Devil's Demise

Sweat trickles down the side of his face as he crouches in the shadows of the oak tree at the side of the house, wanting, waiting, his breath visible in the cold night air as he thinks about the night ahead. He had watched her for weeks: her soft but striking features, her slim toned figure and her locks of golden brown hair that reach half way down her back. He bites his lip with uncontrolled desire, so hard that it bleeds; he licks his lips and smiles at the taste of blood, remembering the pleasure it had brought him in the past. He looks up as he hears footsteps coming towards him; his breath quickens, his heart racing as his mind fills with anticipation for her. He leans forwards to look, jolting back as a blood curdling snarl echoes through the still night air; just through the fence he looks down and there facing him is a large Doberman, teeth bared and staring straight at him. Its muzzle curled up with aggression, saliva slowly falling from its open mouth, and eyes focusing with a hunter’s instinct upon him.

A whistle cuts through the night and the dog turns back just for a second, giving him enough time to move nearer to the house and drop down behind a bunker up against the house.

An older man walks up and tethers his dog. “What is it, girl?
Leave it be, come on,” he says as he tugs on the lead, but the dog keeps on pulling desperately towards the fence, growling and snarling, sensing the danger from the hidden terror.

The dog becomes more and more excited, staring straight towards the shadow where the evil presence is still hiding; the man holding the lead stumbles as the dog lurches powerfully forward, pulling him straight down onto his face, the lead slipping from his grasp. The dog races round the railings to the open gate heading straight for the lurking stranger who holds his breath, grinding his teeth, waiting to solve this little problem; he feels no fear, just excited anticipation. A shrill painful whine pierces the night air as the knife grinds downwards, slicing the dog’s chest wide open and rendering the poor animal defenceless, leaving it mortally wounded on the ground, whining for her master to come to her. Come he does; holding his already bloodied face from the fall, the dog’s master races toward the cries of his faithful pet. He turns the corner of the house, dark shadows making it harder to focus, his heart pounding as he sees the blood pouring from his faithful dog; the blood glistens under the moonlight, his sadness turning to terror. The hair on the back of his neck begins to bristle, standing straight up; a shiver courses through his body as he stands frozen to the spot.

An overwhelming sense of terror fills the air as the old man looks up into the stony lifeless expression of a demonic face: black passionless pools for eyes, a grin so monstrous he knows his life will end that night. He seems to float out from the shadows; gripping the older man’s throat, he tilts his head sideways, staring emotionless at the helpless struggle of the old man. It thrills him to watch the life of another slowly drain away before him. The man’s legs quiver as he gives in to the monster. This is a first for him; to kill a man is an unexpected pleasure, an unplanned delight, a thrill before the main event. He is strong, tall and motivated by pure evil, with hatred and dissatisfaction dwelling within him. He looks down as the dog gurgles its last breath, laboured and painful. A smile comes across his face as he wipes the dog’s blood from his face and from the knife. He leans back against the wall, his heart still fluttering with the thrill of murder, his blood lust fuelled by the start of the evening.

Susan gathers up her things from her office; she is running late because her meeting has overrun. She is the director of a very successful lingerie company, a very powerful woman in the business world, but also a contagiously likeable person. All those who know her seem to either look up to her, want her or want to be her, as she is impressively beautiful and very sexy - although she doesn’t think it herself. She chats cheerfully with her colleagues about her lazy night ahead, comfy clothes and a glass of wine, blissfully unaware of the darkness that awaits. They head out of the office block saying their goodbyes, the night air cold and crisp as she pulls her coat tightly around her. She walks the short distance to her Audi A4; nothing overly fancy, as she doesn’t like to flaunt her success. She drives through the night, following the same old familiar route as she taps her fingers on the steering wheel, singing along with the music playing on the stereo.

At last he sees her car come into the street, his patience faltering as his wait has made him cold and impatient. He has watched her for a long time and she is usually home much earlier than this; she will regret making him wait, he will make sure of that. He focuses on the car, tension growing with the excitement of taking her beauty forever.

