Disclaimer: This was originally suppose to be part of the Ladies of the Night story arc (which you can read here for the full story: https://theprose.com/post/156984/ladies-of-the-night-complete), but I felt that the story was already long enough and so ended up cutting it out all together.

And I know that there are folks still reading the Heaven is for Real story arc, so just to make sure that there are no confusions in continuity, this story is still set during the events Ladies of the Night story, which takes place before the events of Heaven is for Real story. Alright, now that is cleared up, enjoy this read!

It was late in the night, but the parties at the Gravely house kept rolling. Slowly but surely the activities started to settle down as the children grew tired while the adults remained awake. Regan placed Slinky back inside his fish tank and skipped up to her bedroom for bedtime. Rosie and her friends played endless video games through the late night before Krystal's chauffeur arrived to escort some of the friends back to their homes. Rosie shortly made her way to her bedroom and got ready for bed too. She gave Dominic the living room couch to sleep on while he waited for his father Moloch to finish drinking with the guys. Meanwhile Lu, Mike, Scrugs, Balthazar, Ghuul, and Moloch all sat outside on the patio deck as they gathered around a lit fire pit. They watched the sparks pop in the burning kindle and the black smoke rise up into the cool night air.

"Yo, there's still plenty of beer left," Balthazar called out, carrying all the beer he could in his arms. "I say we keep drinking until we pass out. Then we wake up and drink some more. Ha ah!"

The demon tossed each bottle to each of his friends, including his new angelic friend Mike. "Cheers!" they all cried to the night before sucking down that delicious brew. They could feel their beverages already toying with their heads.

"You said you're married?" Mike asked the hulking demon next to him.

"Yup," Moloch answered in his usual manner.

"Happy marriage?"

"Oh yeah."

"And Dominic's one of your kids?"

"Number 13, out of 23."

"Busy and lucky guy."

The giant then chuckled. "Yup."

"I always wanted to get married, have kids of my own," Mike contemplated. "Sadly being an archangel consumes much of your dating life."

"Not to mention you didn't have much luck with the ladies." his brother Lu teased.

Mike fired back. "Still had better luck than you ever did."

"Tell that to the wedding ring on my finger." the devil jokingly retorted, waving around his ring hand. The demons and the one angel all laughed at each other.

Mike then spotted a rhombus shaped mark on Moloch's shoulder. "What's that on your shoulder?" he asked the demon again, pointing at the mark. "That mark there?"

Moloch glanced at his shoulder and smiled. "Old war injury."

"You were in the War too, huh?" Mike said.

The giant nodded. "Angel javelin skewered me through. Returned the favor by snapping him like a toothpick."

"Ah yeah," Mike threw off his jacket and rolled up his right shirt sleeve, exposing a long gash on his bicep. "See that? One of your kind try to get me with a dagger. I got lucky. He didn't."

"That's nothing, flyboy," Balthazar boasted. He stood up and turned around, lifting the back of his shirt up. Everyone stared at rows of healed punctures that stacked across his back. "See those? Landed on some spikes. Now that's what you call acupunture." the hooded demon laughed again.

Scrugs downed his drink quickly. He then stuck his gnarled pinky before the group. "See this?" the bat-like demon screeched.

"Your finger," Mike muttered.

"No on the finger." Scrugs insisted. Everyone inspected the finger and noticed a cut along the print. "Papercut! From this morning!" The group laughed some more. They laughed again when Scrugs accidently slipped his drink on Moloch's foot, which the giant responded by slugging his fist onto Scrugs' round head.

"You fellas want to talk scars, I got the best one," Lu sneered. He unbuttoned his shirt and showed them all a perfectly healed gash on his abdomen. "This beauty's from Baracrus. He tried to get me, but I got him first."

Lu's demonic friends laugh and applauded. They raised their bottles to their king, to which even Michael joined in on the praise. "I got you all beat." Ghuul drunkly said. He pulled apart his shirt to reveal his chest, pointing at his heart. "Vivian. She broke my heart!"

The night was filled with their loud laughter. Everyone felt like their guts were going to burst from laughing. They raised their drinks to Ghuul, declaring him the winner of this show and tell game.

Balthazar peered over at the Archangel of Justice and spotted something on his wrist. It looked like another scar which was partially covered by his sleeve. "Hey what's this one on your wrist?" he pointed it out.

Mike rolled up the other sleeve and looked at it. It was definitely another scar. This one was shaped like the crescent moon but there were rows of what looked like teeth marks that went along his wrist to a bit of his arm. Mike smiled but shook his head. "Ah, I don't like to talk about that one."

"Don't tell me," Scrugs popped up, clinging on the archangel's knee and chair arm. "Lemme guess. It was a tattoo. It said... mother!"

