Herbie Hunter and the Djinnius Executioner

By Michael HH Warren

In the final months of 2026, a brutal string of murders has rocked Northern Nevada. The work of a monstrous serial killer — the Djinnius Executioner. As the body count piles up, a strange pattern begins to emerge — whenever the mangled corpse of a victim is discovered, the same person is waiting at every crime scene. Herbie Hunter.

Could Herbie have finally snapped from the endless trauma he’s faced since arriving in Paradise Rift, or has Don Balcom finally thought of a plan to get him out of the picture for good? Desperate to prove his innocence, Herbie must cross the globe, following the trail of breadcrumbs that the Djinnius Executioner has left for him.

Last Generation is a series of YA magical realism action and adventure novels that tells the story of the battle between good and evil that has been waging since the dawn of time. The third installment, Herbie Hunter and the Djinnius Executioner blows the lid off the grand conspiracy, finally revealing the master plan that has been brewing for thousands of years.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Michael HH Warren
• Release date: Jul 29, 2021
• ISBN: 9781005677060

Michael HH Warren

Michael HH Warren began writing about his life during the South African winter of 2009. Driven by a strong desire to tell his story, what began as a creative outlet would eventually become his first book, In The Name Of God. The writing bug has bitten, and Michael has since published several novels. A far cry from his memoir, these books are aimed at teens/young adults who represent Generation Z (GenZ). Still having a passion for the world of non-fiction, Michael has several ideas presently evolving into draft manuscripts. He lives with his wife, two children and three Jack Russells.

Book preview

Herbie Hunter

and the

Djinnius Executioner

Last Generation – Book Three

Michael HH Warren

© Michael ‘Double-H’ Warren 2018

www.michaelhhwarren.com

www.sleightsoccer.com

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission from the author. Brief excerpts may be cited in book reviews, provided the narrative quoted is verbatim and due credit is given by way of the book title and name of author.

Herbie Hunter and the Djinnius Executioner, although a work of fiction, has a very strong correlation to historical facts, religious spiritual concepts, and a certainty in the reality of the near future to be faced. However, for the reason that it remains a work of fiction, kindly accept that no apologies will be forthcoming for any offended sensitivities.

While many names of most entities and places are factual, the majority of other names, characters, places, incidents, and events are products of the author’s imagination and therefore used fictitiously. However, some terms are deliberately fictitious to avoid confusion and to preserve anonymity. Even so, the reader will naturally relate to basic emotional signals.

Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or having the seemingly impossible likelihood of imitating any actual incident or event, is purely coincidental. Should any artifact, business, event, incident, institution, name or place be found to be evident and occurring in public domain source documents and resource repositories, then accept that they are true to life and therefore factual.

Should any factual inaccuracy or a suspected lapse in basic acumen on the part of the author be detected in the narrative, I hope the reader will interpret the oddities with humor, gravity, and/or relevance. Accordingly, the author hereby absolves himself from any libelous action or responsibility for any unintentional errors or omissions.

Illustrations: Siané Power

Cover design: Michael Corvin

Book design: Leila Summers

Editor: Karen McKee

Storyline Advisor and Editor: Ross Julius Henshall

Contents

Glossary

Author's Note

Preface

Prologue

Man of the House

Chapter One: The Tongue

Chapter Two: The Eyes

Chapter Three: The Heart

Chapter Four: Hell Frozen Over

Chapter Five: Herbie and Goliath

Chapter Six: Big Fish

Chapter Seven: Blood Sacrifice

Chapter Eight: Treasure

Chapter Nine: Execution

Chapter Ten: Good Night, Grand Magnus

Acknowledgements

Glossary

AI

Acronym for artificial intelligence.

Baba Yaga

A prolific character in Slavik folklore, often depicted as a witch or treacherous hag.

Camaro

A muscle car produced by Chevrolet from 1966 to present.

Chort

A demon in Russian folklore with the appearance of a goat/human hybrid.

Curson

A demon with the power of future-sight depicted as a man with the head of a lion and holding a vicious viper in his hand.

Chto za fignya

Russian, roughly translates to ‘What’s this thingy?’

