Fisherboy

Disclaimer: I do not own Kingdom Hearts or this plot. Stephen King respectively owns the idea and overall brainstorm of this story. I simply took his and twisted it into a version of my own. (Further citations for direct quotes used can be found in the bottom Author's Notes after the story.)

Author's Notes: (1) This is in Roxas' POV. It starts and ends with him when he's twenty-four. The rest of it takes place when he's eight-nine years old. (2) The lovely Disquietservitude was my fantasmical Beta for this story. She makes me look good.

Somehow our Devils are never quite what we expect them to be when we meet them face to face.
-Nelson DeMille

Fisherboyyy.

I startle awake, cold sweat chilling my rigid body as I sit upright in my bed and cast a careful glance around the dark room. Fifteen years it has been and still I expect to see those crazed, blazing eyes staring me down with feral, ravenous hunger.

That smooth voice echoing in my head chills me to the bone every time it speaks my name in the reality of my nightmares - it's becoming deeper and deeper with each passing year.

I've found it hard to even find the will to sleep anymore - what's the point? He's always there, and someday, he'll be here again…just like he was that hot June afternoon at the riverside with those razor teeth pearl white and dripping, ready to devour my flesh from tendon and bone…

I shiver as I stand, crossing the few feet of plush carpeting to the open window and slide it closed. I stare out at the decorative landscaping of my front lawn, watching the willows weep as they're thrashed about by the violently gusting midnight winds. My hands rub against my upper arms trying to smooth out the Goosebumps that have risen out of fear and chill; I walk back to my bed, lay down and commence staring at the ceiling fan.

When I try to close my eyes, I see his - they had been the most brilliant shade of green at first, then began burning and blazing, bursting to life in a vivid, glowing shade of red - red, red, so red. My eyes flutter open and I find myself being forced to spend another night exhaustedly awake, staring at the ceiling in fear of closing my eyes.

It's funny in a way…to this day I don't know how I ever managed to elude the devil himself.

Sometimes, I almost wish I hadn't, because surely what he'd have done to me that day would have been less torturous than this chronic fear. This exhausting sleeplessness, the nightmares, the memories…

I lean my head back against the headboard, lace my fingers behind my head under the plush of my down-feather pillow and close my eyes, letting the memory of that day haunt me vividly once again.

I'd lived in a small town just outside the bustling city of Radiant Garden. Twilight town had been a sleepy little place back then - a farming community, more or less - with a population of five hundred and dropping.

People kept leaving for the city, never looking back.

My parents had been born and raised there and my family had lived in the same old little house for all the nine years of my life then - I'd probably have been born in that house had my mother not insisted on giving birth in a proper hospital setting. It was four a.m. on a frosty August morning when she'd gone into labor, delivering my twin brother and I three hours after getting to the hospital just inside the city limits of Radiant Garden.

To this day Dr. Ansem still prattles on about our amazing delivery to the sleepy townsfolk at the diner every Wednesday evening, when cherry cobbler is served at half price with the purchase of a stiff cup of coffee.

Life had been peaceful growing up as a child in that small, small town…that was until the summer of my eighth year.

My brother and I had gone up river one blazing July afternoon to put in a few solid hours of fishing after our chores for the morning had been completed. Our mother had wished us well and our father went along with us to where the path split, he told us to be careful then headed into town which was just half a mile from our fishing spot.

We spent the first two hours laughing and splashing - completely defeating our purpose of being out there in the first place, but we didn't care. Whether our time was spent fishing or swimming, camping or sword fighting with large aspen branches - we always had the best of times when together.

It was probably four hours into our stay at the river when something landed on Sora's neck. Without thought he smacked at the irritant, inadvertently sending a stinger into the tender flesh of his fluttering pulse. When he pulled his hand away and found it stained with yellow and black bits of insect, we locked eyes - both sets wide and terrified.

It was well known throughout the town that our family (on our mother's side) was terribly allergic to bees. We'd found out that Sora was when he was five and thankfully that incident had happened in town just outside Dr. Ansem's medical office. He'd started reacting - throat swelling so badly that he couldn't breathe - and Dr. Ansem acted quickly, stabbing a small shot in Sora's thigh and injecting him with some kind of antitoxin thing (we were young and I didn't care to ask, I was just worried about my brother). Sora had spent the rest of that day recovering and under the watchful eye of our parents and the good doctor that had acted quickly and saved his life.

