u/Lucky_Burger

I found it when I was cleaning out my dad’s mancave in the basement. I was trying to get the house ready for some of my friends to stay while my parents were on vacation in Spain, usually they just let me and my girlfriend stay there because they have a pool, and as long as we take care of my moms garden and collect the mail we could have some of our friends over to relax over the summer for the few weeks they’d be out of the country.

At first it confused me, it looked like an access hatch to what one could assume was a crawl space hidden in a closet… But since I was already six feet under the house already, my mind couldn’t wrap itself around what I was seeing. It was a plain looking thing, just some folded up stairs hidden behind and under dozens of boxes of my dad’s knickknacks and abandoned hobbies, I don’t even remember the stairs being there, and I had lived there for almost 19 years.

I considered asking my dad about the stairs but my curiosity got the better of me, I cleared off the boxes and pushed down on the stairs. They gave with surprisingly little effort, and I had to brace myself on the frame of the new opening to keep from tumbling down into the space below the basement. After making sure no one heard my sudden intrusion into the space beneath the house, I descended the steps and explored the new room. At first I thought it was a fallout shelter or something, the house was originally built in the sixties before my parents bought it and spent a fortune remodeling before I was born, but this was too new. Too modern. The technology was all from the last ten years, the lights were all wired up and worked perfectly, the plumbing worked as if it had all brand new pipes with both hot and cold water, and there wasn’t a spec of dust on any of the furniture. The only thing that didn’t make sense was the layout. The stairs that I used to enter this place were almost like attic steps, there were no windows or doors to the outside, but the halls and bedrooms and bathroom doors all connected at strange locations. To get to the master bathroom you had to pass through a hall bathroom first, and then through the master bedroom, or you could just go through the master bedroom door that was at the end of the hall, but even that connected to a second bedroom, which had another door that connected it back up to the living room area. The kitchen and dining room of the second house were behind what I’ll call the attic steps, and you had to pass through the kitchen first, then the dining room connected up to a garage, which connected to another bedroom and bathroom. 

I went down another hall that seemed to connect back to the main hallway, when I saw the slightly open door to another basement. I tried the light switch by the door and sure enough the beige carpeted stairwell, which descended into the new house basement and turned to the left obscuring the basement from view, was illuminated by the warm LED bulb. I had begun to descend into the new basement and only got about halfway down the stairs when I felt a buzzing in my pocket. I was so lost in my exploration I didn’t notice my phone had gone off over a dozen times, my girlfriend asking me when I was going to be home, apparently I had spent over an hour longer in the basement house than when I said I’d be home. I hurried back up the attic steps and closed the space back up, hiding them like a secret I was ashamed of, and said my goodbyes to my parents and collected the spare key from them. I had already begun to plan my next trip on the drive back, thinking of exploring the new house's basement, or even trying to sleep down there. I mean it has all its amenities, and there didn’t seem to be anything wrong with the house besides the non-euclidian layout. Maybe I could even bring my girlfriend down there on my next trip.

I’ll try mapping the place out first though, because the rooms in the new house also seem to not be aligned with the floor plan in my parents, it almost felt like the new house burrows into the ground beneath the street. But surely the city would’ve already noticed and done something about that when they fixed the sewers last year, right?

The ringing in my ears and my heart pounding in my skull were the first things I remembered. Loud, sharp, constant, dull, and silent all at once, giving an instant and jarring experience. My vision was a blurry mess of white and red, and my body felt heavy. As the ringing faded, I became more aware of my surroundings. Or rather, my lack of surroundings. I was still in my cab, albeit upside down, and I could see the CB radio below me, fizzling in and out of life. My windshield was now a spiderweb of broken glass and snow, with a spattering of red slowly falling from my forehead. I had to think. Something jumped out in front of me on the road. I swerved to avoid it but lost control. The snowstorm ripped at the air outside, howling like a banshee. As I slowly regained the rest of my senses, I undid my seatbelt and fell to the ground with a heavy thud. Righting myself, I took inventory of my situation. My left knee had caught something in the roll, the steering column maybe, and it throbbed whenever I put weight on it. There were some supplies I kept up front for long nights: the little white pills that kept me sharp on long hauls, a couple bags of jerky, half a bottle of Gatorade, and three bottles of water, mostly snacky crap you could get from any truck-stop. There was also a small first aid kit, a yellowing, folded old map, and some emergency supplies for just this kind of thing. I shuffled as best I could through my truck, doing my best not to open any more wounds on the bits of glass that scattered along the interior of my once pristine rig. Trying to call for help on the CB turned out to be useless, either because I was all the way out in the middle of nowhere, or because the antenna had been snapped off in the wreck.

After a few hours of trying to collect my thoughts, I decided the next best thing was to try getting out of the wreck itself. I could still feel the icy chill of the wind blowing through the truck, so I climbed back to the front of the cab and attempted to open the driver's side door. The glass had been completely smashed out, and a bank of snow had formed in the opening. I tried the passenger side, only to find it had been completely crushed by the weight of the truck rolling. My only option left was the windshield, and since the windshield was already splintering, I had to think smart. I kicked the broken glass and cleared a way out, doing my best to avoid cutting myself on the remnants, and finally shimmied free from the twelve-ton metal coffin. The first things I noticed were these long, deep gouges made in the side of the cab, almost as large as bear claw marks, but too narrow.

Upon further investigation, the wreck was way worse than I had thought. The trailer had wrapped itself around a tree halfway up the mountain I'd rolled down and pulled free from the truck much higher up. It too was covered in these claw marks and gouges. The contents of the trailer had spilled out and littered the mountainside in heaps of plastic wrap, canned food, and cheap cardboard. I was astonished at how I managed to survive such a long fall. By any math I could run, I should have been dead. I decided not to run the numbers twice. Regardless, I returned to the truck to pull my supplies out from under the cab and began my long walk to the nearest town. The map I had was old, but supposedly there was a small town four miles north of the road I was on, barely even a dot nestled deep in the forest. As I was loading what I could carry into a duffle bag of old clothes, I heard the sound of something snapping branches above me. When I turned to look, I saw nothing. The branches rustled in the wind, and I wrote it off as an owl or something taking off for a midnight hunt.

I trudged through the snow, making my way towards the town in the dark. All the while feeling like something was watching me from the shadows. The moon barely cut through the tall evergreens, casting a broken and sharp pattern of light across the snow and painting the forest in an eerie blue glow. Every so often I continued to hear the occasional snap or rustle of something moving just beyond my sight, spurring me to move as quickly as my legs could carry me. If it was wolves, I would have heard more than one at any given moment, maybe even a howl or snarl as they coordinated, but it was singular in its pursuit. It was too small to be a moose, too quick. If it were a bobcat or something, it would've already struck by now. Whatever was following me was curious, or malicious. Toying with me. It would occasionally make noise ahead of me, forcing me to readjust the direction I was heading. I stuck to the clearings and the map, trying my best to navigate the dense forest until I saw the soft glow of streetlights just beyond. I made it. I broke into a sprint, or as much of a sprint as I could manage on near-frozen legs, and began knocking on the first door I could find. I knew how it must've looked, a strange man covered in blood and sweat stumbling around town, but I had to hope that someone would help me. The first house proved less than helpful, as the people inside switched off the porch light as soon as I started knocking. The next house followed the first. Then I noticed the glares through the windows, faces of disdain all watching me from the safety of their walls and roofs. The lights in the town snuffed out one after the other, rendering this place a ghost town. I tried to get help from a gas station, but the man behind the counter switched the lights in the store off and locked the door as I hobbled into the lot. I heard whatever was following me again. It crunched through the snow in the forest just beyond the chain-link fence separating the parking lot from the wilderness, and it smacked into the metal, rattling it fervently and making ungodly noise. Then all went quiet again.

