Demon's Birth

Thomas Oskoff stared at the woman through the bushes. He held the stake in his hand, debating what to do. He had been waiting for this moment. He had been hunting her for years. He told his wife he would be back soon, he told her he had a task to complete. She knew where he was going, she knew how dangerous it was. But…as he stared at the woman he questioned the reality of the danger. She was humming a song to herself and weaving something with flowers. He was memorized. When she turned around…his heart stopped.

Twenty-Seven Years Later

Benjamin stood outside the cemetery wall, watching the women. There were three of them. One was young, perhaps nineteen, another was in her thirties, and the last one was in her late seventies. Or at least appeared to be. He had heard about these women his entire life from his father, but didn’t expect he would be the one to stumble upon them in the woods. He had found them gathered around a freshly dug grave in what he assumed to be a family cemetery based upon the size and hidden nature. They were chanting something he couldn’t understand, their voices were in whispers and their hands clasped tightly. Their pale fingers stuck out from their loose fitting cloaks.

Whoever is chosen will find them, they will find them alone. He knew what it meant that he had walked upon them without his brothers. He was the next chosen one. There was a tradition that needed to be carried on. He came from a long line of slayers, but it was unclear who it would be. After all, he had four brothers that were all able and dreamt of the responsibility.

He thought of his father, the words he spoke before passing onto the next realm. It will be clear who is next. You will know the moment you are chosen. You will be alone. And they will look at you. One will wink, she is the worst. The worst by far. Be careful.

Benjamin took a step back, intent to sneak away into the shadows. He wasn’t ready yet. This was too soon. As he did, the middle aged woman lifted her head, turned to him with a smile that froze the breath in his throat.

Her blue eyes winked.

Months had passed now since Clara had seen the man standing on the outskirts of the cemetery. Even if he had wanted to enter, he wouldn’t have been able to. The salt encircling the stone wall would keep him away. She was surprised it hadn’t burned him where he stood. But he had wandered off. Off to plot she assumed. Just like the rest of his line.

They had been battling the Oskoffs for centuries. Their patterns hadn’t changed at all, just their faces (and barely those). His father had been an interesting specimen. He found himself unfortunately drawn to Clara. She had used this to her advantage; survival was always key. She cared very little what she had to do to ensure her family continued to thrive, continued to grow.

That morning though, things had gone amiss. She awoke to signs and they weren’t favorable. When her feet touched the floor, the window to the east burst open, allowing a cold breeze to enter her modest home. If this had been the only occurrence, she would have been able to ignore it. But there were unfortunately more to follow.

When she went to find her shoes, only one appeared where she had left it. The other she found outside in the garden, half buried when she went to gather leaves for her morning tea. She tsked, plucking the thing from the earth and dislodging a worm. She turned her eyes to the sky and found the sun was hiding, above her was only cool gray. It appeared murky, like a stagnant pond. Her throat tightened as she returned to the house, closing the door with a slam.

She refused to gaze upon the leaves in the bottom of her cup, but gathered her young daughter in her arms when the liquid was drained. Her mother would have to watch her. Someone was coming.

Clara’s mother, the oldest of the three women that had stood in the cemetery, lived in a cabin through the woods. It was a quick walk, but it was impossible to see the dwelling from the road or from Clara’s door. The oldest of the Turners preferred her privacy, when she was home at least. She was often traveling to destinations unknown to Clara and returning with gifts and tales. Most of the stories Clara was sure were made up.

“Watch her.”

Clara’s mother didn’t ask questions, she had always been able to read her daughter’s face. This was not a request or a demand. It was a need. The oldest Turner hugged the infant close, she was swaddled in a pale blue blanket and clutched a doll Clara had made for her. Clara had sown anise leaves into the stomach of the small doll and the smell still permeated the air around it. It was her daughter’s charm, meant to protect her from evil. Meant to protect her from her father. And now from her father’s son.

When Clara returned to her home she began to pace. With each step, her thoughts jumped ahead to an event that may happen, or may not happen. She had never been good at predicting what would come next, she had always had trouble making her thoughts grow in a straight line. They somersaulted this way and that, jumping to a different thread before the previous one was finished.

