by Adam Dark
‘Don’t do it, Ben.’
He froze, that uncurling flicker of hope instantly crushed by one of the voices he hadn’t heard now for two years.
‘You have more important things to worry about right now.’
Ben tried to swallow but almost choked. Not now. Please, please not now.
“Ben?” April asked, leaning forward a little to get his attention. He realized he’d been staring at the corner of her lawn chair and looked back up at her in surprise. “Everything okay?”
“I… uh…” He cleared his throat. “I thought I … did you hear something?” Well that didn’t make any sense at all. Of course she hadn’t, and he highly doubted the voice would just suddenly reach out to both of them and drag her into his screwed-up world just so he didn’t have to feel so alone in it all the time.
April frowned and glanced around quickly. “I don’t know,” she said. “The party’s pretty loud—”
“David.” The girl’s shout came again from the side of the house, stronger and with more urgency. “Stop it. I said stop. No! What are you doing—” The scream that rang out through the street of frat houses wasn’t playful anymore. It was filled with terror.
April’s eyes grew instantly wide as she met Ben’s gaze, and without thinking, he jumped from his chair and ran toward the screams. He felt her behind him, heard her calling his name and asking what was going on, and he should have stopped. What was he doing? He felt moved to try to help, like someone else was pulling at his body and pushing him blindly forward. When he skidded around the side of the house, what he found there brought all the darkness from so many years swarming to the surface, and he thought he was going to either be sick or fall over when his legs gave way.
The girl who was clearly screaming now flapped around like a terrified bird, slapping desperately at her own head and the long hair that had been set aflame and was quickly burning away. The guy standing next to her just watched, impassive, unmoved. Then his head turned slowly—so slowly—until it stretched over his shoulder and farther toward Ben than anyone had a physical right to manage. Black, dead eyes stared out at him, all pupil and no iris or white—or maybe the pupils were gone too, and all that remained was the soulless eyes of another demon inside another host, right there in front of him. A sick, gleeful grin curled up on the guy’s mouth. Ben staggered backward and braced himself with a hand against the outside of the house.
“Oh, my god!” April shouted behind him, clearly focused more on the girl with the burning hair than the terrifying sight of those eyes and the guy’s unnaturally twisted neck. She was quicker on her feet, too, ripping the cap off her water bottle and squeezing the plastic so a stream of “the world’s finest spring water” shot out to splash over the screaming girl, who’d fallen to her knees and still flailed at her own head.
Ben was only vaguely aware of the heroics on her part. He couldn’t tear his eyes away from the black holes threatening to suck him in or the disgustingly dead grin on the guy’s face. But it wasn’t that guy anymore. It was a demon—another one—and it wasn’t done.
The guy slowly raised a hand to his face, his fingers pinched loosely around a thick, smoking joint. Then he blew on it until the burning end glowed a fierce red and flicked the joint down into the conveniently open window of the basement. Who left a basement window open in November?
Whatever was down there, whatever had been stupidly stacked against the outer wall by the guys who lived in this house and were clueless to the dangers all around them, erupted in flame with a thick whoosh of air. Ben felt the heat on his calves, even through his jeans, then finally managed to pull himself away from those consuming black eyes and looked down through the window.
The fire spread—quickly. A thin trickle of dark smoke rose from the window, and Ben remembered where they were and how many people were in the house and how many of them had no idea they were about to be caught in a house fire.
“April,” Ben said, but it came out as a shocked whisper and he had to try again. “April. There’s a fire.”
“No, no. I think I got it,” she said quickly, kneeling by the burned girl and checking the rest of her body with trembling hands. The girl moaned. “But we need to call an ambulance.”
Ben swallowed thickly, trying to get the words out and not lose his shit under the soulless gaze he felt still on him like a clammy hand smearing down his face. “April, another fire. In the basement. We need to… we need to get everyone out.”
She whirled to look at him, then noticed whatever odd expression managed to contort his features and glanced down into the inferno the basement had quickly become. “Oh, my god,” she breathed again, her hands resting limply now on the moaning girl’s shoulders.
Before Ben had the chance to repeat himself or tear away from the rising flames below them, the guy with a demon inside him taking his new host for a joyride, took two steps toward the house. He put his palms on the white, peeling paint, leaned his head back, and threw his face against the wall with a sickening crack.
‘I told you, Ben.’
2
He didn’t want to be that guy who actually listened to the voices in his head, but maybe he should have been. Maybe Ben should have given the voice more credit, because it was right. It had told him, and he’d tried not to listen.
“Ben,” April screamed, torn between helping the girl with obvious burns on her scalp and maybe other parts of her body and staring in horror at the possessed frat boy slamming his bloody, mangled face against the white wall of the fraternity house that had now become a smear of red plaster. “Ben, help him!”
‘You can’t help him,’ the voice said, though it carried a new sense of urgency now under the current circumstances. Ben shook his head.
“Stop him,” April shrieked. “He’s going to kill himself.”
‘But you can help the people in the house.’ The words were punctuated by another sickening slap of wet flesh on wall. ‘The toaster’s broken, Ben,’ the voice continued, sounding more nonchalant than it should have. ‘Get all the little pieces of toast out of there before they burn.’