The four demons bursted out laughing. Even Lucifer couldn't help but chuckle along with them. Mike kept smiling but kept his laughter bottled inside. He reached out and gently scratched the stubby demon's ears like he was petting a dog. "Actually I received that one at Sodom." he calmly said.

The laughter from the demons slowly died. Their smirks faded. Mouths gaped open in utter shock. Scrugs' long, pointy ears drooped down, feeling ashamed and like a jacksass after his comment. Luckily the archangel didn't seem offended. There was only silence and all eyes were directed at the sole angel in the group. "You were at Sodom?" Balthazar said, almost dropping his bottle. Michael nodded. His gaze now focused on the fire pit.

"Whoa, this is the first time I've heard of it," Lu interjected.

"I heard there weren't any survivors left after that mess!" Ghuuls commented.

"What happened?" Moloch asked.

Mike took a deep breath and exhale. It wasn't a story that we shared often, nor one he wanted to recall. But they did ask him. "There were reports of Baracrus' army marching south on this world, along what was to be known as the Jordan River. I took a small scouting party to investigate. We found them alright. They ambushed us and used some sort of spell to disable our wings. We couldn't fly or teleport outta there. We were stuck with the only thing we could do: fight for our survival. Most of the party was wiped, save me and this other soldier. We ran as far as we could to recharge our energy. Ran for days without sleep. Demons and their hounds were not far behind.

"After so much running we come across this city, Sodom. Figured it would be a perfect place to blend in. I mean we angels look no different than humans. Nobody would've told us apart. We go in there, begging the locals for shelter and aid. Thing was they're very untrusting to outsiders. They didn't want anything to do with us. All but this one man, this one man, who offered up his home to us. We stepped in, met his family: wife and two daughers. They gave us food and water, stitched up our wounds, let us stay in their homes for a while. What was odd at the time was this man, I forget the name, seemed to know exactly who we were, and didn't seem to mind at all. He just wanted to do what was right.

"Wasn't long before Baracrus showed up. He ordered the people that if they didn't surrender us within an hour, he'd burn the city to ashes. Shortly there after a mob was pounding outside the door, demanding that the man and his family turned us over to the demons. The man stepped outside and told them no. To this day I still have no idea why he chose to defend us. He didn't know us, didn't owe us anything, we were complete strangers to him. I'm sure he was scared too. Scared for his family, scared for himself; yet he stood out before that crowd and told them that he would not allow us to become prisoners to that tyrant. My admiration and respect for humanity grew that day.

"Unfortunately that red-eyed bastard Baracrus wasn't good on his word. Guess he didn't want to take any chances of us escaping. This giant obelisk appeared out of nowhere, right in city square. So big and tall it blocked out the sun. Doors on its lower base opened up, and that's when they popped right out. Scavengers. Hundreds of them."

"Wait I remember that," Lu spoke out. "I remember that Baracrus took prisoners and tortured them for weeks on end. He wanted to see what Hell's influence could do, resulting in the creation of these monsters. I remember how badly he wanted to field test them to see how destructive they could be, but Legion always rejected that idea."

Mike's gazes shifted up at his youngest sibling. "Well I guess he tested them anyway," he pressed his bottle to his lips and sipped it down. "Did you know that was my first time I'd ever seen a scavenger? Before that day I heard rumors Baracrus had some sort of creature he was developing, yet nothing to cofirm it... until that day.

"You've all heard that old saying that the eyes were the windows to the soul I'm sure. I always saw it as a metaphor for the purity of the soul. That's why humans and mortals have colored pupils, it just meant that their souls were pure. Used to think that the reason demons had dark eyes or barely any pupils because their souls were corrupted or something. You look at a scavenger, there's nothing. There's no eyes. Nothing but empty sockets where eyes should be, or layers of skin covering where the eyes would be. A pure, soulless monster, like that sonuvabitch who created them. I'm sure y'all know plenty about them. You've been fighting them off for the longest time, since they ran loose in the Inferno and more souls are converted into them. You never forget their high-pitched screams. They were screaming. People in the streets and in their homes were screaming. Men... women... children... ripped to pieces. The city was painted red. The worst thing I ever saw that day, still haunts me to this day, was this one scavenger on top of this pregnant woman, ripped her belly wide open. She was still alive, crying and screaming, while that thing pulled out her unborn child with its teeth. Took at least a half hour until the whole city finally stopped screaming. All you could hear then was meat and bone being chewed up."

Michael exhaled another breathe. His hand wiped away the water forming in his eyes as he continued to remember that haunting time. Lu and the other demons noticed a small tremor in the angel's hand, which rattled his beer bottle too.

"Then I saw something else that day. Nobody believed me when I reported this, but I swear I saw something bigger slither out of that damned obelisk. It was like some kind of super scavenger. Three, maybe four, times the size of the rest. It crawled through the blood soaked streets, planting its teeth into few of the bodies. Then those same bodies started crawling and hissing like they were scavengers themselves.