When Sora's hands began wrapping around his throat to signify that it was swelling and he couldn't breathe I told him I loved him and that I'd be right back - that I was going to go get dad - then took off down the path as fast as my eight year old legs would carry me…but by the time my father and I reached the river side Sora was in a lump on the ground, face upturned and swollen beyond recognition -

- it was a sight I'd never be able to rid from my mind, one that continues to haunt me to this day every time I lay eyes on one of those deadly little insects.

Never in all my years have I seen my father cry the way he had that day when he slid off his shirt, covering Sora's face before wrapping his limp frame in strong arms to carry him the two miles back to our home.

We stopped going to church the day after Sora's funeral and from then on the townsfolk began to give us looks of pity - smiling forced smiles at us whenever we went into town.

No one knew what to say…and I couldn't blame them for their silence.

Traumatic as it was, that wasn't the day that haunts me every time I close my eyes - that day could be considered great compared to that terrible Saturday on the sixth of June.

It had been almost one full year after Sora's death - I'd done my morning chores and had been looking forward to spending the remainder of the afternoon at mine and Sora's spot along the river. It was the perfect spot for catching brookies - to just let go, relax, unwind, and let life slowly pass you by.

I began to spend a lot of my time at the river after the bee incident. Sometimes I'd even pretend Sora was there with me, splashing in the shallow water as I laughed and played with some invisible figment of my imagination. It was strange, sometimes I would hear his laughter so clearly in my ears, yet, when I opened my eyes, mine would be the only one echoing throughout the cold silence of the forest.

I missed his laugh, his smile, his voice…I missed him.

My brother had meant the world to me.

I approached my father that morning after chopping the last of the firewood stacked out back by the shed - sweat still trickling down my sunburned cheeks. When he pulled himself out from under the broad front of the Ford truck, I asked him if I could head up to the river side with Pluto.

"Promise not to go any further than where the river splits?" He asked, wiping at his forehead with the back of his hand - motor oil smeared across his face and his hands looked sore and swollen under the black of the oil and dirt. Sometimes I wonder why he kept trying to resurrect that old beast for so long - no use beating at a dead horse, right?

"I promise." And we both knew it was the truth. I never pushed the boundaries my parents set, especially when they were already so gracious about them. I had near free reign of the entire town and most of the forest - that was far more than I needed, and I was thankful for it. .

"Alrighty then, son. You can go. But," He smiled, wiping his hands on a yellow cloth as he turned to nod behind him at the tattered wood of the front door to our home, "You better go tell your mother where you're headed or she'll have a heart attack when she finds you missin', you know how that woman gets." I nodded and turned to head into the heat of our home - we didn't have any form of cooling devices, just open windows and the occasional breeze when nature was feeling generous enough to supply one.

"Hey son, you want a ride? I'm headed into work for a bit this afternoon, I can give you a lift if you'd like."

I smiled at him over my shoulder. "Naw thanks, I'll just walk. It's a nice day." With that I skipped inside, grinning at Pluto when he barked in greeting at me.

I made my way to the kitchen - ninety percent of the time you could count on finding my mother in there cooking up one thing or another - and watched silently as my mother kneaded bread dough between her delicate pianist fingers.

I remember vividly that it was bread dough she'd been kneading, because of the way her eyes looked while working it between her small hands - it was the same way they'd look when someone brought up Sora's name in conversation. Her homemade bread had always been Sora's favorite snack and I'm almost positive that she made it three times weekly just to remember him and the smile he used to wear while waiting for the timer to ding so he could savor that first smell when the bread came out of the oven fresh baked and golden in color.

The recipe made more than we could ever eat, but that didn't stop her from reminiscing.

"What are you up to today, baby?" She smiled at me, cheeks matching the pink of her sundress - it was dad's favorite dress, the one with daisy print and sleeves that hung off her thin shoulders. Pluto sauntered into the kitchen then, nails raking against the wood flooring as he made his way over to the small white water dish in the far corner.

I smiled at my mother warmly, taking a seat across from her on one of the tall stools. "Goin' fishin' today at my spot up river. I'm gonna catch the biggest brookie you ever saw."

"You've ever seen, Roxas." She corrected, wiping her flour covered hands against the black apron around her thin waist. My mother taught English at the K-12 school in the center of our small town during the academic year. Secretly, I think dad liked her more during the summers because she had more time to cook and clean - sometimes I wonder why he disliked the thought of his wife working when she was so good and so smart at what she did.

