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CLAWING FROM THE DEPTHS of a deep sleep is often unsettling.

This awakening was worse than most. As I roused from slumber, I tasted anise, old blood, and ash. My eyes refused to open, which was a blessing for my entire body ached like an infected toe, allowing me to lie abed for a bit longer as I tried to recall the previous night. The torment of sunlight could be put off for the moment.

I had no recollection of where I had been or how much I had imbibed but given the stiffness in my limbs combined with the agony and forgetfulness of my mind, I must have drunk a generous amount of whiskey at The Mottled Lichen. What drove me from the comfort of my little room at the stables into Avers Mill and that depressing pub was missing from my recollection. Slowly rolling to my side, I groaned as every joint in my body ground together in unison. Then, I was falling, hitting the ground with a thunderous jolt. The pain was incredible, even if the tumble had been short. Winded by the severe discomfort, I lay on the floor, gasping, the growing heat of a nearby fire striking a chord of terror deep within me.

Agonized or not, my eyes flew open as I scrambled away from the fire like a rock crab. My legs and arms gave out before I could put a foot between myself and the hearth. Heart pounding and head spinning, I sat on the floor, legs akimbo, staring at the tasteful fireplace in loss. This was not my home. My sight flew around the small parlor as the fact that I was nude finally registered. My gods. Had I gotten so drunk that I had gone home with some strange woman—or more damaging to my reputation in Avers Mill—a man?! What would Theo think of my infidelity? It was too painful to consider his reaction should he find out, for he could be a jealous, insecure man at times.

I could not stop staring at the flames dancing behind the ornate fireplace screen. Made of brass and colored glass, the screen was oddly shaped, and a dark gray buzzard working into the artful panes was discomforting. As I sat bare-assed on the dusty wooden floor, my gaze flew around the room. Windows with delicate lace curtains showing a gray light outside, a needlework settee I had tumbled from, a few armchairs, a table with a pitcher and glasses, and a wall filled with books. Two doors on either side of the parlor were closed. In one corner sat a small table with two chairs and a worktable for preparing foodstuff. I noted a round loaf of bread and several carrots on the table. My stomach rumbled, though whether in hunger or pain, I could not tell, for all of me ached.

I inched away from the hearth. Using the settee, I gingerly hoisted myself from the floor, confusion fogging my thoughts. Wherever I was, I needed to find my clothes. Not only was it wholly improper to be stumbling about someone’s parlor nude, but it could also be a damning incident in the eyes of the good folk of Avers Mill. A few townsfolk already had suspicions about the tall groom at the town stable. They whispered about me behind their hands. I knew this to be fact, but since I was generally discreet about my liaisons with the same gender, no scandal had befallen me. There was no acceptance of inverts, tribades, or oddities such as myself, who were equally attracted to both sexes in the year of our Lord 1814. So, even if the locals found me bizarre due to my height and build, they gave me a wide berth most generally. A good thing, for I was a private man at heart and wished only to tend to horses and spend my nights in the arms of the mayor’s son. Illicit our relationship may be, but it was pleasant on the whole. Theo adored me, and I cared for him a good deal. Not that it would lead us anywhere…

That was one of several positives about being in a relationship with one person. This sort of horrific morning—if it were morn given the skies outside were the same tone as an anchor—simply didn’t occur. Had Theo and I quarreled? I ran a hand through my hair, tugging at the thick ebony mass to shake out small bits of burned timber and staring blankly at the charred chips as they floated to my thighs and timid cock. I dusted the flakes from the hair at the root of my prick and then took a few shaky steps toward the door on the western wall, my unease lessening as I put some distance between me and the hearth.

If I were fortunate, I could find a closet or wardrobe that held my clothes. A trip to the outhouse would also be agreeable as my bowels felt oddly tender. As I reached for the knob of the western door, the eastern opened. I spun, hand over my genitals in case a lady entered, and locked gazes with a creature that sent my bare back to the door.

The monstrous thing was as tall as a child of maybe six years, with skin scarlet as an apple, ears long and pointed, eyes as red as Mistress James’ hydrangea, and a snout like that of a pig. It wore clothes of a sort, ragged trousers with stripes, a white shirt with various stains, and bare cloven feet. It was carrying a bundle that it dropped in fright when it saw me. We both screamed in unison, my bellow deep and low and theirs high-pitched enough to make me wince.