"Once our energy was restored and our wings were working, I told the other angel to notify the Council about this, have them obliterate whole damn city. I was going to stay, repay my debt to the stranger that helped us. I escorted him and his family outside the city, hacking at whatever scavenger crossed our path. We made it outside where we watched as my brethren bombarded Sodom with lightning and cannon fire, wiping out all scavengers there. It was the only way to be sure.

"Later I heard that a horde of those freaks had already made their way to a nearby city called Gomorrah. The Council did the same thing they did at Sodom, and wiped it out too. There were still a number of human survivors still left in that city, but they didn't stand a chance. They never found any trace of that so-called super scavenger. They didn't even bother to look thoroughly."

Lucifer and his demons never said a word, continuing to stare at the angel. Pure expressions of shock and horror were glued to each of their faces. "What happened to the other angel that was with you then?" Moloch worked up the courage to ask.

Mike shrugged. "It was too much for him. He suffered a mental breakdown some time after the war and got sent off to a psychiatric hospital somewhere in Olympus (one of Heaven's nine districts) for treatment. It didn't help. The orderlies found him in his room the next month. He slit his wrists and throat open with a glass shard.

"Wanna hear some irony? Turned out that Baracrus was already leading his forces south regardless. They intended to sack Sodom, and unleash those scavengers on the population. We just showed him where it was at.

"You guys probably knew Baracrus better than I did. You've probably witnessed first hand some of the atrocities he's committed during the War. But this... I consider what happened at Sodom and Gomorrah the worst he's ever done. Even worse than when he manipulated my brother to turn against us." Mike pressed his bottle to his lips again, drinking the last of its contents. "Anyway, I did manage to get that stranger and his family out of the city safely. Guess that's a victory all on its own."

From there they all decided to finally call it a night.

#sinsofthefather #fiction #comedy #fantasy #horror #angels #demons

What follows is an account of true events as related to me by a Correctional Officer serving honorably for the last twenty years. He's currently a Captain, having worked his entire career in Georgia State Prison.

_______

"Robert Adam Lane the Third. You gave your soul to Him on May 7th, 1989, and it was a lie. A lie that you told the whole time you held your breath in that brownwater river. A lie you smiled out at that those holyrollers on the bank. Lies are mine, Lies are mine. Mine." The last "mine" trailed off into a phlegmy wheeze.

These words were clearly audible, despite the man lying face down and away from the windowed door to the isolation cell. The heavy steel meal-flap was standing open to facilitate communication and accommodate feeding times, but usually the cell's hard surfaces made an echo that distorted every sentence into chaos. This man's words, though, were not only audible, but guttural, far deeper than the inmate's normal speaking tones.

"I am His. I am His," Robert whispered, his voice tight and his chest light from raw fear.

There was no way for the inmate to have known his full name, and there was no way for him to have known that dark and shameful secret that Robert had never spoken aloud.

_______

He was just a kid when he was baptized. He didn't really understand the significance or the need until he and his wife had their first son. Introspection accompanied late night feedings and changes; the need for something greater and a higher purpose drove him to accept the religion he'd long ago been a part of, but had never really had be a part of him.

He had taken the job in the county's number two industry. First was farming, chiefly cattle. Second was the State Prison.

He had been on the job for three years when he encountered Simmons, David R., Number 200400097. Simmons had transferred in from another facility, and he was on year two of a six year sentence out of Atlanta. He had been in medical isolation for most of his incarceration, and he was now in disciplinary segregation for his own safety and the safety of others. Medically speaking, physically, there was nothing wrong with him. Psychologically, he had several diagnoses that required a small buffet of medications morning and night.

Robert's encounters with Simmons had been completely routine. Meals were delivered, medications were administered, the head count was conducted. No conversations ever occurred outside of "Good morning, please, and thank you."

However, every day, each and every single day that Robert stood shift in the isolation unit, Simmons would "act out" between 2 and 2:15 pm. These episodes mostly consisted of shouting, dancing, stripping, and speaking in tongues or singing. No seizures or convulsions, no physically damaging behavior ever presented itself and necessitated that restraints be used. One could practically set their watch by when these episodes would come to pass, which was in itself odd...because inmates in isolation had absolutely no way to tell time.

To make matters even more interesting, after a few weeks, Robert's supervisor claimed that the episodes only went down when Robert and one other officer were in the building.

There was no exterior window nor any way for Simmons to have heard or seen when Robert was working a duty rotation in Isolation, until Robert himself came to the door.

Some days, Robert never went into the cell blocks, instead, he worked solely in the control room...and still, the episodes presented themselves at around 2pm.

____________

Robert never told anyone at work about what Simmons said. He did his job, day in and day out, and he did his best to pretend that nothing had happened.

He always tried to avoid being in the cell blocks around 2pm.