"Sorry ma'am."

"Well you be sure to not go too far…"

"I know, I know. No further than where the river splits." I mocked my dad's voice and she laughed, leaning with her palms against the counter. "Can I go, ma? Please?"

"Be home before supper, please."

"Yes ma'am!" I hopped off the stool, patting at my thigh to call Pluto over as I headed for the door. He barked once, whining and curling up beside his food dish. "C'mon boy, let's go." Pluto looked at me with his large brown eyes as if trying to say something to me. I shook my head, waving my hand at him. "Fine, stay then. See if I care."

That should have been a red flag, I mean, Pluto always went with me to the riverside. However, at nine years old, you don't think too much about small things like that. You're too care free and too stubborn to look for deeper meanings in simple acts.

I gathered my things outside and called through the open kitchen window to my mother that I was headed out. Her figure came to stand center in the window, curtains blowing beside her in the warm breeze. She smiled at me, her smooth features twisting into that worried sort of way she had almost one year ago when dad had carried Sora's body back from the riverside that terrible July afternoon.

"You mind yourself out there today, Roxas Strife." She waved at me, her beautiful brunette curls brushing against the pink of her cheeks as the sun danced across her pale skin. I'd always loved the color of her hair - it reminded me of warmth. Sora had gotten her hair and I'd gotten my dads - blond and spiky.

"Yes ma'am." I waved back with a smile, then turned my back and walked off down the path to the riverside.

The sun was hot on the back of my neck as I walked the first mile and a half though the dry, tall grasses of the pasture beyond the main road. I leaned back - arms slung around the pole lying horizontally along the line of my shoulders - and watched the clouds float with the warm breeze. They took shapes and I enjoyed the quarter mile I spent deciphering what each cloud formed - jack rabbits, pussy willows, one even looked like Pluto.

Dry ground cracked and split beneath my worn sneakers as I continued on. I was about one hundred or so yards from where the forest began to shade the earth - the grass and soil looked so much healthier from the shade line back.

Once out from under the harsh heat of the sun, I walked along the small path Sora and I had created many years ago, the cool shrubs and weeds all parted just enough for my thin legs to walk though unscathed. The walk through the brush of the forest had always been Sora's favorite part. Sometimes we'd stray from our makeshift path to explore or play Cowboys and Indians as we ran through the thick greenery towards the rushing, gurgling sound of the river.

When I reached our spot, where the river splits, I set out my things, leaned back against the large boulder I always sat in front of and cast my line into the wide stretch of rushing water. My eyes fluttered closed and I drifted off - or perhaps full on slept, I can't really remember - the soothing sounds of the forest like a lullaby to my sunburned ears.

I awoke to a tugging on my pole. When I opened my eyes, it wasn't the river I saw, but the fat yellow and black body of a bumble bee perched neatly on my nose. Panic overrode my senses, but I was frozen. I remembered how Sora had smacked at the bee that day and sent the stinger into his neck - killing him near instantaneously. My heart hammered in my chest - like a caged hummingbird desperate for escape.

Like the rational boy I was, I debated and weighed my options heavily.

I could wait for it to fly away…but when would that be? And what if it didn't? What if it chose to stick that sharp, fuzzy little butt into the flesh of my nose and kill me instead? And what if - and I now know that this thought had been extremely illogical, but at nine years old it made perfect sense - this bee was related to the one that had killed my brother…and it was back for revenge. Back to kill me - that thought was also illogical, as I'd been stung before and had never died of them. My father wasn't allergic to bees and I'd gotten his immunity, though I did swell up more than the common person, I wouldn't die per se.

However, all that didn't stop me from believing that this bee intended to kill me with it's supernatural bee powers. Revenge was an evil and powerful thing and I was certain this bee was possessed by that.

Swallowing the dryness of my throat, I jutted my bottom lip out and blew. It ruffled it's little body but remained steadfast on its perch upon my nose. I blew again. It buzzed almost impatiently and the sound sent my mouth snapping closed for fear of irritating it any more than I already had.

So I sat - panicking, heart pounding so hard in my chest I felt it would burst - debating what my next course of action would be. I could stand up and run, perhaps the force of the breeze and me running as fast as I could would knock the bee off my nose, or perhaps--

In the midst of my thoughts I heard the strangest sound. A sharp, quick clap. It was strange because it wasn't the sound of wood clacking against wood, and it wasn't the sound of a riffle or pistol cracking in the distance - it was far too close for that - but it was the sound of a clap, made by hands. And that was even stranger because I was in the middle of a forest with no one around.