I fumbled with the doorknob, now fearing I was in a fever dream and not merely hungover. With a grunt, I opened the door and fell into a bedchamber that had not seen a broom or feather duster in many years. I slammed the door closed on the screeching monster, chest heaving, and ran to the bed. The coverlet was tattered, mouse-chewed on the edges, and smelled of…nothing. Uncaring at the moment, I tore it from the mattress, tied it around my waist, and looked about the room frantically for a weapon.

Finding nothing but a water pitcher with the skeletal remains of some sort of rodent at the base, I dumped the bones onto the table and turned to face the door as something—the shoddily dressed demon dream creature—scratched at the jamb.

“Big human man,” it called through the crack. Oh wonderful, it spoke English. I’d hoped my mental breakdown would not be able to communicate with me, but it seemed I was not so lucky. Not that a man slipping into madness could be lucky in any way. “You needs cover your cockery before he arrives. He does not like cockery.”

“Begone, nightmare!” I shouted, lifting the pitcher over my head, ready to strike.

“He will kick me if you are showing cockery. He likes kicking Delmar.”

“I shall help him kick you straight back to the depths of my rancid brain!” I yelled, moving closer, the covering tangling around my legs. The monstrosity at the door sighed as if put out with me. Did delusions of insanity grow impatient with you?

“No, no, do not kick Delmar. Just take clothes. Cover cockery.” He opened the door, threw in a brown bundle, and then darted off, the scrabble of his long toenails on the hardwood floor making me shiver. I slammed the door closed on my delusion, lowered the pitcher, and picked up the plain brown paper package. The contents were soft, befitting clothing as he’d said, and so I made my way to the bed and sat down to open the wrapped package. The twine fell away to reveal a rather handsome ensemble: black trousers, waistcoat, tailcoat, and a long ebony duster. A white shirt with a slim black tie cravat, drawstring drawers, and knee-length cotton socks were amid the dark clothing. The door opened once more. I watched one large black boot and then another sail into the bedchamber, followed by an ebony top hat.

“For your head and feet. Cover the cockery fast now! Do it before he comes and kicks Delmar!” the beast outside the door screeched.

Should I even converse with the thing or should I ignore it and the clothing? If I had fallen into a bout of scarlet fever—it had been circulating amongst the children of Avers Mills—would speaking to a demon whilst bound in mind horror be seen as a sign of mental instability when, or if, I recovered?

“Who is coming?” I chanced as I stood to dress. If this were a nightmare of biblical proportions, I wished to have my manly parts covered.

“He is coming,” the thing shouted and ran off again.

“That clarifies things well. Thank you, Delmar,” I huffed as I stepped into my drawers. They were fine undergarments. Nothing of great softness like the sort that Theo wore but not made of coarse material either.

“No thanks, big human! Dress fast, thank later,” he said as the sound of splashing water floated into the eerie silence. Once I was dressed, I went to the door, peered around the opening, and saw Delmar mopping the floor with a cloth. He was humming a tune with a familiar yet haunting melody. Seeing the sopping wet floor, I returned to the bed to sit and pull on the quite well-made boots. Shined to perfection, the black leather was supple. And to my surprise, they fit very well. Rising from the bed, it came to me that these clothes all sat on my body comfortably, as if they had been tailored for my stupidly large frame. Grabbing the duster and hat, I strode to the door, now intent on facing down this brain madness with my cockery covered. How grand. I was now speaking like my demented brain imaginings.

Delmar’s eyes flew to me as I stepped into the parlor, hat in hand and coat over my arm.

“You are the biggest human Delmar has witness to eyeballs,” he said as he continued slopping water from a metal bucket onto the floor and pushing it about with a filthy cloth.

“Where are we?” I asked. It was the first query that fell off my lips. Several hundred more swirled about inside my skull.

“In a parlor, dumb big human. No, I am not saying dumb to the coachman!” With that, he darted toward the window, hit it at high speed, and crashed back to the floor, hoofed feet kicking madly as he tried to regain his footing on the wet floor.

I shook my head. This creature, for all its terrible features, was rather pitiful. I took one step closer to help the poor thing when a flash of dark smoke appeared to my right. The flames in the hearth soared higher as a crow appeared amidst the cloud of thick vapors. Delmar began to screech, all cleaning forgotten, as he prostrated himself on the wet floorboards. I took several steps in reverse, unwilling to give credence to the sight I was obviously witnessing, even though I was obviously witnessing it. To my knowledge, crows did not apparate in the middle of a parlor. The cloud swirled about the flapping bird, the stench of rotted flesh and brimstone flowing about it as the blackbird elongated. Wings stretching out into arms, bird-like feet extending into spindly but human legs.