For several weeks, this worked, until one day, time got away from him, and he found himself doing a head count...at two fifteen.

When Robert came to the window, his heart stopped.

Standing stock-still with his nose inches away from the reinforced glass, Simmons was completely rigid, absolutely, perfectly tense, and on the balls of his feet. Every muscle in his naked, wiry frame was taut, as though his whole body was experiencing a cramp. His eyes were saucers, opened as wide as they would possibly go, and they constantly rolled. Around, around, back until only the whites would show, and then back down, and around and around.

When Robert's eyes met his, Simmons stopped his eyerolls. Silence filled the cell and the hallway.

Laughter, slow and low, greeted Robert, and then that same guttural voice that had haunted Robert for weeks, spoke.

"Adam Lane the Third. Would you like to see what we do to this man when no one watches? Let us show you."

With that, Simmons head-butted the reinforced glass window. His forehead hit with such force that the steel door shook in its frame, and Robert was amazed that the glass didn't spiderweb. Twice, he hit the window, and before Robert could call for support to get Simmons restrained, a fourth and fifth impact sounded on the steel edge of the windowframe, and as suddenly as the assault began, it ended.

Simmons regained his tensed pose on the balls of his feet. His eyes, still wide as saucers, met Robert's. Blood slowly poured from large gashes above the inmate's eyebrows, covering his face in a red mask. There was absolutely no expression, no indication of pain, anger, or distress.

Perfectly impassive, Simmons stared.

Robert broke eye contact and walked on.

A short time later when medics arrived to clean him up, he had curled up and was asleep on his cot, and at final meal-call of the day, he said "Thank you" to Robert in his normal speaking voice as though nothing had happened.

Robert could barely hide the shake in his hands as he handed over the tray of food.

_________

Robert had grown up in the Pentacostal church. His grandmother, 93, still went every Sunday and Wednesday, and twice a month she attended Sunday School.

Robert was driving her to a Wednesday evening service when he told her about Simmons.

Her hand, covered in parchment-thin skin and decorated with liverspots and bruises, gripped his on the steering wheel. He drove with his left as she, with surprising strength, took his right hand in both of hers.

"Don't let him in, son. Don't you let him. He knows when those b'long to Jesus come 'round. He smells it. He hates it. You pray on it, yhear? You pray to Lordjesus, I'll pray with you. You pray with me today and you lookit that man in the eye the next time he acts the fool. You lookit'm and you tell'm to give you his name by the will of the Lord. He will. You ain't gonna unnahstand him, son, but he will. He'll do it if you're right with th'Lord. Get right, boy, and stay right. And you get clear. You stay away from that'un."

His grandmother was telling the truth.

____________

Weeks went by, and Robert heard nothing unusual out of inmate 200400097. Just when he was beginning to think that the whole thing was a strange game, something happened.

Simmons had maintained his routine of "showing out" at around 2pm daily. By coincidence, and not design, Robert had not found himself on the floor at these episodes. Ever since the day he'd rammed his head into the doorframe, Simmons had been nonviolent, only whispering, yelling, or singing to himself during his regular shows.

It was mid-song that Robert entered line of sight for Simmons. Abruptly, the singing stopped, and Simmons faced the door.

"I don't like it when you're here, Lane."

This came out as all one word, a husky whisper, but still that deep tone that was so unlike every other time the prisoner spoke. "Lane" became "laaaaaaaaaaaaayyyyynnnnnnnnnnn" in the latest attempt to rattle the officer.

Angry, Robert faced the inmate. "Hey. By Jesus, tell me your Name. Who are you? By Christ, what is your NAME?" Robert shouted the last word, and the echoes filled the concrete hallway.

Simmons recoiled as though struck. He looked to be in physical pain, but Robert heard him speak. The jeering, cheerful face was pinched, and a word came from his lips in a rasp. Robert heard it clearly, but he couldn't understand it. It sounded foreign, it sounded alien.

It sounded Other.

"I have heard your Name. Never. Speak. To. Me. Again."

With that, the inmate curled up into a ball on his bed.

That was the last time that David R. Simmons ever spoke to Robert A. Lane, III.

___________

Robert Lane's hand shook as he snubbed out his last Marlboro Red. A collection of them sat bent, burned and broken in the silver ashtray between us. We both leaned our elbows on the pinewood picnic table where we'd shared a meal and a story.

He thumbed through the pages of the book by Malachi Martin I'd been reading before he sat down to eat with me today. Cover fluttering in the wind, "Hostage to the Devil" had gained its own seat at our table as he put it down next to the remains of my chicken salad sandwich.

"I don't need to read about this in a book or see it in a movie, man. I've seen it in real life. What scares me most, though, is that it has seen me."

Three of us. Three out of eight of us. Three of us were left, each clutching weapons. I stood against the wall, glancing between the other two. Matt was in the middle of the room, wielding a walking stick. Rebecca was close to the door. She had a knife. I was stuck with a frying pan.

