A Demon needs a fresh challenge, a feisty soul that will give him a whole new Hell.
|Disclaimer: PLEASE do not reply to this, this story is planned between Cat Carroll (GypsyHeroWoman) and myself.|
The thick smoke lazily appeared, moving in graceful twirls of dark gray and dull red, making way to the realm of Men. A door that could be found by any who seeks passage, as above so below, shifting between the worlds of Demons and Humans, whose eyes are blind to it. It is called Hell for good measure, but, if you please, put your Gods and Angels aside, for you will find none, here. In this world lives only dark, and darker. No flamboyant light awaits souls at the end of the tunnel, no forgiveness or eternal love can be found in the afterlife. When you are dead, you either fade into nothingness or become a haunting spirit, lost and alone, waiting your turn to disappear. No one will answer the how’s and why’s. For why would there be any answer? This is just the way it is. Unless, of course, you were wise - or stupid - enough to sell your soul to one of those Demons. And join their ranks to plague humanity with wicked schemes.
Glowing red irises contrasted on the dark smoke as the Demon broke through, magnificent black horns with a touch of red resting on each side of his head. The smoke disappeared as lazily as it had come, dancing against his body like waves against rocks. Time in Hell passed way differently than anything known to Humans; you never know just how long you will spend there. One might enter for an hour and come back twenty years later, or three years and come back to the Human realm two months later. Who knows. It really is a bitch, and to a Demon, time is important. Souls come and go and need tracking.
Sammein had been ‘below’ for nearly a month, or so it seemed. He knew this would cost him a lot, but business was business. He adjusted his coat and tie around his neck, his sharp eyes scanning the environment he had landed in. How much time passed since his last visit in 1997? What year is this? He thought. The Demon squinted; the fashion trend had sure changed since, more skin was showing, vehicles looked better, nice sharp suits everywhere. Which reminded him that his own might be out of fashion and this was not a good thing. A Demon needs always be charming and presentable, by all means pleasing to a Human eye. Souls are the currency of a Demon, and boy is an Incubus’ job a pain in the ass. One grows tired, at some point, of the same old, same old. Same interactions, same types of people, same endings, same weak game. The last soul Sammein had harvested was just before he left 1997, a Spanish girl from Cadiz. Easy and boring, just like the few dozens before her. Men and women alike. All the same; people weren't unique anymore, all guards were down, as if they wanted this. But a Demon needs a challenge, a Demon needs entertainment, a point to his, quite literally, damned existence, to ease the pressure of an immortal life spent chasing souls one after the other without so much as a thin ray of hope to ever getting out of there. At some point, a Demon forgets he was ever Human. But this day was not there yet.
Born in 1816, he still remembered Samuel H. Chapman from Shit-town, London...
The Incubus started strolling the streets, on the lookout for clues on the current year. A newspaper usually does it. But it had been a very, very long time since he saw anyone selling them on the street for a few pennies. Instead, he got used to buying one from a small convenience shop, always a good start when coming back from from the rotting pit. A newspaper’s price kept shooting up, decade after decade, Humans really are greedy!
One step outside, and he stoped. A few numbers had his stomach unpleasantly churning. Demons hate missing Human years, they lose track and business and need to readjust to the world, their clothes, pop culture knowledge, etc. A hassle. And this time he had missed twenty one of them. The young man he was targeting in 1997 might be dead, by now! Humans lives are so short, so who knows.
The rest of the day, the Demon used to remodel his looks; get a brand new suit, black and white, back to the classics, as it seemed. Cut a few inches of his dark hair that almost touched his shoulder blades and got a fresh trim. 2018 had it looking good, already. He liked it. His horns looked much better on black. A shame the Human eyes cannot - usually - see them or the red eyes.
As he walked, he let his very sensitive senses guide him; he wanted a Human like no other, one who would be highly intelligent and question his intentions and not simply let themselves be fucked dry and have their soul eaten raw - figuratively speaking, Demons don’t eat souls, that’s urban myth. A fun thing to play with that would last past a day or two…if there exist such a Human, of course. But Sammein was quite optimistic, for a Demon, he had confidence, if not a very big ego, like most of his colleagues, but he simply craved for more. He wanted to feel alive, like something mattered and was worth working for.
He kept on like this for a few hours, until the sun slowly lied down behind the clouds, painting the sky with pinks and oranges, waiting for a tingle of any kind; high criteria demanded more time and effort.
Such a sign did not appear until dawn of the next day. Under a dark purple sky, the Demon stopped his course, smirking pleasantly under a window of a suburb town's house, deep and buried in the city he had yet to know the name of (he didn't usually care for such details, though). And just like that, there it was, the challenge he had been longing for. A young soul to make himself go bonkers, to pull his strings and move heaven and earth to burry his claws in. Soon, the young one will awake and he shall make his move. Introducing himself was always the hardest part.
Let the game begin…