Day Four - Midday

     The boy wakes to find himself in bed again. He doesn't question how he got there. The foreigner obviously had a hand in it. Chances are he's the reason the boy woke here this morning. The grey sky says he hasn't been knocked out for long. Hopefully it's only been a few minutes, just enough time for the bruise under his chin to set. He pokes at the large, blue splotch. It's tender and the swelling presses awkwardly on his mouth. Swallowing feels funny.

     The timing of his injuries is astounding. As soon as the necklace of bruises Myr gave him two days ago start to yellow, he gets himself a new set of marks. He prays Alicia won't ask about them. He has no idea what to say if she does. But that's no pressing concern. If he can't navigate the house, it'll be impossible to trek the uneven trail to town. He'll have to skip on his daily trip, but he's not too bothered. There are closer meals to be taken today.

Day Four - Morning

     Daylight glows grey through the bedroom window. It's a bright grey, testifying how the storm had abated during the night. What remains of the rowdy tempest is a gentle shower and chalky clouds that'll burn off with the sun.

     The boy wakes grudgingly. He had enough of the waking world yesterday, thank you very much. He'd rather stay in bed today and not worry about food, or Myr, or finding shelter from bloody rain that never stops. He'd rather he didn't think about food at all. The reminder dredges up his aching appetite from wherever it had been buried in his sleep. His stomach growls loud enough to be heard from the kitchen next door.

     He recognizes the routine that has defined his time here. (He’d be an idiot not to.) He wakes, aching and hungry. He sneaks to town for the food and compassion he needs. He sneaks back full of neither, having just enough of both to keep him alive another day. He circumnavigates around Myr, lest he suffer his wrath, before fatigue knocks him out for the night.

     Is this how his days will go? Is this all there is to his life?

Day Four - Midnight

     The boy stirs. The movement is sluggish, uncoordinated. Eyes blink open briefly, seeing but not registering anything. He isn't awake. He merely looks that way. His body is running entirely on autopilot. He sits up. His head dips. Eyes close again, then open before he relapses into true slumber. He sits a little straighter as he looks around.

     He's back in his room, the one with three beds. Even with the window, there's not much light to see by, not with the storm still raging outside. Sheet lightning splits the darkness and vanishes the next instant. The flash serves as the boy's candle. A minute later, the silence is similarly pierced by growling thunder.

     The boy belatedly reacts. He shifts to face the window and the tempest expressionlessly. He doesn't twitch at any spark or roar the weather makes. Later on, the storm settles and is content with spitting at the earth in torrents. Fifteen minutes more and the boy slumps where he sits. His eyes are half-open. He's asleep. It takes another minute for gravity to topple him forwards onto his pillow. The impact rouses him. He yawns and stretches. His eyes close. He curls into the faded quilt, into himself, and drifts into proper dreams.

<== Day Three - Evening     ==> Table of Contents <==     Day Four - Morning ==>

Day Three - Evening

     It's raining. Still raining. Has it let up for a second today? Every spark of warmth and comfort the boy soaked up from the pub's fire is immediately washed clean from his skinny frame. Perfect. Abso-bloody-lutely perfect. Better still, he's got a full hour of slogging uphill to look forward to. He doesn’t bother putting on his shoes. What's the point? They’ll only slow him down.

     The cloud cover ushers in premature nightfall. It makes it look later and darker than it should be at this hour. It's why the boy got his times wrong and left sooner than absolutely needed. He wish he'd stayed, but he didn't, so he uses the extra time to fight the downhill slide of the decayed trail. In hindsight, he's glad he left when he did.

     Ash grey clouds crash into each other. The sky grows thick, heavy, and as friendly looking as a lead pipe. The boy scampers out from underneath it to avoid getting hit, gaining as much ground as he loses to gravity and the soupy earth. He screams his rage into the storm. Thunder joins his chorus and roars with him as a flash of gold sparks mere feet away. He braces his arms in front of him. It’s a futile defense against lightning’s fury and he knows it, but he does it anyways. What else can he do?

Day Three - Afternoon

     Alicia’s surprised to see the boy. From the moment he’s at the door, her expression wavers between shock and distress. He hasn't done anything, so why is she upset?