Rebecca started backing toward the door.

"Stop!" shouted Matt. He moved closer to Rebecca. "I am not letting either of you out of my sight until I know which of you is the killer."

"Are you kidding me?" shouted Rebecca. "I just want to get away. I know one of you is a lunatic, and I don't want to stick around to see who's going to stab me in the back."

"Well, you'd know about stabbing, wouldn't you? You've got the knife. And we both saw what happened to Sam." Matt's fingers turned white as he gripped the stick. "Throat cut. How could you do that to your boyfriend?"

"It wasn't me!" Rebecca slashed the air with her knife. "I wouldn't do that! I love him! And you know I only grabbed a knife after we found him. Besides, don't you always carry a pocket knife? Where is that now I wonder?"

I eyed the window at the far side of the room. We were on the second floor, but there were lots of bushes around the house. If I could open the door while they were distracted, I could get away. I stepped away tentatively.

Matt didn't notice; he was too busy shouting. "I didn't bring a knife today! I didn't even bring a wallet! I wasn't even supposed to come, Sue asked me at the last minute."

"Sue. Sue, who died before I even got the chance to talk to her tonight? That's convenient." Rebecca held the knife in front of her with both hands, poised to spring. "I thought you two didn't get along very well. Maybe you argued. Maybe you lashed out. Maybe you panicked. Maybe you decided the rest of us knew too much."

I inched closer to the window. Getting it open would be the hard part, but if I got through fast enough I could get a running start. Assuming I didn't twist my ankle.

"No!" bellowed Matt. I froze, but he was still staring at Rebecca, so I kept moving. "I mean, sure we argued about politics all the time, but we were both friends with Sasha. She figured Sasha would be happy to see me for the party. After all --"

Matt swung the stick at Rebecca's hands, but she dodged further away. They both stared at each other, panting slightly.

At that second, I stepped on a creaky board. Paralyzed by fear, I watched both my friends turn toward me.

"You know," said Matt softly, "you've been very quiet this whole time."

I could feel the blood drain from my face. I tried to speak, but my tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth.

Rebecca frowned, and moved next to Matt. "You have got to be kidding me," she shouted. "You? YOU? Of course it was you! You had only just got back from the "bathroom" when we found Sue! You were cooking, you could have gotten a knife without anyone seeing! It makes sense now!"

Why couldn't I speak? All sorts of answers were running through my head. I left for the bathroom -- because I needed to use the bathroom! I wasn't gone long enough to kill anyone! Everyone was in the kitchen at some point! Why would I even want to kill anyone! Hadn't I been the first one to try to call the police? But none of that made it out of my mouth, as Matt and Rebecca slowly advanced toward me.

Instead, what I felt welling up was a laugh. Pure, dark laughter at the absurdity of us fighting, at the impossibility of what had happened to my friends, one by one. I willed myself not to, but my sense of humor was pitch black and bone dry at the best of times. I knew I wouldn't be able to hold it in much longer, and laughing at all this would seal my death warrant.

I lunged for the window. I had even gotten it open when I was yanked onto the floor. I instinctively crossed my arms in front of my face, but it didn't do much against the blows and the stabs.

I was still conscious when they stood back, but only just. I struggled to stay conscious, even drag myself away, but it was all I could do to keep my eyes open as my head buzzed.

"It's over," said Rebbecca, her voice clear but strangely hard to hear. "It has to be over."

"Yes," said Matt. "It's not like it was one of us."

The last thing I saw was the flash of the knife and the swing of the stick. The last thing I heard was two bodies hitting the floor at the same time.

It was so tiny, resting in my sweaty palms. It squirmed in my grasp like a tiny worm and drooled like an infant. Then, it began to lose its warmth. Just a little hint to you: Children's fingers don't stay warm forever.

In the corner was the child whose finger I chopped off. She was crying, rocking back and forth, clutching her hand that was soaked in blood. She was scared. She looked up at me. The fear was momentary. She smiled at me and held up her hand. Her pinky was but a nasty stub.

"More, please!" She croaked. I could tell she was still in pain. Tears flowed down her cheeks but I could not turn away. I pulled out my giant shears that hung from my back pocket and snipped. Plop. Her index finger dropped to the ground, followed by a crimson cascade. The girl whimpered softly and I tilted my head. I realized that she was giggling. Her soft eyes beckoned me as she lifted her bloodied hand once more. I snipped and snipped and snipped until all her fingers were off. The girl was laying on the ground, smeared in her blood. Smiling.