At the sound the bee had dropped dead off my nose, body stiff as it landed between my legs on the khaki fabric of my jean shorts. My rod trembled beside me again and I yanked at it wildly. My father would have face-palmed at the way I reeled that sucker in, but I did it…and it was the biggest brookie I'd ever seen. It flopped beside me on the bank, gills flexing exasperatedly in a feeble attempt to breathe…but I didn't care, my mind was still reeling about the strange clapping sound.

I turned to look behind me and my breath hitched as my gaze landed on a tall man in a neatly pressed black suit.

He was a beautiful man with hair the color of fire - blazing red and spiked with precision. His face was pale, pale white and black triangular tattoos jutted beneath his burning green eyes - they were the most vivid shade of green I'd ever seen.

I sat, staring at his ethereal beauty…then he grinned wickedly at me and I saw his teeth. Pearl white and sharp like tiny razors with his lips drawn thin over them. His eyes seemed to burst to life with flames and suddenly there was no green, there was no white - not even a pupil. His eyes went completely red and they were glowing - it was like looking through a glass window and seeing a home up in flames.

I think his insides were literally on fire.

And that's when it struck me.

I wasn't looking at a normal person - not even a human being.

He was something else, something…horrifying.

I can't remember feeling it, but my bladder gave way on it's own accord and the khaki fabric where the little bee lay dead on my lap went dark and wet. I wasn't scared to tears, but scared speechless - I was staring at a man with burning eyes who was standing in the middle of a forest without so much as a scratch on him or a scuff to his fine Italian leather shoes.

He smiled at me again, teeth poking out from between thin lips.

"Why, look what we have here, it's a Fisherboy!" He called excitedly from across the twenty or so feet we were separated by. He began walking towards me and my body went rigid. I watched those fine Italian shoes press into the damp Earth, yet leave nothing behind. No footprints, no broken twigs - nothing that would indicate that he'd even moved. It frightened me…but no where near as much as his aroma did. Even the few feet away he was I could smell him - his skin. He smelled of sulfur and burnt matches, like a forest smelled after a wildfire. It was terrifying.

"Tell me little boy, are we well met?"

I swallowed the dryness of my throat, shifting uncomfortably. The brookie beside me flopped at my movement but fell still again, his fishy chest rising and falling in huge desperate breaths.

"Hello Sir." My voice was strong when I spoke and foreign to my ears - it was my voice, but the tone was like my father's, deep and professional.

"It seems you owe me your life today. Saved you a right nasty sting, I did." He towered above me, smelling of burnt matches and eyes blazing with fire. I watched him flex his long, thin fingers - which were as beautiful and smooth as his face. They were long and as pale as marbled stone, ending not in normal human fingertips, but long pointed talons that were sharpened like a scalpel and without a scratch or chip.

The smell, his eyes - those teeth and nails - I realized the man in the fine suit before me was the Devil himself.

Sinking to a squatting position his eyes met mine levelly - elbows resting on knees that popped when he bent them, hands dangling limply between his legs. He cocked his head to the side, fire red taking in my ocean blues. I wanted to run, scream - anything - but I was mesmerized by those dancing flames and paralyzed with fear.

His clawed hand lifted and traced the line of my jaw and I'm certain I stopped breathing at that moment. His fingers were searing hot against my cool skin - I went cross eyed watching those sharp nails with anxiety and gut wrenching terror.

"You never answered my question, little Fisherboy." His voice was teasing and I knew he could sense my fear - smell it, see it, taste it. "Are we well met?" I inhaled the smell of sulfur and matches, choking back the urge to cough.

"…Please sir…don't hurt me." My voice was shaking at this point - all strength and courage I'd once had abandoned without warning.

The fear I felt in that moment is something I'll never forget. I want to, how badly I want to…but I can't. And it haunts me to my core every time I close my eyes. I suppose that if I would have been in my right mind, or maybe if I'd have been older, I would have figured the man to be a terrible figment of my cruel imagination. A nightmare even. However when you're nine years old and terrified out of your mind everything becomes real - especially when reality is hunched over and running talon nails along the line of your jaw.

"Mm, do I smell something?" His eyes were alive with that blazing fire as he sniffed, nose brushing against my cheek - he reminded me of Pluto when I'd give him a strip of steak and the way his wet nose would sniff hungrily at the air. "Yes, something…wet."