If I wasn't getting any help here, I would try to get back onto the main road. I followed the path carving through the town, occasionally pulling my phone from my pocket to check for any reception to call for help, but my luck seemed to only get worse as the night dragged on. As long as I was out here, I was on my own. I ate the jerky I had and washed it down with the rest of the Gatorade, taking a couple of my pills to help me stay awake. As I continued my walk up the road, I couldn't help but wonder why everyone in town was so hostile. As far as I knew, I hadn't done anything wrong, aside from maybe disturbing their sleep. More importantly, the forest had gone dead quiet. No rustling from the stalking thing, no sounds of wind whipping through the trees, nothing! It was as if sound itself had simply stopped existing. I walked through this void, passing turnoffs, old dirt roads, and hiking trails that likely wouldn't see any use until the spring thaw. I passed by a long-since-faded sign that read "W__c___ to the ___n of B______e. Est. 1868. Pop______n: 1__9" and hanging from the sign was a small effigy, bound with thin wire and twine. As I passed further along the road, I came to a fork and heard an ear-splitting screech of fury. The thing that had been stalking me crashed to the ground from the treetops and tore after me on all fours. It looked like a starving human. For half a second, I wondered if the pills were showing me things. The thing leapt toward me, claws outstretched, and tackled me to the ground, screaming furiously as it did so. I kicked at it with my good leg, launching the frail thing off me and back into the undergrowth, where it yelped in pain before retreating into the darkness. For a second everything fell back to silence before I heard it circling around again, scrabbling up a tree and darting from branch to branch, waiting for me to drop my guard. I found a broken branch that had fallen from its initial assault and held it ready for the next attack. The thing was powerful for such a small frame, but it didn't seem stupid. It kept making more screeching noises as it circled before it pounced again, this time catching the branch to the chest as I swung with all my might. The wood broke, and the thing scrabbled to the ground again. This time it looked at me with hateful eyes and gnashed its teeth at me before dashing back into the woods. Not missing a beat, I tore off down the road as fast as my bruised and broken body would carry me. The thing kept pace. I heard it growl and charge at me, only to back off when I turned to avoid it.
I felt like it was corralling me.

I was off the road now, the thing chasing me towards something else. If I tried to run back towards the main road, it dropped down and slashed at me. If I turned back in the general direction of town, it would circle around and growl like an angry hellcat. I realized quickly that it was forcing me towards something specific. I slipped and tumbled down a slope in the path that revealed a large abandoned quarry. A few rotting buildings stood stalwart against the frigid air; the rest had crumbled under old age and snow. The thing stopped pursuing me when I entered the large man-made pit. Discarded tools and trash scattered the area. Old mine cart tracks jutted out from the mouths of cave systems that had long since run dry. Between the tracks, half buried in the snow, were bones. Deer, I told myself, until I saw the boots. Three pairs at least, scattered the way my cargo had scattered down the mountainside, each one still ending in something I didn't let myself study. This was its pantry, and it had walked me through the front door.

Once more, the world fell silent. I tried the doors on the still-standing buildings but was met only with the rattle of rusty locks and rotten wood. Figuring it was better than facing the elements, I took shelter in one of the cave tunnels, arming myself with a decaying shovel that had been left behind among other simple tools. The thing let out another ear-piercing howl and stalked around the open area of the quarry. It stood up at its full height, impossibly stretched-thin arms and legs at its sides, and sniffed at the air. Trying to catch my scent. I charged out from my hiding spot and swung my shovel at the monster, hearing the head of the shovel crunch and cleave through its lithe form. It howled in rage and pain before I swung the shovel around again and broke its leg with all my strength. It swiped a claw at me. The razor-sharp appendages connected with my arm and tore a deep gouge through my shoulder, leaving a wet stain in my coat. I swung again, connecting a wild hit with the thing's head and hearing a crunch as its teeth scattered across the quarry stone. I followed up with a stab at the thing, burying the head of the shovel deep within its torso. It let out a pathetic wheeze of pain and clawed furiously at me, slashing my torso and legs with a flurry of desperate cuts. The adrenaline coursed through me as I let out a scream of rage and terror, stomping the head of the shovel deeper into this thing, hearing the sickening crunch as I broke bone and sinew.

The thing fell still. The world fell silent again. I looked around for any signs of life but was again met with the dead of winter, as the moon cast an indifferent light from behind the clouds.

There were cuts all over my body. Some felt too deep to fix without stitches. All oozing a deep crimson faster than I could comprehend. I felt dizzy and collapsed to the ground next to the corpse of the monster. I felt warm as I was bathed in my own blood. Time seemed to stop. Everything became fuzzy. I felt strangely at peace. It could've been hours, or mere minutes since I fell. I couldn't tell. I didn't care. I felt tired.

Then I saw movement. The thing shifted ever so slightly. It pulled at the shovel lodged in itself. And began to slowly rise. It limped, crawled really, past me back into the forest. Letting out a screech of anger and hunger.

Something changed, and I could feel my heart start to slow. Despite the icy wind cutting into my skin, a warmth passed over my burning blue hands like a soothing balm. The snow no longer felt like a thousand needles pricking my flesh but a cloud-like cushion. My thoughts, as well as my vision, became muddled. Yet, there was still a noticeable voice in the back of my mind. Slightly muffled by the sirens in my head lulling me to a final slumber, but it was still there, still screaming at me to get help. It would come for them next. I knew that, yet... all I wanted to do was sleep.

While late night scrolling I found someone trying to remake Orbitz (a discontinued drink from the 90’s) that he describes as a drinkable lava lamp.

They did exist.

Something has always felt wrong about me. I’ve never really felt comfortable identifying as male or female, and anytime I tried dressing one way or the other, I always felt like I couldn’t pass for either. When I look in the mirror, I only see my flaws. Half my face is too round, the other too angular. My nose is crooked. My eyes are skewed. My ears are too big. My body is too wide, my torso too short, and my arms too long. I feel alien. Like I’m just an approximation of a human. That’s when I noticed it. 

It was late. I was stuck staring into the mirror, trying to figure out how to love my flaws. Trying to recognize the person on the other side. That’s when I heard the knock. It was soft. Almost as if it were trying to be polite. 

“Hello?” I called out, “Who’s there?”

Silence. I peeked my head out of my bathroom into my bedroom. I heard something knocking on the door to my room again, a simple and quick knock-knock-knock. I lowered myself to the floor to try peeking at whomever was on the other side. The thing didn’t move. But it knocked again. Just as soft as last time. When I opened the door there was nothing. It was as if whatever was waiting on the other side simply didn’t exist. I turned off the hall light, and went back into my room, I figured that it was just my mind playing tricks on in the total silence of the house. Making something that wasn’t there. That had to be it. But when I sat down at my computer to play some games, I heard it again. Louder this time. I turned to the door and saw the light was back on, and the shape was there again. This time I didn’t hesitate. I ripped open the door and saw it standing there. 

No. No, I saw myself standing there. A perfect copy of me. It was too perfect. Downright beautiful. I caught it from one angle, and it was drop dead gorgeous, the other angle it was stoic and manly. Somehow the best of both masculine and feminine qualities I possessed. 

It just stared at me with a blank expression, its eyes were opalescent, milky white, tracking me as I studied the other “me”. It looked like it was hollow. Missing something. I approached it, my instincts screaming at me to run away, and got a closer look. I only noticed it was doing the same when I raised my right hand to examine it. It couldn’t be real, right? As my hand drifted closer to its face, my face, I saw it smile. A perfectly symmetrical mouth full of gleaming white teeth. I recoiled when it did this, and it did the same. It was broken and twitchy. Like whatever it was could only mimic my appearance, it didn’t say a word, but the expression was malicious.

It knew.

It was offering a solution.

It would take my place. It would take all my flaws, all my fears, my identity and my shame, and become perfect. I was envious. Jealous. It was mocking me. As if it was silently saying “I am you but better.” I got angry and slammed the door in its face. 

