Page 14 of When Death Whispers

This has gone from scary to outright terrifying, and my gut twists with dread. Clearly, my monster’s learned new tricks while I was growing complacent this past year.

Hudson finally gets the alarm to shut off. The sudden silence makes the ringing in my ears worse.

I turn back toward the kitchen—only to stop dead in my tracks.

My heart stutters once.

Twice.

Hudson’s sandwich—still untouched—isn’t the problem.

It’s the other one. The one I bled on.

Half of it is gone, a perfect bite missing from the exact part where my blood soaked in. The bite is too perfect, too deliberate—like someone tasted it, as if they were savoring it.

As if they weremeantto.

And beside the plate, drawn in neat, swirling mustard cursive, is a single message:

Thank you for the snack, my Beholden.

3

Same shit,different day.

I overheard a human mutter that once while begging me for mercy. It stuck with me. It describes my endless fucking existence perfectly.

Torment the souls. Feed on their terror. Rinse and repeat. Day in, day out, eternally trapped in the Bleak. If hell had a basement, this place would be it. Always damp, always cold, always echoing with desperate screams. Just how I like it—usually.

But recently, it’s grown tedious. Fear is easy to stir up, easy to devour, but it’s lost its bite. Humans used to summon demons like me to the mortal realm all the time—tempting fate for power, wealth, revenge, whatever useless thing their tiny brains thought mattered. Those summonings were fun. But now, humanity has mostly forgotten us, leaving me stranded here, bored out of my fucking mind.

I walk through the dim corridors, heavy footsteps echoing on the stone floor. My monstrous form towers above the human souls trembling behind rusted iron bars. Sharp black horns curl menacingly from my head, my claws glinting in the murky darkness.

I pause at a cell, peering down at my newest captive.

He cowers instantly, recoiling from my gaze. He hasn't been here long, but he knows me already—I'm his worst nightmare, the keeper of all his darkest fears.

I crouch lower, tilting my head, feeling his terror surge deliciously at my mere proximity. I don't need shadows to twist minds—Iamfear incarnate. All it takes is a look, a touch, to rip open their fragile souls and pull out the sweet morsels of terror hidden inside.

This soul was a particularly self-righteous asshole in life. A teacher, strict and unforgiving, who terrorized kids because it made him feel powerful. Now he’s here with me, and I delight in reversing our roles. My lips stretch into a feral grin, fangs gleaming in the dim light.

“Let’s see what’s buried inside that pathetic mind of yours,” I rumble darkly, reaching forward and gripping his trembling head firmly between my clawed fingers.

His scream echoes loudly through the chambers as I dive into his memories, peeling back layers of denial and repression, ripping open his deepest insecurities. This is how I feed—through raw mental torment, dragging out every hidden fear and magnifying it until my victim’s very mind shatters under the weight.

Immediately, images flood my senses, clear as crystal:

He’s standing on a brightly lit stage, naked except for a tiny, leopard-print speedo. His nightmare. Perfect. The audience is packed full of judgmental faces—the church group he once led, the students he’d ruled with cruel discipline, every person he ever cared about impressing.

They stare at him, disgusted, horrified, whispering their judgment. He trembles, his humiliation potent and sharp as I amplify the vision.

“Please, no,” the soul whimpers aloud, shaking violently beneath my grip.

“Oh, yes,” I sneer. “Every nightmare has a price.”

I drive the image deeper, forcing his body to move against his will. He gyrates obscenely around a pole that suddenly appears center-stage. Shame floods him so strongly that his screams grow hoarse, agony vibrating from him in waves. I inhale deeply, tasting the sharp, intoxicating flavor of his shame-filled terror.

With a growl of satisfaction, I push the image further, stretching the fabric of his speedo tighter until it snaps, exposing him entirely. The crowd erupts—laughter, jeers, scandalized shouts. His humiliation explodes, and I devour it eagerly, savoring every exquisite second.

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