     “Jeezus, kid. I thought you had more sense in you than to come in this weather… Well don't just stand there! Get in, get in!” She ushers him inside to the crackling hearth.

     The boy gratefully plops beside the coals. He sets his shoes out to (hopefully) dry. Even if they're still wet by opening, by his eviction, they'll be warm for a few sweet seconds. He points his pruney toes hearthwards and relishes the feeling coming back into his frigid feet. Hands hover above feet, also enjoying the heat, though it makes the sores on his fingers ache in new ways. He’s comfortable until Alicia places a gentle hand on his shoulder. He recoils at the unexpected touch. Her hurt look convinces him that she didn't mean anything by it. Satisfied, he goes back to staring at the hearth. He hears Alicia sigh beside him. He hears her go to the kitchen. He hears her ask Gerry to be generous with the servings.

     The boy smirks. It's not everyday he gets to be doted on. He savours the feeling while it lasts. As happy as he is to laze about the hearth, he has a job to do. He rubs his hands in front of the fireplace one more time and gets up. It's time to earn that meal.

Day Three - Midday

     It’s a miserable slog in the pelting rain. The path downhill decays into sliding, gravel filled muck where the road isn’t overrun with weeds. Thank goodness the weeds seem to be the majority. Nonetheless, the boy comes close to slipping several times due to his oversized, soaked shoes. They slither on and out from under his feet. It’s like walking on eels. After almost skidding into a shin deep pothole puddle for the umpteenth time, he loses his patience. He yanks his shoes off, ties the laces together, and slings the muddy mess over his shoulder. His feet are marginally colder and wetter bare, but his footing is leagues more sure. The change pleases him. Pity it doesn't do a thing about the downpour.

     He arrives at Glenholm town, surly and shivering, an hour later. He breaks into a run the moment he transitions onto proper cobblestone lanes. No more mud until he makes his return. Fingers crossed the rain will stop by evening. Then again, who’s to say there’ll be a return voyage at all? Alicia's offer of shelter seems a welcome alternative. No idea what she has in mind, but anything is better than boarding in the madhouse he calls home. He'll have to ask her later. His shift isn't until the afternoon and if he comes too early, he runs the risk of looking desperate. Besides, he's got another item on his to-do list.

     He sloshes through the town square, onto the main road, and past the pub until he reaches the post office. The door of the latter is then promptly blown down.

     There’s not a soul to be seen inside; nobody's manning the register. The smog from last time is still hanging over the counter, though it’s thinned some. The air doesn’t make him dizzy this time, but it’s still fragrant. The boy doesn’t want to lollygag. He's seen what the drugged smoke will do to people. Hollowed out by addiction is a bad way to go, not that the resident druggie is complaining, judging by the state of things.

     The boy spots a bell on the counter. He rings it. He rings it again. And again. And again and again and again and-

     Something groans from behind the counter.

Day Three - Morning

     The boy is awoken by his empty stomach. He curls up, clutching his sore belly. A combination of hunger and pain culminates in a rude awakening. The sun's barely up for crying out loud! He groans, rolls over, and waits for his stomach to unclench so he can resume sleeping. The ache abates without vanishing. Respite eludes him. He digs his head out of the pillow. Like it or not, he's up and he'll stay that way. He rubs at dry eyes, stretches feeling into heavy limbs, and dashes on his shoes; he's put them on the wrong feet. A melodramatic sigh as he puts them on right.

     Hunger’s made him cranky, meaning he's got less patience than usual for nonsense like this. Not that he has much to begin with on a Monday morning.

Day Two - Night

     The boy ascends the slope's overgrown, corkscrewing track while light still dusts the sky. It’s lovely and bright now, but the sun faded so quickly yesterday. Best not to loiter lest he's left to wander among the trees in the dark. He won’t risk another shortcut while the night bears down on him, nipping at his heels. He can’t see it yet, but he feels it a short half hour out of sight, eager to clutch him and never let go until the far off dawn beats it back.

     A branch breaks. The boy freezes. Are there wolves in this forest? He’s never seen a wolf before. He doesn’t know much about them either, save that they eat boys wandering in the woods. Alone. At night.