Susan pulls the car into the driveway, turns off the engine and gathers her things; she is still humming the song from the journey home as she steps out of the car. Her heels crackle on the ground as she turns slowly toward the front door. She stops on the steps, searching her bag for the house keys, her long silky hair hanging down over her face as she looks up, noticing the street is quieter than normal; empty, in fact. She looks at her watch and it’s 11.20 pm. Where did the evening go tonight? she thinks to herself. She had no idea that the meeting would have taken so long. The moonlight is shining on the door as she looks around her, the shadows seem darker where the moon can’t reach. The wind blows lightly, making the branches of the old tree rustle together, giving the night an eerie feel; she feels a little uneasy, but can see no reason for it. She feels a presence, something nasty, something cold and unpleasant in the air. She turns towards the door, putting the key in the lock and opening it, letting herself in, shaking off the unwelcome fear as her just being silly. She closes the door behind her, bolts it securely and closes over the curtain, shutting out the cold night air. She shudders
as if someone has just walked over her grave, an uneasiness still clinging to her tightly.

Her cat Baxter comes running up to her. He is a big blue eyed tabby cat with smooth shiny fur; he rubs round her legs, hoping she will feed him. She bends down and strokes him, instantly relaxing and forgetting the presence she had felt out on the steps just moments before. She makes her way through to the kitchen and pours a glass of wine for herself and fixes a bowl of food for Baxter. She takes the wine through to the lounge, puts her feet up and switches on the TV. The late night news comes on, the usual stories: the war in Iraq, murder and the general unpleasant behaviour between human beings taking over the main stories, nothing happy to report as usual. She flicks through the channels and starts to watch the end of a movie - Pretty Woman, a pleasant change from the news. She has seen it many times before but enjoys the fairytale ending, an ending she hopes one day she will be lucky enough to enjoy for herself.

Outside he still waits, biding his time, savouring the terror that awaits the beautiful woman in the house. He rubs his face with his enormous hands, pulling his face downwards as he struggles to control the urges deep inside him.

Susan’s head lurches abruptly forward as she wakes up with a start; the film has ended and she has fallen asleep on the couch. A cold air is now present in the living room. She rises up from her chair unnerved by the change in temperature; she hesitates before heading into the kitchen at the back of the house, her hesitation unexplained, a feeling, a sense. She straightens up and stops herself from allowing her thoughts to frighten her even more than they are already. She switches on the hall light and makes her way to the kitchen. The door to the rear of the house was closed, but when she reaches to check it, she notices that the lock is unlocked; undamaged, but unlocked? Searching her mind, she remembers putting the rubbish out that morning, but is positive she had locked the door behind her when she came back in. Again she shrugs off any wrongdoing and puts it down to her haste to leave with her busy schedule ahead that morning. She locks the door, double checking it this time, and puts the chain over. She makes her way tentatively up the staircase. Several water colours by Monet decorate the walls leading to the
upper landing; the last picture at the top of the stairs, a wonderful landscape stretching over hills, crystal waters and sun filled skies, is slightly out of line. Susan stops to straighten the frame, a pause that he is aware of; he is not normally clumsy, always very careful. He wonders if she will try and flee, realising that something is not right, an evil lurking in the shadows. He moves forward staring out from the darkness; she is motionless at the top of the stair. She turns and hesitates as if she is about to go back down the stairs, but stops and he hears her muttering to herself, convincing herself that she is acting crazy. He pulls back into the shadows as she walks in his direction, resuming his position in the darkness.

Susan enters her bedroom, her space, her haven, and she relaxes almost instantly. Her room is grand and spacious with a sprawling bed with soft comfortable bedclothes and pillows, expensive and tasteful. Her furnishings coordinate, creating a warm and safe place to escape from the world. Soft sensual lighting creates a pleasant ambience. She starts to undress, removing her work clothes: a black pinstriped skirt and matching jacket, a white blouse, fitted to her neat, toned figure, her underwear, a set, white lace, perfect against her tanned skin. He watches through a gap in the doorway, heart pounding at what he is looking at; an unexplainable stirring moves within him, not a normal desire, not that of lust, but one of hateful fear, repulsion and resentment towards her. A need to stamp out her success, her beauty and the unhealthy things he feels as he watches her.