I went to my mirror and tried to see myself as that thing. But I couldn’t. Why was it better? How could it be exactly like me, but beautiful? I tried calling one of my friends, maybe she could help me. She had transitioned last year, and was happier than I’d ever seen her before. I had previously asked her if she could help me feel more comfortable in my own skin, and she suggested I may just be non-binary. Even when she was going through the roughest part of her transition, she was still so knowledgeable and supportive of me. I honestly wished I could be like her, in face of all the opposition she stood tall. This time, though, when I asked for help regarding the copy she sounded confused. 

“What do you mean there’s another you?” 

“That’s just it. There’s another me. At my house. It’s wearing my face, but it… It made it look better. Why does it want to be me?”

“That doesn’t make sense, are you okay? Not greening out on me are you? Do you need me to come over?”

“No! Yes? Maybe? I don’t know. Just… I need to know if I’m really… broken?”

“You’re not broken, you just have some self-image problems. I’ve had them before too. Look I’ll come over tomorrow, just try to get some sleep, okay? Tell you what, send me a picture of this thing, and I’ll try to do some research. Okay?”

I didn’t want to see it again, but if I could get any information maybe I could make it leave. I took out my phone and opened the door again. I tried to take a picture of the false me. It had changed again, this time showing me what I’d look like if I were completely feminine. Soft. Pretty. It changed again, to a pure masculine build. More handsome and rugged. It kept shifting between all various states of me, before cycling back to the mirror version, with that same perfect smile. 

When it finally stayed in one form I took the picture and sent it to my friend, quickly closing the door on the fake me, prompting a sinister, yet gentle, laugh from the other side. It had taken my voice.

When she called back all she could say was “what the fuck?”

“What? You see it too?”

“You’re fucking with me, right?”

“I swear I’m not! I can send a video if that will make things easier?”

She paused for a minute, then responded.

“I mean… it does look like you, but if you’re being serious, I’ll try to help. Let me see what Google says.”

After a few more agonizing seconds of silence, she came back and told me what I was seeing. 

“That sounds like you’ve met a doppelgänger.”

“So what does that mean?”

“It's a supernatural thing, apparently there are rules to dealing with one.”

“And those are?”

“Don’t look at it, don’t touch it, and don’t speak to it.”

Well shit, I thought to myself. I had already responded to it and made eye contact. But the fact that I was merely inches away from touching the thing is the most alarming.

“Just out of curiosity what would’ve happened if I broke any of the rules?”

“According to this blog post, looking at it gives it permission to mirror you, like it imprints on you as its target. But in general, the more you interact with it, the more of you it takes.”

“Well how do I get rid of it?”

“I don’t think you can. The article just says that there are steps to deter it, checking your reflection frequently, burning clothes it touches, and staying quiet can slow its progress. Other than that, it seems like there’s no way to get rid of it. Unless it finds someone else to replace.” 

Our conversation stopped when the thing banged on the door loudly. It began screaming in my voice, a pained and manic howl of violence and rage. I quickly backed away and hid in the bathroom. Catching an ugly glance in the mirror. I was still on call with my friend.

“Holy shit, what do I do? I think it’s trying to break in!”

“Hang on, I'm looking!”

The thing searched around my room, lifting my bed on its side and breaking down my cheap closet doors. I covered my mouth and tried to remain as still and quiet as I could manage, barely whispering out a hurried plea for my friend to give me anything to escape this thing.

“The blog says that if you can get the thing to look at the mirror and then smash it, all the shards can confuse it and buy you some time to escape!”

I waited by the sink, with the cabinet mounted mirror aimed at the door. The thing scratched at the cheap plywood, cracking and splintering under its barrage. When the door finally gave way, the thing spilled into the bathroom and tried to lock its vision on me. I threw open the mirror door and the monster stopped dead in its tracks. It reached out and tapped against the mirror's glass. Then I punched against the back of the mirror with all my strength. The glass exploded forward in a glittery shower and fell from the frame, and the fake me wailed in agony, its voice a cacophony of previous victims intermingled with my own. It scrabbled at the broken pieces lying on the floor as I bolted past it and out of the house. As I ran, I stole one last look as it came barreling through the front door behind me. It was still wearing my face, symmetrical and perfect. I called out, against my better judgment at the thing, trying to make it slip up. Trying to confuse it with my own negative self-image.

“That’s not my face!”

The thing actually stopped in its tracks on the porch and struggled to figure out what I meant by that. It resumed its chase and moved between the shadows and the orange-yellow streetlights, illuminating itself in brief intervals. Shifting between its masculine and feminine copies of me. I continued running away. Getting closer to my friend's apartment. The thing was still following me. It called out in my own voice. It demanded I pay attention to it. It cried, and screamed, begging me to turn around. 

I had a sudden, yet somewhat obvious, thought just then. I realized that it could only take what it saw, and heard, for itself. I turned and looked at the monster.

“You want to be me? Fine! If you can perfectly recreate me, I will touch you. But if you can’t get me exactly as I see myself, you will leave this place!”

It was at the top of the stairs, blocking my only exit. It was still wearing its perfect doll-like skin. Appearing almost like a pin-up girl. 

“That’s not my skin!”

The doppelgänger shuddered and tried to make its skin a darker shade, covered in birthmarks and freckles. 

“Wrong, again! And my face isn’t that round, my left eye is too big, and my nose is too straight.”

Its face, my face, twisted into a snarl, as it tried to get my imperfections right. It had to be my face. It was a perfect mirror of me. The doppelgänger tried harder to perfect my appearance. Molding itself before my eyes, unable to comprehend how it could possibly be wrong when it was looking right at me. It was making frustrated grunts and clicking sounds as it tried to match my self-destructive criticisms.

It demanded in my voice that I touch it, screaming furiously as its body contorted in ways no human could possibly move. It tried desperately to grab at my shirt, but it couldn’t. It didn’t have permission. It leaned in close to me and tried to make me flinch. It gnashed its teeth at me. It shifted and changed its face to try matching how I perceived myself. But it couldn’t. 

It tried to make its arms twice as long as its body, making the sickening sounds of bones twisting and cracking as it did so. It tried making its face wider, its mouth larger. It desperately cycled through hundreds of combinations of facial features and body types. It roared in frustration as I criticized it every time. 

“Those aren’t my eyes.”

It plunged its hands into its eyes and dug out the milky white spheres and two fresh eyes with emerald green irises grew in their place.

For almost half an hour this thing grew more frustrated until it looked nothing like me in the mirror. It turned and stalked off into the dark, disappearing into the shadows of the apartment complex. When I was sure the thing was gone, I knocked on the door and my friend answered. 

“Is it gone?”

“I think. Did you, uh… look at it? You’re not in danger now are you?”

“No, I heard you yelling and when I peered through the peephole, you were blocking it. Do you want to come in, talk about it?”

“Yeah, I’d like that. Can I use your shower? I must smell awful.”

“Yeah, go ahead, I’ll get you some clean clothes and some blankets.”

As I undressed in the bathroom, I caught a look at myself in the mirror. I recognized that crooked nose and lopsided mouth. I traced my jaw in the mirror, and turned  my head left and right, noting all the same flaws and blemishes I regularly did in my almost ritualistic debasement. But this time it was different. I saw the crooked nose had a charm to it, and my mouth curved up slightly at the corners, a faint smile I had never noticed before that was permanently grooved into my face. My hair, as messy and tangled as it was from my encounter with the doppelgänger, was shiny and full, and had an almost velvety sheen to it. Finally I locked eyes with myself, peering into the once dull boring brown spheres, and they shimmered brilliantly, like deep pools of amber or honey, with newfound love. For the first time in a long time, I felt like me.

