Author's Insider Note
This pairing... it arrived unbidden. I never planned them, not truly. One moment, silence—and the next, a flood. A plague-slicked backdrop, lovers estranged by time, bound by something older than memory. I didn’t create them. They revealed themselves, fully formed, like smoke curling from the mouth of something ancient. I was merely the vessel, the ink-stained hands they chose.
Are they ghosts? No. That word is far too soft. In this world, we call them what they are—demons. But not all demons come to devour. Some come bearing mirrors. And whether you fight them off... or open your arms... well. That changes everything, doesn’t it?
Obsideo
Humans are strange beings. With their free will and their perchance for sin, it is a wonder they stayed alive this long.
The breeze rustles the leaves on the trees as I move through the quiet streets. Their lamps have all burned out, the living vacated some time ago. The remaining populace scatter on the stone cobbled roads, some with skin peeling off their bones. The creatures of this plane emerge from ruptured entrails, leaving blood splattered in their wake. The scent of decay weighs heavily and cloys the air like the perfume of the underworld.
I haven’t ventured on this side of the world in some time. The sight of their majestic cathedrals still fascinates me with their pointed roofs and large archways. My mind ponders whether these temples were originally made to worship demons such as myself. Why else would the doorways be so large, while humans never grew beyond the first that came before them?
Their statues of humans with wings baffle me. Where do these creatures get such strange notions? Perhaps their lies placate their fears in the face of truth. The strangest statue of all is the one they kneel to. The image of a man, tortured and hung on a cross. Do they lift up suffering and death? Or are they warding off enemies by leaving an example of how they rid themselves of threats to their simple-minded kingdoms — for what else can it be when it’s a statue of a man with a crown of thorns? Yet they still choose to go to their fellow humans in order to rid themselves of self-imposed sins. How does confessing change their free will? What is it about this side of the world and their beliefs?
Chitter chatters of sprites who’ve breached this realm fade in and out, but it matters not to me. I continue my path out of the city and onto the next.
It seems Death has already made his way through here as well. The petrified bodies strewn on the muddy roads are the first signs of what lies ahead. It was no surprise when I was met with the smell of rotting carcasses, half-devoured at the gates.
Decay is stronger here, thicker — as if some of their souls refuse to leave the mortal plane, trying to make their way back to bodies ravaged with boils and sickly pallor.
The humans have named this series of events something or another — an epidemic. They always have a need for names. As if it would make the reality of their mortality any clearer than what it already is.
The rise and fall of man. A cycle that continues every so often after a mass reaping by the master. Hovering around the outskirts of this town, I find myself wandering to the next. It’s the same. It’s always the same. I’ve lost track of time. Their predictability bores me to no end.
How Death deals with the monotony of his duties, I will never understand.
A spark of something catches my attention – the low strum of a heartbeat to the east of here. My body returns to mist as I travel through the trees. There’s an energy that calls to me. An untouched darkness…
The surrounding woods camouflage the cabin that sits strategically at the heart of it. Darkness encompasses the small building under the light of the full moon. A strange mist surrounds its walls as if purposely placed there. A figure’s silhouette in front of a candle flickers, as if the shadow itself were alive.
As I move closer, the fog dissipates as if expecting my arrival. Something is familiar, but I cannot put my finger on it. Have I been here before? The walls of the home are covered in moss and vines as if the surroundings once attempted to swallow it whole, but thought better of it, leaving behind the evidence of a past left untouched, until…
She stands in her kitchen, humming a tune. Through the cracked glass, I see that her hands are busy with a mortar and pestle as she sprinkles what looks like green skins of a root plant. Her dark dress sways with each grind, hypnotizing me with her repetitive motion.
Seeping through her walls, I peek over her shoulder to take a closer look at what she’s working on. The hairs on the back of her neck stand, and her breathing becomes shallow. I tilt my head and watch as her skin pebbles, reminding me of the pustules left on the flesh of the dead back in the city. Does she feel my presence? Not many do…
My interest is piqued.
Grabbing her pestle, I throw it against her sink and she screams. My fangs elongate with mirth right before I blow against her neck. She steps back with a hand over her heart and I circle her. Her fright pulls me in, makes me hunger. The way her heart pounds in her chest is loud in my ears — reminding me of the drums of war in the continents to the south. Her skin pales nicely each time it comes in contact with my mist.
Yes, perhaps a small pit stop would do me good.
Her fear feeds me with enthusiasm for what else she might be able to provide me. I continue to circle her like a predator, waiting to devour her soul. With emotions this strong, her soul would be most delicious.
She doesn’t see me; no. Her eyes are glued to the stone pestle that continues to roll back and forth with a harsh grating sound against the porcelain.
She’s young in the eyes of man. Looking around, I find no one else in the cabin with her. Interesting, indeed. How does a single female end up out here in the middle of nowhere, away from the swarm of other humans? Are they not sociable creatures? Do they not crave the company of others?
“You’re seeing things. Your hand slipped, that’s all. Stop acting like a lunatic, Agatha. Get back to work,” she speaks aloud to herself.
I’ve only come across such things near their place of worship — places where their religious leaders punish whom they deem are the wicked. Sometimes they do it in these strange boxes divided by curtains.
Is this why this female is here? I lean in, my right upper limb going right through her flesh as I attempt to constrict her heart. Her breathing hitches and tears drip out the side of her eyes. I smile at her response.
Leaning in, I take in the smell of her perspiration. It is fear mixed with something else, something very, very interesting indeed.
“Are you wicked, Agatha?” I whisper.
A piercing scream erupts from her throat as her hands go over her ears and she falls to her knees with a loud crash. Maniacal laughter from my own self joins her as I watch her fall on the ground in a fetal position, shaking in distress. The flying creatures outside leave the haven of their branches, covering the night sky with their raven wings.
“We’re going to have fun, you and I. It’s been so long since I’ve been this entertained.”
Chitters echo around the cabin as I jump into her being, nestling under her skin and burrowing my way across the flesh of her neck, toward her tumultuous mind.
The sweet sound of another scream erupts, cutting through the darkness, welcoming me to my next victim.
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