What this man was doing, however, was far different from Pluto's innocent sniffs - it was single handedly one of the creepiest thing I'd ever experienced, because when he hunched over further (nose brushing against my chest and then down towards my dampened khaki shorts) I witnessed something terrible. A small patch of weeds - dandelions - literally shriveled to death under his shadow, their long stems and beautiful yellow color withering to black soot right before my eyes. He lifted his head back up, eyes meeting mine once again.

"What a bad little child you are, Fisherboy!" He leaned his head back and laughed a rich sound that sent shivers up my spine. His neck was flawless, smooth as stone and the color of alabaster. With each note of his melodic laughter his large Adam's apple bobbed in his throat. "So very, very bad! Lovely-bad." His head lolled forward again - nose touching mine - and my breath hitched in the hollow of my throat. "I like bad."

He looked at me solemnly, laughter suddenly ceasing like an ax had been taken to his vocal cords. Placing a hand on my shoulder (it burned, I remember, and later - when I cared to actually look down - there'd be a blackened hand print seared into the white fabric of my favorite shirt) he regarded me with an almost sad expression.

But those eyes were laughing at me. Laughing at my fear.

"I've come with sad news, little Fisherboy." In that moment I was certain that I was going to die. He was going to kill me - painfully, probably - and no one would ever be the wiser. "Sad, very sad."

I stared at him, watching his eyes flash and rage, watching his clawed hands do odd things while hanging between his spread legs.

"Your mother is dead, Roxas." The way he said my name - the fact that he even knew my name - sent my eyes widening and chills racing up my spine.

"N-No…You're lying." I was crying at this point. Bawling like a baby that pees his pants out of pure fear. I shook my head, tears stinging at my eyes as they rolled down my cheek (I vaguely remember him catching a few on the back of a finger and bringing them to his tongue, wearing a grin as wide as a Cheshire Cat's as he licked at them). The image of my mother in the kitchen window from earlier that morning was perfectly clear in my mind - like I was staring at a photograph - her beautiful brunette hair blowing in the warm breeze, cheeks flushed a soft pink - the same pink as her dress…

The redheaded man laughed at me shaking his head and took my chin between a strong thumb and forefinger. "Its all true, Fisherboy. She died the same way your precious brother Sora did. A bee killed her."

I shook my head out his grip and kept shaking it, clapping my hands over my ears as tears spilled down my flushed cheeks. "You lie! You lying bastard! Go away!" It honestly hadn't occurred to me then that I'd just called the Devil himself a lying bastard, but, in that instant, I hadn't cared.

I believed him, of course…why wouldn't I? After all, it was human nature to assume the worst and hope for the best.

The Devil leaned forward and breathed one single breath on my nose and my body went rigid, hands falling to my sides as I stared numbly at him. I still can't quite describe exactly what had happened, but the smell of his breath was…transfixing. Everything about him was, now that I think about it. His voice, the way he looked, his breath…everything was inviting - mesmerizing.

"Your mother really is dead, Fisherboy. A bee flew through the open kitchen window and landed on her neck about an hour ago as she was making bread…and you know what she did?" His eyes gleamed and fire raged in them. A smirk captured his lips as he smacked his hand against the curve of my neck and he laughed when I flinched. When he pulled it away, I saw the same mangled body of the insect I'd seen crushed on Sora's hand less than a year ago. "She swatted at it before she even knew what it was. Just like Sora had." He dropped the dead bee carcass onto my wet lap with the other, "You were smarter than them though, weren't you my little Fisherboy."

I shook my head and opened my mouth to tell him to stop, to leave - but my voice never came, only numb, deafening silence.

"When she saw that crushed little bee body fall to the kitchen floor her eyes went wide - oh how wide they went! - and she started clawing at her neck. Her throat swelled - that's what happens when you're allergic to bees, your throat swells and you drown in open air, just like that fish." He pointed beside me at the fish that was hardly breathing, it's little glazed fishy eyes wide and emotionless.

"Her face swelled up like Sora's - that's why your dad covered your brother's face with his shirt that day, because it was so swollen it hurt just to look at it." He sighed with a shake of his head and reached a hand down to my lap, groping for the dead bee bodies - his claws scraped along the fabric of my khaki's.

I stared at the Father of Lies, believing every word that came from his wicked mouth - frozen by fear. I couldn't protest, couldn't recite the words of God - I was paralyzed and incapable of speech.

