D is for Demons: A-Z of Horror, #4

By P.J. Blakey-Novis

D is for Demons, the fourth book in an epic series of twenty-six horror anthologies. Within these pages you will find a collection of thirteen terrifying stories from some of the finest independent writers on the scene today. From the disturbing to the humorous, from the gruesome to the psychological, D is for Demons contains a range unsettling stories that will make you sleep with the lights on!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Red Cape Publishing
• Release date: Feb 14, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201598266

Book preview

Red Cape Publishing Presents...

The A-Z of Horror: D is for Demons

DISCLAIMER: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author's imagination and are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2020 Red Cape Publishing

All rights reserved.

Cover Design by Red Cape Graphic Design

Www.redcapepublishing.com/red-cape-graphic-design

Interior Artwork by Art Autopsy

Www.redcapepublishing.com/art-autopsy

With special thanks to our supporters on Patreon

Lesley Drane

David Green

Tim Kellum

Www.patreon.com/redcapepublishing

Sharp

Jessica Clem

Stumbling out his front door, Whit Hanlan didn't stop running till he was in the middle of his neighborhood cul-de-sac. A few houses down from his own he stops and bends over, pressing his elbows into the tops of his thighs. He is naked except for his blue-striped boxer shorts. His bare feet burn against the hot concrete. Sweat from his chest drips onto the street as he eagerly sucks air. Curls of dark hair swirl above his head. A light breeze mercifully presses itself against his sweaty neck. He closes his brown eyes with relief. When he opens them again, he focuses them on the edge of the sidewalk and involuntarily jerks upright. He is so startled that he doesn't notice the tip of his penis peeking out through his boxers like a baby kangaroo.

He is too transfixed by the man in the black hat.

His street is one of the newest in their suburb. The planned community stretches nearly seven blocks, safely tucked away from the freaks in the city. Or so he thought. Everything from the sidewalk to the landscaping is still sterile and clean. The trees around the street had long before been torn out of the ground, allowing the harsh sunlight to heat the concrete until it glittered. The openness of the landscape makes Whit feel anxious and crazy, even before the shitshow that is this day.

It is roughly 2pm on a Tuesday. The sky is a brilliant blue. All his neighbors are at work. Even the nosy and devout Addie Williams left her house on Tuesdays to volunteer at the Children's Hospital. His wife is still in her pajamas in their bedroom. I'm all alone, Whit thinks to himself. Just me and the devil out here. The two men stand motionless in front of each other. Though the man stands at least forty feet away, Whit can see the shape of the man's eyes. They look like two silver bullets laying lengthwise in his skull. In front of him, a long shadow stretches across the concrete like something alive. And hungry.

Whit's finger involuntarily taps on the trigger of the gun in his hand.

Nothing interrupts the vastness of the sky except a flock of geese. They pass gracefully above the two men honking their late summer songs. Their wingbeats seem to knock against the back of Whit's skull. Despite the stranger in the street, a feeling of intense exhaustion rushes over him like a wave. He closes his eyes and sways on his feet. He shivers as the wind pulls bits of late summer leaves over his bare calves. When he opens them again, the man in the black hat still hadn't moved. Not sure what else to do, Whit lifts his hand to wave. The weight of the gun in his left hand makes him moan instead. He'd nearly forgotten about his steely accomplice. Much like he'd also forgotten using it to blow his wife's brains out just ten minutes ago.

***

She'd been rooting through her small writing desk with her back to him. He'd tiptoed in from the bathroom with the gun in his hand. As he stood in the doorway, the air in the room grew heavy. His lungs worked madly in his chest. The steel of the gun grew warm under his palm. He took a deep breath, his finger stretching toward the trigger. He'd been planning on murdering her for months, but it didn't make this moment any less stressful. His jaw clenched. He was furious at her for making him do this. Without noticing him she kept searching, bending over to get a closer look inside the drawer. The soft curve of her ass made the front of his boxers twitch. He watched her silently. He was sure she was searching for the divorce papers she'd threatened him with for the last year. Now it was finally here. The day she would destroy his life.

But not if I destroy hers first.

Finally, she straightened up, pulling a manila envelope from the darkness of the drawer. In step with her, he lifted the gun in graceful slow motion. He pulled the hammer back. It cocked into place with the loud, ominous click of a grandfather clock. At the noise she turned on her heels, pirouetting with the elegance of a ballet dancer. He could see the ribbons of her back muscles expanding and contracting under her robe. Her open neckline exposed the valleys of her collarbone. Long blonde hair floated weightlessly around her, the same hair he'd buried his face in nearly every night for fourteen years. He knew he would change his mind if he saw her look at him. Before she could make eye contact, he pulled the trigger.

Her beautiful head exploded like a water balloon.