     He swallows around the knot in his throat and strains his ears harder than he ever did. Harder than the many times he hid from a bobby after being scapegoated. Harder than when he picked the lock to and pilfered the pantry of St. Andrew’s (or was it St. Anthony’s?). Harder than this morning with his pockets weighted down with guilty silver. He listens and he waits.

     He doesn’t hear anything. Not a cricket. Not a breath of wind. He takes off running regardless. He runs from hot eyes on his back he’s likely imagining, but, real or not, he doesn’t care. And he runs. And runs. And runs from the night, from swelling shadows hiding wolves and god knows what else. He runs the whole way to another home that isn’t home.

     Sunset splatters the manor in scarlet strong enough to make the church's windows look pink in comparison. The boy wonders if he took a wrong bend somewhere and arrived in hell by mistake. The sun dips over the earth’s edge a minute later and the house turns back to its decrepit, old self; caked in dust, veiled in its permanent shades. Home, sweet home.

Day Two - Evening

     The boy finishes his job without further incident. A generous bowl of goulash is served, as promised. The boy gives his thanks for the food. The barmaid gives her thanks for his help. It's the closest thing to grace this meal will have. The boy plops down at the counter to chow down and hard silver jabs his ribs.

     “Ow.” He didn't mean to say it. He swears it came out of his mouth on its own.

     Now the barmaid's hot and bothered and asking more questions. “Are you alright?” She asks.

     He's flattered she's concerned, but this isn't a good time.

     “Yeah, I'm fine, great actually. It's a splinter is all.”

     “From wiping the tables?”

     The boy nods. Another lie. He’s got splinters, that part’s true, but they're from that stupid window. Though he cursed them then, he blesses them enough for a benediction now that they fortify his deception into something substantial enough to believe. The barmaid certainly begins to when he shows his pierced palms.

Table of Contents

     Welcome! Given that you are currently on this site, I assume you are interested in The Demon Boy. If I am mistaken about your reasons for being here... well then... Why are you here? You know what? It's none of my business. I'm sorry I asked and I wish you welcome nonetheless.

     For those of you who are new here and are wondering what The Demon Boy is, allow me to satisfy your curiosity. The Demon Boy is a story that I am writing. It takes place in the British Isles during the 1800's. It is a work of fiction that spans the genres of historical fiction, psychological thriller, horror, mystery, slice of life, with supernatural/fantasy elements. There will be some parts that will have content that may be disturbing to some people. This story will become increasingly dark as it progresses, particularly from Day Two and beyond. For more information, please see this brief intermission. It addresses what I assume to be any and all concerns about content, but I've been wrong before, so do me a favor and correct me whensoever you see fit.

Day Two - Afternoon

     It took the boy several hours to stumble into town. He’d have arrived sooner if he hadn’t gotten the hair-brained notion to trail blaze a shortcut through the underbrush. He got lost instead. Twice. And got stuck in a bush too.

     He can't for the life of him understand why everyone says greens are good for you. The greens you get fed taste like mud slop and feel the same going down. The greens you run into scratch and cling stubbornly in your hair. He can’t stand any of it.

     Then there’s a warbling in the air. The boy snaps to attention and sees a bird perched on a branch not too far into the trees. The mottled brown of its plumes blends in well with the forest pallet. It can barely be seen, but there it is. It repeats its brief chorus and vanishes.

     The boy stares dumbly in the direction he thinks it went. He remembers this morning. Maybe greens aren’t all bad...

     He strolls out of the forest shade and into the bright lanes of Glenholm town. It’s quiet today. He can’t hear the easy ebb and flow of the rumor mill drifting down the street. Come to think of it, what rumor mill? There’s nobody here! He drifts towards the town square until he catches the hum of someone talking very loudly coming from inside one of the buildings he passes. There's neither hide nor hair of anyone else.

     Stranger and stranger.

Day Two - Morning

     A strange squeaking sound wakes the boy. He's never heard anything like it. It's coming from above his head.

     He swears loudly and jerks away. It's only after he presses himself against the footboard that he looks back and realizes both the window and its sill are empty. He squints, rubs his bleary eyes, and looks again.

     Still nothing. Not a mouse to be found.

     It dawns on him that the squeaking is coming from outside the window. He sticks his head out, not touching the blasted frame as much as possible. He searches this way and that. Finally, he looks up and spots movement high in tree branches a short distance away.

