Johanna's Demon Tales - Book One - The Girl Who Cried Wolf

Episode 1.

Growing up, my father always used to tell me bed time stories. I don't remember all of them. I was too young. He would mix fairy tales with stories of Greek and Roman gods and heroes, with urban legends and silly jokes.

All of the stories he told me had a point. He was always trying to send me a message, to drill in my head the four things I would need to survive. Know who you are, know who your enemy is, know what line you will not cross, and know the difference between what is right and what is wrong.

I rarely, if ever, took the time to think about those answers. It never felt that important to me. I thought I would always have my parents to remind me who I was, to tell me who our enemies were, to show me the line I should not cross and to teach me right or wrong.

That changed the night my parents died. When you kill demons for a living, the demons tend to come back for revenge. My parents were no exceptions. I was in the room when it happened. I don't know why the demons didn't kill me. Often, I wish they had, just so I wouldn't have the haunting memory.

I try not to focus on one bad night. When I think back to my parents and my childhood, I remember sounds. The soft cadence of my father's voice. The clinging of my mother's metal bangles moving up and down on her wrists. The soft melodies she would hum has she mixed herbs for her spells. The sound of my father sharpening his sword. My dad was a warrior, and my mother was a witch. They were a powerful pair.

I miss the sounds of home. I miss the quiet peace I felt in their presence, always sure that they were unkillable, unbeatable, that they would always have my back.

I should be telling all of this to the doctor sitting in front of me. I still haven't talked since I walked into the room. That's just normal, though, he's used to it.

I used to be happier, chirpier, but then I saw my father being decapitated by demons and that kind of changed my outlook on life.

I was thirteen when that happened. I did the only thing I thought I should to survive. I ran away. I lived on the streets, fending for myself for a good year before the system found me and I was put in a foster home. I didn't stay very long. Demons love wayward children. I kept trying to save possessed children, but to the people in charge I looked like a lunatic stabbing kids with cutlery. At fifteen I was sent to juvie.

I thought I was going to stay there forever, but then well, they found things that are completely normal for the daughter of a witch to carry around, like rags with blood from my first period—my mother had always been adamant about keeping that—and a collection of dead insects and rodent.

I was then sent to a psych ward when I turned sixteen. It's been a year now.

Sometimes I think I'm actually crazy. I think I really did imagine all the demon stories. I needed a way to cope with my parents' death so I tried to escape in stories. It was easier to process so gruesome acts if they had been done by something rather than someone. It makes sense. It's simple. It's very sad, but it makes more sense than having actual demons slaughtering your family.

I don't want to start thinking about that right again so I focus on the room that I am in.

There is an ant walking close to where my feet are resting on the ground.

The Doctor's room is pristinely clean. There's not a potted plant in sight. The only way this ant came here is if it itched a ride on someone else, or made the long trek from outside to here. It makes me wonder about things. What's in store for that ant? It's basically done for. How is it going to get back home? Itch a ride on someone else? It's never going back home.

I'm never going back home either. Home is gone for me. It died when my parents did. It's why I'm stuck here. It's why I'll probably never leave this place.