‡ Promise 3: Bothersome ‡

-As told by Keith-

t has become bothersome now. Last summer, while writing my next huge seller, I realized that I had ran out of printing paper. So, I hopped into my tan luxury car and drove into town to pick up a ream. And while I was there, I stopped by an Starbucks and got myself an black coffee. Everything seem the usual, as I headed into my house, ready to get back to writing. But then I felt it, the feeling I get whenever someone can sense my true being, my true demon form.
It mostly happens around small children. They seem to be able to see past my glamor and spy the dark me. And also the mentally ill seem to know when a demon is around. I guess it's because both have a lack of adult rationalization. Adult mortals tend to dismiss the brain's response to the supernatural. Over the millenniums, man has lost it's belief in it and have clung to science instead. Not that this is a bad thing, at least, not for me. It means that beings, like me, are free to roam the world without any trouble from "holy crusaders".
But what is rare is a girl her age, without any mental illness, picking up on my true form. It's only happened once before, in my many centuries on earth. A girl in France, 1902, age fifteen. But she was less bothersome than this new girl. The girl from New York has been spying on me all summer. I've known this for a while, because I can sense her too. Those who can see me, I can see them. This would be one small thing, if it was just mere spying. But then I realized that she invited a friend to spy, also.
I stood in the yard for a while, listening to the wild giggles of two girls. I couldn't make out their conversations, but I did hear the giggling. I'm pretty sure, for the friend, it's just a small crush. She doesn't have a clue what I may be. But that New York girl... she seems to know. Maybe not entirely, but she has some sort of inkling. And that's what makes it bothersome. I sigh and head back into to my house, to finish my latest book.
I open my fridge and pour myself a glass. To a mortal observer, it looks like a glass of white wine. But in reality it's blood from a weaker demon, a delicacy for my kind. I don't get to enjoy it often, for it's rare to find, in the Undead Kingdom. My Kingdom. It was the whole point to moving to this remote town, to protect my unholy kingdom. In Boston there were too many around me, who knew me, and revered me. Therefore, every move I made, it was being watched. I couldn't risk anyone noticing me walking through the gate of the Undead. That would raise too many questions, as you can imagine. And I couldn't abandoned my Kingdom.
So, I did the next best thing. I moved my Kingdom under a small remote town, created new gates to the Undead in the abandoned woods, and lived in peace without nosy fans for over four years. And in a blink, I had to change my habits, because one girl decides to spy on me. I can no longer visit my Kingdom anytime I wish to, because of the spying little girl, so I wait until dark. By ten, her attic's light goes off, and I wait a while before heading into the woods. You see, because she spies on me, I have to spy on her just to live my existence. No, the irony hasn't escaped me.
Down below, in my hellish fortress, I feel the most comfortable. It would be easy for me to stay down permanently and not ever surface to the mortal world. Only it's not so easy, physically. My human self craves sunshine and mortal foods, driving me back to the surface. It's a curse, I sometimes feel. To be born of both demon and mortal, for half of me is chained to darkness, and the other half to light. But my subjects of the dark kingdom do not judge and they do not care that I also enjoy the surface. As long as I'm loyal enough to come back and rule.
I sat down at the computer and continued my writing, just introducing the female survivor, of my "twisted" fictional world, where every neighbor begins to devour each other for no apparent reason... at first. It's what the mortals pay me for, to entertain them with simple parlor stories, things so small that the same stories would be comedies for the Undead. But what's laughable to us is horrifying to mortals. And that which is a bit disturbing for us... well... no mortal would live through it.
My cat Talon, a pure white cat with bright green eyes, hops onto my desk just then and wanting attention. "Talon," I frowned, "No, daddy's busy. I'll play with you later." But Talon playfully ignore me and placed his claws on keyboard, messing up a line. "No-" I frown, "Look. Have an olive." I tossed it across the room and Talon went after it, his outer face sliding back like an banana, revealing a gray rotting creature under it. With sharp metal teeth, it leaps into the air and consumed the olive whole, it's pretty kitty skin sliding back over it's true face.
"I'm a bit worried." I sigh, "You like olives way too much." Talon flicked his tail in defiance, and headed for his usual sleeping spot, the white leather couch in the living room. "Love you too." I smirk, as the cat marched away. I continue my writing...