"I still have another haaaand." She yelled at me this time, practically grinning to both ears. It was my turn to be scared. The way she laughed after I backed away scared me more. The way she starting wailing when she followed me upstairs from the basement and onto the asphalt road scared me the most. Pale moonlight shined on us both. The girl's little teeth glistened in that wide smile of hers as she lifted her other hand that was full of short fingers. She was tracing circles along the road with her stub for a hand. So I walked closer. I kneeled down and got so close to the girl, that I felt her breathing down my throat. And I snipped. But this time, her head went tumbling. It tumbled down the road, leaving a trail of blood. But still, that smug smile of hers with her tiny teeth and those big eyes was chiseled into my mind like how a sculptor chisels marble. And in my basement were her five little fingers that looked like squirming pale worms, drooling on the floorboards beneath my living room. And on the road was the girl's corpse, left to rot and to be forgotten until her head comes tumbling back and her worm-like fingers come squirming to reconstruct the girl into her old lively self. Hopefully, she wouldn't end up in my basement once again so I could snip and snip until her blood floods the streets and swallows the world whole in a river of the little girl's blood.

Sam: Aaaah! Mummy!!

Jen: Sam! What’s wrong?

Sam: I’m afraid of the dark.

Jen: Sam, you’re a big boy now. There’s no need to be afraid of the darkness.

Sam: But I’m only six. I am still a kid.

Jen: (Laughs) Yes, you’ll always be my little baby boy. Now please go to bed.

Sam closes his eyes, and his Mummy turns off his lamp. But leaves his night light on.

Meanwhile in the woods, there’s a meeting of a haunting nature.

All the creatures from fright city were in Sam’s home town. They had gathered in the small town of Hop because it was Frightober.

Boogeyman: (chuckles) My dear fellow monsters, it’s that time of year again. We can rampage at night and bring fear to kids near & far.

Gus: Oh my ghoul. I can’t beleive it. This year has flown by.

Bean the ghost dog: Woof! Ruff, yup, yap. Grrrr.

Boogeyman: Calm down my impatient pet. You’ll have a chance to play. Now we just have to wait till all the parents go to bed. Then we strike. Mehehehahah!

****************************

Sam tossed and turned in his bed. All how he didn’t like being left in the dark. He awoke from a panic-anxious nightmare.

He couldn’t fall asleep without his teddy. Sam put on his night slippers and went downstairs.

With each step he took, every staircase made a loud creaky sound/noise.

He took careful and stealthy steps to try and not wake up his parents. When he got to the kitchen, he though he saw moving shadows pass right by the kitchen window. His eyes must have been seeing things. He was really tired.

Gus: Psst. Boogey, I think the coast is clear. Should I blow the monster whistle?

Boogeyman: Yeah. Time for us all to enjoy this night.

Sam sat at the kitchen table. He prepared for himself a glass of milk and a plate of some cookies. His Mummy has baked him his favorite cookies, chocolate-smarties. He always liked the combined flavors of chocolate and smarties in his cookies.

Once he was done, he went straight right back to bed.

Just as Sam closed his eyes, he heard a slight rattling noise coming from outside. He got out of his bed and took a glance outside, through his window. What he saw made his eyes nearly pop out of his eye sockets.

There was an enormous gathering or crowd of monsters outside. Some with glowing orange & green eyes. Then another few that had really long wavy arms and scales. Sam felt like his nightmare had come to life. There was also a tall purple monster that had gigantic claws & teeth. He looked like he was the one in charge.

Was this all a bad dream? If it was Sam wanted to wake up from it? He tried not to make a sound. But when he walked slowly away from the window, the ghost dog, Bean, had started barking and growling.

Sam quickly fell to the floor. He tried to crawl away from the window and to his parents room.

His Heart was racing. BOOM-Boom-boom-Boom-BOOM-Boom-boom-Boom-BOOM. He felt like it was going to jump out of his chest.

The monster squad, were split into different groups. Each group all ran to various houses to scare kids.

Sam ran towards his parents bedroom. He opened their bedroom door. They looked like they were in a deep sleep. What was going on? He shook them, that didn’t work. It was like they had been tranquilized and were out cold.

The little kid had a bad feeling. This could all have been the work of the monsters of the night.

Sam started shaking and feeling dizzy. He was having trouble breathing.

The Boogeyman walked up the steps to Sam’s home. He opened the front door and walked right in.

Sam heard the floor creak downstairs. Someone or something was in the house. He dashed right back to his room and hid in his closet.

Gus was tiptoeing behind the Boogeyman. Bean, the ghost dog, was with them too.

Boogeyman: Kid. We know you’re in here somewhere. There is nowhere you can hide.

Sam covered his mouth with both of his hands. He didn’t want his loud breathing to give away his location.

Gus: Boss. The kid must be hiding under his bed.

Boogeyman: Ahahahh! Trying to play hide and seek with us. How charming.

The monsters were now near Sam’s room. They opened the door. Gus rushed over to the side of Sam’s bed. The only thing they found under the bed were some toys and garlic.

Gus: He thinks Garlic will get rid of us.