He heard the rumble of the engine before anything else. The November sun was casting a deep red-orange hue into the cigarette and beer scented living room as the headlights from the beat up old pickup pulled into the cracked and overgrown driveway. Francis dropped the fantasy book he was reading and ran to his bedroom, barricading the door quickly and quietly prayed that Markus wasn’t drunk again. That prayer was quickly abandoned when he heard the front door explode open and slam shut making the shitty little house rattle with a fury only a dragon could rival. 

“Frank! Get yer skinny ass down here now!”

His father had been a violent, drunken monster since his mother left and the steel mill closed. The only thing keeping them going was the welfare checks his father got in the mail and spent at the bar every week. Markus’ voice boomed again.

“Frank so help me if you’ve been readin’ those devil books again, I’ll beat yer ass redder than the prince of hell himself!” 

The heavy footfalls of boots on stairs silencenced any outside noise, leaving Francis with his own heartbeat and breathing to count the seconds he had before the handle to his room rattled in place, stopped only by the cheap desk chair. 

BOOM

BOOM

BOOM

The chair under the doorknob couldn't hold much more punishment, each BOOM made the old wood sound like it would splinter at any minute. Francis thought for a moment of leaving out the window, trying to make it to a friend's house, or maybe MeeMaw’s trailer on the other side of town. He had a bike, it would be so easy to leave. But the fallout from that would leave the man on the other side of the door furious, and being reliant on welfare checks meant that Markus could lie in wait, sitting in his chair watching the door, smoke billowing from his nostrils, cheap beer cans scattered around his feet, illuminated by the blue-white glow of the old TV, glaring like a beast ready to strike. The other factor preventing Francis from running was the police. The last time he ran, Markus called them, claiming the boy ran away, and when he was brought home they told Markus to keep an eye on him. This memory was interrupted by a sudden CRACK.

“Damnit Frank lookit what ya made me do!”

Markus had finally made it through the barricade, and his head swept the room before locking on the small child sitting on the floor in front of him, bewildered. In an instant smooth motion, Markus had removed his belt, and struck Francis as fast as a cobra. The thick red welts left by each strike stung less than the words Markus bellowed at him.

“This is why yer mother left Frank! What happened to yer good morals?”

When the man felt Francis had enough whipping he dropped his belt and, in a fervor, tore down every poster and drawing of knights, dragons, elves and dwarves and shredded them. He went to the small bookshelves and ripped pages and pages out of every book he saw. He finished his tyrannical destruction by going to the door, now hanging loose in its frame, and pulling it off the hinges.

“I warned ya not to block this damn door, now ya don’t get one!”

Markus hefted the splintered remains of the door down the stairs and out onto the front porch, haphazardly throwing the door into the dying yard. This wasn’t the first time Francis had “lost” door privileges, but it was certainly one of the worse instances. When Markus returned, he seemed to have calmed down, if only for a moment, before seeing the pathetic look on his son’s face, sparking a new hatred for the child. He had his mother’s eyes. Soft. Doe-like. Intelligent. It reminded Markus of the woman who left. And he struck Francis with a calloused fist, leaving the boy with a large black eye on the left side of his face. 

That’s when something changed. Francis had taken a few open handed swats before, usually his father would leave a bruise on his arm or cheek, and he’s been spanked with a belt more times than he can remember, but this was the first time he was ever truly hit by his father. He felt the broken skin on his father’s knuckles, what he imagined scales felt like, and he felt stars behind his eyes. Everything slowed down. Everything… 
Went…
Hazy…

And then nothing.

When he came to, Francis realized two things. First, it was dark. And second, his father was sleeping in the next room. The rumble of his snores sounded monstrous, like some giant beast had moved in. Francis went to his cheap digital alarm clock and read the display “12:07 A.M.” Had he really been asleep that long? He looked down at the disaster around his feet, then looked under his mattress. At least his father didn’t check his better hiding spots. There was a small flashlight and his last fantasy book, The King of Dragon-Slayers. Francis had read this book already, but after his father’s rampage it was all he had. He ducked under the thickest of his blankets, a threadbare cotton sheet, and aimed his flashlight at the pages, filling his still throbbing head with stories of kings and knights, trolls, dragons, and fairies. 

Francis drifted off at some point, and he woke to his alarm clock alerting him it was seven in the morning. He hid the book and flashlight back under his mattress, and got ready for school. As he went into the hall, he heard the snoring occasionally break with some incoherent mumbling drifting from his father’s room. Francis didn’t bother waking the beast, instead quietly sneaking down the stairs, grabbing a Pop-Tart, and leaving through the kitchen door, as it made less noise than the heavy front door. The brisk morning air made all his welts sting, and the blinding sunlight made his head swirl. It was funny, when he reopened his eyes he could’ve sworn he saw a griffin soaring in the air. After blinking a few times and his eyes readjusted to the sky, he saw it was nothing more than a pigeon. Francis tried to wave off the strange occurrence as he went to the shack behind the house to retrieve his bike, but again when he got to the shack something didn’t make sense.

Did he hear a horse?

Francis was confused as to how a horse could’ve gotten into the locked shack behind the house, let alone in Rust County. He quickly fumbled with the tumbler lock, entering the code 8-0-0-8-5 and giggling to himself, then pulled the metal doors open expecting to see a horse, but it was just his BMX. He looked around inside the shed, and when he found nothing, he chalked it up to another strange prank his active imagination was playing on him. Francis pulled the bike into the dying lawn, relocked the shed, and rode to school. The ride was relatively normal, he passed by a few peoples houses, past the liquor store and 24-hour gas station, eventually making it to his middle school before his classes started. When he got inside the school, the halls were a mess of students chatting and getting ready for their first class of the day, but Francis’ mind had been acting up again. He could’ve sworn the older boys were greener and toothier than he remembered. He stared at the strange brutes longer than he thought and was noticed almost immediately.

“You got a staring problem buttmunch?” 

The bigger of the three asked, pushing to the center of Francis’ view. When he didn’t get an answer, he leaned in close to the dumbfounded boy and asked another question.

“HEY! You listening, runt? I asked you a question!” 

Before Francis could think he was on his back, and his stomach hurt. The bullies had turned back into their pimply selves, and chuckled as they walked away, at some point having taken Francis’ wallet and raided it of whatever small bills he had saved for lunch. When he finally got back up, Francis was lost in anxious thoughts. Why did he keep seeing and hearing strange things?  Was he going crazy? The loud and ear splitting ring of the first bell put off the notion of going to the nurse’s office; he couldn’t be late again or he’d get detention and that would make Markus worse. Francis hurried up the stairs to his first class. Thankfully social studies was normal, his teacher looked like he was still a human albeit wearing blue, star-covered robes, and his classmates were all still normal. He made it through the class with relatively no issues aside from the splitting headache, and pixies and gnomes darting behind the backpack cubby wall.

Second period, however, had changed completely. His teacher had turned into a long eared elf, his classmates were all manner of creatures from his fantasy books, and when he went to the bathroom, he saw himself in the mirror for the first time that day. He looked like the King from the book he was reading. His black eye looked exactly like the eyepatch the King had gotten when he lost his eye in the battle for The Shatterpeak Citadel! Francis smiled at the thought of being the King. He felt galant, and refined. At lunch, he joined his friends at the table, smiling wildly, as he saw each of his friends looked like knights, all bearing the crest of the kingdom on their shoulders, a Dragon with two swords crossed behind it. 

“Hark knights! What brings you to this fine meeting of the Dragon-Slayers?”

Francis sat down without any food, his friends offered bits of their lunch to help him, when they noticed the black eye they asked a myriad of questions. Most common were “What happened?” and “Who hit you?” Only Sampson had remained quiet, already having talked with Francis in fourth period, Francis didn’t respond to their questions. Instead he smiled, reassured his knights it was just a minor injury, and he’d be recovered enough to lead his knights into victory again soon. Then he asked them:

“You guys still on for DnD tonight? Sampson told me in fourth period he got a new wizard spell last session and wanted to use it tonight!” 