     What in blazes are those? One of them shoots off from the green and arks into sky blue. It twitters and squeaks in litting song.

     “Bird... It's a bird.” The boy didn't think anything on earth could sound so wonderful. He has trouble connecting the rough noise the city crows barked with the light melodies he's hearing now. They're both birds, but why are they so different?

     He stays there, mouth agape, until his neck aches. Reluctantly, he pulls himself away. There's other things that need doing. He looks about his room. He was too rattled and the room too dark for proper scrutiny last night. The morning rays are keen enough to see by, though it's filtered through the fringe of the forest, and by it he spies three beds: the one he's sitting on, settled beneath the window in the middle of the room, and the other two pressed against the walls to either side of his bed. He could only see the one bed in last night’s shadows.

A Brief Intermission

A Warning.

     From Day Two onwards, this story gets increasingly dark. As such, it's only fair that an appropriate warning is given. Which is exactly what this is. It says so right up there. See it? It says "Warning" in big font, in case you missed it.

     Anyhow. Some readers may find future content disturbing and/or upsetting. Such content includes, but may not be limited to the following:

• Coarse language (which may or may not be spelled correctly).
• Violence and references to it, including death threats and child abuse (thanks Myr).
• Dubious morality (yes, more of it).
• Child neglect.
• Substance use.
• Dead bodies.
• Bad reality testing (the boy was like this when I found him, I swear).

     As such, recommended audiences are teen and up. I repeat: this story has a T Rating at the very least.

     You have been warned. If you have any concerns about content at any point in the story or see anything that this warning has missed, please comment on this page.

     Thus concludes my moral burden and this public service announcement. Thank you for reading and have a nice day!

     Now we return to our regularly scheduled programming:     Day Two - Morning ==>
                                                                          Alternatively:     Table of Contents ==>

Day One - Night

     The smell that rolls out hits the pair, boy and toff both, with a force that surpasses the scent of the pub’s stew in all the wrong ways. It's the reek of stale sweat, mildew, and old booze. The boy tries not to breathe, not to retch. He swears he's gonna be sick. He bites the feeling back and bites his tongue for good measure.

     If a whiff is enough to make the boy retch, he doesn't dare look at what's hunched in the doorway. Just a peep will kill him dead of fright, so he bores holes in the shreds of what was once a doormat that are lying at his feet, pretending there is nothing more fascinating than this in the whole, wide world.

     Who’s he kidding? He’s so jumpy he almost leaps over the manor and onto the roof when the thing at the door speaks.

     He didn't think it could speak.

Day One - Evening

     Perfect silence. There’s the steady thrum of a panicked heart, but the jury's still out over whether it belongs to the boy or one of the adults.

     “What do you have to do with Myr?” The banker repeats, louder this time. The volume betrays the tremor in his voice. It’s too slight for the toff to notice, twat that he is. The boy, on the other hand, knows too well what to look for. He came from the slums; he, like all the other boys and girls born and raised there, can smell fear like a bloodhound tracks a dead man.

     The question is, why is he afraid?

     “He… he’s my uncle.” The boy's answer is soft, unconfident. Anyone with half a brain wouldn’t believe a word of it.

     The banker, however, does. He chases them out of the building for it, howling at their backs to keep the hell away from him, for the love of God! Whoever this Myr guy is, it’s enough to scare him stupid. That terrifies the boy more than anything could. Rich, posh guys like this have too much money to be afraid, to need fear. Plus, they like other rich, posh guys, or at least they aren’t spooked like they saw the boogie man.

Day One - Afternoon

     The kids from before aren't here anymore. The boy has no clue where they went. He'd like to know. He'd like to find out. Sadly, the toff’s not going to let him go anywhere until this uncle thing is sorted out. The boy considers ditching him... but it's more trouble than it's worth. Plus, looking for this uncle he's never known is rather exciting.

     The toff yells at the boy over his shoulder. He tells him to hurry up. Again. Don't dawdle and all that. The toff’s the only person in a hurry in all of Glenholm. The boy harumphs and jogs to catch up. What's the rush anyhow? If his uncle lives in the village or anywhere nearby, then chances are he won't be leaving anytime soon. They're more likely to find him dead than out of town. Then he'll have not just a family but an inheritance as well and maybe he'll be as rich as any toff. Maybe richer still.

