Demented

Demon's lair

[Michigan: Present day]

Bard Redcloud circled the house. It was a perfect hideout. His shoulder transpired throbbing pain and the piece of cloth wrapped over it was soaking red. He would have to sneak in, he thought. Even though the house was at the end of street, a gunshot would definitely nudge attraction and suspicion. If only he had a knife or something melee, he'd have chosen the front door. But since he didn't, he'd have to do with the basement vent.

The night was closing in on the land of pleasantly lined houses with green backyards. Somewhere far away, rainclouds thundered, marking the arrival of a storm. And that was maybe the first chilly gust of the evening that blew over his sweating face while Bard tried to turn the jammed glass pane. Somewhere far away, a mother called for her son hopping in the backyard and a car sped by the intersection, loud music blaring even from the closed windows. Bard heard them all, the sounds of life all around him. He heard his own heavy breathing as he pulled the pane that had eventually given some space. It came off with a thud, into his reddened hands, leaving behind a perfect breakthrough into the stingy darkness. He placed the pane over the beautiful spring grass. He heard birds chirruping over his head and he slid himself into the basement, trespassing into the dead silence.

The stranger on the phone noticed a sudden strangeness in the voice of Adler. The feeling that the storyteller wasn't giving his full attention to the story. The rising and falling of notes that meant that the teller was enjoying what he was doing were all missing. A sudden bleakness of the voice had kicked in instead.

"He never actually loved me, my brot..."

"Something wrong?" the stranger blurted mid-story, regretful that he had yet again interrupted Adler. Nevertheless, Adler seemed not to mind any of it, he went silent for almost like a minute. The stranger could hear the breathing on the telephone, the alert and exhilarated breathing of the demon.

"Thought I heard something – probably rats. I hate those filthy pulps."