The Boy Who Killed Demons - Hardcover

Über die Autorinnen und Autoren

DAVE ZELTSERMAN is the author of ten horror and crime novels, includingMonster, a Booklist Top 10 Horror Fiction selection; The Caretaker of Lorne Field, shortlisted by the American Library Association for best horror novel of 2010; andA Killer’s Essence. He lives in the Boston area.

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ALSO BY DAVE ZELTSERMAN

Monster

A Killer’s Essence

The Caretaker of Lorne Field

Outsourced

Killer

Small Crimes

Pariah

Copyright

To Benjamin Del Cid

Tuesday, August 23rd 7:10 PM

MY NAME’S HENRY DUDLOW. I’M FIFTEEN AND A HALF, AND I’M cursed. Or damned. Take your pick.

The reason? I see demons.

Now don’t get me wrong—it’s not like I see demons lurking in the shadows or hiding under my bed or in my closet or anything like that. But I still see them. There are people out there who—well, you might see them and think they’re normal, just everyday people; but when I see them I see them for what they really are: demons. And I don’t mean this in the figurative sense (I sometimes get literal and figurative mixed up, so I made sure to look up the definitions), so it’s not like I see certain people as innately evil and think of them as demons. The ones I see as demons are evil alright, but they’re also honest-to-God demons (or I guess honest-to-Satan): flaming red skin, yellow eyes, horns, grotesque faces with twisted misshapen noses, pit bull-like jaws filled with glistening jagged teeth, thick talon-like claws where there ought to be hands, the whole nine yards. They might be wearing suits, or a pair of Bermuda shorts and a T-shirt, or if they’re masquerading as a girl or a woman, a dress or possibly a skirt and blouse. I’ve even seen one once in a two-piece bikini. But underneath all that they’re demons. It’s just that most people can’t see them as they really are. Maybe nobody can, other than me. I hope that’s not true, though—I really hope there are others out there who also see them the way I do.

You’re probably thinking I’m mentally ill, that all this is nothing but the ravings of a crazy mind. I thought so, too—at first. I was two months past my thirteenth birthday when I saw my first demon—Mr. Hanley from three doors down the street—and I was convinced that something had to be seriously wrong with me. Mr. Hanley has lived on our street my whole life, and before that day I saw him the same way everyone else did: a middle-aged man with fat legs and arms, heavy jowls, a huge bald spot, and a beer belly that would always be peeking out from the bottom of an undershirt on hot summer days. He was just this guy in the neighborhood who would always nod and smile pleasantly and go about his business. I had no reason to think about him as anything unnatural—I had no reason to think about him at all. But a little less than two and a half years ago I saw him for the first time as . . . well, as an inhuman creature. Ever since, that’s the only way I’ve ever seen him. And others too. Twenty-three others, to be precise.

In case you’re thinking drugs or alcohol played a part—I can tell you that they didn’t. I’ve never touched any of that stuff, other than a few sips of my mom’s wine at dinner when she’d let me. And I’m not crazy, either. I know I’m not, even though I tried hard to convince myself that I was after my first demon sighting. Would a crazy person even think they’re crazy? I don’t know, but I did think something was seriously wrong with me that day and for months afterward.

If I’d suffered some sort of head injury or had experienced a recent traumatic episode, it would’ve made things so much easier. That could’ve explained why I was seeing demons, and at least I would’ve been satisfied that I was off in the head and that I wasn’t cursed. But nothing like that had ever happened. That day was like any other day. I was riding my bike to school and was approaching Mr. Hanley’s house when he walked out his side door to pick up his newspaper, wearing his usual morning outfit—a bathrobe and slippers. He started to nod to me in his pleasant way, but froze when he saw my reaction. I don’t know if he knew for sure what I’d seen, but he was suspicious about it. For just a fraction of a second, his expression was transformed into something both malicious and ferocious—whatever it was, it wasn’t anything human. He must’ve caught himself, though, because just as quickly he was back to his mask of smiling amiability. What I did next was pedal as fast as I could to get away from him.

That flash of rage and monstrousness that came over his demon face should’ve been enough to convince me that what I saw was real, but instead I continued on to school thinking I must’ve gone crazy. In class I tortured myself with thoughts like that. No one else at school looked like demons—not that day and not since—so I tried to convince myself that I only imagined what I saw, but the word schizophrenia kept pushing its way into my head. I was only thirteen and I didn’t know what schizophrenia really was, but I couldn’t pay any attention to what my teachers were saying—I wanted to get back on my bike, get onto the computer, and find out if I was suffering some sort of textbook case of schizophrenia. If not, I’d have to figure out what mental illness I did have.

Later that day I read enough about schizophrenia on the Internet to convince me that that wasn’t what I had. According to what I read schizophrenia developed slowly, over months, sometimes even years, and the people that had it had trouble sleeping and concentrating, were withdrawn and isolated. None of that described what my life had been like before I saw Mr. Hanley as a demon. Before seeing demons (BSD), I was like any other normal kid. I had friends, played little league baseball, kicked ass in Guitar Hero, and never had trouble sleeping. I still have a few friends—or at least I go through the pretense of having a few of them to keep my parents off my back—but I’m way more anxious and withdrawn than I was in my old, idyllic life. In those early days I didn’t completely dismiss the idea that I was suffering from schizophrenia, but I didn’t think it likely.

After reading every blog post and article about schizophrenia, I started to research delusions, trying to learn whatever I could about the disorder, which was when I came across the phenomenon of malperceptions. That’s where some people see faces transform into a monster. Even back then, my gut instinct was telling me that this wasn’t what I’d experienced, but I still had to consider it as a possibility.

I heard my dad come home a half hour ago, and my mom less than five minutes ago, and from the smell of it she brought home Indian takeout, though it could be Thai. Sometimes I get the smell of their curry dishes mixed up. If I get a chance, I’ll write another journal entry later tonight—I want to explain how exactly I know that these are really demons I’m seeing. I’ll also write about Clifton Gibson. How that would’ve cinched the deal for me by itself even if it wasn’t for the dogs.

I haven’t told anyone about the demons. I can’t afford to—not my parents, not anyone. If I told my parents, they’d either have me institutionalized, or they’d drug me up with so many antipsychotics that I wouldn’t be able to do what I had to. And if I told anyone else, word might get back to my parents—or worse, to the demons themselves. It’s bad enough that Mr. Hanley is already suspicious. I know I have to be careful, which is why I’m writing this journal old school using a notebook and pen. If I wrote this on the computer, a demon might be able to hack into my Mac, and I can’t take that risk. All...