6. To be devoured.
6
To be devoured.
“ Case study #3: the House Shaw Massacre.
On January 3rd, 2033, the local police in Williamsburg, Virginia, received a call from a hysterical woman. Ms. Rhodes worked for the Shaw family at their estate. Around eleven a.m., she arrived at the crime scene and immediately noticed the trail of blood leading to the usually closed basement door. She found the body of Mrs. Natasha Shaw (38) and immediately called the police. Upon arrival, the investigators also discovered the bodies of the two eldest sons, Adam Shaw (15) and Ethan Shaw (13) in their respective bedrooms on the first floor. Jonah Shaw (7), the third child, was found alive but gravely wounded on his bed. Paramedics rushed Jonah to the hospital. A kitchen knife was used to stab all four victims. Investigators found the murder weapon near Ethan Shaw.
The police investigators’ first suspect was the husband and father, Michael Shaw (45), but the man was in New York at the time of the murders.
The killer murdered Natasha Shaw in the basement. She laid at the center of what appeared to be a ritual circle. In these days, demonic possessions weren’t common knowledge, and the investigators were at loss.
Reconstructing the events, investigators determined that Natasha Shaw attempted to sacrifice her younger son to summon a demon. An unknown third party, possessed by the demon, killed Natasha Shaw. The possessed then walked upstairs to murder Adam and Ethan Shaw before fleeing the crime scene. The only survivor, Jonah Shaw, made his way to the first floor to reach his bedroom, leaving a trail of blood through the house.
The murderer was never found.
The House Shaw Massacre was one of the first cases of demonic possessions known to the public, and it illustrates the authorities’ inability to deal with such events in the early days of modern demonic rituals. The next chapter will delve into what steps could have been taken to locate the possessed […]”
-Extract from the State Exorcist’s Manual , edition of 2047.
WILLIAMSBURG, VIRGINIA, 2033 - 2040
In the weeks that followed my return from the hospital, my hair turned gray. The roots appeared lighter until they were impossible to ignore. My eyebrows and eyelashes, too, grew back to a faded color. My father ordered our new governess to take me to specialists. All the doctors were baffled, and I was sent to a therapist. She was a kind woman with a tired smile. She had access to my medical file and the events of the night of the massacre. Her eyes lingered more than once on the scar on my neck, then barely a pink line. Over time, it would disappear entirely, as if my mother had never tried to kill me.
I sat on the couch while the therapist explained to my governess that I undeniably suffered from post-traumatic stress, resulting in my hair graying. It might never grow back to its original color, she said.
And my eyes? I wanted to ask.
They were turning from their muddy color to pale blue, like ice under a winter sun. It started around the irises. But I kept my eyes down, and very few people noticed, until it was done and it looked like my eyes had always been that shade.
That evening, my father said I looked ridiculous with my graying roots, and he ordered the governess to shave my head. Come morning, I sat on a chair in the enormous bathroom downstairs as she used an electric hair clipper to give me a buzz cut. I watched the remnants of my old self fall to the white tiles.
“It’ll grow back,” she said, rubbing the back of my head. It was itchy.
It grew back, but it was never the same. My hair turned silver—almost white—and my eyes stayed blue. My DNA was mutating, slowly turning me into a hybrid to accommodate the demon residing inside me.
They forbade me from going outside. Our house became my kingdom, and my demon was my sole friend. Friend was stretching it. He was my jailer. The bane of my existence. And yet, he was my only companion.
My demon—back then, I still ignored his name—loved to sow the seeds of chaos. On the rare occasions when my body could withstand his control, he took over and worked on his evil designs. He set fire to the entire east wing of the mansion once. Luckily, the firefighters deemed it accidental. Another time, he played with my father’s new girlfriend. She was gullible and jealous to a fault. That night, convinced that my father was unfaithful thanks to the little lies and fake clues my demon had planted, she threatened him with a gun. A shot was fired. It missed my father, but not by much. The police came for her a few hours later.
No one stayed for long in the house. By age twelve, I was often left alone to fend for myself. Teachers and tutors replaced the governesses, but they only came during the day.
Animals flocked to us. We fed the crows in the garden and enjoyed the companionship of stray cats.
