The Devil Inside

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Chapter Two

Your kind. So easy to manipulate. Just a whisper and you’re under my spell. You don't even notice. You think you are making a choice. A choice of your own. When all along you are just doing what you are told. Like some sort of fucking puppet. When I am in control you have no choice. You may think you do, but again, that's just me. Playing with you. Toying with you for my own amusement!

I hung around in the city for ten years. Watching. Preying on you. From simple things such as which way to turn on your way home, leading you into a dark alley, primed for an ambush. To more detailed things. Telling you who to focus on, who to stalk, who to kill.

In 1888 one of my kind took a hold of a subject in London. For four months he’d be on their shoulder, whispering. The results were fantastic. "The White Chapel" murders as they were known, went down in your folk law. His subject became known as Jack The Ripper. Never caught. Mainly because after the killing of Mary Jane Kelly, he heard a whisper. A whisper to climb to the top of tower bridge, and throw himself in. As I said. Outstanding work. The anger and pain that must have gone into those murders must have tasted like the nectar of the Gods. Just the thought of the blood and gore from them excites me. Makes me want to do something similar.

After I left the dirt and grime of the city behind me, I jumped from person to person in the country. Making them commit small crimes for my amusement and to feed my hunger. I moved from village to village. Seeking weak souls to play with. One such soul was a young boy called Johnson.

Johnson was a little slower then the other children in his village. A village idiot if you will. No friends to speak of, living in an old shack with his grandmother. His parents having gone to the city to try an earn some money. All he wanted was someone to play with and to enjoy spending time with. One Sunday morning, he was sat in a playground. Nearly everyone else in the village had gone to church. But a simple whisper from me, and he had snuck off before his grandmother could take him to worship. I could feel his thoughts. How he longed for someone. I whispered gently that the people of the village were not worthy of him. He deserved better. If they all left, then new people would arrive. New people who would love him, cherish him.

I got him to push a heavy bench in front of the doors of the church. A quick stop at the hardware store to steal some matches, and then a whisper telling him to light that fucker up.

The fire took hold quickly. The flames dancing against a grey sky. The screams from inside as people attempted to get out. Oh how it tasted. Johnson was ecstatic that he thought he was doing the right thing. The emotions coming off him were some of the best I have ever had.

He stood there. Watching it burn. Soon the voices inside were quiet. Nothing could be heard other than the sound of the fire crackling and the birds singing. A wonderful sight. The air full of an oaky smoke, and the smell of charred flesh. It was an intoxicating smell.

I left him, sat on the ground, waiting for some new villagers to come, behind him the church still burning. Nobody came for days. When somebody did finally come, Johnson had been driven completely insane by the realisation of what he had done.

You see, when we decide to leave you, your memory slowly plays back your actions to you. It leaves out the bit of me whispering in your ear. All you remember is choosing to do those things. To steal this, kill that, burn down an entire fucking church with everyone inside.

One of my most fond memories is of a torrid love triangle. A dirty prostitute fell in love with one of her gentleman callers. The man in question was fairly wealthy, but married, with a small child. The prostitute begged him to leave his wife and child for her. He wouldn't listen. He was very well-to-do and the scandal of abandoning his family for a local whore would have finished him. The whore was beside herself, and that's where I stepped in. I suggested to her that he could be hers. That all her hopes and dreams could be a reality. Just standing in her way were the mother and child.

One cold night the prostitute paid a visit to the mans house. He was away on business. Alone in this huge three story house were the mother and child.

She snuck in through an unlocked back door. I saw the poker before she had even adjusted to the light. Telling her to pick it up from the stove, she obeyed and went upstairs. On the first floor she found the mother, asleep in her bed. Snuggled under the bed clothes. She raised the poker high above her head, bringing it down with all the force she could muster on the sleeping woman's skull. There was a sickening crack, and a splash of blood.

Again I told her. And again the poker was raised. Again it was brought down upon her head. The mothers head split in two, brain, blood and tissue spilling onto the clean bed sheets. The anger coursing through the prostitute tasting sublime. On the bedside table lay a half cut orange, and a fruit knife. I showed her them, and she picked up the knife. She started to saw at the woman's throat. Cutting deep into the flesh. More blood spurting onto the bed and she dug deeper. As she hit the woman's spine with the knife there was a small cry from upstairs.

I told her she wasn't finished yet. There was still someone standing in front of her dream.

She walked up to the second floor, finding the nursery. The walls painted a royal blue. Soft toys littered around the room. She walked to the side of the cot and looked down. The baby boy was lying in there. His eyes wide. Almost smiling, thinking she was his mother.

"Just this one, and the man is yours" I reminded her.

She gently picked up the boy. His eyes a deep blue, his hair a striking blonde. Without hesitation she lifted him above her head, and with all her might, brought his back down on to the side of the crib.

The baby's back was broken, it had died almost instantly. Anger and hatred poured from the prostitute. Her breathing heavy. She opened the window, letting in a cold breeze. As if she was emptying a chamber pot, she tossed the babies body out of the window and onto the street. Her emotion changed. Happiness and joy. Relief and expectation replaced the anger and joy.

I was full. I couldn't feed any more. I left her side, letting her gain control of herself. I watched as the events were slowly rewound in her mind. What she had done. Fear and panic spread across her face. On mine, a small grin. I saw her rush from the nursery, and head back to the woman's bedroom, as if she was checking to see if it was true. She started to sob. Instantly regretting everything. She ran down the stairs, back to the kitchen. That's when I stepped in again. I couldn't help myself. I wanted afters! Two simple words.

"The knife."

She stopped, looked at the kitchen work top. On it lay a small peeling knife. She instantly picked it up with her shaking hands, and drew it hard and fast across her throat. Blood seeping from the wound, she stumbled forward and held herself up against the work top. Blood flowing fast. Escaping from the gaping slit in her neck, and gargling up through her mouth. She fell to the floor and lay still. I left. Smiling broadly, and full to the brim. Although I was full, I was always looking for my next victim. Always looking for the weak. Always looking for my next fix.


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