Liquid rushed from her body in a great orgasmic burst. Pops of orange, red, and pink soared from her. It looked like he had blown up a sunset. Pieces of her dripped from their white linen curtains. The envelope fell from her splayed hands. As her body thumped to the floor her thin nightgown exposed her naked breasts. They rolled away from one another, revealing the soft skin of her chest that covered her dying heart. He looked at her chest carefully. He thought he could see her heart straining through her sternum, begging, thumping, and threatening to expose his crime like Poe's tell-tale heart. I ADMIT THE DEED, he yelled gleefully, his hands shaking. TEAR UP THE PLANKS! He pressed his free hand against his mouth and laughed. The adrenaline coursing through his body made him feel amazing. It filled him with warmth, excitement, and desire. He then realized he had a full-on erection. It pulled eagerly at the front of his boxers, begging him to move closer to the blood like a hungry dog. Switching the gun to his opposite hand, he shoved the free one into his boxers and jerked off madly. His open mouth gulped the blood-scented air. Seconds later he came loudly, then let out a shuddering sigh. Whistling, he took off his shirt to clean up and looked closer at his wife's corpse. The sound of the gunshot was still reverberating through his head when he saw the spilled contents of the envelope.

On the floor was a leather-bound journal.

Beside it was a book titled Toward the Sunrise: How to Heal from Losing A Child.

***

Back on the street, the memory makes him jerk forward with exhilarated sorrow. He lets out a loud sob and puts his hand against his chest. But the shadow of a smile crosses his face. The man in the black hat still silently watches him with his silver eyes. Whit studies the man carefully. He is enormous. Though he stands motionless, his shadow seems to lengthen. It looked like it was dragging itself across the concrete like a creeping snake. Watching it, Whit's mouth went dry. When he swallows, something in his throat clicks.

Hey, he wheezes, dropping his arms back to his sides. The barrel of the gun bounces off his thigh. What the fuck do you want? The man in the black hat gives Whit a wide, toothy smile. At the movement of his face, something happens that Whit can hardly believe.

The entire world began to change.

Behind the man's smiling silhouette, the blueness of the sky deepens into a color Whit has never seen before. Ribbons of matte black appear from the horizon and soak into the sky like a bruise. White clouds swirl into dark shadows. Birdcalls morph into low roars as they pass through the section of abused sky. It sounded like a flock of bears was traveling above their heads. The temperature soars. Beneath the cacophony of the world the man didn't move.

But his shadow did.

The shape pulls itself toward Whit with long fingers. As the birds roar it pauses in mid-crawl, independent of a physical body, then continues to slink forward over the concrete. The outline of the man's shoulders and tip of his hat sharpen into dark blades as the sun grows even more intense.

It was then that Whit felt the first bite of fear tear into his stomach. It shreds into him with the fury of a pack of wolves. Teeth gnash into his organs and bones until he lets out a cry of pain. He staggers forward, almost falling to his knees. The man in the black hat grins even wider now. The sun intensifies and the air pops with energy. Sweat pours down Whit's face. But he keeps his gaze away from those silver eyes. He was sure that if he met them, he would lose what was left of his mind.

Like Julia in good ol' 4589 Cedar Street, he thinks.

He lets out a croak of laughter and allows himself to fall on his hands and knees. The concrete scrapes his shins, but he hardly feels the pain. As soon as he is off his feet, exhaustion drapes itself over his back. He feels drugged and too heavy to move. He sinks to his stomach, laying the gun on its side in front of him. Whit calmly studies the perfect, round mouth of the gun. It hovers in the barrel like a tiny planet. The place you go when you die, he thinks. The sound of approaching footsteps makes his skin crawl with terror. Whit's gaze shoots upward.

The man's polished boots are now directly in front of him.

Whit closes his eyes. This is all a dream, he thinks to himself. He presses his cheek into the rough concrete. As soon as I wake up, I will call Dr. Cypert. Get back on those pills. Yessir I will take my pills like a good boy, just please don't hurt me please don't--

The sound of steel on concrete makes him slowly open his eyes. The man has one foot on top of the gun. The black boot is covered in incredibly detailed threadwork. The exterior looks unsettlingly less like leather and more like human skin. The toe of the boot narrowed to an angry point. Using his boot, the man pushes the gun into Whit's exposed eyeball till the mouth of it swallows his vision. Whit feels the hairs on the back of his neck standing upright at the pain. He gnaws at his bottom lip, trying not to scream.

Can you think of anything more delicious, says the man in the black hat in a gravelly baritone. Than diving into this velvety darkness?

Whit's heart drops several stories into his bare feet. The windy voice sounds like it's navigating through a throat filled with trees.

I-I-I- Whit stutters. The taste of metal fills Whit's mouth. He'd shredded his lip. Blood drips on the concrete beneath his chin. The man in the black hat sighs and nudges the gun deeper into his eyeball. Whit could feel the mouth burrowing into his brain.