Dacha

A Russian country house.

Durachit

Russian, translates to ‘fool.’

Dva

Russian, translates to ‘two’ (number).

EEG smart-helmet

Electroencephalogram smart-helmet. A cap placed over the top of the skull with several electrical sensors that can pick up electrical activity in the brain.

FSB

The Federal Security Service of the Russian Federation, Russian central intelligence.

Goliath

A massive, AI controlled mechatronic soldier.

Heat Gun

A handheld device with a powerful heating element used to melt ice.

Hermetic Kabbalah

A combination of various forms of mysticism from around the world, combined into a single text and belief system.

Hoverbike

A futuristic electric-powered hovering vehicle with a chassis similar to a motorbike, propelled by four rotors similar to a drone.

Hoverkart

A futuristic electric-powered custom-built hovering vehicle with an extended chassis and reinforced armor.

Ishtar

A Mesopotamian goddess of war and love, occasionally referenced in ancient Egyptian texts.

IV

Acronym for intravenous, referring to an intravenous drip.

Izvrashchenets

Russian, translates to ‘pervert’.

Khylst

An underground ‘Christian’ sect that has existed in Russia since the 1600s.

MOBAs

From the singular, MOBA. Acronym for Multiplayer Online Battle Arena, an online video game format where two teams compete to destroy each other’s bases.

Neuro-Linguistic Programming (NLP)

A way of communicating that implants ideas in the receiver’s mind without them realizing.

Nikitina

A small rural village in Tyumen Oblast, Russia.

Pokrovskoye

A small rural village in Tyumen Oblast, Russia.

Potassium Chloride

The key ingredient in a lethal injection.

Sky Gate

Don Balcom’s first cult, situated near Roswell, New Mexico.

Stalin

Joseph Vissarionovich Stalin was the leader of the Soviet Union during World War II. As communist dictator, he was responsible for the deaths of millions. His extreme communist policies starved millions, while any group that dared oppose him were met by a firing squad or were sent re-education camps (also known as labor camps) known as ‘gulags’ where they often died of hypothermia or exhaustion.

Systema

A Russian martial art, literally translating to ‘the system.’

TIA

Tzadikim International Aid.

Tri

Russian, translates to ‘three’ (number).

Ty greshnik

Russian, translates to ‘you are sinners.’

Urod

Russian, translates to ‘freak.’

Dedication

For Kelly, Caden and Generation Z.

Michael HH Warren, 2019

Author’s Note

Herbie Hunter and the Djinnius Executioner questions the role of the righteous man when darkness seems to be reaching out of every corner. Is it his duty to protect the weak and fight on his own or embolden those who feel defenseless, even though it may put their lives at risk? Is it not a greater sin to aid another’s ignorance than to open their eyes to the truth of this broken world?

Herbie Hunter and the Djinnius Executioner asks whether people are born evil, choose evil, or are given no choice but to be evil. Society holds great claims about its progression over the millennia, but still, it creates monsters, degenerates, and depraved killers who rival those of humanity's hardest times. How is it that despite the unprecedented improvements to technology, social benefit, and intellectual thought in our world, evil seems to outstrip the progression of the good? We all face hardships in life, but why is that some use it as fuel for their inner demons?

Now Herbie must answer these questions as he discovers the nuances of evil, forcing himself to face the depravity of this world like never before. In his effort to protect those he loves, he will be forced to learn a hard lesson on the necessity of friendship and that no man is an island. Although he has begun to learn a quiet patience, a deep rage still burns beneath the surface, a rage that can only be defeated by being destroyed and rebuilt in the light of Yeshuah. After all his trials and his defeats, it is finally time for Herbie to come of age, to find his truth, and be a true warrior for the forces of good.

Michael HH Warren

November 2019

Preface

Herbie Hunter had always believed in friendship. As long as he had his friends by his side, he was confident that everything would always turn out well, and the forces of evil would suffer for crossing their paths.

But now, Herbie knows that if he continues to let others fight battles on his behalf, it is only a matter of time until they fall victim to the very evils they seek to destroy.