“HEY I WANTED THAT TO BE A SURPRISE!”

The lunchtime revelries had put his friends at ease, and Francis went about the rest of his school day only occasionally seeing the odd fantasy creature pop up. By the end of the day, Francis felt like he had gotten the hang of what he had been seeing. And when his friends met him at the bike rack, he wasn’t even surprised to see his bike had suddenly turned into a pure white Stallion in resplendent silver armor. 

Francis and the knights mounted up and headed to Sir Sampson’s castle, and barring the intrusion of the lord and lady who resided within the castle walls, the group feasted on pizza and wings, and began their game of strategy. Francis had nearly lost track of time when he heard the phone ringing in the other room, the boys had just reached the Gates of Esterion, and were caught up in a fight for their lives against the skeleton guards when they were interrupted by the lady of the castle, Sampson's mom had answered and after hearing the voice on the other end, she looked heartbroken, she knew what the call meant. Francis wished she would lie to the voice on the other end, that she would tell Francis that he could stay the night, anything to avoid what he was about to hear. 

“Francis? Your father called, and said you had to head home immediately. He sounded upset that you didn’t check in before coming over here. Do you need a ride?”

He knew that he had to go back at some point, but didn’t like the prospect of returning so soon. When he left his friends for the night, he saw the dark road was illuminated by large torches along either side, some barely flickered by as they died in the cold wind, others held strong and guided Francis home with relative ease. As he brought his bike into the stable out back, he unlocked the door and put the BMX back in its place, then locked up again. He went inside the Dragon’s cave, where the smell of fire and brimstone was strong, fresh, and the Dragon's hoard clattered around the floor.

“Where have ya been ya little shit?!” 

The voice erupted from the back of the living room, an orange glow barely visible against the bright light coming from the TV, and there sat the great Red Dragon. 

“Do ya have any idea how much trouble yer in?!”

Francis was paralyzed with fear. He didn’t know what time it was, but it had to be at least seven in the evening, the rule was typically “be home before the streetlights came on” but that was when Mom was around. Sometimes he would stay the week at Sampson’s or Travis’ house, and his father would barely notice he was gone. Why did it matter so much to Markus now? Francis’s thoughts were cut off when he felt his father’s gargantuan paw grip tightly around his skinny arm, and then the sudden burning as the cigarette pressed down into his forearm. Francis didn’t know what happened next. He just realized he was outside, and his father was yelling. Francis ran. Away from the Dragon, the burns on his arm were still fresh, and the cold air felt good. The first few flakes of snow began to fall, ushering the early throes of winter’s inevitable arrival. He didn’t know how long he had run, but he did know where he was. 

MeeMaw’s Trailer.

Meemaw was an older woman, in her late seventies, and was more a family friend to Francis’s mother. Everyone in town knew her, she was the old lady who ran the diner until it burnt down. Francis only ever heard of her past through his mother. She would tell stories of her time as a young girl over tea, and the most important parts still rang in Francis’ mind as he nervously waited outside the trailer’s warm yellow glow to see if she would grant him sanctuary. She was a child during women's suffrage, she was married to Herbie in the 30’s, and when World War Two broke out, was a riveter building planes for her country. By her 50’s she had been a part of the civil rights movement, her diner had become one of the few places that sat both black and white patrons, and her reason when questioned by the angry or uncomfortable townsfolk “Their money is as good as yours.”

Francis saw the silhouette of the old woman who was busy making a TV dinner for her husband. It moved and locked its gaze on him, having noticed Francis shaking in the cold like a leaf and brought him inside. Then she saw the burns. Meemaw ushered Francis into the cramped trailer, and past Herbie, who stared at the boy with hollow eyes. Francis shuffled uncomfortably under the gaze of the man, as if trying to make himself as small as possible. Meemaw turned around and reassured Francis “His bark is worse than his bite.” Before quickly pulling him into the tiny bathroom where she ran his arm under water, lancing the ensuing blisters and applying a generous amount of Neosporin, and covering his arm in a thick gauze bandage. When Francis relayed the events of the night to her, MeeMaw looked confused. Like he was speaking a different language. 

“Meemaw I fought a dragon! I couldn’t let him hurt me any more than he already has, and since the former queen has fled the castle, the dragon's fury has only grown!”

“Francis, are you okay? Try speaking slowly, I can’t understand you, what do you mean you fought the Dragon– Goodness! I haven’t seen burns this bad since the factory manager got his tie stuck in the engine of a plane, hold still dear this will only hurt a second.”

“I mean what I said Madame Apothecary! I fought valiantly against the Dragon, earning these scars upon my arm. Thank you again for bandaging me, but I require the assistance of the royal guard to defeat the beast! I left my steed behind, sadly, but a sacrifice I made only out of self preservation, and I intend to rescue the– What is that?” 

The sound of wailing and the flashing lights of red and blue fae interrupted Francis’ monologue, as he looked through the window of the cramped hut and saw two trolls clamber out of their wagon, the imprisoned fae now silent but still flashing. The trolls knocked on the door calling out “Rust County Sheriff's Department,” prompting MeeMaw to answer.

“Yes, Officer? Can I help you?”

“Evening Meemaw, we’re here on behalf of Markus Howard, looking for his son Francis Howard. Apparently the young man ran away from home again and we’re just checking places he’s been known to frequent.”

“Well Officer, I don’t know what happened, but I haven–”

“DON’T LET THEM TAKE ME!”

Francis interrupted the conversation involuntarily, as if his mouth was not his own.

“Okay son, let's get you home,” the troll grabbed the boy by his unbandaged arm, “Your father is very worried about you, and said that you weren’t supposed to be out this late at night. Why did you come all the way out here of all places?”

Francis stayed silent, the tears in his eyes stung as he was brought back to the Dragon on a silver platter. He didn’t know what to do. He didn’t know why the Dragon even bothered keeping him around if he was such a burden. Francis was tired, and when he was at the mouth of the Dragon’s cave, he stopped. The door opened and the Dragon stood there, a bite mark on his hand, and a fake look of concern on his face. He thanked the officer, dragged Francis back into the house, and closed the door. The Dragon stared out the window watching the trolls leave. Once he was certain that he was alone, he turned to Francis, and whipped his tail at the boy. It cracked viciously in the air next to Francis’ head and The Dragon growled.

“I don’t know what in the hell ya were thinkin’ Frank, but I suggest ya get yer ass into yer room this instant before I whip yer backside so badly ya can’t sit down for a week.”

Francis had rarely heard the Dragon speak so quietly, and was genuinely terrified by the sheer hatred and malice he heard behind each word. Normally the Dragon would yell, berate, and strike the King with his tail, sometimes locking him in a cell until it thinks the King learned a lesson, but this was the first time the Dragon was quiet. And with the cell door still sitting outside the cave, King Francis had very few options of escape that wouldn’t immediately alert the Dragon. He decided to lie in wait. If the Dragon was being patient, the King would be too. 

It was early in the morning, still dark out, and King Francis had a plan. If the Dragon wouldn’t let the King leave willingly, the King would just have to slay the Dragon. He crept down the stairs, careful to avoid the traps and loose treasure the beast left along the mossy floor. The smell of fire was dying down now, and the smoke clung to the ceiling in thick gray blankets. And soon the King heard the tell-tale sign of the beast sleeping. The rattle of the most recent addition to his hoard clattered to the ground, and then the snoring began. 

