Page 3 of Fallen: Darkness Ascending, Vol.1

S E V E N

I t’s one of the last few tolerable days of autumn, so I’m trying to make the most of it.

This kitschy restaurant still allows for outdoor seating, so I’ve got myself stylishly bundled up in boots and peacoat and scarf, fingerless gloves beneath the sleeves, hugging my mug of raspberry tea in one hand and finishing off the last few bites of my meal with the other.

Being out in public is both soothing and frightening—my anxiety likes to think up all the ways something could go horribly, horribly wrong, but I’m an adult now.

I’ve survived this weird bullshit into my mid-twenties so far, learned tricks and techniques.

Hell, I got a specialized psychotherapist and everything.

I can allow myself a little treat of eating at a restaurant when I’m having a good day. Cornelius says it’s important for me to ‘be normal’ sometimes, and it’s helped a lot to be honest. He’s helped a lot. He even helped me pay for a service dog to keep me grounded and safe when I have my episodes.

Stray sits at my side obediently, calm, leaned up against my legs and watching people inside the restaurant move around.

He’s a special breed, Cornelius said, ‘Fide Morte’.

Not recognized by the AKC yet, they’re so new.

His friends are the creators of the breed, wickedly intelligent dogs with an unrivaled loyalty to their humans.

I’ve only had Stray for a little while so far but he’s proven both those a hundred times over so far.

The faintest whiff of phosphorous sulfide on the air suffuses into my brain and launches my system into full-alert.

There’s enough training in me by now that I immediately begin to take a deep breath even as my spine straightens to attention and my mind races for either explanations, or proof that I need to get out of here.

My eyes flick to the little tealight on my table, the flame flickering in the wind—the scent is probably from another table, a waiter striking a match to relight a candle.

A haunting autumn breeze rolls across my cheeks, tousling my hair as though in a lover’s hand, and the little tealight flicks out in a trail of pale smoke.

Stray’s muzzle is on my lap right away and he whines comfortingly at me.

The fork clatters down so I can use the hand to adjust the wraparound headphones always in place around my neck—touching them is a sort of comfort, reminding myself they’re there—then I set the hand on his head, petting, breathing deeply again, looking up into the wide sidewalk of downtown Bellevue to see if any of the crowd of restaurant patrons or passersby have noticed me.

Gold glints in the passing headlights of a car, dimmed in the overcast air but that particular hue always finds my attention. Through windows. Through reflections. In my nightmares .

Phantasmus.

Little, curved horns at the forehead of a golden mask. No holes cut out for the eyes, but a chunk missing at the chin to reveal a murk-black mouth and straight, unamused, unconcerned black lips. I know crimson fangs and ebony tongue lie behind them.

Stray obscures my vision of the figure, his paws on my chest as he licks at my face to snap me out of it. I feel myself gasping in air slightly, hear a waiter standing beside me asking if I’m alright.

I turn and let Stray have the other cheek as I look up at the young man, not quite out of his teens, and ask for the check and a to-go box. He steps away, and I appease Stray with pets for a little while before craning around his dark, reddish fur to look into the distance again.

Just a glimpse—the mask turning, dark clothes blending into the shadow cast by the bell tower across the street, then gone. Nothingness.

My hand shakes as I pull my phone out and navigate to the saved texts?—

Breathe deeply. Root yourself in your body. You are nowhere but right here, right now.

You are strong. You do not have to let the fear consume you. Let it guide you, keep you safe, then when it has served its purpose, let it go.

Close your eyes and count the seconds to twenty. Breathe in thirds. Focus on yourself, little lamb, and nothing else in the world.

I run through each one, still shaking by the end, but when I’ve finished my counting the smell of sulfur has gone, and Stray is lounging on my lap, and the world is still here around me.

I force myself to continue on my day, to make it through.

I package up my leftovers, toss two twenties on the table without counting tip, and I still stop at the bank like I’d planned before returning home.

Even then, I still don’t feel safe . Even despite the six locks on my front doors.

Despite drawing the edge- to-edge blackout curtains.

Despite setting the proximity alarm. Despite changing into more comfortable clothes, an oversized hoodie, red-and-white snowflake tights, tall, baggy gray socks, and my matching snowflake Ugg slippers.