At that point, I don't know if I even believed in God.

"She made the most beautiful noises as she died - these awful little sounds escaping from her constricted airways. And she wept." He spoke reflectively, as if he'd been right there beside her - eyes burning with enjoyment as he watched her die. "Her throat was all bloodied up from her scratching at it, trying to find the stinger - funny isn't it? Something so small, so incredibly small…yet so deadly to your family."

I shook my head, tears streaming down my cheeks pooling in my wet lap. The Devil wiped at my tear-stained face almost affectionately.

"You want to know the most ironically beautiful part of it all, Roxie?" He whispered, leaning close - so close that the sweet scent of breath surrounded me - immobilizing my body and any logical sense I would have had. "Pluto - what a sweet dog he is, you were right to pick him - when your mother was dead in a heap on the kitchen floor, do you know what he did?"

My eyes continued to spill tear after tear, but I couldn't move. He smirked wide, nose running up my cheek.

"Sweet little Pluto - that loyal mutt - he licked her tears first on one side," His tongue flicked out and licked a searing trail along the saltine trail of my cheek, "Then the other." He switched sides then repeated the process - my stomach was up in my throat.

"You taste wonderful." He licked at his lips, eyes burning. Feral and ravenous with hunger. "And I'm so starving, little Fisherboy." He grinned and I felt my heart stop dead in my chest. "I'm going to eat you - tear you open and feast on your guts, drink from your warm insides. What do you think about that? Hmm?"

I tried to scream, shout - No. I wanted to plead, God, please, no. Anything but that… but my voice came out silently from the hollow of my dry, dry throat. Only my wide, terrified, crying eyes spoke to him. He smiled wide and I realized that he really, honestly meant to kill me.

"You wouldn't want to live without your mother anyways. Poor little thing, your father's the kind of man that needs a warm hole to stick it in every night and who will he turn to? You, my sweet little FisherBoy and I'm certain you wouldn't like that." A wicked smile captured his lips and he licked at them again, "Or maybe you would. Would you like that Fisherboy? Your father sodomizing your sweet little ass? Or perhaps someone else…?" His long fingers wrapped around my thighs and spread them. I shook my head and wailed desperately.

He let go and laughed deep and velvety. The sound was so rich to my ears - I'll never forget that sound. "I can save you all the terrifying unpleasantness of that situation. And look on the bright side, you'll go to Heaven. Isn't that what you want? People who are murdered always go to heaven." He grinned widely, sharp teeth pressing into his bottom lip - he didn't bleed and it terrified me more than I could ever express. "So, technically, we will both be serving God this lovely afternoon, won't we, Roxie?"

His flawless clawed hand reached for me again and without thinking, I grabbed the dying fish at my side and shoved it into his greedy hands. He eyed the fish, licking his lips around the razor rows of teeth. He snatched it and tilted his head back, holding the fish above him.

The sight that followed is another that haunts my every dream. His mouth stretched wider than any human's could possibly stretch and I saw not only the one row of pearly whites, but three additional razor sharp rows on both the top and bottom of his mouth. When I was nineteen I went to an aquarium and saw a Great White Shark, and I swore I was staring into that mouth again.

It was strange, when his mouth was open fully like that a wave of heat splashed me in the face - like when you open an oven door and that burst of warmth attacks you. I know I didn't imagine that heat either, because when he'd taken my eighteen inch brookie and held it above his open mouth, bits of it's scales singed black and the smell of searing meat filled my nostrils.

The fish dipped all the way into his throat and his mouth closed. Tears pricked at the corners of his eyes and when they spilled out and down his white, white cheeks they were the density and color of blood. That awful sight was probably what shocked my body back into adrenaline and movement, because by the time those tears reached the bottom of his chin and dripped to the ground I was half way up the bank - running for my life.

I heard him make a strangled sound - like when someone shouts with their mouth full or around something - and when I turned to look he was bolting up the bank after me, fish tail still hanging out from between razor teeth.

A scalpel like claw scrapped at the back of my calf and I screamed, ripping my leg away from his greedy clutches and hauling as fast as my nine year old legs would carry me towards the edge of the woods.

With my voice finally in full force again I took to screaming as loud and as long as I could. I screamed in fear. I screamed in grief for my beautiful dead mother. I screamed because my leg hurt. I screamed at the terrible things the Devil had said to me when I couldn't speak. I screamed because he was so close on my heels that I could still smell the brookie cooking in the hollow oven of his throat. I screamed because my voice had finally returned -

- and I couldn't stop.