Francis crept into the sacred room where the Dragon had kept weapons of former adversaries, pitchforks and shovels and swords covered every surface, covered in whatever the Dragon last ate, in this case, spaghetti. But the King was looking for a specific relic. It sat on the counter, firmly lodged in a stone. Francis tested his kingly worthiness, and gave the sword a gentle pull, when it didn’t stop he fully drew the sword in his hand. It was sharp. Sharper than anything he’d ever held before. The King turned back to the Dragon. He’d been burned, lost an eye, and whipped by the Dragon's ferocious tail. He had steeled himself, and moved carefully so as not to disturb the Dragon’s hoard. He was right at the Dragon's throne. His heart raced at a thousand beats a second. Then with a ferocious warcry, The King plunged the sword into the Dragon’s belly.

The Dragon roared a mighty, painful, bellow. He looked down at the King, in disbelief, but he didn’t have any time to react as the King drew the sword back out, and plunged it into the Dragon again. And again. And Again.

And again. And again.

And again. And again.

And again.

The screaming didn’t stop until the sun came up. The King had finally silenced the Dragon by plunging the sword into the neck of the beast, only a soft, wet gurgling, and the wheezing of a dying beast filled the cave. The sun cast a strange shadow through the opening in the side of the cave, horizontal lines cut across the room, drenched in the blood of the Dragon, its corpse lying in a heap in the center with a sword sticking out of its side, and Francis heard the wailing of the fae. He saw the dance of blue and red fae through the strange opening. He was free. He had killed the Dragon. The King opened the door to the cave, now safe from the Dragon’s terror, and stepped into the sunlight.

The sounds of the crowd were muffled through the floor; the backstage area having been covered with foam to block out extra noise. Eric "8-Ball" was doing his best to carry a girl through the bathroom stall door, both of them slapping tongues until she pulled away for a breath.

"You promise you can introduce me to Vinny's brother?"

Eric, barely listening, reached into the inner pocket of his vest and produced a small baggie. He unrolled it slowly, revealing a thin line of white powder along the crease.

She looked at it and her eyes went wide.

"Oh. My. God. Like, YES! Now we're talking!"

Eric grinned and did what he always did when things were going his way. He picked her up and put her on the bathroom counter, spread her thighs and put the coke on them and got to work. While he was occupied, she kept talking, something about Barret and getting backstage and could he make a call tonight to Vinny, and she reached down and pinched the last of the powder from the crease of the baggie, rubbing it slowly across her front teeth. She held it there for a moment waiting for something that didn't come.

"Are you even listening to me?!" The girl got up, "You're going to introduce me, right? Ugh! Fucking poodle boy... I can't believe I couldn't scrape together twenty bucks for Velour Basement and ended up with bargain bin Barret." She pushed past Eric, out of the stall and through the bathroom door. "Also, I think that was, like, mostly baking soda!" She called out as the heavy door slammed behind her.

Eric sat on the sticky floor for a few minutes, trying to figure out what the hell just happened. Minutes became an hour. The crowd above went quiet as people filed out of the dive for the night, and the bathroom door swung open and shut with a parade of drunken patrons coming in to puke or piss while Eric sat there running through every possible excuse for why he couldn't get laid anymore.

The one he eventually landed on was "This bimbo just didn't understand good music!" Although the real reason sat in the back of his brain like a tumor he refused to admit was there. He couldn't vocalize his own defeat. Glam just wasn't cool anymore. There had been an explosion of the chunkier, "real" sounds of grunge and alternative music spreading like a red bumpy rash creeping from out west for a while now, and if that wasn't bad enough, now there was industrial too. He knew it wasn't just his group struggling. A lot of great bands were trying to adjust. The bar owner had only booked them as a favor to Danny Kowalski, the booking agent who had gotten him three good acts that summer. Danny had called in the chip on a Tuesday, which is how Whyte Lytnyng ended up opening for Technicolor Headrush on a Friday night to a crowd that had no idea who they were and didn't particularly care to find out. He finally snapped out of his stupor when the owner of the bar came in and grabbed Eric by his collar,

"Hey jackass, Bar's Closed! Get yer shit an' get out!"

"You didn't even pay us, asshole!" Eric slurred. 

"Talk to Kowalski, that's his problem. Me? I wouldn't have paid a dime for that outdated sissy shit you call music, glitter dick."

Eric had been hearing this more often, “Your band is out-of-touch”, “You sound exactly like every other group”, “Bland and unoriginal”. He was about to argue that he made music that people wanted to hear, when the bathroom lights flickered, and a voice whispered in the back of his mind,

Punch him in the face.

Eric had thought about it several times before. What would happen if he got arrested for more than just a drug possession? If he acted against his critics with more than just petty insults and threats of lawsuits. The voice had offered him a solution, his drug-addled mind accepted it. He threw a wild haymaker which the owner of the bar caught and planted a firm, meaty fist into Eric’s gut. The pain of having all his squishy bits suddenly compressed, combined with the already potent nausea of the drugs and alcohol in his system forced a foul-tasting and painfully sharp bile through his mouth. The owner, now standing back looking at the pathetic rockstar heaving on the floor, threw a few more kicks to Eric’s ribs and shouted something Eric couldn’t quite hear through his pounding heartbeat and sickly vomiting. 

The man only stopped kicking him when the bathroom door exploded open and the two remaining members of Whyte Lytnyng came in to break up the one-sided fight. 

“Tell your faggot brother if I ever see him in here again, I’ll blow his goddamn head off!” The owner shouted as Barret Thunder, the drummer, pulled him away from Eric. Eddie Asteroid, his brother and the lead vocalist, quickly tried to help Eric up, 

"Aw dude, again?! Come on man, you're gonna get us blacklisted. Let's get out of here before he calls the cops." Eddie attempted to scoop Eric up from the floor. 

“GET THE FUCK OFF ME!” Eric yelled, “I can get myself up.” He then said through a clenched jaw, poorly trying to hide pained tears as he limped out the bathroom door and up the stairs to the back exit. 

Barret and Eddie followed shortly after, having smoothed things over with the owner enough to avoid charges, and began loading up the band's instruments and sound equipment. Eric watched in the rearview mirror, sporting a fresh set of bruises half covered by streaked makeup. He thought again about why the band was failing. It couldn't be their sound. They had all the same energy, power, and skill they started with, maybe more without the bassist. It also couldn't be their personas. They had refined their stage personalities almost as much as their music. So what was it? Why did those whiny burnout losers mumbling into the microphone appeal to people so much more than their carefully structured formula?

He was getting angry, breathing harder and more frantic, each breath pulling the stinging pain of his beating back into his head. He needed a cigarette. He needed whiskey. He needed something, anything, to get his brain off his own bruised ego. It didn't help that he kept getting talked to like a child by his younger brother.

"Eric, dude, I'm worried about you. I know the band hasn't been doing as well lately, but you've been getting into more fights and missing rehearsals. I get that staying in character keeps you authentic, but you gotta learn to turn it off sometimes, y'know?" Eddie said from the driver's seat of the van. "I love you dude, but if you don't get your shit together there might not be a band anymore."

"He's right Eric," Barret said as he climbed into the backseat. "Ever since you started getting more into character as '8-Ball' you've been different. I've watched you go from having a good time to not being able to get through a soundcheck without it. Vinny left because he saw where this was heading. We might still be able to turn it around if you'd just…"

"Just what, huh?! Change our sound?! How dare you even suggest that, you spineless prick! Your idiot brother just didn't know what a good thing we had going! He may've been the lightning to your thunder, but I made this band! I stuck with it when the going got tough! Where's Vinny Lytnyng now, huh?! He's just Vincent Douglas! He's not a star anymore! Why don't you go join him?! Oh wait, Velour Basement already has a drummer!"

"Eric, dude, you gotta calm down, I get that you're upset but…"

"But what?! Huh? You're on his side? My own brother thinks the music we're making is shit?! I see. Fuck both of you! I don't need you! Whyte Lytnyng never needed either of you! How about your flaws huh? Eddie, your singing is out of tune and flat! You screech and howl all wrong, and Barret, you couldn't keep a decent rhythm if the girl riding you was doing all the work! You're both amateurs! Y'know that? Pull over, I'll find a different group, people who know what real music is!"