In the final months of 2026, it was as though the imaginary lines along the globe were curling up, creating a tension on the planet’s surface. As the Western World gradually banded together under a one world, single government, the few nationalist outliers who refused to integrate into the whole were being painted as the enemy.

Europe had undergone a facelift since the Big Crash. When the weaker economies in the union buckled under their own failed policies and corruption, they faced two options: to amalgamate into a unified European government led by those whose economies still managed to thrive in the hardest of times or to face expulsion from the union and try to piece together a currency from an economy that had nothing but debt. This choice was a mere illusion.

The EU was quickly becoming a replica of the United States Federal Government with taxes from cooperating states going toward a centralized government and army. They spread the word of globalism like a New Age religion, the common desire to save the planet from collapsing in on itself as its core principle. This situation gave them all the ammo they needed to shoot down any state that opposed their cause.

The European Union spearheaded an anti-nationalist campaign, labeling any country that fought to keep its own unique identity as burdens to the progression of humankind as racial purists, and, ideally, as Neo-Nazis. By polarizing the world into globalists and nationalists, governments across the world were increasingly forced to pick a side before the situation ended in all-out war.

The people of the United States of America responded to this growing divide between globalist and nationalist agendas by creating a greater divide amongst their members. Never in its history had the country been so politically polarized. Democrats and Republicans, liberals and conservatives—the gray fence between them had become too thin for anyone to sit on- and the hatred between the two sides rivaled that of warring armies.

Paradise Rift was no exception. It was no wonder Don Balcom had decided to run for governor as a Democrat—it was always a core principle of Light Seeker doctrine to unite the world beneath the rule of the Galactic Brethren—and it would take the Democrats' globalist philosophy to achieve this goal.

In the meantime, Herbie watched the gubernatorial elections unfold with bated breath and a deep and terrible fear of what Don might do with his newfound power if he were ever selected as leader. He finally realized that when the time came to strike the final blow against Don Balcom, he would be doing it alone, which would be the only way to ensure the safety of his friends. And if he died committing his life to his mission, at least it would only be one life lost instead of many.

It’s so easy to think, with the world on its brink,

That the eons are cold and uncaring

That those trillion stars, are but death battle scars,

On the void at which you are staring

When time is a slayer, that is deaf to the prayer,

And life seems a long execution

The Lord, let Him break you, to pieces that make you,

Be rebuilt to your true constitution

Prologue

November 11, 2026

TOP SECRET

URGENT

Self-terminating message drop

Subject: Specimen 6

To begin, let me apologize for bypassing the chain of command and contacting you directly. It just so happens that someone along that line has personal interests in my mission, and I doubt he would bother passing this message along.

My time at Area 51 was fruitful. We achieved results. I believe team A51-S6 succeeded in the resurrection of the Nephilim genome flawlessly, and I’m proud of the work we carried out as a unit. The giants are the perfect props—alive, but obedient. They may as well be robots. Unfortunately, Specimen 6 increasingly integrated with them.

Since we abandoned the ranch and moved operations to the Silver Mine Base, a new level of social awareness has manifested in the giants. They barely noticed the existence of each other before Specimen 6 was put in close proximity to them. They have since made it entirely clear that they would obey every word Specimen 6’s speaks.

I understand, in some sense, that it could be a positive thing. This type of control is exactly why we needed to create the hybrid in the first place. However, we were working on the assumption that Specimen 6 would obey the orders we provided. Unfortunately, this is not the case.

We have lost control over all of them. I believe that any day could be my last. They hate me. It has made them hate me. It is only a matter of time until the boredom gets to them and our entire base becomes a bloodbath. We have given an army of monsters to a monster in disguise. We have messed up royally.

I have a team ready on site to terminate the mission immediately. With your approval, I shall proceed to terminate this failed experiment. I know what I’m saying is not easy to swallow, but please understand that I have analyzed our options, and this is the only answer we have.

Please. Listen to me.

