A/N: This story won the 2017 WattpadWitchingHour challenge issued by @Fright. Hope you enjoy, vote, comment, etc.!

"I'm a good person," I whispered. "I know I am."

It was on Friday, the day I regularly went to the chapel at midnight to spend three consecutive hours in meditation. I sat alone in the church of St. Michael the Archangel, an army of tiny statues of saints stood before me to protect me from evil thoughts. A giant painting of the final judgment spanned the wall behind them. The demons seemed to grin and cavort, and the angels' swords seemed to flash in the flickering light of the candles.

I waited.

I didn't know if it would happen tonight, but three times in the past year, the little statue of St. Mortense had wept tears of blood. When that occurred, I would listen closely, and he'd tell me who to kill.

The door of the chapel creaked, and an old woman carrying a gigantic purse doddered in. She wore a small black veil upon her head and a heavy winter shawl about her hefty frame, despite the fact it was early autumn. Finding her way to the front of the chapel and dropping to the kneeler seemed to take all her effort.

I resented her presence. The statues wouldn't speak to me unless I was alone. But what could I do? I should have been praying, It's what a good person would do. So I prayed that she would leave.

"You're the one who protects us, aren't you?" she asked.

"Are you speaking to me?" I replied.

"Who else? The statues?"

Her tone was mocking, but she glanced at St. Mortense where he stood piously with his back to an army of demons. It was as if she knew. A tingle of fear slithered down my spine.

"All I know," she said, "is that there's been more than one gang banger and drug dealer in this neighborhood sent to the next world by a saintly man with a gun."

The room suddenly felt warm, and my throat thick and dry. I tried to swallow. "Well, I'm sure all those criminals were souls that the Lord loved."

At this, she snorted a derisive laugh.

I stared at her. Not knowing what to say.

She snickered. Paused. Snickered again, then started laughing aloud. Once she'd begun, I couldn't help but join her. Before long, we were both cackling like madmen in the otherwise empty chapel. If the demons in the painting behind seemed to cavort with us, it was surely a trick of the light.

When at last the fit of laughter ended, we wiped tears from our eyes. The old woman pointed a shaking finger at the statue of St. Mortense. "That one likes to talk. Have you noticed?"

Should I admit it? I licked my lips and tried to speak. "I've noticed."

"About one in the morning he starts to cry blood," I added. "Then he tells me who needs to die. The killers. The pedophiles. The dealers. As soon as I get the word, I run to fulfill my mission."

The old woman nodded.

Was she a person like me? Until this night I thought I was one of a kind.

"Do you kill the bad people, too?" I asked.

She shook her head. "I'm too old. My hands shake. I can't see more than a few feet ahead of me."

"The first time, all I did was walk up and hand the gun to a man sitting on his porch. He killed himself."

The old woman gave a thoughtful frown. "That was all you did?"

"Well, I talked to him first. Showed him some old news clippings about the murders he committed. Made him feel guilty."

"Knowing he was a killer, you still handed him a gun?" she asked incredulously.

"Well, yes. He was sobbing with grief, and I knew he was ready to kill himself. St. Mortense arranged it for me because, back then, I didn't think I could shoot anyone. After the guy was dead, the police found stacks of photo albums he'd filled with pictures of his victims." I shuddered at the memory.

"Do you enjoy killing?" the old woman asked.

The question hit me like a punch to the head, leaving me dazed. The world seemed to go out of focus around me.

"I'm a good person," I said in a husky voice. "I know I am."

"There, there," the old woman said.

"I do what I do for the public good. A true saint gives me the instructions. What does it matter whether I enjoy it or not?"

She smiled wolfishly. "A man should enjoy his work."

Still grinning, she rummaged in her purse until she found a newspaper clipping. It was folded, the edges were missing pieces, like something had chewed them. The center was yellowed and faded, but there was no mistaking the face that grinned back at me. It was the man I'd handed the gun to that first fateful night. Was it my imagination, or was he smiling out at me from the world of the dead?

"He might not have been a nice boy, but he had a charming smile."

For some reason, I couldn't put the page down. All I could do was stare into the eyes of this long dead killer. It was as if I didn't hold a newspaper in my hands, but a portal to the faded, yellow corner of Hell where this sadistic murderer was locked away.

"He killed lots of innocent people, didn't he?" she asked.

I nodded.

She fished in her purse and pulled out a handful of additional clippings. "These are ones you actually shot, aren't they?"

A shiver of strange pleasure went through me as I took the proffered pieces of paper. There were four. I remembered well how it felt to stand over the still bodies, pools of red streaming from beneath them, knowing that I had ended them. It wasn't until the third time that I decided to take pictures of what I'd done. Sometimes I took them out at night and stare, reliving the god-like sensation of power I'd felt watching the last of their blood drain away. These would be good additions to my collection.

"How did you know it was me?"

Her eyes shifted to St. Mortense. I started in my seat. He was crying blood!

"Do you see?" I said.

"Indeed I do," the old woman replied.

She reached into her pack and pulled out an album and placed it in my hands. For a moment, I was surprised that the large leather-bound volume would fit in her purse. My picture was on the cover inside an oval-shaped frame. My name, Daryl Dark, was written in scrolling gold leaf beneath it.

"You have a charming smile, too," she said.