“Ben—”
“Shut up!” Well, that did it. He’d finally responded to a new voice in his head for the first time in four years—two of which he’d spent trying to get them to stop—and now he looked completely crazy. April just stared at him, her mouth gaping. Then the guy smashing his brains in at the hands of a new demon, here of all places, crumpled to the ground and lay still. “Not you,” Ben whispered to April, knowing this was definitely the wrong time to try to make that distinction but unable to help himself. She just gawked at him, and he finally sprang into action.
Ben’s legs moved faster than they had in a long time, and he booked it across the side yard toward the street. “Yeah, call an ambulance,” he shouted to April.
She dug her phone out of her pocket, then seemed to realize the absurdity of him running away. “What are you doing?”
He skidded to a halt on the old, cracked sidewalk and pointed to the house. “Fire. Gotta get everyone out.” Then he took off running again, vaulting up the few short stairs to the front porch in two steps. That little bit of explanation on his part sounded ridiculous, but what else was he supposed to tell her? ‘Oh, sorry, April. That guy who’s probably dead now was just possessed by a demon, and it looks like the evil spirit’s trying to take more souls with him by burning everyone alive at this frat party. Gotta save the day.’ No, nothing sounded as ridiculous as the truth.
He shoved the front door open and nearly knocked two girls over when he barreled inside. “Hey! What’s wrong with you?” one of them spat as she steadied her friend. Ben ignored their glares of contempt.
“Everybody out,” he shouted. “There’s a fire.”
Maybe a dozen of the partiers closest to him all pumped their hands in excitement, and a rolling wave of, “Ooooh,” drifted up from the crowd. Drunken laughter followed, some other unseen person shoved past Ben with a slurred, “Watch it
, man,” and everyone just kept dancing.
‘The timer’s almost buzzing, Ben.’
“I’m trying,” he hissed, realizing nobody here cared whether or not some loner was muttering to himself just inside the door. “Seriously!” he tried again. “There’s a fire in the basement. You gotta get out of here.” That second attempt didn’t even bring a rise of amusement from his previous audience. A few people scooted past him or backed away to keep their buzz on with the awful music and the heat of so many bodies, and he realized nobody was going to take him seriously. Not yet.
Grinding his teeth, Ben pushed through the crowd, ignoring the startled curses and the threats aimed his way when he shoved too hard. He had to get their attention. The press of bodies thinned out a little when he reached the kitchen, and he quickly scanned the counters for something that would make a big enough impression. There was actually a crystal punch bowl on the kitchen island, more than half empty and a bunch of fruit floating around on the surface of the puke-orange drink. He grabbed the bowl, sloshed out what was left of it into the sink, and shook his head when the alcohol fumes made him a little dizzy. Then again, maybe it was just the sudden pressure of trying to make sure nobody died.
Then he shoved his way back through the dancers, ducking under some girl’s wildly flailing arms as she spun in a crazy circle. He climbed the first few steps of the huge wooden staircase to the next floor up. Hoping nobody picked now as the perfect time to walk directly under him, he raised the punch bowl over the thick banister and hurled it straight down at the floor. Just like he’d intended, the bowl shattered, making enough noise to at least get everyone to stop what they were doing.
“What the hell?” someone screamed.
“There’s a fire in the basement,” Ben said over the rhythmic bass pounding through the sound system. “Everyone needs to get out now.”
For a minute, he thought they’d actually listen. Then some idiot hollered, “This guy knows how to party!” A wave of cheers rose up around him, and no matter how hard Ben tried to get their attention again or scream at them to just shut up and listen already, he’d blown the only shot he had.
‘Better luck next time,’ the voice said, and if Ben didn’t know better, he’d think it was disappointed. ‘Not. Hey, you smell that? Something’s burning.’
He didn’t realize he was pulling at his hair now in frustrated terror until the sting of his scalp told him what was up. If he didn’t get these drunk students out of this house, they were going to go up in flames with it—which was probably what that demon outside had wanted in the first place. No, that was definitely what it wanted. And if he didn’t figure something else out quick, he’d end up just another burned body with the rest of them. He didn’t even want to think about what would happen to his soul after that, like what had happened to Henry, Nico, and Max—maybe even Ian…
As if Fate itself didn’t even want him to consider the possibilities, some kind of explosion erupted in the house, and Ben knew it came from the basement. The foundations of the old Victorian building rocked, and he grabbed ahold of the wooden banister to steady himself—like that was going to do him any good now. The stupid disco ball swung wildly from where it hung in the center of the living room, then fell from the hook and bounced off someone’s head. A few frightened shouts rose over the music, followed by some girl screaming hysterically in the hallway.
And because that was just how Ben’s life worked, nobody missed it when a guy wearing only his boxer briefs slid out of the hallway below the staircase, his bare feet squeaking on the wood floor, and screamed, “Dude, the basement’s on fire!”
Yes, the panic Ben had hoped to avoid but knew was necessary now ensued. Red plastic cups flew from frightened hands, bodies smashed together and flailed wildly toward the door, and even some of the guys now were screaming along with the girls. The two Ben had almost knocked over when he ran back into the house had now broken down sobbing, clinging to each other, and he realized there still might be time to get them all out.