Sergeant Maxwell Morfran

Man of the House

The butcher waited until the shop was empty before serving me that day. He looked over my head as I approached the counter. He greeted the person behind me, pretending as if I were not there. The other customers carried on, as usual, saying nothing about the injustice, and happily went along with the act, cutting in line in front of me.

I wanted to run out of the door and cry — but I was fourteen, and men were meant to be men. No one would have sympathy for me, and when word got back to Mother about the incident, she would have scolded me once for being so weak, and twice for not bringing home the offering. I could have left and gone to the butcher in Nikitina, but that would mean arriving back home long after nightfall, and Mother insisted that we have the offering prepared before sunset.

Perhaps the butcher was waiting until we were alone so that he could finally ask the question. I had seen it pirouetting around in his eyes for the past month, ever since I first approached the counter and requested my unusual order. Since then, on my weekly visits, his look had shifted from a graceful waltz of curiosity fluttering across his eyelids, to a violent war dance of disgust that made him clench his teeth and thinned his eyes. Still, when he asked, I was not ready with an answer.

It is for great-grandfather, I told him, not knowing what else to say, unable to lie. I could only hope no more questions would follow. He knew my mother — everyone in the village did. She had arrived in Pokrovskoye when she was just a child and had come to be known as the ‘orphan girl’ since then. She was a seamstress in a village where every woman knew how to sew. Her past was shrouded in mystery, as was her bloodline.

Mentioning my great-grandfather must have seemed like a childish lie from a misbehaving teenager. I could see the rage flicker across the butcher’s face before he turned away and disappeared into the back room. I stood alone in the shop with only some bloody, hanging pig carcasses to keep me company. I was silent and confused, not sure whether to opt for the lesser of the two evils and leave for Nikitina immediately in order to arrive before the butcher there closed for the evening.

But eventually, he returned, carrying a scowl on his face and a blue plastic bag in his clenched fist. He stuck out his hand to take my money. Once he had inspected it, he dropped the bag on the counter and turned his back to me once more. This is the last time, he said, before disappearing into the back room. Take your business somewhere else.

I walked home with the plastic bag slapping against my leg, my head sunk to face the gravel road, my stomach taut and nauseous. It was not the first time I had been made to feel like an outsider as a result of fulfilling my mother’s wishes, and it would certainly not be the last. This was my life in Pokrovskoye —I was the ‘urod' — the freak.

The sun was close to setting when I approached the street where I lived, around the time when teenagers gathered to squat on street corners to drink vodka, cause mischief, and get into fights. I went to the butcher early to avoid them, but having to wait for the shop to empty before being served had put me directly in their path. They were like wild dogs that could smell the one weak or sickly pack member. They could not bear the existence of such things. A man must be a man, they would say, as though the way I breathed or walked was an affront to the idea.

Only Alexey and Grigori were out so early in the evening when I passed the corner, though even a pack so small could easily sniff me out. "What you got there, urod? Grigori called from the other side of the road while Alexey slammed down a shot of vodka. I kept my head down and quickened my pace. I must get home, Grigori. My mother is waiting." Alexey leaped to his feet and ran across the street to block my way.

"Grigori asked you a question, urod. What are you carrying down our street?"

It is nothing. Please, Alexey, I must get home before sunset, I begged of him without looking him in the eye. I knew that eye contact meant you were ready to fight, and fight I could not.

Give that here, Grigori snarled, snatching the blue plastic bag from my hand. Bringing dinner home for mama? But his confidence was quick to turn to terror as he held the bag open to look inside. "Chto za fignya!" he cried as he dropped the bag on the floor.

What is it? Alexey asked, leaning over it, curious to take a look.

I felt my breaths shortening. I couldn’t let them see what was in the bag. Alexey was a little more cautious with the bag, peering over it like a hyena sniffing out a rotting carcass, curious but not wanting to touch whatever was inside. This gave me a chance.

I snatched it off the floor and ran down the street at full speed. I did not bother to look back to see if they were chasing me, but they didn’t need to. They knew where I lived, and it would not take long for the story of the urod carrying around such horrifying things to spread across the village — yet another knife for them to stab me with. They would find me alone soon enough and teach me a lesson.