     The boy smirks and daydreams on. Maybe he's the long lost nephew of a lord. He could be nobility. Heck, he could have estates for leagues around. He could own Glenholm. Maybe that bit’s less likely than the rest of his hopes. Maybe. But he can dream, can't he? That's what boyhood is for: dreaming impossible dreams and hoping impossible hopes.

     A new beginning. He believes those words now, except they’re no longer just words. It's reality. It's what he's always hoped for without knowing it.

     It's home.

Day One - Midday

     The driver hoarsely half-yells they've arrived at their destination. He interrupts the toff mid-sentence. That shuts him up. Sort of. He grumbles complaints of riffraff this and that under his breath, as if the old man weren't deaf after all and was merely pretending the whole time.

     They get out, toff stumbling through the entryway first. The boy follows him and stretches the kinks from a half day’s worth of travel out of his back. He looks around and sees what a new beginning means.

     It means curious faces, smiling ones. People here are friendly. They don't have the ‘shove off’ attitude of city dwellers.

     A group of country boys crowds him. They're bigger than him, all of them, grown fat on the cream of the country as opposed to the crumbs of the city gutters. They're here to mug him for his shoes; they're the only thing of value he's got. What else could they be here for? But the big boys have no interest in what he's got on his feet. They're interested in him of all things. It's a cacophony of “Hey there!” and “Hallo!” The boy struggles to keep up with too many voices and far too many questions in too short a time.

     “What’s your name?”

     “Where'd you come from?”

     “Are you new here?”

     *Smack.*

     “Oww! What was that for?”

     “For being an idiot is what it was. Course he's new here, we never seen him before.”

     “Who’s the toff?”

Day One - Morning

     A carriage clatters onwards to ‘a new beginning’. That's what the toff calls it; he keeps saying it throughout the ride. He said it when he and his “ass-so-see-ates” came to the workhouse to sort the children out. He said it when the boys got carted off to the boy's home, Saint Markus. When the home got too full, he said it at Saint Barthelemy, and again at Saint Andrews.

     People call them “homes”, but they weren't. Not really. They were another place to stay until you got shipped off again. And some boys did get shipped off. Literally. Girls too. Off to unheard-of distant relatives. Off to the countryside. Off to the colonies. Off to places where nobody cared. Places where you were out of people's hair. Places where you were forgotten.

     Everytime the boys were dumped off at Saint this and Saint that, they numbered fewer and fewer. Some were taken away, hopefully to that promised new beginning. Others died, be it sickness, accident, or crime. A few became men during their stay. They found work and left or were kicked into the streets to bum on street corners. These are the lucky ones.

     As for this boy in the carriage with the toff intoning promises he can't possibly keep… Well, he's alive and lived this long to be sure. Now he too is being carted off to that ‘new beginning’ that keeps getting talked about.

     This is the fate of the former workhouse children.

     ‘A new beginning.'

A Teaser

Day One - A New Beginning

     A carriage clatters onwards to ‘a new beginning’. That's what the toff calls it, keeps saying it throughout the ride. He said it when he and his “ass-so-see-ates” came to the workhouse to sort the children out. He said it when the boys got carted off to the boy's home, Saint Markus. When the home got too full, he said it at Saint Barthelemy. And again at Saint Andrews.

     People call them “homes”, but they weren't. Not really. They were another place to stay until you got shipped off again.

     And some boys did get shipped off. Girls too. Off to unheard-of distant relatives. Off to the countryside. Off to the colonies. Off to places where nobody cared. Places where you were out of people's hair. Places where you were forgotten.

     Everytime the boys were dumped off at Saint this and Saint that, they numbered fewer and fewer. Some taken away, hopefully to that promised new beginning. Others died. Sickness. Accident. Crime.

     A few became men during their stay. They found work and left or were kicked into the streets to bum on street corners. These are the lucky ones.

     As for this boy in the carriage with the toff intoning promises he can't possibly keep… Well, he's alive and lived this long to be sure. Now he too is being carted off to that ‘new beginning’ that keeps getting talked about.

     This is the fate of the former workhouse children.

     ‘A new beginning.’


     ==> Table of Contents <==     Day One - Morning ==>