"Eric—"

"No! Fuck you, Eddie! Why don't you go back to your fucking job as a movie theater popcorn vendor?! You’ve been riding my coattails all the way to the top since day one! You should feel lucky that I'm talented enough to even have reached *this* point with you hanging on to me!"

With that Eric opened the door to the van and climbed out, catching his foot on the lip of the door and faceplanting into the curb. When he got up he slammed the van door shut and stomped off into the night. The other two members of the band followed him for a block or two, trying to convince him to get back into the van, before he hurled an empty bottle at them. Taking the hint, the pair drove off back to the motel to turn in for the night. Eric watched the taillights disappear around the corner and walked in the opposite direction. The last thing he wanted was to be ambushed by the two of them once he had cooled down.

The night air bit Eric to the bone. His stage outfit, little more than a fishnet shirt, a shredded denim vest, and zebra print pants, offered little protection. He stumbled his way into a park and dropped onto a bench barely illuminated by an old yellow light above it. He watched the deep blue clouds drift across the night sky, blocking out the moon. They didn't care about him or his problems. Nobody did.

"Just one good show. That's all I need. Just one killer show and I'll make it big." He said to no one in particular.

"I can do that." Hissed a gruff voice from the darkness behind him, "How about we do a little business?"

Eric turned to face the voice but found no one behind him. When he turned back a homeless man stood in front of him, jaundiced yellow eyes and rotting teeth peering at him from beneath a raggedy scarf and hood.

"Holy shit!" Eric said, nearly jumping out of his skin, "Where the hell did you come from?!"

The homeless man didn't answer right away. He just looked at Eric the way you look at a song you already know the ending to.

“’Where IN Hell, would be more accurate.”

“What?”

"Look. Does it matter? I'm here now. That's what's real. You said you needed one killer show. I can do that for you."

"Are... are you, like, supposed to be the devil?"

"Psh-naw man, I wish. I'm just a messenger of sorts. Think of me as a producer. I find talent, I make things happen, then I take my cut."

"Why do you look like a homeless guy? Aren't you supposed to be in a suit or something? Or like a red half-naked goat man thing?"

"No, man, that's a common misconception. A negative stereotype. The Devil can take any manner of forms and come up by his own means, us lesser demons must use a host, usually someone who already sold their soul for something or another. An empty vessel if you will. This guy wanted to live on the open road forever, what could be more open than this?" The man gestured with open arms to the empty park around him. Waiting for some cue that would never come.

"So… What? I'm supposed to suck you off and then you get me a record deal or something?"

"No, I'm not one of those demons. Although if you're offering..."

"No! Gross! Just get to the point. You want me to sell you my soul or something for fame, right?"

"You get partial credit for your guess, but I'm looking for something more tangible than a soul."

"I'm not giving you my body. I'm talented enough to reach stardom without your help."

The homeless man looked at him with something that wasn't quite pity and wasn't quite amusement.

"Oh yeah, I can see that." He let the silence sit for a moment. "Boy, I don't want your shitty body, it's already been ruined with vices. Quite frankly I'm surprised you’re still alive with how much powder you've snorted up your honker. What I want is a plaything. Something I can take back to my place and have fun with. Know anyone I might get a kick out of? All I need is one person, could be anyone really, and I'll use some of my special skills to help you get your one killer show."

Eric thought for a moment. Was he really about to do this? Sell a person for fame? And how exactly would he get them to the demon? His mind wandered to everyone who had slighted him recently. The owner of the bar, the girl in the bathroom, Eddie and Barret. He had a list of names of people he currently hated.

"C'mon now, boy, I ain't got all night, who's it gonna be?"

Just then a name came to mind. Someone whose betrayal had hurt more than anyone else's.

"Before I say, how do I get them to you?"

"Glad you asked. You're gonna kill 'em. We'll go out to a quiet place where no one will get in our way, I'll draw up the contract, and then you'll sign the dotted line in the blood of your offering."

“Damn, you really are like a producer.” Eric thought again. Then, with a smile he didn't know he had in him, he said, "Vinny Lytnyng."

"Who?"

"My former bassist. His real name is Vincent Douglas. That bastard wanted to change our band's sound, and when we refused he got all bitchy and said that we had to see the writing on the wall. So I kicked him out of the group."

The homeless man mirrored the smile. "Boy I think you might be more devilish than me. But I'll take that offering. Where is he?"

Eric had no idea. But he had a thought about how to find out.

After another hour working through the details with the demon, Eric found a phone booth and combed the yellow pages until he had a number. He was surprised when someone actually picked up.

"Hello?"

"Vinny. It's Eric."

"Eric?! Are you high right now?! Do you even know what time it is?!"

"Listen. I wanted to say I'm sorry. You were right, I was wrong. I want to make things right."

A long pause.

"Dude. It is three in the morning. I have rehearsal in four hours. Of all the times you had to grow a conscience." Another pause. "Fine. We'll talk. But I'm not forgiving you tonight for stealing my band and my brother from me."

"Can you meet me at the Rusty Razor? It's a dive on the edge of town but it would mean a lot."

"One condition. No cocaine. I'm serious Eric. That stuff is going to fry what's left of your brain."

"No cocaine. I promise. Goodnight."

"Uh huh."

Eric hung up and looked at the demon. Everything was in motion now. He stopped on the way back to the motel to do a line from the dimebag he kept for emergencies, then walked back to find Eddie and Barret already asleep. He took the couch. He didn't sleep.

Dawn came with breakfast at the truck stop diner across the road. Eric could barely keep coffee down while the other two worked through plates of bacon and eggs cooked in enough grease to kill something small. Between bites he told them he was planning to make amends with Vincent. They were glad to hear it. He left out the where and the when.

The rest of the day moved slowly. Eric scoped out the Rusty Razor in the afternoon, walking the layout, noting the stairs down to the bathroom. At a quarter past nine the demon reappeared, this time wearing the body of an old biker, barrel chested and unhurried, with that same quality of stillness the homeless man had carried. They walked in together and Eric was immediately pinned against the wall.

"I thought I told you that if I saw your pansy ass in here again I'd blow your head off."

"I wanted to apologize for last night. I was in character. It gets away from me sometimes."
"And now?"

"Now I'm just Eric Collins. Can I buy a couple of beers?"

The owner studied him for a long moment, then let go.

"One chance. You so much as look like trouble and I will cut your balls off and feed them to you. We clear?"

Eric nodded, pulled some wrinkled bills from his wallet, and found a table near the back by the stairs. The demon settled in across from him with the patience of someone who had done this before and had never once been surprised by how it ended.

The band on stage was Steel Pole Bathtub, grinding through something Eric couldn't follow, all texture and noise and no hook he could find. Even here. Even now. He sat with it for two hours, the demon watching him the way a producer watches a take, not reacting, just listening for something only he could hear.

Then the front door opened and Vincent stepped through.

Eric waved him over.

"Eric? Who the hell is this guy?"

"My therapist. He's helping me get straight. I'm serious about it this time."

Vincent looked at the demon, then back at Eric. "How can you afford therapy?"

"I told you, I’m quitting coke."

Vincent pulled out a chair. "Alright. I don't have long. You wanted to apologize?"

"Yeah, I..." Eric doubled over, gripping the edge of the table, only partially faking the wave of nausea rolling through him. "Sorry. Coming down is rougher than I expected. I just need a minute. I gotta..."

He got up fast and moved toward the stairs, and the demon and Vincent followed him down into the bathroom. Eric pushed through the door and made it to the toilet in time to expel cheap beer and bar food into the bowl.

"Man, are you okay? I heard most people trying to quit what you've been doing need an actual rehab facility."