You are late! my mother berated me as I ran inside and slammed the door behind me, the plastic bag slapping against the door frame with a splash. She was waiting in the cramped main room of the dacha that served as the kitchen, living room, and my sleeping quarters. She sat on a tattered and sun-bleached mustard yellow recliner that had been in the cabin longer than we had. She had positioned it so that she could watch the front door with one eye and the clock mounted on the wall above the wooden shelving with the other. She was still young — young enough for the neighborhood boys to bother me with stupid questions of who kept her company. She wore a green headscarf tied up like an Alice band to keep her thick brown hair back off her face. The skin on her forehead only just started to wrinkle, though crow’s feet sunk into dark bags around her eyes, making her seem older than she was, but she was beautiful all the same.

I am sorry, I replied, still catching my breath. The butcher …

No time for excuses! The sun is going down! she snapped. She rose from her seat, hurrying over to the makeshift kitchen in the corner of the cabin and opening a cabinet to retrieve a shining gold plate from within.

I gingerly placed the plastic bag on the floor in the center of the room and walked over to the end table shoved into the corner beside my mattress. I wanted to explain to my mother what had happened at the butcher, but I was too wary of showing disrespect toward the ritual.

Carefully, I picked up the teapot, cups, and saucers from the end table and found room for them on the wooden shelves that lined the cabin, trying not to upset the broken-spine books, cracked ceramic ornaments, chipped dusty glassware, and crockery that my mother only kept because she couldn’t bear to throw them away. Once I had cleared the table, I picked it up and placed it in the center of the room beside the plastic bag where my mother waited like a server with the gold plate laid across her open hands. I gave her a pensive look before I ran over to the windows and drew the curtains closed, letting only a dim light diffuse through them. Squinting in the darkness, I quickly fetched a thick white candle from the shelf along with a box of matches. I placed it on the table and set fire to the wick under my mother’s attentive gaze. She watched impatiently. She lay the plate down beside the candle before lifting the blue plastic bag off the floor with one hand and reached inside it with the other. Her eyes were wide, her lips apart, and she breathed heavy breaths.

It was always like this, the three of us—me, my mother, and the subtle madness that haunted her. Father had supposedly been a drifter, seducing my mother one night and then disappearing by morning, though I always suspected that this was a lie. I am most likely the bastard of some married man in the village, but such things were beyond discussion.

My mother brought her hands together in a holy, prayerful pose. Grandfather Rasputin, she began ceremoniously, we bring you this offering to show that you are always welcome in our home.

I felt a shiver run down my spine. I hated the ritual. I knew that what we were doing was wrong in some way, though I could not tell exactly why. Thinking back, I wish I had the bravery to speak up and stop the madness right then and there. Who knows where I would be now. Not here. Anywhere but here , doing this. But I said nothing. Instead, I tried to look away as she reached into the bag and held up the first wet and odorous offering.

Tongue, she spoke reverently as the orange candlelight shimmered against the plasma dripping off the beef tongue, trailing along her fingers and down her arm, so that you may speak to us.

I swallowed hard as she raised the slippery slab of red meat above her before placing it onto the gold plate. With the windows closed, the acrid scent of iron quickly crept up to my nostrils.

The eyes, she whispered into the air, holding up a jelly-filled pig’s eye in each hand so that they could soullessly gaze up at the ceiling, so that you may watch over us.

The eyes rolled in my direction as they settled on the gold plate. I can still feel those dilated black pupils staring into my soul — I felt their judgment fall upon me. It made my blood run cold, and I stared down at the wooden floor to escape their empty glare.

And the heart! she announced triumphantly. There was an unfamiliar darkness in her tone, squeezing the massive cow’s heart in her hands so that it pulsed artificially before laying it on the plate. So that you may live again …

By now her hands and arms were covered in blood and plasma, and she held them over the plate while the excess dripped off—silent, savoring the depravity of her deed.

The butcher won’t serve me anymore, I blurted out, desperate for my mother to return to me from her terrifying trance.

Her gaze ran from the bloody offering, down the floorboards and up my body until her eyes locked with mine, Why not?

