Every breath was a stab of pain. Tears burned my eyes, ash painting my hair white. I squinted through the smoke, gaze landing on my mother. She looked the part of an angel, framed by a flickering golden glow, though her cracked lips were pulled up into a cruel smile.
I screamed for God, praise and worship pouring from my scorched tongue. I needed him to hear me. Just this once, I needed him to save me.
There was laughter. It circled me like the flames, but it had only one source. And she stood there, watching me, as if I were a demon and not her son.
A glint of a blade.
Demons dancing in the smoke.
Screams buried in the ash.
God had not come. Heaven had not sent their soldiers to save me. Their soldiers, instead, chanted to my destruction.
My eyelids fell shut, surrendering to Death’s warm embrace, abandoning all trust in the Heavenly Father. He had chosen his side. And it wasn’t mine.
Wake up, Augustus. You need to wake up.
The Devil’s voice was loud. Urgent. He was angry. Afraid. There was desperation in the way he called my name.
Augustus. Wake up. Augustus, Auden needs you.Augustus. Augustus. Augustus!
I forced my eyes open, my shadow grinning up at me as I pushed myself up off the ash-covered floor.
Hell was born that night. And it remained burning ever since, a poison contaminating my veins.
I hauled Auden to his feet, dragging him through the flames, the Devil watching the scene through my eyes as I collapsed to the floor outside the circle, surrendering to the safety of darkness.
PART II
CHAPTER SEVEN
Lights flickered inside the dark, abandoned halls of the House on North Lane, wind howling as tree branches knocked menacingly on every window. Shadows crawled along the walls. Dust thickened the air. Rain pattered against the rooftop with bruising force, but oh how I longed to feel the cool droplets against my skin, to escape the damp Hell inside the House on North Lane.
It was nearing midnight on Halloween—a night where children paraded as monsters, as if being a monster was no more than a fun mask. At least they could peel off their costume at the end of the night.
Trick-or-treaters never ventured to North Lane, yet the hushed whispers carried by the wind proved there were children who had braved the journey.
“Shut up,” a voice whispered. “There is a witch inside!”
“There is no witch,” said another. “It’s a monster.”
“What kind of monster?”
The answer was drowned out by a lash of wrathful thunder.
I snorted as the children screamed, bodies shuffling closer to the door. There was a time when I too had been afraid of storms. But when a storm rages in your head every day and every night, you grow accustomed to its unpredictable ire.
The door would not open. I could not grant the children shelter. The House would not let me leave, for when it had the first time, I returned with a vengeance. But the children could open it, I was sure.
“Come on,” I murmured, pacing back and forth in front of the door, “open up.”
If they heard me above the roaring thunder, they gave no indication. There was only silence. And then arguing.
“What if the monster is waiting for us?” a third voice asked.
“It’s probably sleeping.”
“Do monsters sleep?”