Finally, she lifted her broom and began to sweep. She was intent on casting the negative energy away. Just as she had the dust of the morning swept into a neat pile and was preparing to gather it in a bucket, the door burst open and scattered the pieces again.

Clara pressed a hand to the side of her neck as she assessed the new mess and then turned her attention to the open door where an owl now stood its large eyes assessing her. The animal’s main feathers were black, the down a soft white giving it the appearance of having soot thrown upon it. Clara had tried to avoid meeting its eyes, but now she stood straight and looked into the animal’s face. Solemnly, the animal gave a soft nod and then flew off.

“I suppose that’s that,” She whispered before sitting down at her small kitchen table, clutching her hands together. She didn’t murmur words that may protect her, they wouldn’t. She didn’t throw salt in her doorway, nor did she sprinkle it around herself. Nothing would work. The time had come.

But she wouldn’t submit so easily. After all, she was at the time the most powerful of the Turners.

Clara heard the footsteps approaching before Benjamin made any other sounds. He hadn’t quite made it through her doorway when she spoke, not bothering to turn and face him. “I was wondering when you would arrive.”

Benjamin stood within her kitchen, afraid to take another step towards her. Now that he was close, he realized that she was much smaller in stature than she had appeared in the cemetery. Perhaps, it was because she was sitting down or maybe it was because he was no longer afraid. Emotions can cause things to appear askew. He was much more careful now, much more void.

“Don’t worry, I came as quickly as I could.”

She snorted and then turned to face him. He was younger than his father had been when he first started hunting them. He was more sure of himself, but there was something missing in him that his father had. His father…Clara did her best to chase away those thoughts. Over the years, she had convinced herself the relationship they had had only existed so she could survive. Her daughter, Lena, was the product of that survival. She hoped Lena would never know that her half brother Benjamin was the one that stood before her now. Somehow, she hoped this life didn’t touch her at all. Clara knew her mother would do whatever she could to protect the child. She would take her away. Silently, she begged her mother to flee. Now.

“Your father is dead I suppose.”

“Yes.”

“May I ask, how?”

Benjamin took a step back as the woman stood. She stood as tall as his collar bone. Now that she faced him, he thought maybe she was older than he previously suspected. But they were shifters. Isn’t that what his father said? They could change depending on who faced them? Her hair was graying as she stared at him, but her blue eyes remained just as bright.

“I’d rather not say.”

“Was it at least quick?”

He tilted his head, sensing an odd tone in her voice. Was it sadness? “Yes it was.”

Clara nodded, clapping her hands together. “Good. I know what you’re here to do Benjamin.”

He laughed, standing a bit taller now. In his back pocket was the weapon they had been using for centuries. It was an old iron spear; he had found it hidden in his father’s belongings. Growing up, he had always heard about it but had never set his hands on it. The day he found it, he knew it was time. Since then, he had been searching for Clara’s hide out. She was the one that needed to go. She was the one he had been warned about. There must be a reason, he thought to himself.

“If you know, then why aren’t you fighting?”

Clara stepped towards him, her hair again taking on its golden luster, her cheeks a vibrant pink. “Why should I? I know it’s coming. All the signs pointed to this. Fate can’t be escaped.”

“This is far less fun than I anticipated. Give me something.”

Clara smiled, holding his eyes with her own. She had done the same thing to his father. But now, she had different intent.

In one swift motion, she clasped his arm. She spun him around, pinning it behind him and crushing him against the counter. Her sheer strength had surprised him, he hadn’t expected this sort of fight. He thought she would use her words, her herbs, her weapons. And then run. Not this.

“I will not be taken,” She hissed into his ear, “Without revenge in place.”

With one hand she held his arm firmly, with the other she traced the vein that was clearly visible from his wrist to his inner elbow. She turned her head to the ceiling, eyes fixed on a spot as she imagined all that she needed. A beast. A creature. A shapeshifter. A cursed being to take her place. Blood spewed from the line she had traced, his skin bubbled around it, creating an instant scar. He let out a scream, his voice echoing in the small space.

