before fleeing.
    “Jonas Malt,” I greeted him.  “Come with me.”
    “The hell I will!” he shouted, pulling a pistol and firing without a second thought.
The bullet caught me between the eyes, but of course could do no harm.  He stared at me in stupefied disbelief.  I wondered, once again, how such an ignorant man as this had been granted overtime.
    “Who allowed you to return, Malt?” I asked him, lifting him off the ground by his collar.
    “Why aren’t you dead?”  He didn’t sound angry.  He sounded more concerned than anything.  It was as if he couldn’t comprehend why his bullet hadn’t killed me.  Most perplexing.
    “Who brought you back, Malt?”  I was speaking more forcefully now.  I needed him to focus.
    “Why won’t you die?”  He lashed out suddenly, striking my face.  The surprising thing was that it actually hurt.  I released my grip in shock.  I was unaccustomed to pain.  “Die, die, die!”  He struck me again and again until I stumbled to the ground. 
    Whoever brought him back had given him a greater power than he even realized.  After a time, he grew tired of me and ran off.  I composed myself again to find that he once again was headed for San Antonio.  He rushed there with such fervor.  It was more like he was being drawn there.
    I followed behind, hoping he would lead me to the source of this atrocious existence.  He’d already forgotten about me.  He stumbled along on legs that had already begun to decompose. 
    Before long, we reached the edge of the dusty town just after dawn.  The sun had barely peaked above the horizon.  I had never been granted access to Heaven, but I couldn’t imagine it being much more beautiful than that.
    Jonas had noticed something else entirely.  The poor woman shrieked as his decaying form rushed at her.  I gave him a quick strike to the head that sent him flying into the middle of the street.
    “Ma’am.”  I tipped my hat to her as I walked past.  She only gaped back.  I paid her no mind.
    Jonas seemed disoriented now.  I quickly realized that it had nothing to do with my attack.  Half of him seemed to be drawn to the saloon.  The other half was compelled to continue towards his mysterious destination.  Even in death, man’s vices are powerful.
    “The saloon is closed.” 
    That was enough to get him moving along.  I was getting impatient, an unusual emotion for me.  Deathwalkers are notoriously detached.  That should have been my first clue as to what we were heading toward, but I was too focused on keeping him off the lady folk. 
    As we neared a livery stable, the horses scattered.  I thought at first they were avoiding me, but I soon realized there was something else here too.  The rising sunlight seemed to grow dim, as if it were still twilight.  Even I felt the dread in the air.  Something evil had come to San Antonio.
    I quickly grabbed Jonas by the back of the collar and threw him back into the street a dozen yards.  Whatever wanted him wasn’t going to get him as long as I was here.  An enraged scream, more like a monstrous roar than anything a man could produce, echoed from the depths of the dark stable.
    Jonas came again from behind.  I knocked him to the ground and placed my palm on his chest.  Reciting three ancient Hebrew words for death, I returned him to his fate.  The Catholics always insist on using Latin, but the word of God has always been written in Hebrew.  It was the language of the afterlife.
    Shattered, disoriented laughter came at me now from beyond the shadows.  Jonas Malt rose.  Not his body, but his true self.  A soul is all anyone is.  His was as black as his heart had been in life.  In a blur of motion greater than even I could react to, Jonas joined the darkness.
    The figure of a man emerged a moment later.  He was lean.  His face was bony and rugged, with dark eyes set deep within their sockets.  I knew he wasn’t human.  I could see it once I noticed his eyes were like black holes that drained away all hope.  He wasn’t a ghost either.  They have no hold over other souls and have no need for them either.  That meant he was something even Deathwalkers dread, something that required a soul to walk the Earth.  A demon.
    “Well, well,” it spoke confidently.  Clouds formed above, blotting out the morning sun.  It paced around me, moving out into the street.  I was cautious in my movements.  I didn’t want anywhere near it.  “What do we have here?  A Deathwalker!  I didn’t think little, old Malt warranted such attention.”
    “There are rules to our existence, Demon.  They are all sacred.”
    It laughed its broken laugh.  The humans noticed him now, the man who he feigned to be at least.  His darkness was bleeding out like severed vein.  In horror and awe, they moved away.  I wished I could do the same.  Demons were very unpredictable.  They had no respect for rules.  They were pure hate and greed.
    “Don’t speak to me of rules, puny specter.”