Boogeyman: This one is smart Gus. Let’s not waste our time playing Cat and mouse games.

Sam waited for the three nightmares to leave his room. Thank goodness he changed his mind to hide in his closet. If he hid under his bed, who knows what the monsters would habe done to him.

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

The next day, Sam was happy to see the first rays of sunlight.

He ran to his parents room.

Sam: Daddy? Mummy?

Jen: (yawns) Good morning Sammy!

Troy: Hey, tiger. Good morning!

Sam: Am I glad to see you both and wide awake. You’ll not believe the night I had.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Gus: Boss. Why did you plan to take over the parents bodies?

Boogeyman: We have to always be a step ahead of these Gen Y children Gus. Then, quite soon, we´ll have taken over the entire adult population across the globe. It starts here in this little town of Hop.

****************************

The first thing I notice is the rotten smell. Putrid by all definition of the word, seeping through the roof of my mouth and absorbing on my tongue. Wanting to cough, but not quite finding the strength to do so, my body quivers. Struggling to open my eyes, I’m met with a blur of shapes, and I deduct that I’m laying on the kitchen floor; the chill of the tile becoming buried in my bones.

“It’s all going to be okay baby, momma’s making dinner” A melodic voice echoes in my ears, causing me to look up- or try to -in the direction it had come from.

What is a normal sentence to most, makes my insides double over. She hums a syrupy sweet song that resonates with me like liquid medicine. You know the one they tell you tastes like cherries but goes down in a horrible make you want to vomit, kind of way that tells you, you’ve been tricked.

Grasping at the empty contents of my stomach, my dry mouth opens.

“Mm..” scratches out of my throat, leaving a painful sting.

“Shhhhh, baby, it’s nearly ready”

Fingers twitch forward, finding themselves covered in a wet something I know the name of, but my mind drifts. The pins and needle sensation itching under my skin makes it hard to focus on anything else.

Hearing the sticky footsteps paired with the growing humming, I try to will myself up, but cold hands grasp at my head and gently lifted it. Eyes closed, I gulp down whatever it is that she’s feeding me, starting to chew on a chunk of something, with only one thought on my aching brain.

Where’s dad?

Black,

Dark,

Red eyed monster…

Creeping,

Crawling,

Right down under…

Your bed,

Through cities,

Where darkness quiver

Smoke,

Death,

You’re under his spell…

Grim reaper

Jack reaper

All had been slayed

By this monster

Inevitable

Hungry for slaves

If you see him

Try running

Don’t give him your name

Once caught

You’re trapped

He’ll make you his art

With your blood as his drink

He’ll pierce your heart

Black,

Dark,

Red eyed monster…

Creeping,

Crawling,

Right down under…

Run,

Run,

Don’t let him catch you

No wait!

Stop.

Look at that block

You’re trapped

Oh no,

I guess now you’re one of us…

Staring at that smile always made me calmer. There was something so serene in the pale lips and neutral twist to the mouth that eased all my anxieties. That perfect dimple on only one cheek told volumes of the laughter that hid in the eyes that stared from above them. I often found myself lost staring at that face whenever I started slipping too far from my calm.

My fingers brushed along the cheek, enjoying the caress of the soft skin. I sighed, shoulders sagging as the weight that had pressed upon them all day finally lifted. My sanctuary, I was back in my sanctuary. "Today was almost unbearable. I couldn't wait to come home to you," I murmured.

That perfect smile remained. Another sigh escaped me. This was what I loved. Coming home to that perfect smile, caressing that soft skin. It solved everything.

"It'll be okay. Tomorrow will be better, I'm sure," I promised. My therapist said it was bad to fixate like I was, to depend so thoroughly on one person to help keep me calm. If it worked, why bother fixing it I say. It wasn't like I needed to worry about losing my anchor. It wasn't like he would ever think about leaving me.

Another sigh escaped me. My fingers ran over that beautiful skin one last time. I placed a chaste kiss on those perfect lips, mindful not to press too hard. I could certainly ruin things by moving the skin.

Standing, I headed for the door, casting one last look at that perfect face. He was mine for ever. My perfect answer to how to deal with the troublesome world. My anchor could never leave me, except if I didn't mindfully keep watch for insects eating at the lingering bits of meat from the taxedermy process.

The unmerciful hues of ebony descended upon the writhing afternoon sky, dusk beginning to take its toll on the arrogance of the once morning sun. Though there, a tattered box was left in the beams of daylight, absorbing all the stubborn heat midst the wretched folds of only desert and road.

Pity, pity, poor thing, for an ambiguous voice lay quiet and silent in the crate of cardboard, awaiting for a savior to pass along the untouched trail. It wasn’t until a car began to pass that it screeched with such ferocity, it caught the passenger by utter disbelief. My, what an odd little thing?

“Help me, for I am but a meek trinket!” It had shrieked, its cracked voice shrouded in desperation.

