Demons are nothing at all like we imagine.

They seldom sport horns or spiked tails, no cloven hooves or red skin.

They come in all shapes and sizes, and aren’t anything like Hollywood portrays them. Hollywood casting agents erroneously cast demons as some sort of evil specters or dark spirits lurking in the shadows seeking retribution or revenge. They connect them to Satan or some other demonic leader as if they were the antitheses to angels.

But Hollywood seldom gets the supernatural world correct when it insists on offering up a set of fangs or a pair of claws. For added spookiness, there’s often a trench coat or dark glasses added.

Of late, Hollywood demons are Japanese girls with wet, stringy hair who hide in the dark to creep us out with their open mouths and scary sounds. They are frequently characterized as men wearing masks or mysterious revenants who need to feed in order to survive.

Outside of the Hollywood caricature of the evil spawns, demons can be either spiritual or corporeal. They can be violent or just plain annoying. They may be after a certain individual, or trailing anyone who walks into their path. Demons are young and old, adept and clumsy, smart and stupid. They can be many things and take on different forms. The only aspect of these insidious creatures Hollywood got right is that all demons have one thing in common:

They are evil.

Pure evil.

Evil personified means evil walking and talking as a human being. Hitler, Manson, Jeffrey Dahmer, and Jim Jones held the kind of evil in their hands that only a true demon possesses. People who shoot at school children or hold young girls hostage for ten years are the worst kinds of demons.

And they are everywhere.

I know.

I’m a demon hunter.

Part of my therapy for my relatively new job involves journaling about my experiences, though I’m pretty certain my therapist believes I’m a insane. We are conditioned in this Christian society to believe in angels but not their counterparts. It’s okay if we believe in miracles, but not magic. It’s fine to get your past lives read as long as you don’t walk around telling everyone around about it. Some guy walking on water, or a chick chatting with a snake is acceptable, but anything else is blasphemy?

Hardly.

I’ve seen them. I’ve hunted them. I know what they look like and where they hang out.

My therapist probably believes I have delusions of grandeur at the very least, and have possibly broken with reality. At this point in my short life, anything is possible, I suppose.

Who knows? Maybe I have. I mean, given my life lately, it’s entirely possible.

I used to be a normal––wait, make that a semi-normal––college student. Semi-normal because I was raised by two oddballs whose last name was Silver.

My parents loved to laugh and were always doing the word jumbles together in the morning. They loved words. They loved pubs. They were goofy and silly together and one night after a party of some sort, they decided their children would be so much more interesting if they had thought-provoking names. So, they named my older sister Sterling, my younger sister Pure, and my brother Quick.

Me?

My name is Golden. Golden Silver. Get it? Oh, I’m sure they had lots of laughs over that one. Parents who give their kids crazy names set them up for all sorts of battles, and we’ve all had our fair share. I mean really. Quick? The girls in high school used to have a field day with that one. Poor guy.

I go by Denny for obvious reasons, though my mother and older sister prefer Golden. Any idea how mean kids can be with different names? Denny was just safer at school, but seldom used at home. Mom and Sterling believed calling me that would somehow bring a light into my world, but they were wrong. So very wrong.

Denny Silver is my name and I’m a demon hunter.

This is my story.