“Everybody out!” he shouted again, and this time, they listened.
A huge guy with sunglasses perched on top of his gelled hair lunged toward the door and grabbed the handle. Then he jerked back with a surprisingly high shriek of pain and shook his hand, cursing. “It’s hot,” he said, then spun around with terror-filled eyes. “Why’s it hot?”
Another guy moved him out of the way and tried it himself, only to pull away clutching his own burned palm. Ben swallowed thickly, knowing now this had to be a demon toying with them—just like it had in the abandoned house eleven years ago. It wanted them to be terrified, to know they were trapped, and the certainty Ben felt only intensified when a deep, rumbling laugh echoed out from everywhere all at once. He felt it vibrating through his chest and thought he was about to pass out. But the horrified screams from the panicking college students all around him pulled him back, and he knew there was still time. If he and Peter had escaped as witless adolescents, a bunch of adults—no matter how drunk most of them were—should be able to pull off the same thing.
The staircase creaked beneath him when another explosion rattled the house, and Ben stumbled down a few stairs before vaulting over the railing. “Hey,” he shouted to the huge guy who’d been the first to try the door. “Hand me that lamp.” The guy just stared at him, cradling his hand, and Ben jammed a finger toward the huge, heavy-looking brass standing lamp beside one of the couches. “The lamp! It’s heavy enough to get the door open.” He couldn’t know that for sure—he didn’t know anything for sure other than that they couldn’t just stand around and wait to be an evil spirit’s crispy dinner—but it was the next best thing he could think of to do.
That seemed to pull the guy out of his unwilling staring contest, and he whirled around to grab the long stand of the lamp. The cord jerked out of the electrical socket with a buzz and a spark, and the lightbulb shattered when it hit the mantel over the fireplace. Someone gasped, but everyone else stood back and waited, like sheep, for their shepherd to lead them out of harm’s way. Apparently, that was going to be Ben.
He nodded at the guy who handed him the lamp and almost dropped it when the full weight of it fell into his hands. It was heavy. Ben’s shoulders ached as he lifted the thing himself and aimed it at the door like a battering ram. The first knock against the inside of the door was humiliatingly weak, but he pulled back and tried again.
Fortunately, others had caught on. Both the guys who’d tried to open the door joined him, the one without the sunglasses hissing in pain when he gripped the lamp behind Ben, and they heaved back together. Dust and a few chips of painted wood filtered down on them with the first real thump against the door, and they tried again. And again. Finally, the door splintered in the middle, and someone whooped out of turn behind them, but they weren’t through this yet.
Ben felt a tremendous amount of pride at the sight of the thick oak door giving way beneath their rhythmic attack, but his sense of accomplishment was quickly destroyed when he noticed the thick curl of smoke coming up through the floorboards at his feet. “Faster,” he said with a grunt; normally, he’d have hesitated to tell anyone bigger than him what to do, but the two guys behind him didn’t seem to mind one bit.
The smoke came up faster through the floor now, in front of the door, beside the curved cut of the floor that followed the base of the staircase. Ben thought he felt a growing heat through the soles of his sneakers, and then a piercing scream rang out from somewhere in the living room. A bunch of people cursed and shouted, and he turned briefly to see one girl, her face completely slack and expressionless, straighten from the scattered mess of shattered lightbulb glass with a shard of it clutched fiercely in her hand. It had already sliced through her palm, and blood trickled down her forearm when she raised her hand to her face.
No. Not now. Not when they were almost out.
Ben watched with the rest of them, frozen in preemptive grief for what he knew was about to happen and what he could
never have successfully stopped in the first place. The girl raised the glass farther, past her chest and her shoulder, and croaked out, “Time’s up.” Then she stabbed the broken shard of foggy glass into her own throat and tore it slowly from one side to the other. A wave of crimson poured from the rough slash, and someone fainted by the stairs.
Apparently shocked into uselessness, one of the guys who’d helped Ben wield the weight of the surprisingly solid lamp lost his grip, and the end of it thumped to the floor. Ben tried to haul it up again, then a round of choking coughs split the air from the center of the house. The smoke was getting too thick; they’d suffocate in here before they burned.
He cursed himself for being such an idiot, for thinking he could just waltz into another house with a demon on the loose and expect to walk away from it—alive—a second time. He might as well have just raised his hands in surrender and screamed at the thing to come get him.
More shattering glass sounded beside the front door, followed by a loud thump. He turned with everyone else to see what had happened and found April standing outside one of the front windows, looking in at them like they were all crazy. The huge stone she’d somehow tossed through the window lay right there in a giant new dent on the polished wood floors, then she waved feverishly toward the open air and freedom. “Come on. Come on,” she shouted, and that seemed to get everybody back into escape-and-survive mode. Those closest to the window wrapped their arms in jackets and sweaters and broke off the rest of the glass as much as they could before climbing through. Some of them even stopped to help others maneuver their way through the window that really was most likely too small to get everybody out of there safely. But man, they were going to try.