The hairs on my arms stood on end as the candlelight glittered in her eyes, He asked me what I wanted the meat and organs for.

Her brow tightened her glare into a squint, And what did you say?

I didn’t want to say the words, but I was a terrible liar back then, and the very thought of speaking an untruth made my stomach churn. And so, I confessed. I told him it was for great-grandfather.

She moved across the room in the blink of an eye, swinging her arm back mid-step, and slapped me through the face with her wet, red hand in one swift motion. She locked eyes with me with her arm still in the air, taking in the red hand mark on my face with disgust. I was stunned into silence as the cool blood sizzled against my hot cheek, and tears welled up in my eyes. Her lips curled inwards as she deciphered just how much she had hurt me. The slap certainly had stung, but I had taken worse from the neighborhood boys without crying.

It was the betrayal that truly hurt. She was all I had. I did everything I could for her, regardless of the consequences. I emasculated myself hanging up her laundry in the yard in front of the boys playing football and drinking vodka. I had been caught with a headscarf on, sweeping dust out the front door and had been beaten mercilessly for acting like a woman. I had completely alienated myself from everyone around me in order to be a good son, and all I wanted in exchange was her love.

Although she was always sparing with her love, always sure never to give me enough to make me feel truly loved, she had never gone so far as to raise her hand to me, let alone a hand covered in swine and bovine blood. I could see the regret in her eyes, though I knew she would never admit to it. I brought my fingers up to my bloodstained cheek and cringed at my crimson fingertips, I am sorry, Mama.

Go wash up. I will make dinner tonight, she ordered. Suddenly her face softened. Tomorrow morning, we will go and speak to the butcher together. Nobody upsets my son.

It was not long before we were lapping up bowls of schi — a traditional cabbage soup served with a side of stale bread. The evening news flickered through the static on the rear projection television. The smell of meat and gore on the offering plate was becoming unbearable, and it tarnished the taste of the meal, but Mother insisted that filling the dacha with the scent was essential to the ritual.

After dinner, I watched my mother from my mattress as she took in a black and white television drama. I wondered where her clandestine knowledge of summoning the dead had come from. Before great-grandfather’s first visit to the log cabin, she was mildly superstitious at best. Yet somehow, after that incident, she had awoken an untapped affinity for divination, witchcraft, and necromancy. She started to create rituals that were ever more complex and ever more despicable.

After that night, she somehow shifted from the awkward and introverted woman that the village knew her as, to a secretive and judgmental person. Great-grandfather Rasputin had chosen her, and for the first time ever she was not the rejected orphan girl who needed sympathy and charity to get by. Instead, she became special, gifted, superior.

I suppose I can see now that she had always felt that way, but the circumstances of her life had proven otherwise. She was waiting for something since the day she arrived in Pokrovskoye. Waiting for some piece of evidence to prove that she deserved more than the existence of a simple village maid provided her with — that she was better than the simpletons around her — and now she anticipated a twisted atrocity.

Do you think he will come tonight? I had asked, trying to sound optimistic but in truth, hoping that such a thing would never happen again.

She turned to me with the white light of the television illuminating half her face, I am certain.

Hoping to find a way to prove her wrong, I questioned further, But I read that great-grandfather was a vegetarian, why do we offer him meat?

Were you not listening? The meat is symbolic, she snapped. Besides, he did not react when we left the fruit out. You know that.

Then how do we know it is great-grandfather? I asked, finding the break in logic obvious. She stared at me silently as the light from the television distorted the shadows across her face, her gaze as glazed and empty as the pig eyes’ cockeyed glare from the gold plate between us.

My mother, your grandmother, prepared me for Rasputin’s resurrection, she spoke with the authority of a story that had been passed on through the ages. That is why she brought me here, to his hometown just before she died. It is no coincidence that we have been gifted with his presence. That was always the plan. We are the chosen ones.

I fell asleep before her, my face pressed into my pillow to block out the stench of the raw, slowly rotting meat and the rowdiness of late-night game shows, although I would not rest long that night. In fact, it did not feel like I had slept at all. It seemed as if I had merely rolled over to my side and back around again to find the television off, my mother gone, and an immense, sinister presence sharing the room with me.