“You will be one of us, a creature in hiding. You will never, never, find a home. You can’t run Benjamin. My blood meets yours,” She pulled the iron dagger from his pocket, releasing his arm, and shoved it quickly into her stomach.

Clara Turner would not be killed by any hands but her own. It was the way it had to be. It was the way she chose.

Benjamin awoke in Clara's cabin a few days later, his throat dry and his muscles aching. His brain was a fog as he tried to remember what had happened. It wasn’t until he noticed the corpse beside him that the events began sliding into place. He couldn’t tell how long Clara had been dead, but knew it had been long enough for a beast of some sort to come. There were teeth marks along her wrist, her throat, and a chunk of flesh had been taken from her thigh. The smell of rot filled his nose. To his dismay, his stomach did not convulse. He did not retch, nor did he try moving quickly away from the body. Instead, he breathed deeply. Relishing in the scent. His stomach ached with hunger.

Quickly, he rose to his feet trying to make sense of the newest situation. Without another glance at her body, he left the cabin, closing the door softly behind him. He knew there were others like her in the area. Her family had been with her in the cemetery. After reading his father’s notes he had learned that the oldest woman was her mother and the younger was her sister. They had been living, hunted, in the town for years. The cemetery was where it all started. It was where Clara’s great-great-great grandmother was buried. It was where the curse began. The cemetery was where it was decided that the Turners were unfit to be trusted, they needed to be gotten rid of. They were a plague on the entire community. They were a plague on humanity as a whole. It was his job to destroy them. They were unnatural. They didn’t age like normal beings, nor did they converse in normal tongues. He was sure they were in line with the devil and practiced satanic rituals in their forest.

Of course, he had no proof, but that didn’t mean they were innocent.

He struggled to stand upright, moving through the woods. His nose picked up new odors, smells he couldn’t remember noticing before. The dirt under his feet had never been so pungent, the fly that flew by him had its own distinct aroma that he wished he hadn’t smelt. But there was another scent under all of it. A metallic iron scent mixed with rosemary and sage. Turners.

He continued walking, following the scent now. He barely needed to have his eyes open. The aroma was his trail.

Finally, he arrived at an even smaller cabin built into the side of a massive oak tree. It was short, causing him to duck when he walked through the door. He had little reason to be cautious now. The worst of the Turners was dead. Who would protect the old woman? And the sister? No one.

“Hello!” He called as he entered the one room shack. There was a bed in the far corner but a majority of the area was taken up by a kitchen. A fireplace stood against the wall furthest from the bed and counters lined three of the four walls. There were herbs drying and plants in pots all along the counters. A gray coat lay on the floor, buttons askew and glass beads pouring from the pocket. A small dresser was left open, one drawer completely removed from its home. They had left.

As he investigated the beautiful blue petals of one of the plants growing he looked up into a mirror that was inlaid in a thick wooden frame.

To his surprise, there was no reflection staring back at him. There was nothing.

He gasped, his hands touching his face to ensure that it was still indeed there. Of course it was, he didn’t know what he had been thinking. But when he lowered his hands, he discovered they took away chips of dried blood from his cheeks and lips. He stared at the scar from the cut Clara had caused him. It was thick and angry, the bubbles all burst and turned a gastly purple. What did it mean?

He blinked, taking a deep breath and then turned to the mirror again. He must have made a mistake.

But again, there was nothing staring back at him.

Clara Turner had cursed him.

He screamed, yanking the mirror from its place and shattering it on the ground. He would find the others, he would bring this to an end.

If it was the last thing he did.

Read the rest of Benjamin’s story in “26 Brentwood Avenue & Other Tales” by Katrina Thornley

Katrina Thornley is a nature poet and novelist that resides in Rhode Island. She has two poetry collections currently published, a novel, as well as a short story anthology. Her poetry collections "Arcadians: Lullaby in Nature" and "Arcadians: Wooden Mystics" were inspired by a local park and life in her small rural town. You can find them on Amazon now!

Also, be sure to give her a follow on Instagram!