“What are you,” the passerby said inquisitively, “For you are not human to fit yourself in such a small box.”

“A figment of which I cannot say,” it responded, rushed, as if cautious of an over-whelming anxiety. With impatience, the queer object erupted in spasms, struggling to be free from its cage, and at once pounded onto the sides with such ferocity until it reached the edge of the car.

“You must be the demon the villagers speak of,” The driver hissed, scowling at the ambiguous voice, “It matters not if your suffering is of the likes of such a foul beast.”

With a pause, the trinket began to erupt in a jovial laugh, its chiming tone, as if a young girl, light and ringing. Though the innocent, idyllic giggle deepened in a sudden gurgle and a course cackle took foot, crusted and low, as if declined by decades of an over-laying dust and the silk cobwebs of insolent spiders.

And, without warning, a crack sounded in the box midst the laughter.

Sharp, loud and swift.

In an odd event, the inaudible sighs of the timid wind slowed.

The male, still in distance of said crate, tsked and began to further the space of him and the voice. Though the car refused to move. Instead, it hissed with heat and in a warbled cry, shuddered with a meek haughtiness. Deepening his foot on the pedal and trying to strengthen his already slipping mentality, he cursed himself for speaking to the dubious so-called ‘trinket’ in the first place.

“I do believe you’re worsening your situation, bucko!” The youthful female’s voice mused, a snap and odd burble commencing.

“Don’t you know? Night-time is a comin’!” This time, an older man of a southern origin had informed.

A cough and crack reverberated through the box, as if the sound of thousands of small lithe bones crushed in the instance of a dying second, becoming increasingly shrill.

Frantic, the man at once ran from the car and headed towards the right of the desert in search for help.

Though all was too late.

As the sun began its pompous decent, the box began to quiver.

In a small judder, it ceased its talking and began to hiss.

Petrified from the sound, the man stilled in his attempt to escape and began to edge his both tormented and curious head toward the cause.

It struggled with more intensity now, the voice within the box changing as if a radio station, between voices and languages from within the world. Though all murmured the same statement.

“Run… in DaYliGht. Seek… at nIGHt. Hide… at DaWn. Five till’ nIGHt.”

The male ran.

He continued until he could no longer see the worn container that held the odd demon.

Though the moon began to rise.

The box was opened.

In a hiss and low, deep-throated rumble, it splayed its disfigured body across the ground and scurried towards its victim ravenously, hiding within the depths of the ill-biding shadows.

The male, running for the sake of his pitiable life, could only do so to scramble impetuously from the monster that lurked at night. It was then that the lights of a city came into view.

He was close.

Too close, it seemed.

Desperately reaching for the lights of a newfound savior, he cried for help and ran only swifter. Though all was shrouded in dark. An inky ebony that was unseen to those in a safe reality, a black so deep, even the tone of death could not bare to reach its unimaginable standards of obscurity swathed the man.

The taps of nails scuttling across an obsidian concrete was the only noise in the void. And, in the grim, yet unaccepting, realization that he could not escape, he sprinted from the surrounding clamors, though ran only closer to the demon.

He was near the brink of a death so unsightly, not even he could dare imagine it.

Nor admit it.

With a hiss, it was feet away.

Sweat beaded down the male’s face as he stood utterly still, his heart beating like a bird desperate to escape from its iron cage. A sense of nausea over-whelmed his adrenaline run body, quivering uncontrollably from the thought of his end. As he brought his hands over his eyes, crying tears of helplessness and an unmatchable anguish, he held back his wracks of sobs and wished not to see the monster’s face.

It snuffed the ground near his feet, pushing its snout-like nose into the foot the innocent man’s shoe before cackling in the young girl’s cheerful tone.

But that was all a ruse, thought the man, I will die by the hands of a demon, nothing more and nothing less. What an incredulous beast with only the thought of chaos in its mind.

The demon pounced on the male’s body, forcefully removing his hands from his face and smiling with utter malice.

It was the unborn fetus of a woman.

Disgusted and scornful, the male attempted to kick the demon from his body and struggle against its powerful grip. Though it only stared at him with its grin, unmoving.

Its body held no skin, crimson with its unending flow of its own blood. Its eyes were swollen and blind, milky with cataracts and the delayed development of proper irises. The child’s face was knobby and flawed, having a snout twisted and flared as if a swine’s, as well as unsymmetrical ears and a lopsided, unfurled grin withholding pointed teeth of an aged yellow.

“Found you.”

The demon sunk its jaws into the jugular of the man and consumed him voraciously, a spray of a clear claret across the black canvas of the void they sat in.

It was then that an innocent was murdered in the insatiable grasp of night to a demon of differing identities.

A lurking carnivore of an unquenchable thirst for human blood.

A beast of many names, but well-known and feared for his true self:

A reaper of souls.