It was my great-grandfather; I knew it for certain. A month before, the same presence had visited us, startled both my mother and me from our sleep, swept our skin with a frozen touch, and made it near impossible to move as its intensity held our throats.

But this time, it was so much worse. I shivered as an icy embrace smashed into me. It felt so much bigger than the tiny log cabin we lived in. It pressed me down into my mattress with force as it tried to squeeze itself into the room as if most of it were still outside, and its limbs were sticking out the doors and windows. Its presence consumed every nook and cranny of the open room, to the point where I was expecting to hear the crockery, cutlery, and ornaments on the wooden shelves cracking and smashing against the walls as the pressure became too much for them to bear.

I can remember trying to call out, ‘he is here!’ but my lungs refused to inflate, making it difficult to breathe, let alone talk. I tried to raise my head, to move my arms, anything, but the terrifying presence filled the space between my limbs and neck as though the air had frozen into one massive glacier, pressurized within the log cabin’s four walls.

All I could do was smack my tongue against my lips in response. The flavors of blood and raw stinking meat were so overwhelming that I had to close my eyes in a futile attempt to escape it. It was then that I realized I was bleeding profusely from my mouth. Where the wound was I could not tell, but my chin and cheeks were soaked, and the taste of iron coated my tongue. Knowing that I was injured, panic set in.

With a sudden burst of adrenaline, I launched myself from the mattress, desperate to get to my mother, but powerless to call out to her. I found my footing; it was as though the earth’s gravity had increased tenfold, weighing down on my thighs, back, and neck — and it was so bitterly cold. I fought to raise my left leg, but it merely shuddered and dropped back down to the ground. I felt a sudden urge to look up, to look back at this thing that was filling the space around me. I could feel its gaze upon me, could feel a deep throaty laugh vibrating through my bones as it reveled in my torment. I peered up to the gold plate, expecting to see those horrifying jelly covered pig’s eyes staring me down, embodying the heinous presence. To my surprise, the plate was empty.

Suddenly, it became all too real. Whatever the entity in the room was, I knew now that it was not just a mere presence. It was physical, something with a mouth and teeth and a taste for raw meat. That was when the weight became too much for me to bear. I succumbed to its immensity and the terror it brought. My soul was weak, and I crashed to the ground, shaking, sure that this was my final night on earth. My eyelids sealed shut between streams of tears.

When I opened them again, the sun was screaming the new day through the slit in the curtains. My mother was standing in the middle of the room, leaning over the gold plate still resting on the end table. Did you do this? she asked me.

My mind was still reeling from the insane horror I had just experienced. I wasn’t even sure whether I was awake or whether this was just the next scene of the pounding onslaught of madness. With my frayed senses still clutching at reality, I was unable to formulate a response to her, which set off her temper.

What have you done? she growled.

I tried to lift myself, felt my joints ache from sleeping on the stiff floor all night, It was him, Mama! He was here!

Do not lie to me, she hissed. What did you do to the offering?

It was him! I pleaded, my emotions ready to unravel It was great-grandfather Rasputin! He came here last night! He cut my mou — I remember reaching up to my face to feel the blood that had been there what felt like just moments before, only to discover that my smooth, hairless chin was completely clean. I put my finger on my tongue, expecting to see a sanguine blot on its tip, but found my saliva clear.

Dazed and confused, I pushed past my mother, ran to the bathroom, and looked in the mirror. I inspected my mouth for the gash I had been sure was there, but I saw no wound.

My mother stood in the bathroom doorway, eyeing me curiously with arms folded, What happened? Tell me everything you remember.

And so I did. To me, it felt like the entity had been with me just moments before, and the terror of the memory had embedded itself deep in my mind. By the time I finished telling her my account, her face melted from a furious scowl into a beaming smile of delight.

Get dressed right away! she ordered cheerfully. We will catch the butcher as he is opening the shop and get tonight’s offering at once! And this time, we will stay awake and wait for Rasputin together!

