Satan’s Affair Copyright © 2021 by H. D. Carlton
All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations em- bodied in critical articles or reviews.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organiza- tions, places, events and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
First Edition: April 2021
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“One.” Stab. A grunt punctuates my next word, “Two.” Stab. Another grunt. “Freddy’s coming for you,” I sing, high-pitched and child-like. Blood spurts from his stab wounds, painting my face in a mosaic of red and gore.
The evil is seeping out of each hole I’ve made in his body. I can feel it, curling from the openings like smoke from the machines in nearly every corner of this house. I breathe in deep, smelling the evil coming out of him.
It smells like rotten egg and brimstone. It’s how I know that I made the right judgement.
“Mortis, come hold his head,” I order. My henchman listens immediately, gripping the man’s head in his red hands, rendering him still as his black talons dig into the demon’s face. His efforts to dislodge his head from Mortis’s grip are so cute.
Gripping my pretty knife in my hand, I lean down closely and start working the pointed tip around the edge of the man’s eyeball. It’s my favorite knife. The handle is bright pink and swirls at the end. I’ve had this knife since I was a little girl, it’s the only thing left I have of my mother’s.
The wriggling parasite’s screams intensify as my knife digs deeper, cutting around the inner edges of his eyelid as if I’m cutting a cake out of a pan. Blood spurts from the orifice, nearly splattering into my own eyes.
I dig the knife down and then push up, popping the eyeball from its socket.
His eyes are such a pretty blue.
“Three, four, better lock your door,” I continue, my voice more subdued and distracted as pleasure sluices through every cell in my body and makes its way to the spot between my legs. Nothing gets me off more than my mission.
I throw the eyeball, the soft plop when it hits the wooden floor swallowed by the man’s screams.
Silly little thing. No one will ever hear you scream.
I shoo Mortis away, no longer needing him at the moment. Mortis steps away, reclaiming his position in the corner of the room.
The man beneath me wriggles, calling me all kinds of choice names. His words are garbled through the blood pouring in and out of his mouth. Must’ve hit a lung.
In my distraction, he manages to dislodge me from his body. I fly sideways, landing awkwardly on my side, the knife coming within inches of my face. He stumbles to his feet, while my henchman, Mortis, takes a step towards him.
“Let him go,” I order, watching my victim stagger to his feet and run out of the door. “I like the chase.”
I stand, and calmly walk out of the room. The house is completely barricaded. Unbeknownst to the owners of the fair, my henchmen and I painted the windows shut so demons couldn’t escape, while the emergency exit points are guarded by the rest of my henchmen.
There’s no chance of his escape. And I love to play games.
“Five, six, grab a crucifix,” I sing loudly, knowing he can hear me. I think I’m the one that needs the crucifix. The entire house is being filled with his rotten egg stench. I shudder, anxious to rid the house of it.
I look down either side of the hallway first. The smoke machines are off now, but the lack of ventilation in the house allows the colorful smoke to linger. They always dye the smoke all sorts of colors, creating a trippy effect when coupled with the strobe lights.
Now that the grounds outside of the house are empty, I turned all the flashing strobe lights back on and music filled with evil laughter, howling and zombie moans.
One of my henchmen, Jackal, stands at the very end of the hallway, the smoke concealing the majority of his body. What does poke through is his burnt face covered in boils, unnaturally wide smile stretching across his cheeks with blood dripping from his shark-like teeth and big yellow eyes. His makeup was always more grotesque than the others, which is why I make him guard the doors. His burnt skin looks and feels real to the touch, but it’s all just makeup and prosthetics.
He doesn’t move, instead continuing to stare at me.
He knows how much I enjoy the chase.
My eyes drop to the white hardwood floor, spotting a blood trail veering off to my left towards the staircase. He’s trying to leave me.
I follow the blood trail, a smile on my face. “Seven, eight, gonna stay up late.”
A thud from down the stairs resonates, right before a loud yelp. I giggle, already knowing he ran into one of my henchmen. Another loud bang and a frustrated scream. I hurry my steps, my heart pounding harder now that I know he’s being a bad boy.
When I reach the bottom of the Barbie pink steps, I swing around the banister and sing, “Nine, ten, never sleep again.”
“Fucking crazy ass bitch!” he screams from somewhere in the house.
I frown, hurt and angry by his words.
“I’m not crazy!” I screech. I take a deep, calming breath and arrange the smile back on my face. “I’m just passionate.”
To my left and through pink double doors is the living room. More colorful smoke fills the