THE MONSTER INSIDE ME (#ONC2024)

CHAPTER SIX: THE NIGHTMARE

I went home after what happened at the store and did the only thing I knew how to do. I crawled into bed and pulled the sheets over my head, the way I used to as a child, as if fabric could keep the world out.

It didn't.

The demon appeared again.

He stood at the foot of my bed, tall and massive, his red skin faintly glowing in the moonlight that slipped through the window. His eyes—bloodshot, burning—fixed on me with unbearable certainty. His horns cast long, crooked shadows across the walls.

"What are you going to do now?" he asked. "You can't live a normal life. Come with me. I'll make you special."

That was when I understood something important.

He was just like the others.

A man.

You might wonder how I knew. I'll explain. He was built like a man—broad, powerful, unmistakably male. There was nothing ambiguous about him. Even in his monstrous form, desire was written into his presence. In another life, another context, someone might even have called him attractive.

I pushed the sheets aside and sat up.

"What do you want?" I asked. "And how exactly are you going to make me special?"

He smiled.

"I see you're a Dagon. Arrogant. Bold. I like that."

"I hate that name," I said. "My father was a bastard."

The demon stepped closer and lifted my chin with clawed fingers, forcing me to meet his gaze.

"You're better than him," he said. "I want souls. Good or bad—it doesn't matter. You're going to help me."

"And what do I get?" I asked.

"To be adored forever. To belong to no one but yourself."

It sounded like a trap. I knew it was a trap. But I was exhausted, furious, hollowed out by the world. I had nothing left to lose.

"Fine," I said. "Where do I get souls?"

He told me.

"There's a house not far from here. Your father's friends. The men who did whatever they wanted with you. Bring me their souls."

Rage took me before thought could stop it.

We walked together through the streets. No one noticed him. Or perhaps they noticed and chose not to acknowledge it. The house was rotting, filthy, full of ghosts that never stopped screaming.

"They're alone," the demon whispered. "Burn them."

I froze.

This was revenge. This was justice twisted into something monstrous. A voice inside me—faint, terrified, stubborn—screamed Don't do it, Arabella. Maybe it was conscience. Perhaps it was the last fragment of something holy. Tears streamed down my face.

A man passed by, lighting a cigarette.

"Can I have one?" I asked.

He handed it to me and walked away.

All I had to do was strike the match. Rub it against the wall. Fire would do the rest.

Everything blurred. I saw their hands again. Heard their laughter. Smelled their sweat. My fingers trembled as I lit the match.

Then something inside me broke through the noise.

You're not a murderer.

I hesitated.

The demon didn't.

He took the match from my hand—I swear he did—and tossed it inside. Flames bloomed. Screams followed. The fire devoured everything.

Then—

I woke up.

I was in my bed. Shaking. Drenched in sweat. It had been a nightmare. It had to be.

The next morning, the newspaper said otherwise.

Four drug addicts had died in a suspicious fire at their residence.

I stared at the article until the words blurred.

It wasn't possible. I hadn't done it. I couldn't have.

Who killed them?

The demon?

Chance?

Or something far worse—me?

I cried for days. I didn't eat. I didn't sleep. I wanted to disappear. The demon had his souls, and I felt like I'd lost mine. Even if I hadn't acted, even if my hands were clean, the guilt crushed me.

I couldn't live with the uncertainty.

One night, I swallowed an entire bottle of my father's barbiturates. I wanted it to end. What was the point of surviving in a world like this?

As darkness closed in, peace brushed against me for the first time.

Then a voice whispered, amused and close.

"You can't escape that easily."

The demon laughed as everything went black.

I woke up in a hospital room.

White walls. White sheets. White lights. Nurses moving like ghosts. The sterility felt unbearable.

"Where am I?" I asked.

"You're safe," a nurse said. "A neighbor came to borrow sugar. Your door was unlocked. She found you and called an ambulance. She saved your life."

I didn't remember leaving the door open.

I imagined the demon unlocking it.

"I don't want to live," I said.

"You're too young to say that," she replied gently.

"I'm a murderer," I said. "I killed four men."

Her face changed. She left the room.

The police came.

They questioned me. Held me. Released me.

There was no proof.

Later, they ruled the fire accidental. A poorly extinguished joint. Carelessness. Bad luck.

I felt relief.

And terror.

Because even if I hadn't done it, I knew this much: the demon didn't need my hands to destroy people.

He only needed my mind.

And I understood then that freedom wasn't something I could ever take for granted again.

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