"I'm fine. Just give me a minute. I gotta find my..."

Eric turned and lunged. He caught Vincent off guard and drove him to the floor, getting his hands around his throat in the poorly lit room. Above them Steel Pole Bathtub climbed toward something loud and formless. Eric thought, not for the first time, that when you make music that sounds like that nobody can tell if you're even trying.

The demon moved to the door without being asked, his body seeming to fill the frame in a way that shouldn't have been possible given his size a moment earlier. He watched with the focused calm of a man hearing exactly what he came to hear.

When Vincent stopped struggling the demon produced a buck knife, large and plain, and held it out.

"Open his throat. Then sign and Lytnyng will be bigger than you can imagine." He said it the way you'd say let's try it again from the top. "The song's almost over."

Eric took the knife and stood over Vincent. He could have stopped. He knew that. He thought about Barret. He thought about what this would mean. He thought about the stage lights and the crowd he'd never had and the one the demon was promising him.

He knelt and drew the blade across Vincent's throat.

The blood came fast, pooling dark around Vincent's neck and shoulders. His eyes opened. A sound came out of him that Eric hadn't anticipated, wet and terrified, and blood spattered across Eric's face and chest. Vincent's hands went to his throat. His legs moved. Eric hadn't thought about this part, the part where it didn't just stop, and he drove the knife into Vincent's chest to end it. Then again. Then again. He kept going until the sounds stopped and the legs went still.

He stood up. Wiped his finger along the blade. Signed the contract the demon produced from somewhere.

The page caught fire and was gone. Everything went dark.

When the lights came back the demon was gone and so was Vincent. Eric climbed the stairs into a bar that had mostly emptied out, the owner stacking chairs on tables.

"Goddamn, you're still here? I thought everybody went home."

"What time is it?"

"Nearly two. You need a cab?"

"No. I know where I'm staying. You didn't hear anything from downstairs did you?"

"Those Steel Pole guys had this place packed wall to wall. I couldn't hear myself think all night. You getting a blowjob down there or something?"

"No. Never mind."

Eric walked back to the motel, stopping to buy two baggies from a street dealer and doing a line in the alley before continuing. The guys had taken both beds again. He took the couch. This time he slept.

He woke to Barret and Eddie cheering. Danny Kowalski had called. Someone with real money wanted a glam metal send-off for the summer, a last hurrah, the agent had called it. A stadium show. Eric lay on the couch and listened to them celebrate and kept his mouth shut about all of it.

The venue was enormous. Loading in, watching the stage crew work, Eric felt something he hadn't felt in longer than he could remember. He let himself believe it.

While Eric was pushing to hire a temp bassist Barret pulled out his phone to call Vincent, and Eric felt the floor drop out from under him.

He got into character fast.

"You want to bring that guy back after he bailed on us?! After everything? We finally get a real show and you want to hand him a piece of it?!"

"I thought you were going to make things right with him."

"He never showed up. Too ashamed probably. Too proud to admit he was wrong. Forget him. We do this ourselves, we split it two ways, and nobody who quit on this band gets to take a bow at the end of it."

Barret started to say something but the stage crew called them out for sound check and the moment passed.

Dozens of glam bands had been queued up to play for hours on end, all of them were posers, according to Eric. The first few bands had trouble getting their instruments in tune, something he never had to worry about, the next batch couldn't keep up with the energy Whyte Lytnyng had, and felt like a drag compared to Eric's natural talent. But he had to give them credit, their style was amazing.

By the time the show really got started, several bands had come and gone from the stage, all performing various power ballads and excessive displays of bright colors and exaggerated patterns and costumes that somehow were all uniquely the exact same as the previous band that had just performed. Just another reason Whyte Lytnyng was better, Eric thought. He figured he had to "freshen up" with the longest line he had ever done. He had made it, so he deserved something extra special to keep the audience entertained, he reasoned.

When Whyte Lytnyng finally hit the stage the lights were everything he'd imagined. Pyro. A crowd that went back further than he could see. Girls in the front row. He grabbed the mic from Eddie.

"WHO'S READY TO ROCK 'N' ROLL?!"

The crowd came apart. He blew a kiss at the front row, did the call me gesture, turned back to Barret and gave the nod.

They opened with Ryde My Lytnyng and Eric threw everything he had into it. This was the one. He could feel it. He hit his guitar solo and turned toward the screen to see himself the way the crowd was seeing him and instead he saw Vincent.

Not just Vincent. The bathroom. The knife. All of it, from an angle that couldn't have existed, from somewhere the demon couldn't have been standing with equipment that hadn't been there. But it was clear. Every second of it. And in the footage Eric was smiling in a way he didn't remember and at the end instead of signing the contract he was running his finger along the blade and bringing it to his mouth.

The crowd had gone silent before he'd noticed.

He ran. His guitar cable caught his foot and he went down face first into the stage. As he fell, Eric thought he might’ve caught sight of the familiar face of Vincent, with jaundiced yellow eyes, smiling back at him and leaving a video cassette player hooked up to one of the many switchboards the stage crew operated to keep the show going smoothly, before disappearing through an ornate door that belonged more in a haunted house than in the backstage area of a stadium. He got one knee under him before Barret's fist connected with the side of his head.

"HOW COULD YOU?!" Barret's voice was something Eric had never heard from him before, everything stripped away, nothing left but the bottom of it. "HOW COULD YOU DO THAT TO HIM YOU SICK FUCK?! THAT’S MY BROTHER!"

Thud.

"YOU PUSHED HIM OUT OF THE BAND."

Thwack.

"YOU PUSHED HIM AWAY FROM ME."

CRUNCH

Eric heard the crunch as his ribs gave way, he couldn't hear anything beyond the yelling of Barret and his heartbeat. He tried to cry out for mercy but all that he could manage was a pathetic cross between a croak and a squeak, his face a black and blue and red pulp.

Suddenly everything stopped. 

His heartbeat had finally stopped drumming inside his brain. In fact his heart had stopped entirely. The amount of strain it was under was already astronomical, and he had a heart attack right there as he was being beaten senseless by his former friend. Eddie pulled Barret from Eric's lifeless body when he saw Eric wasn't struggling anymore, not wanting to lose his friend and his brother in the same night. Barret stopped and looked at his hands. The knuckles had been broken open, bleeding from the cracks. He looked down at Eric and was horrified by his actions, vomiting as his actions caught up with him. When the paramedics were called and arrived on scene, along with a dozen cops, the two remaining band members were questioned thoroughly. Barret said it was an accident. He didn't know how to control himself. He just snapped after seeing what Eric had done to his brother. The video looped on the screen behind them. Eddie said he had no idea what Eric was thinking. He said that Eric got into drugs and started turning into a monster. He couldn't believe what he had seen. He desperately wanted to believe it wasn't real. That it couldn't be real. Eric could never do something, something so wrong.

Eric's death was decided to have been from a heart attack, officially caused by complications due to heavy drug and alcohol use, and that the beating he received, while it certainly wouldn't have helped, wasn't enough to be fatal in its own right.

Whyte Lytnyng dissolved into obscurity from there. Their records disappeared with them, swallowed up by the same shift in the culture that had been coming for years, and nobody looked for them after. Decades later a true crime podcast covered the disappearance of Vincent Douglas. Velour Basement came back with it, post-mortem record sales skyrocketed and even an eight-episode Netflix documentary that was a streaming juggernaut was made.

Eric simply got an obituary.

Eric Collins, April 13, 1959 - May 7, 1992. A local musician, loved by his friends and family, passed away from a heart attack on stage during a music festival after complications from heavy drug and alcohol abuse. Paramedics declared him dead at the scene. Eric was allegedly involved in the disappearance of one Vincent Douglas, the former bassist for his group and lead vocalist of Velour Basement. He is survived by his parents, Paul and Linda Collins, and his brother, Edward Collins.