As the months passed, the rest of the world slowly came to realize the existence of demons as the cases of possessions increased. A general panic ensued, and the governments formed a new branch to fight the hellish threat. I slowly came to understand my situation, but I kept my mouth shut. I let them all believe that on the day of the massacre, someone else had been the demon’s host. After all, I was only a child. A strange one, undeniably, but a child nonetheless. Possessions never happened to children on TV. We weren’t targeted. Children made poor vessels for the soldiers of Hell.
I still ate ravenously to feed my mutating body. I was hungry all the time.
“What are you waiting for?” I asked one early morning as I woke up in front of the fireplace.
We had fallen asleep in front of the fire. My demon liked the warmth.
I knew he was playing around. His efforts at sowing chaos were always discreet and almost weak. So unlike the demonic possessions they talked about on TV.
“ I’m biding my time ,” he answered.
“For what?”
“ For you to get stronger, little one .”
I had grown taller, but he still called me little one , or little human .
“Stronger for what?” I asked.
“ To be devoured .”
I regretted asking.
One morning, as I was taking a shower around age fourteen, I felt something strange in my hair. Two little nubs. I dried my head with a towel and stood stark naked in front of the mirror. I was gangly like most boys my age, but my muscles were already getting more defined, even though I didn’t partake in any sport.
“What is it?” I asked out loud, angling my head at the light.
The demon growled in my mind. He was pleased. For once, he wasn’t dormant, and he answered.
“ My horns are growing. They are a sign of power and rank in my world. ”
My face was stricken as I beheld yet another proof of my mutations.
“I can’t have horns!” I shouted.
“ In that, you are right, little human ,” he said. “ It is too soon. You are not ready .”
I put some clothes on and ran to the garden in a panic. Luckily, my father was in New York, and I had the house to myself most days. There was a shed where the gardener kept his tools. I broke the door down with one kick—I was already much stronger than a normal teenager ought to be—and rummaged through the different options. I grabbed an electric pruning saw. I brought it back to the bathroom with unending resolve.
As I lowered my head into the light once more, I turned the saw on and worked on the horns. I cut the skin of my scalp deep enough to bleed profusely. The blood pouring over my eyes and sticking to my eyelashes quickly blurred my vision. It was incredibly messy and painful, but it did the job.
Once I was done, I fell to my knees on the bathroom floor, shaking.
“ You’ll heal ,” my demon said. “ Have no fear .”
He was right. The bleeding stopped after a few minutes, and by nightfall, the pain would be but a memory.
It took me an hour to clean my blood from the bathroom.
The horns grew back two weeks later, and I had to get rid of them once again. They became a part of my life.
As my body grew stronger, my demon spent more time awake. He often requested to watch the news. The world’s governments were announcing the creation of State Exorcists. Scholars gathered and exchanged knowledge about Hell and demons. Everything—including wars, climate change, and pandemics—paled compared to the rise in demonic possessions and trade.
“What are you looking for?” I asked one evening as we sat in front of the giant screen in the living room.
The house was dark. We didn’t require light to see; my eyes had mutated.
He surprised me by actually answering.
“ For them to figure out where the gate is ,” he said. “ It would make my work here easier .”
“The gate?” I asked.
But it was the extent of what he was ready to share, and he kept quiet.
I was lucky. My mutations were unusual, and so my lack of colors didn’t raise any flags. I didn’t grow a tail or wings, like some of the first hybrids and mutants known to the public. My demon was smart enough to keep his cravings and temper in check, biding his time , as he’d said. And so we hid in the shadows, forgotten in a lonely mansion.
But that changed the day my father announced we were finally selling the house and moving to New York. He was about to get remarried, and his new wife didn’t want him to fly back and forth.
I felt elated and terrified all at once. Maybe I could explore the world a little before my demon took over and consumed the rest of my soul?
But my father didn’t intend for me to follow him to New York and taint his perfect life. At least, not for more than a few weeks at a time.
“You’re going to a boarding school near Boston,” he said. “It’s time you made your own way in life, son. I’ve already made the arrangements. You’re leaving next week.”
And so my demon and I were unleashed over the school of Noble and Greendough.