    “Who are you, Demon?  Why have you entered the Plane?”  I didn’t want to fight it.  I had to keep it talking.  Surely someone else realized it had stolen a soul.  I had to wait for others to arrive.  In my prayers, I hoped for an angel.
    “You don’t expect me to just give up my name, do you?” it laughed, clearly not threatened by me.  I knew then why it wasn’t attacking.  It was having a little fun with me first.  “Unless, you’d like to tell me yours first?” 
    I didn’t reply.  I knew as well as it did that that a name was a soul’s most powerful possession.  Every demon, angel, ghost, and Deathwalker had a name it kept secret from all, lest it loose its power.  Even God Almighty had a name none but He knew.  Lucifer, in his arrogance, learned the true power of his name only after he was cast out, but that hasn’t stopped him from trying again.
    “I didn’t think so.”  The demon smiled.  “What do you say you let me go have my fun and I won’t devour you whole?”
    I realized no one was coming.  It was just me, the demon, and the corpse of Jonas Malt.  At least I had a way out of this mess.
    “In the name of He who has created all things,” I spoke to it in Hebrew as confidently as it did when it revealed itself to me.  “I command you to reveal your name to me!”  It cringed.
    “Why you piece of shit!”  It cried as it lunged at me.  It was stronger than I thought.
    “In the name of our Lord, stay back!” I shouted, still speaking Hebrew.  Latin had little power.  English had even less.
    The demon complied, rather painfully it seemed.  It clutched its ears.  To creatures from below, the mere mention of God was like a thousand nails on a chalkboard.  It never made them happy.  It stared at me with a gaze that seemed to pull all light from my soul.  It attacked.
    To those who were foolish enough to remain, we two looked like men fighting.  Our fight was far from physical.  It was a battle of souls.  The demon fueled his existence on the Mortal Plane with the soul of one evil, little man.  They always chose the dark ones, or tried to blacken a good soul.  They are always too absorbed in their own desires to realize that a shady soul is a weak haven.  There is always clarity in the light, with clarity comes strength.
    Deathwalkers typically carry only one weapon, a sword.  It is no human weapon.  I do not know how they are made, but they are a wonder to behold.  I, like many in these darker times, carry many weapons.  Once I could break free of the demon’s hold, I took aim with a crossbow.
    It laughed at me again.  Were I a lesser being, I would have been angry.  True, an arrow is useless on the dead.  I knew that.  That is why I affixed a small trinket I pulled off of Jonas’ body, a golden chain of some kind, to the arrow.  I fired.  As expected, it passed straight through the demon.
    “As Deathwalkers go, you’re the dumbest one I’ve ever met,” said the demon.  It was about to insult me further when he suddenly felt a pull in the opposite direction.  Confusion spread across its face, followed by realization, and lastly anger.  “You son of a bitch!”
    “I have no mother, Demon.  I was never born.”
    Greed has no boundaries in this world or the next.  Jonas recognized his possession and wanted it back, even if that meant severing himself from the demon.  He tore himself away from the demon and rushed after the object that served him no purpose anymore.
    Without the human soul, the demon’s true form was revealed. It grew shorter, though not by much.  Its body became engulfed in long, blackened fur that seemed to have been scorched.  Its face grew elongated and narrower.  Horns, like those of a goat, pierced the top of its head.  Its broad shoulders led to muscular arms with hands that appeared to have sharpened hooves at the ends of the fingers.  Its legs were like the back legs of a ram as well, ending in large hooves.
    At last, I knew what I was facing.  This being from the Abyss was a se'irim, or goat demon, a follower of Azazel.  Like all things, they had their place.  This one had ventured from his.
    “I will destroy you!” it bellowed as it prepared to charge me with its horns.
I was not afraid.  I had exposed his form to the world, and the world would soon respond.  Then, as he ran at me, an angel arrived.
    A root burst from the ground, entangling its hoofed feet.  It cried out in terror as it fell, for it knew it had no hope of victory now.  The tree grew ever faster, consuming and containing the demon within.  The Earth Angel would hold it there, where it could do no harm, for at least a century.  Then, I would be back.
    I grabbed the soul of Jonas Malt and took him with me.  He was to finally face his fate.  May God have mercy on his soul.
    Like demons, there were many types of angels, each with a purpose.  Humans believe angels are illuminated men with flowing robes and broad wings that watch over them and protect them from evil.  This is not the case.  Angels have a higher purpose.  For men, whose souls are imperfect, there are only beings like me, beings who have not lived, and have yet to die.  No, there are no guardian angels, only Deathwalkers.