Nightmares were abound in the city of Embra.

Pelkos fell to the ground as the blurred mass of a fiery beast nearly ran him down. It moved and sounded like a horse in pain, but between poor eyesight and an overactive imagination, he could barely distinguish it from a wailing demon. And as far as he was concerned, the city was full of demons.

If it hadn't already been invaded and ransacked, Pelkos would still be in his home, hiding from the world—just as he had for the last decade. The fiend that'd battered down his door and tried to kill him had compromised his only refuge, forcing him to take to the streets in search of shelter. What he'd thought had been an isolated incident in his neighborhood had turned out to be citywide pandemonium. He'd been entirely caught off guard without anyone to warn him of the impending danger.

He crawled, ignoring the pain in his knees and elbows each time they struck cobblestone as he wedged himself beneath a parked carriage.

It was challenging to navigate the world, near blindness made more complicated by the added effect of a bizarre, orange haze encompassing Embra. Stranger yet was an abundance of smoke in the air without actually seeing the fires that birthed it. Even in his frightened state, Pelkos knew the flaming beast couldn't have been responsible for such a widespread phenomenon. It was as if the world had been plunged into an infernal underworld rather than simply being set ablaze.

Hell had been set loose, and if what he feared was true, there would be nowhere to hide when the worst came. And the worst was coming. Pelkos could feel it in his bones. He could feel his body anticipating every possible danger as he settled into his newfound refuge. Sweat gushed from his pores as he hyperventilated. Pelkos hysterically scanned the underside of the carriage while the sounds of anarchy clung to the air as if hung there by a malicious imp bent on tormenting everyone within earshot. To make matters worse, laughter and pleading cries of anguish could be heard.

The volume of the screams increased along with those of delight. Both cut through the bedlam, indicating closer proximity than the other horrors.

Pelkos turned on his belly, hoping in part that he was hearing things that weren't really there but also hoping to find the source of the discord.

Motion caught his eye. He struggled to understand what he saw: multiple sets of dark cloven hooves—no, boots—rounded the corner of the nearest intersecting street. They were heading steadily toward him, two flailing bodies dragged from behind.

Men—not demons, Pelkos failingly reminded himself—stopped just in front of the carriage. One of the two victims, a woman, managed to slip free but was caught and brought to her knees only a handful of feet from where Pelkos lay. She barely had time to scream before the tip of a rapier passed through her cheeks and pinned her to the ground, where another would-be scream was replaced by a loud, guttural groan of agony. Her shriek was cut short after the rapier was swiftly removed from her mouth and driven into her throat.

Pelkos watched as the woman died. She stared at him, choking on blood and metal. A dark pool of blood barely had time to fill the gaps in the cobblestone before the rapier was removed and deftly lodged into the leg of the surviving male victim.

The poor soul screamed.

Demons laughed.

Without anywhere to run, there was little Pelkos could do but lift himself up to avoid the woman's blood streaming toward him.

The rapier came down again, this time in the man's other leg—pleas for mercy met by sick joviality.

The demons drank in the man's cries. They lifted him to his feet, forcing him to stand on punctured legs. Before he could collapse on his own, a heavy blow forced him to the ground. The process repeated several more times.

It'd been difficult to tear his eyes away from the blurry spectacle, but once he had, Pelkos found it almost impossible to open them again. He finally did when the voices grew louder, and the carriage lurched violently. Muffled, almost animalistic, cries for help rose from inside.

He flinched when a lit torch appeared, held there until the paint curled and the wood beneath succumbed to the flames. Shouts of excitement echoed as it caught fire. Frozen, he watched as the flames slowly began to spread. However, the demons seemed impatient with the process, so the torch was again held to the carriage, this time on the rear wheel.

The demons were on all sides of the carriage, taunting the man inside as they held the doors shut while his vain attempts to escape rocked the compartment.

The fire was close now, and Pelkos knew he needed to do something—anything—to prevent immolation. Gripped by panic, he feverishly surveyed his surroundings, hoping to find something to save him.

There was only blood and stone.

Desperate, he pawed at the ground, hoping to gather enough blood from the small puddle beside him. He flung it at the flames, resisting the urge to cry out in dismay as the fire consumed it. The laughter and screaming drowned out the fizzle and pop of liquid striking flame. The acrid stench of burning paint and varnish assailed him. He covered his mouth to shield it from gathering plumes of smoke as his head began to pound in time with the rhythm of his racing heartbeat.

Dizziness set in.

In the back of his mind, where a small piece of his rationality remained intact, Pelkos realized he was splattering someone else's blood over his face.

Somehow, the man inside the carriage escaped. A pair of flaming feet leaped down from and took to the street. He only made it a couple of feet before tripping and falling over the woman's body.

The demons gathered in a semicircle, pleased with the results of their handiwork as their victim's final screams of pain and terror pervaded the air.

Pelkos hardly had time to register the event before realizing his clothes had caught fire.

The alarming sensation of burning flesh sent a reactionary charge surging through his limbs. Frantic, he patted himself down to smother the flames—barely noticing how badly he was burning his hands.

If he stayed, he realized, he would surely die. The only question of how was whether the demons would drag him out into the street and have their way with him or if he'd burn after passing out—or die outright—from asphyxiation. In any case, he knew he couldn't stay.

Every possible outcome of what could be done to him crossed his mind while just many muscles acted in concert to flee. He scurried out from under the carriage.

A shout rose up from behind almost as soon as Pelkos broke cover. The instinctive increase in speed was almost enough to send him headlong into the nearest lamppost.