She climbs into bed pulling the covers over her; she’s wearing a nightdress, not a flattering one, one that will protect her from the cold of the night. She wishes now that she had someone special in her life to share these lonely nights with, someone that would take away the fear, the ridiculous fear that she is trying to clear from her mind. She is drifting off to sleep when her thoughts turn to Baxter; where is he? “Baxter, Baxter,” she calls out, “Where are you, you stupid cat?” Eating again no doubt, she thinks as she lays her head back down to sleep.

Baxter comes to the top of the stairs a short time later after hearing his name being called - a typical cat, only coming when it suits him. As he turns casually towards Susan’s room, he stops dead and his hackles go straight up; a gentle hiss comes from him
as he arches his back, his senses sharp, acutely aware of the predator close by and watching him. He recoils in terror, knowing the danger this thing in front of him poses, and quickly scurries away.

Susan finally falls asleep. Baxter comes back up the stair, returning in hope that he can join her in the room. Slowly, a dark figure stirs from the shadows, staring straight down at the animal, dark eyes meeting blue. The cat lowers itself closer to the ground, instantly fearful of the deadly stare from the cold eyes. Baxter crawls back, not daring to take his eyes from the beast before him; once at the top of the stairs he turns and sprints silently down, instinct telling him to hide this time, to preserve himself from certain death.

The intruder walks slowly into Susan’s room, standing at the doorway, examining his prey, tilting his head in a puppet-like fashion; demonic eyes staring, salivating at her vulnerability, lunacy and uncontrolled madness oozing from him. A savagery inside him demands to be set free. Susan opens her eyes, sensing his stare upon her, terror rushing through her veins; a blood curdling scream escapes from her mouth as he grabs her foot, pulling her towards him. She kicks out at him with her free leg, narrowly missing his face, but this only makes him more excited, a frightened little creature desperately struggling against its master’s strength. He grabs her face, pulling it within an inch of his face, his breath rotten and tinged with death.

Tears flow over his fingers as she realises her earlier apprehension and fear were signs of danger, signs she had brushed off with her sensible mind; the human belief not to be frightened of what couldn’t or shouldn’t be real, animal instincts trained to be kept deep within no longer recognised as danger, but these instincts should never be ignored. He is real, very real and kneeling right before her, the strength of a madman coursing through his fingertips. He throws her backwards, hitting her head violently against the wall, leaving her feeling dazed as he crawls slowly towards her, his eyes fixed on hers, a vicious looking blade in hand, pointing it right at her face; his movements controlled and sadistic, the knife missing her eye by millimetres as he taunts her. She curls back trying to push herself through the wall to escape her hideous tormentor. He slashes her arm, a deep cut - almost to the bone - opens up as she tries to grip his hair, her futile attempt to fend him off easily brushed aside. He
smirks at her struggle and kneels down on her thigh, a searing pain rushing through her as his weight pushes her down into the bed. He places his huge hand round her throat, gripping tightly as he thrusts his fingers deep into her; her eyes widen in agony, gulping at the violation, the degradation and pain he inflicts on her. The hunting knife lies alone beside his leg, confidence of his superior power to crush any attempt of escape apparent, as he controls her simply with a single hand. He loosens his grip; she pleads with him, struggling to speak with the pain from his brutal hand still gripping sadistically into her face, “Please don’t hurt me, I’ll not tell anyone,” she gasps.

He pulls his face menacingly towards hers and speaks to her in a low growl. “I know you won’t!”

He pulls down his jeans, exposing his erect penis, and leans forward and pins her to the bed by the back of her head, his grip so tight he pulls her hair out at the roots; she is moaning and struggling against him, another futile attempt to stop him as he forces himself into her, his thrusts so violent that she can feel herself tearing at the sustained assault. She can barely catch her breath with the force with which she is being pinned to the bed. He doesn’t care that she can barely breathe as he climaxes inside her. He grabs her arms and wrenches her round to face him; he grips her hair even tighter and pushes himself into her mouth, his thrusts desperate, determined to come again, his desire uncontrolled. His grip is so violent, as he forces her face onto his penis over and over. He fucks her mouth with no concern for her at all. Her head spins with the lack of oxygen and she gags, choking on his cock being forced down her throat. He looks down at her as his rage intensifies at not being able to climax again yet.