My body shuddered with fear. Things had gone too far now. Things were becoming too real. No, Mama! Please! I cried. Please! Never again! He will kill me! I know he will!

I thought for sure she would scold me for my outburst, but instead, she placed a gentle hand on my shoulder and spoke softly to me, "Solnyshko, my little sun, trust me when I tell you that your great-grandfather was an incredible man who did amazing things in his time. He was born a simple peasant like you and me, but by calling on the spirits, he was able to lift himself out of this bottomless pit of a village. He became one of the most powerful men in all of Russia. He was consort to the king and queen, healer of the sick, and a genius in all arts and sciences. In order to gain that power, he wandered the wilderness for months on end, degenerating himself until his body was frail and his soul was open to all that surrounded him. Do you think he was fearless when the spirits taunted him? Of course not! Surely, there were times that he was very fearful. Sometimes, fear is the right feeling to have. It is what you do in the face of that fear that decides your fate. Now, it is our turn to decide what we do in the face of our fear. Will we rot away in this village forever? Or will we ascend to greatness, like your great-grandfather did?"

I shut my eyes, trying to purge the conclave of emotions within me, trying to keep them from her, trying not to disappoint her. If she had been there, if she had felt how foul the essence had filled the cabin, there is no way she would have continued her pursuit. But there was also no way I could boil down the experience into words to convince her — there was no chance she would listen. And so I nodded, like the foolish child I was. The nod that damned my soul forever.

The streets were mostly empty when we hurriedly paced our way to the butcher that morning, save a few shopkeepers preparing for their day's work. My heart was still racing, but now the thought of facing the butcher again after his cruel reception spilled further anxiety into me. The events of the night before seemed more like a dream now — unfathomable, impossible. This was real. Fear consumed me as I imagined the butcher telling the whole village of the urod who needed his mother to fight his battles for him, how he would spit in our faces when we arrived, and condemn us for our strange practices. I had so much more than that to fear.

The butcher shop was off the main street, just out of view from early risers walking to work. The shop had been converted from an old cabin, leading down a short path to get to the partly concealed entrance, and so, we were the first to lay witness to the horrors that waited there.

Both mother and I stopped in our tracks as we turned down the path and saw the carcass nailed to the front door. At first glance, I could convince myself that it belonged to an animal, that perhaps some meat had been delivered early and left to rest against the door frame.

But as we edged closer, the truth became impossible to deny. It was the butcher, crucified on his shop door. I wanted to look away, but something inside of me urged me to look on, to admire the atrocity. Little flesh was peering out from the generous gallons of blood caked all over his clothes and body. It spilled in streaking lines from his eyes, from his mouth, down his chin, and along his neck until it soaked into his nightgown. The blue gown dyed crimson was torn in the middle, revealing a gaping hole in his chest where his ribs poked out like spiny teeth after being torn open, the empty chasm within revealing blue deflated lungs.

For some reason, I didn’t feel the urge to scream. There was a strange beauty in the way his power had been robbed from him, poetic justice to see him hung up like a piece of meat in his shop. He was far more horrifying alive — in this state, he could not hurt me. My trance broke as my mother stepped forward, skewing her eyes as she leaned down to peek into the butcher’s hanging mouth.

What happened, Mama? I asked, trying to make sense of it all.

See, she pointed out, his tongue has been cut out.

I stepped forward to stand beside her and found her words to be true — but worse yet, that is when I noticed that the butcher’s eyes had been plucked from his skull as well.

The eyes. The tongue. The heart.

She grabbed my hand and began pulling me back up the path, We must leave.

Are we going to call the police? I asked.

No, someone else will come soon. Let that person call. It is better if no one knows we were here, she replied insistently.

The question was burning on the tip of my tongue, though I knew the answer already, You do not think it was great-grandfather, do you?

Silence! she snapped back at me. Never speak of him to anyone but me ever again.

Once we were a little further down the road, she spoke again, Yes, it was him. He knew that swine of a butcher disrespected our family, so he wrought his vengeance upon him. It is the first step in raising us from the filth around us. Soon, his spirit will speak to me, and his genius will be my gift.

I