My ass hit the wall beside the kitchen worktable. There was no explanation for anything I had seen since I awoke other than that I had slipped into madness. Corvids did not turn into gangly men with glowing eyes the color of red wine. So, to that end, I was now a lunatic. Soon someone would haul me off to the new asylum in Cornwall Cove.

The man turned his attention to me. His face was long, his nose sharply pointed, and his skin as craggy as the weathered chestnut in the town square. Long, ashy hair hung from his skull and lay on the shoulders of a detailed day suit of darkest chestnut. Where boots like the ones I wore should have covered his calves instead were the feet of a bird. Fear thrummed through me but given that I was no longer sane, my terror was lessening with each oddity witnessed.

“You are awake, good.”

I nodded. He walked toward the shivering servant on the floor, kicked him in the ribs so hard the little imp cried out in pain, and then looked about the parlor. “You were to have this abode cleaned for the coachman. What were you doing instead?”

“I clean! I clean so hard, please no kick me no more!” Delmar wailed, the sound so loud and piercing my head ached.

“More likely you were in the garden attempting to pierce the shroud,” the man said, his voice that of an old man who had smoked too many pipes over his lifetime. Delmar whimpered like a struck dog, his clawed hands hiding his ugly face. I felt bad for the little monster. “Your duty is here, wastrel. Now tidy this hovel.”

The red imp crawled away as fast as he could, whining as he went. When those scarlet eyes found me, they narrowed. “Now, for you, Coachman. We shall walk. I wish for you to meet your steed. Time does not stand still while you relearn how to button your breeches.”

“Where are we?” I asked, again, hoping this illusion would provide a sensible answer.

“We are in the shroud, a place in between the world of the living and the realms of the dead,” he said matter-of-factly, flicking at a black feather stuck to his robe. It fell gently to the floor. I bent to pick it up. The feather felt real enough, the pointed end of the quill sharp, and the vane tight yet soft. My confusion compounded. “You are here now to repay a debt owed to my master.”

“Debt?” I inched away from the wall, curiosity making me bolder.

“Yes, a promise made in exchange for favors granted to your father. All will be explained. Now, if your flesh has re-knitted enough for you to journey to the stable.”

I gaped at him as he turned and walked off, his claws striking the damp wooden planks on the floor. My father? But that made no sense. My father had been a learned man, a doctor, a hero of the war against the British. He and Mother both served in whatever capacity they could to succor the sick and wounded American troops as we drove King George’s army from our lands.

They both perished during an outbreak of smallpox that ravaged the Continental Army to such a degree that General Washington ordered mandatory inoculations for new recruits. Sadly, my parents contracted it and perished as did many others.

I’d been given to Pastor Colfax as a babe and delivered to the only relatives who wished to have another mouth to feed, that being the town stable master and his wife. To say my father, a hero and self-sacrificing man, would pass his only son to Satan is utter nonsense. All of it!

The man in the cape opened the front door and stepped out to be swallowed by the lightless gray that I had seen through the window. I followed. What else could I do as I was now embroiled in my own imaginary figment? Pausing at the threshold, I reached out to swipe my hand through the veil that seemed to be both solid and gaseous. The feel of the shroud was unsettling like a fog of ill omen dampening my hand.

A small whimper by my feet pulled my sight downward. Delmar sat huddled on the step, his knees under his red chin, black lips drawn into a sneer. He sat beside a lamp with a wick that danced inside its glass shrouding.

“Go back inside, finish your duties, lest you find yourself punted into the fire,” I said softly as the shape of the crow man disappeared into the shifting clouds.

“His cockery has rotted off,” the creature muttered, passed me the light, and then rushed back inside. I stepped fully into the undulating haar, the door to the cabin closing behind me. I took a moment to look over the home. It was not as foreboding as I would have thought. Cloaked in a shifting mist, it appeared to be the lone source of the delicate glow of the oil lamp inside. The scent of white birch tickled my nose, unseen in the constantly moving fog but still present. It was a small homestead with only two rooms, but solid. A hand fell to my shoulder, startling me. I jumped and spun. There he stood, staring at me, his feathered brows drawn tight.

“You shall see much of this hutment over your time serving. Now come. The dying need their coach ride.”

“The dying…who are you?” I shook off his hand, my apparent derangement making me suddenly bold. If this man-bird were nothing more than a product of my unsound mind, then what harm could he cause me? None. “I demand to know who you are!”

The tips of his ears sparked. “You have the temerity to speak to me in such a way. I should spill your guts to the ground for such boldness, but the master has chosen you.”

I felt proud of myself. Not that it required great bravery to speak out to a delusion.