"Too?" I asked.

She nodded.

I almost asked what she meant, but I knew. She was referring to my first victim.

"Are you going to open it?"

I didn't want to. Every muscle in my body seemed to tense, as if trying to prevent my hand from reaching up and lifting open the cover. I did it anyway, though with painful slowness.

There were additional clippings, tucked behind sheets of plastic and carefully preserved. More stories of disappearances and unsolved murders. Images of the victims from family photo albums accompanied the articles. There they stood, dressed in their Sunday finest and smiling for the camera. Were they mocking me with their grins?

"No one knew what they were," I said, as if I needed to justify what I'd done to the old woman.

Instead of speaking, she simply nodded and smiled.

I turned several pages. Had I killed so many? At the top of one page, I saw the high school class picture of a young man, barely eighteen years old. Next to him was an article, saying that he'd gone missing during the witching hour in late October. Below were various shots of him lying dead. I froze, staring. Where had these photos come from? The old woman must have somehow gotten into my private collection.

"How many did that one kill?" she asked.

"No one. St. Mortense told me he was going to, though."

"So he was innocent?"

"Kind of."

I turned the page. There were a half dozen more like him, people St. Mortense had assured me were planning to become murderers. I glanced up at the statue. This was the time when he usually started to speak, when he told me the name of the next person I was supposed to kill. Would the old woman hear him, too? Somehow, I'd thought I was the only one who could see the blood tears and hear the voices.

When he spoke, his lips didn't move. They never did. Wait. What had he said?

"Daryl Dark," he repeated. My name.

I startled back. The old woman laughed as if that were an especially good joke.

"Did you—did you hear?" I asked, pointing to St. Mortense.

"Of course, dear."

She got up, picked up the statue and moved him off to the side, placing him on the ledge beneath a dark, stained-glass window. "But that wasn't St. Mortense speaking. It was someone behind him."

One of the demonic images on the picture of the Last Judgment, a small red-faced character with wild curly horns gave me a bashful smile. "Did I trick you, Daryl?" Unlike St. Mortense, this image's lips moved, and it was no trick of the flickering light.

Though it was early autumn, I suddenly felt too cold to move.

The old woman shook her head. "Bad little demon. Fooling Daryl and making him kill innocent people was not a nice thing to do. Look, you made St. Mortense cry."

I glanced at St. Mortense. Blood tears streamed down his painted cheeks. Suddenly, I understood. He was weeping for me.

"Totally innocent people," admitted the demon. "Souls who never would have harmed anyone. Sorry."

My cheeks felt hot. With a trembling hand, I reached up to find tears there.

"I'm a good person," I sobbed. "I know I am."

"So sad," the old woman said.

She rummaged in her voluminous purse and produced a gun. As if she were giving me a present, or a plate of freshly baked cookies, she placed it in my lap.

When I picked it up, she patted my hand. "You know what to do, dear."

The demon laughed. All the devils, serpents and monsters in the picture laughed. The image of my first murder victim cackled at me from the faded, yellow newspaper clipping where it lay on the seat next to me.

Without consciously willing it, I raised the gun to my head. The cold metal barrel felt oddly comforting where it pressed against my skin.

"I'm a good person," I said, trying to put conviction into the words.

At this, the old woman joined in the mocking laughter. "Yes, a good boy who puts down murderers. Go ahead. Shoot that nasty little killer named Darryl Dark."

My finger tensed slightly on the trigger. The room seemed to spin, and I swayed. Again, I remembered the savage joy I took in killing each person. Had I suspected they were innocent? Not consciously, but some part of me deep down always knew. Sweat tingled on my brow. My mind still hadn't grasped the enormity of what I'd done, of what the demon had done to me. It was hard to think with all the laughter pounding against me, but finally, I understood.

"I'm not a good person," I said.

"No, you're not," the old woman said, still cackling.

I took the gun away from my head and fired at the curly-horned demon in the painting. Plaster chips sprayed and the wall cracked as the first and second bullets took the grin from his face.

Howling filled the air, and a cold breeze gusted through the chapel, blowing out the candles and causing me to shiver. For a moment, all was dark except for the faint light of the full moon as it trickled through the stained-glass windows.

I blinked and struggled to see.

But the window wasn't the only light. The old woman's eyes blossomed with orange, tongues of flame. She shrugged off her cloak, freeing large bat-like wings and pairs of additional arms, all limned in fiery luminescence. Long, gnarled hands tipped with knife-like nails lunged for me, but I rolled to the side and came up firing.

As my bullets split her demonic skull, flames erupted from inside her. She screamed and was joined by the chorus of a hundred other spirits fleeing from her burning body. Slowly, as I watched, she melted away into a pile of smoking ash.

Demons don't have a problem setting foot on hallowed ground. Doing so, however, makes them vulnerable to mortal weapons. I didn't know that at the time, but during the days that followed my killing of the hag demon, the little statue of St. Mortense that I carried with me has explained a lot. Freed from the demonic spell, he turned out to be quite talkative and knowledgeable.

My name is Darryl Dark, and I'm not a good person. But if you are having trouble with demons, you might want to give me a call.

A/N: Want to read more of Darryl Dark's adventures? His story continues in 'The Strange Case of Darryl Dark.'