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I reached over and opened the glovebox in front of the passenger seat. Rummaging through papers, I found no weapon. The middle console only had a lighter, so I pocketed it just in case. And behind me were boxes of booze, and now the vehicle flooded with the waft of alcohol. A bottle was a better weapon than being empty-handed. Jagged glass was a deadly tool, so I twisted in my seat and broke the seal that kept the closest box shut. I grabbed a neck and yanked a bottle out. Then I sat in there, cradling the honey-colored whiskey in my lap, my knees bouncing.
Hell. I’d moved away from California to avoid danger. Now look at me. Trapped in the forest in winter with an insane bear wanting to kill me. At least if I faced a druggie, I had the possibility of negotiation, but out here, it was me against the wilderness. Animalistic and raw. What did I know about living in the woods? Zilch.
I kept checking the mirrors. No bear in sight.
“I’ll wait it out,” I whispered to myself, my voice shaking. They said on documentaries to play dead with a bear, so I’d lay quiet. But the car suddenly felt smaller, and my lungs strangled. Just like the times I’d hide under the steps a child. Mom and Dad hadn’t been able to find me, but one day, they’d heard Britta’s cries. When they’d ripped open the door, their twisted faces had been covered in shadows and so much anger. They hadn’t seemed like themselves. The bruises and cuts on my back and the legs had lasted for weeks afterward. At least they’d spared Britta, but she’d cried every time she’d looked at my black and puffy eyes.
I loathed my parents.
Tears prickled my eyes. They’d stolen my childhood, made me think of them whenever I felt trapped and scared.
A loud thump hit the top of the van, shaking everything, rattling the bottles.
I raised the whiskey in my hand to my chest and froze. Waited.
What sounded like chains dragged overhead. I looked at the ceiling, trembling.
Four curved daggers jabbed throughout the roof, inches from my head.
I shuddered and hiccupped a cry, strangling the bottle.
The bear tore open the car as if it were a can. The scraping sound shrieked in my ears, the metal warping.
I screamed, curled low in my seat, tears blurring my vision as I pictured my death.
A cold wind swirled into the van from the gaping holes, and I met his gaze. He had eyes of an animal ready to rip me apart. Except something was wrong. That wasn’t a bear.
The face staring down at me through the four shredded lines was the devil. With twisted horns, the creature had a goat’s face. Dark fur covered its body. A blood-red tongue flicked out of his mouth, licking long fangs. And the deepest, blackest eyes I’d ever seen seemed to pierce into my soul. A chill slithered up my spine.
Terror shackled me in place at first, but instinct kicked in. My muscles tensed. I shoved open the door, then scrambled out and recoiled backward, still gripping the whiskey.
What stood on top of my van was no animal, but a demon. A cross between a satanic goat and a werewolf I’d seen in movies. In one hand he carried a long chain, and he had one cloven and one clawed foot. Such things shouldn’t exist. Maybe I’d fallen unconscious from the cold and this was a horrific dream that would haunt me to the end of days.
I retreated, every inch of me shaking as I faced the monster.
It jerked its head toward me. Why was it smirking?
It jumped down from the roof, and the snow compacted under its weight. Without a word, with only a grin that had me facing my death, it marched forward, dragging the chain.
Dread clawed into me, and a cry fell from my lips, hot air floating from my mouth. I turned and ran, my feet sinking in snow.
But a sharp pain whipped around my ankles, and I cried out as I fell forward to the ground. My yells grew muffled, but I fought and bucked against the restraints.
The thing dragged me through the snow, toward itself. When I rolled onto my back, bucking and fighting the chains, I watched the devil’s mouth open into a toothy grin.
Just as my dad had done when he’d hauled me by my feet out of my hiding spot, showing me that clearly he’d enjoy punishing me. And that same twisted look swept across this monster’s expression. But I’d put that fear put behind me so long ago. So fucking long ago.
I wriggled and loosened a foot, then kicked off the chains. Scrambling to my feet, I recoiled, facing the beast, who grunted, its upper lips peeling back off stained fangs.
Rushing to unscrew the bottle’s lid, I hurled the whiskey at the brute.
It licked the liquid and almost purred with amusement, but something guttural rolled in its chest, and when it rushed me, I shuddered. My legs froze as fear owned me.
It moved too fast, dropping the chains, and seized my arm, nails piercing material and skin, drawing blood. I screamed, pulling away. I whacked it in the side of the head with my empty bottle, and it released me. It shook itself and snarled, spittle thrown into my face.
Fuckhead.I yanked the lighter out of my pocket and flicked it open. A spark lit up, and at once a golden blaze shot upward toward my head. I flinched, but a sudden surge of energy shuddered through my body as if I’d touched an electric fence. I convulsed and dropped to my knees, the lighter rolling out of my grasp. What just happened?
But the demon was on me once again. I scrambled to pick up the lighter from the snow with a shaky hand.