“Who is your master? How did I go from a solid-minded man to a slobbering lunatic?”

He sighed dramatically. “I am known to those who matter as Malphus, he who sits at the right hand of the fallen lord, the second-in-command to the prince of darkness, prime council to the Tempter, Idolater of the Accuser.”

The lantern in my hand felt heavier. “Malphus.”

That name I knew well. Pastor Colfax had mentioned the foot soldiers of the dark angel in many of his blistering Sunday sermons. For he believed that all of God’s children should be armed with the knowledge of Satan’s minions so they could fight any who tempted them. Bile raced up to my mouth, making me swallow loudly so as not to regorge my last meal…whatever that may have been. He smiled. The grin was something that would be forever burned into my fevered mind, for it was so purely evil.

“So, now you speak with respect.” He was pleased with my fright. “Follow me. He bids me to teach you what you need to know. Come. The stable is this way.”

He melted into the gloom. I glanced back at the cottage as the name of the demon knolled over and over inside my head. Yes, I was most certainly insane. Fumbling, my boots clacking on the flagstone path leading from the whirlsome fog into the shroud, I stepped off the stones onto softer ground. The mist obscured my surroundings. I walked forward with care as I could not see my boots nor the hard-packed soil under them. With the haze lingering on my lips, I licked them and grimaced. The moisture I’d gathered on my tongue was unpleasant indeed, tasting melancholy and bitter. The murk seemed to intensify as the whirls thickened, dark clouds spun around me madly, and misty fingerlings of fog reached out for me. When the smog skimmed my cheeks, it felt icy cold. The cold floated across my hand as I held the lantern higher. Each touch seemed to bring a whisper with it, a haunting undervoice, a breath-seeking aid.

I began to turn in circles, the lantern light slowly becoming engulfed in the cloud of murmurs. The lantern trembled as the pleas for help began to grow more insistent. Their calls for my assistance became a cacophony inside my head, the sound becoming so intense that tears welled in my eyes as I swung the lantern in a manic circle to drive back the whispers. The light did nothing. The cloud of noise thickened like gravy given too much flour. Madness, it seemed, made a man scream out into the void. I’d heard tales of raving lunatics begging for surcease from the voices inside their heads. Now, Livingstone Wright was among the blathering lunatics.

“Coachman, direct them back,” Malphus said from somewhere ahead of me. I could see nothing but the touches of my imaginings grasping at my face, and cold, misty fingers probing into my ears, nose, and open mouth. “Direct them back!” he shouted, his gravelly voice cutting through the sheer panic I was feeling.

“ Leave me be! ” I screamed, whipping the lantern to and fro as if trying to fend off a bat. The mist drew back slightly, heaving away from me as if struck. I bellowed again, and again, and again until my throat was hoarse. The clouds dispersed with speed, their pleas going with them. I dropped to one knee, my heart thundering in my chest, the lantern coming to rest by my knee as I fought to regain my breath.

“That is your first lesson,” Malphus said as he neared. I could see his clawed feet before me. I swallowed loudly, but there was no spittle to ease my throat. “The spirits here are drawn to you, for they know you can ferry them to their final destination. They do not realize that they are here of their own faults. All they know is that this realm feels unfinished to them. You must control them lest they overwhelm you. With practice, you shall gain the power to simply will them away, but for now, command them to leave when they congregate. Now rise. We have much to cover yet.”

I lowered my head, closed my eyes, and ran my free hand over the sooty ground. It felt as real as the spirits that plagued me a moment ago.

“Where are we?” I asked yet again. “A sick and tormented place inside my head, I know, but insanity is not this real.” I picked up some soil and let it drift through my quaking hand.

“Surely, you can stand and continue on. Did I not mention time was of the essence, Coachman?”

I got to my boots and stared at the demon before me. We were of the same height. With wet cheeks and a sickness of the brain, I suddenly discovered I was beyond fear.

“I will not step onward unless my questions are answered. Your master may suckle upon my stones for eternity if that is the punishment for my brazen manner.”

Malphus folded his arms across his lean chest. In a more sane time of my life, I would know that even though I stood well over six and a half feet tall and possessed enough strength to lift two large bags of horse feed with ease, my chances of besting a demon from Hell was small. Of course, were I not a raving madman I’d not be having a meeting with an archdemon.

Is it possible when one truly went mad, reason fled with a person’s logic?

Well, obviously so, Livingstone.

“Finally, you show some backbone. You will need it. Walk with me to the stable as I directed moments ago, and I will fill in the blank spaces that your death has carved into your mind.”

My death?