THE MONSTER INSIDE ME (#ONC2024)

CHAPTER NINE: CHAOS

A year passed without news of him. I convinced myself the demon had finally lost interest.

I lived quietly. I trusted no one. I spoke only when necessary. I cleaned the same woman's house every week, moving from room to room like a ghost with a vacuum cleaner. She seemed satisfied with my work, and that was enough. Stability, I learned, does not require happiness—only repetition.

Then, one afternoon, as the vacuum hummed against the carpet, the air changed.

"Arabella," a familiar voice whispered. "Did you truly believe I had forgotten you?"

My heart slammed against my ribs. I turned off the vacuum, my hands shaking, and faced him.

"What do you want from me?" I asked. "Why do you keep tormenting me?"

"I want souls," he said calmly. "I have been watching you. Waiting."

"Why?" I demanded. "Why do demons need souls?"

"They elevate us," he replied. "Each one moves us higher in our dimension. Is that explanation sufficient?"

"No," I said. "And I won't do it."

He laughed softly.

"You will."

At that moment, the woman entered the room, irritated by the silence.

"What is wrong with you today, Arabella?" she snapped. "What's your problem?"

The demon looked at me.

And then he took me.

I swear it was not me. Something slid into my body, wrapped around my thoughts, clenched my will in its fist. Rage flooded me—hot, violent, blinding. I lunged at her, throwing her to the ground. She screamed. The sound pierced my skull, unbearable.

I grabbed the nearest object and struck her head. Once. Twice. I don't know how many times. I only know she stopped screaming.

Blood spilled.

The smell awakened something ancient inside me.

I drank.

The act was horrifying and intoxicating all at once. Power surged through me, thick and terrible. I hated myself even as I wanted more.

"I want her soul," the demon said.

I wrapped my hands around her throat. Her eyes fluttered open.

"Help..." she whispered.

Sirens wailed in the distance.

Someone had heard the noise.

The police knocked. When there was no answer, they forced the door open. They found me kneeling in blood, my mouth and hands stained red.

"Hands up!" one officer shouted.

Another rushed to the woman.

"She's alive!"

I didn't resist when they arrested me.

"A demon did this," I said numbly. "He wanted her soul. I obeyed."

The officer looked at me with pity.

At the station, a psychiatrist evaluated me. I told her everything. She wrote it all down and concluded I was insane. They transferred me to an asylum.

That is where I am now.

From the outside, the building looks bleak. Inside, everything is white. The floors, the walls, the ceilings—white marble, white tile, white light. Even the furniture is pale, as if color itself has been banned. Cleanliness here feels aggressive, like an accusation.

My room contains a single bed beneath a barred window. White sheets. White walls. Two wooden chairs. They say it is designed to be calming.

At night, I hear screams through the walls.

The demon speaks to me again.

"Escape."

I screamed. The nurses came. A needle. Darkness.

When I woke, therapy began.

Her name is Kailin Speck. She is fifty, with brown hair pulled into a short ponytail, glasses, no makeup. She is not beautiful, but she is composed. Dangerous in her calm.

"Arabella," she said gently, "you are safe here. I want to help you."

"I don't need help," I replied.

"Why did you attack the woman?"

"A demon made me."

She didn't argue. She simply wrote.

"You have a history of violent incidents," she said later. "This is the first one with evidence."

"How is she?" I asked.

"She will survive."

Relief washed over me.

"Do you still see the demon?" she asked.

"Yes," I said. "You think I'm crazy."

"I don't," she replied. "I think you're suffering."

"I'm not crazy," I shouted, rising from the bed. "I'm evil."

Fear flickered in her eyes. She rang the bell.

The nurses restrained me—wrists, ankles, waist—and injected me again.

As sleep claimed me, I thought of the blue-eyed man. The one who warned me. The one who promised help.

Whether he is real or not, I do not know.

But I believe him.

And belief, for someone like me, is the most dangerous thing of all.