Years of spending his time alone in his study, spilling out every perceived horror of the outside world onto innocent pages, had left its mark on his body. Weak muscles struggled to keep up with the pace he was demanding of them, and his lungs—compromised by a decade of smoking tobacco—weren't faring well either.

He dove into an alley, nearly snapping his ankle from the maneuver. Overcome by his graceless movements, he had little time to brace before his shoulder slammed into a brick wall. Out of breath and dazed from the impact, only adrenaline fueled his attempt to stand and keep running.

The effort, however, proved futile.

A sharp pain shot up from his ankle and through the whole of his leg. He hardly had time to fall and pick himself back up before a hard kick sent him sprawling on all fours.

Laughter filled the air, prickling the hairs on the back of his neck.

Every instinct screamed at him to run.

He crawled forward, wheezing in pain.

A second kick came, striking him in the side. Pelkos flipped over on his back.

His assailant looked like a man, but the murderous glint in his eye was the supreme clue as to what Pelkos knew to be the truth. No man stood above him—it was a tried-and-true demon forged from the fires of hell itself, gallivanting in the guise of a mortal and more terrifying than the whimsy of any fae.

The demon grabbed him by the collar. Breath, akin to the smell of rotting fish, invaded his nose as he was single-handedly lifted to eye level. If not for the fear keeping him immobilized, Pelkos would have gagged—though his disgust must've been apparent all the same, evident in the brute's face as it transitioned from an expression of twisted amusement to rage.

The demon said something.

Pain blossomed in his midsection as the demon repeatedly drove his fist into his gut. The demon threw Pelkos to the ground, and his comrades joined in.

This was it.

The nightmares were upon him.

They beat Pelkos gleefully.

Fist and boot relentlessly pummeled his flesh.

When a wooden stave broke across his back, he cried out. He'd never heard himself make such a noise, but it must've been what the demons had wanted to hear all along.

He made the noise again, and the demons stopped to imbibe the low, desperate howl of a tormented soul.

Pelkos wanted to live, but in the face of such a bleak and miserable existence, he could only mourn his own loss. The world cared little for an agoraphobic wretch like him. He was an insect. And like every insect, he was receiving his due as the demons fulfilled their insidious obligations.

Unsatisfied with a single cry, the demons struck him again and again.

They struck him in the back.

On the shoulders.

His belly.

His arms, legs, and groin.

In the moments he wasn't shielding his face, it was crushed beneath the force of their blows. Bones cracked and splintered on impact as blood began to flow freely and flesh swelled.

The strikes ceased, and a gust of heat flooded his senses. He was on fire.

He rolled on the ground in a frenzy as a gunshot rang out.

Screaming, he scrambled toward a brick wall, tearing at his flaming shirt. The cloth came away. Boiled, black, red, and white skin dominated much of his left side.

There was another gunshot, followed by shouting.

Pelkos looked up to see two demons lying on the ground. One lay motionless, while the other gripped his midsection as he attempted to crawl away from a new presence.

An altogether different demon—armed and lightly armored—rapidly closed the gap with the one still alive on the ground. The other three took off running when they saw the newcomer point a pistol at their companion's head. The wounded demon barely had time to plead for his life before a bullet tore through his outstretched hand and skull.

Pelkos whimpered when the armored demon turned to look at him.

"Pel?"

Holstering his flintlock and returning a dirk to its scabbard, the demon approached and kneeled in front of Pelkos, who tried to escape, but was stopped by widespread arms.

"Pel! Pel, it's me!"

A series of horrified screams tore from Pelkos's throat. He was fear itself, stripped of everything that'd once made him a man.

"Pel, calm down! It's me! It's me—Väinö!"

Pelkos heard the words, but they went unheeded.

It was a trick. That much he knew even as he clawed at the wall behind him, attempting to flee.

This was no savior. No knight in shining armor. It was another fiend, sent with false intention and bearing false hope. He needed to get away. He needed to run as fast as possible to find somewhere else to hide.

"Damn it, Pelkos! Calm down! You're hurt! Let me help you!"

He cried out again.

The demon, cleverly disguised as someone Pelkos once loved, reached out and pinned him roughly against the wall. At last, he found words. He begged and pleaded with the demon to leave him be.

"Gods... What did they do to you?" The demon leaned forward. Pelkos recoiled, but there was nowhere to go. The demon hugged him, taking care not to touch his burns, though little could be done to avoid his other injuries.

Pelkos resisted the embrace at first, fearing keeping him compliant. The demon held him long enough for it to subside, and longer still until it was replaced by an overwhelming sense of calm coaxed by soothing words. He began to sob.

The demon held him fast. "I know, I know... I'm going to get you out here."

Trick or not, this was precisely what Pelkos needed—what he'd always needed.

The world had always been a frightening place, and no one had believed him. So strong was this disbelief in others that, one by one, they'd chosen to no longer be part of his life. They'd left him to his fears—alone in the dark of his home with ink, pen, and pages as he desperately tried to cope. His friends, and even his family, hadn't wanted to know the horrors of his mind or how they'd had wormed their way in. They hadn't believed in the fears that lain with him night after night. For his part, he had only wanted someone else to believe it was real.

Pelkos gripped the demon with torn and broken fingers, and the intensity of his embrace was returned twofold.

"It's okay, Pel. It's going to be okay..."

For the first time since his life ended, Pelkos breathed a sigh of relief.

The world was only just catching up. It was ending for everyone now. And despite that, or perhaps because of it, he no longer felt alone.

Even in the arms of a demon, Pelkos noted, it felt good to let go.

⊱─━━━━⊱༻●༺⊰━━━━─⊰

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