Jump in Whit, he says. She needs your dark heart.

The fear wolves had now migrated north to his chest. They snarl their way through each of his ribs, gnawing on his bones till it hurt to breathe. They bark at the gun in his skull, attacking it systematically one by one. He lifts both of his arms off the pavement.

Please don't hurt me, he whimpers. The pressure on his right eye begins to wane. The man steps off the gun.

Stand up, the man commands.

Whit pushes himself to his knees but keeps his hands up. He looks at the long legs of the man. His bloodshot eyes take in the details of his dark jeans, his black collared shirt, and his dark leather jacket.

Who needs it? Whit asks loudly. Blood runs down his chin. The man in the black hat doesn't respond. Whit pauses his gaze at the man's chest.

Under the exposed skin, something was moving.

Whit stares at it, mesmerized. It swims beneath the surface of the man's skin, diving under the collarbone, appearing up at his shoulder, then bulging above his heart.

The Queen of The Sublevels, the man snarls. The fish-like object pushes out one more time above the man's collarbone then disappears into his chest. Before Whit can respond a hand shoots out and grabs him by the chin. Whit recoils and gasps in fear. The hand felt cold as the guts of January. She needs your evil soul. Whit shakes his head madly.

I don't know what you mean, he says, his voice crawling out of his mouth with twitching hands. Julia was a mistake. He feels like babbling, screaming, begging for his life, but he keeps his voice as steady as possible. I'm not an evil person! The words tumble from his lips like a mouthful of sand.

The man looks at him and bares his teeth. Immediately Whit's vision starts to blur. The sun and piping hot concrete fade from under him. He is floating away. It is a calm, warm feeling.

Yes, you are, Whit, the man growls. Whit closes his eyes. The man's voice wraps around him like an embrace. Or have you already forgotten about your son?

***

The feeling of cold tile under his feet makes Whit open his eyes with a start. He is no longer crouched on the street but is now standing in his master bathroom. The man in the black hat has disappeared. He is relieved to see the familiar black-and-white checkered tile and the green paint along the ceiling trim. The humidity of the bathroom is stifling. Sweat pops out on his bare chest and arms. Everything in the room looks tinged with a bit of sepia. The air is grainy, otherworldly. Whit looks around him with blurry eyes. The sink, white and spotless, stands in its familiar left corner. Above it hangs a large mirror framed in black. He peers into it. All he can see are the two white robes hanging on the closed door behind him.

He has no reflection.

His skin prickles with goosebumps. Turning away from the mirror, he looks at the claw-foot bathtub. A small trickle of water splashes from the copper faucet into the full tub. Whit narrows his eyes, looking over the tub edge. Something lay motionless inside of it. It's a waxy, pale object, floating in the water like a dumpling. Whit shivers as he leans forward to get a better look.

Floating face down is the body of a baby.

No, he gags, raising his foot to step back. As his heel cut through the steaming air, it pushes against a force behind him. It feels like a massive wall. He pushes and slaps his palms against the thick air. He tries turning to run out the door, but his feet are frozen to the floor. Please! he shrieks, flailing his arms. A pair of invisible hands turn his head and force him to look at the bathtub. As he does the scream dies on his lips.

The baby is moving.

It turns slowly. Water beads off its gray skin. A bit of dark hair lay against the base of its neck. Thick, wet curls spread around its head in the water. Marks of decay line it from back to belly. The face turns upward, exposing the spongy skin of its cheeks and the closed, puffy eyes. Whit could see it was a baby boy. Hot tears jab themselves into Whit's skull like spikes.

I'm so sorry, he gasps, trying to turn his head away. Invisible icy fingers force his eyelids open. They pull the skin of his face so tightly he feels as though it will tear in half. Please, he cries. I'M SO SORRY!

At the sound, the baby's eyes spring open like trapdoors. It lifts its head slightly out of the water, turning its black, blank eyes toward Whit. The mouth opens into a maniacal, toothless smile, spreading the swollen face like dough.

Oh God, Whit groans. His stomach feels watery and sick. The baby giggles as it moves its arms and legs. The water of the tub creates a wake that laps against the porcelain. Whit stares at the baby in horror. A sudden loud clanking sound makes Whit look instead at the faucet. Silver bullets drip from the slender head, one right after the other, filling the bathtub. The sound is deafening. The baby keeps laughing, but now it is the laugh of something else. Something inhuman. Whit presses his hands against his face and screams from the depth of his guts.

Under his feet, the floor drops away.

***

His screams tear through him as he falls. He waves his arms desperately, searching for anything to break his fall. Suddenly, he feels the wind knocked out of him as he hits the ground. Whit opens his eyes and gasps. He is back