Comfy, cozy, warm, alone, safe. I turn on quiet, quiet spa music and spend five minutes meditating with Stray at my side.

Then, I feel a little better. Still off, still eerie, but reassured in my steps to keep myself safe.

I move from the floor and onto the couch, Stray heading to his bed in the corner, and I put on everyone’s favorite British baking show.

The colors, the cakes, the silly little jokes, tend to calm me down.

But a couple episodes in, I can smell it again.

That brimstone, that ash, that stench. I think I catch a glimpse of gleaming gold light from the corner of my eye, but there’s nothing.

I blink, it’s gone. I almost want to call Stray to me but if he’s sleeping soundly, then that would mean I’m safe.

I repeat that to myself a few times, opening my phone to look at the security app and confirm everything is in place. It is. I’m safe .

Stray twitches, bringing my attention back to him. His lips flick, and his paws twitch again, one leg beginning to kick in his dream.

I smile, feeling my worries wash away for a moment. One, full moment. Then his lips lift in his sleep and he growls, legs kicking again, struggling, or running.

Running.

My heartbeats feel like crashes of bombs on my rib cage.

Running.

That day as a kid was the last time I’d ever been able to run without seeing hell collapse in around me. Now running only means running for your life and the trauma of having done so very, very many times always ticks my brain right into place to let the blood and bones into my eyes.

“Hey S-Siri…it’s happening again…” I say through gasping, gulping breaths.

The system recognizes the passphrase, moving through a series of instructions automatically, without any other input from me.

Which is intentional, because I’m currently waging war in my mind to try and keep the hellscape out.

Sometimes I can manage it, and bring myself back down. Sometimes.

I try to resist it and breathe myself back to reality, but everything starts to take a crimson, darkened hue. The TV starts to fill with static, a knife cutting into a gorgeous cherry pie one moment and intestines and organs spilling out the next as the voices of the judges compliment and swoon.

Something within my house creaks, maybe just from the wind, maybe from nothing at all, or maybe I’m imagining it altogether, but I flinchingly twist to look back behind myself and that momentary flash of fear is enough.

The walls are red. Broken. Dripping. Covered in ashen ivies, stuck through with bones here and there as though some poor souls had gotten impaled on the jagged wooden beams.

An arm begins to extend forward from the dark staircase.

It’s mostly humanoid, save for that tar-black skin, and the jet-black claws on each finger.

Tendrils, ribbons of shredded fabric trail and drift down from the elbow and dance in the air as the arm reaches from the ceiling, walking itself upside down, then another appears and begins to reach for the splintered railing even while above it.

I let out a small breath, and silently slip from my place on the couch to the floor. Glancing to Stray’s bed, I can see his ghost still curled up, undisturbed. His soul, a sort of projection, reminiscent of where he exists in the real world.

Animals are half here, half there.

Humans aren’t meant to be here at all.

We still aren’t sure what makes me different.

The demon stalking along my ceiling is nearly silent.

The boards whisper as he moves, and sometimes I hear his breaths.

I let the sounds guide me, when it’s safe to move, until I can reach to my empty cupboard and quietly pull the door open.

Catching a surprised squeal deep in my throat, I let the thin blood gush and waterfall out of the now-open door.

It’s not real, it’s not real, it’s not real, I repeat as I lean into the rancid smelling hutch and tuck myself inside.

At home, it’s left empty specifically so there are no obstacles for me if I need to hide.

As the door begins to come to a close, I spot the demon part-way turning to face right-side-up in the stairwell.

The shape of his face, his horns, is exact to the golden mask he wears in the real world.

Black bat wings are curled up at his back as bare, clawed feet descend and touch the bottom stair, hands raking into the wood of the wall and leaving ravines in their wake.

His neck is turned, stretched long, as his face is sniffing toward my kitchen, head bobbing slightly with each desperate and searching inhale.

I cut him from my view as I bring the cabinet door shut, covering my mouth and nose and trying to hold my breath.

Very quietly, I can hear a voice inside the hutch with me—reaching to my neck, I move to take the plastic circle of my wrap-around headphones and settle them into place so I can listen to Dr. Karagiannis talk me through the episode?—