I ran at full force, branches and twigs snaping and scraping at the exposed flesh of my calves and forearms. I could hear him behind me - his voice was rich again and the smell of the fish was gone, but I didn't look back to see if he'd swallowed it. I couldn't. Fear fixed my gaze in place and adrenaline carried me forward faster than I ever thought I could run.

About fifty yards from the clearing just beyond the forest line I slipped on a mossy rock and fell to my knees. I chanced a glance behind me and saw his face twisted with ravenous hunger, greed, and malice. He grinned, hands reaching for my sneakers. His fingers wrapped around one and pulled and to this day I'm glad I hadn't taken the extra time to double-knot my laces that morning. My sneaker slid off my foot and I watched it turn to ash in his grasp.

Standing I took to running again, faster than before.

"Fisherboy!"He called after me, voice disgustingly sweet and hungry - he was taunting me, mocking and terrifying . "You can't run from me, my little Roxie." He barked a harsh laugh and I could hear him pick up his pace. My heart beat faster and my legs pumped harder. "It takes more than a fish to fill me up - I want little boy."

Like the wind my tiny legs carried me through the lush greenery of the forest, crushing branches and twigs, smashing flowers and grasses under the screaming pressure of my feet. I run marathons now and I'm still amazed at how fast I ran that day.

"Go away!" I screamed, crying harder than before. I reached the edge of the woods and ran through into the bright burning sun and long grass of the pasture. Two hundred yards from the forest edge I threw a terrified glance over my shoulder and it was then that I realized he wasn't behind me. I could sense him though, somewhere just beyond the forest's edge, hidden in the shadows - and I could just see him licking his lips and staring me down with those burning eyes, smelling of matches and seared fish.

I ran and ran, with every glance over my shoulder I became more and more terrified even though he was gone. When I burst into my father's shop he regarded me with worried eyes - my eyes were wide with that same panicked look I'd worn almost a year earlier when I'd come screaming about Sora's bee sting.

I watched his eyes once me over and he probably took note of the disheveled state I was in - hair sticking to my forehead with sweat, cuts and dirt coating my exposed flesh, seared handprint on the left shoulder of my white shirt - within seconds he was before me, hunched over (just like the Devil had been many minutes ago) with his strong hands on my shoulders.

"Roxas, are you okay?"

"M-Mom's d-dead…I m-met a man in the f-forest, he s-said she d-died while making b-bread 'cause of a b-bee and Pluto…h-he l-l-licked her…t-tears…" I began to full on bawl my eyes out, grabbing the black cotton of my father's button down work shirt, burying my face into the crook of his neck as he lifted me into strong arms and walked out of the shop where his coworkers were staring at us.

"I'm sure your mother is fine, did you fall asleep? Were you dreaming? Where's your pole?"

"Dad, I wasn't dreaming…h-he was r-real! And m-mom's….we gotta go check on her! Now!"

My father shook his head as if dismissing my actions as a charade of sorts, but the worried tint to his eyes remained. At his motorcycle he slid a helmet over his spiked mess, then over mine. He picked me up and set me on the wobbly vehicle, slinging a leg over the worn leather seat before revving the engine and kicking the stand back and up - we took off down the fractured pavement of the main road.

The entire ride home I fretted running into him. My mind played evil tricks on me as we raced down the deserted two lane road. It ran parallel to the forest edge and I swear to this day I saw the Devil racing along-side us behind the first line of shaded trees - those burning eyes on fire as he licked his lips and called for me Fisherboyyy.

I'm not even sure the motorcycle had stopped when I jumped off and bolted for the front door, weaving through our home to the kitchen where I found my mother wearing a smile and oven mitts as she pulled a steaming fresh loaf of bread out of the oven.

When she set it down on the countertop I rushed to her side, hugging her harder than I ever had before. She looked to me with a strange, confused expression, then to my father who was leaning in the doorway of the kitchen, and wrapped her warm arms around my sobbing, shaking body.

I didn't try to explain what had transpired at the riverside after seeing her well and alive. I let my father believe that I'd dozed off, that I'd had a nightmare - hell, I'd even tried to convince myself that's what had happened, but the scar on my right calf and the seared handprint on my shirt (which I still have) will forever remind me that what happened that day was real.

Terrifyingly and agonizingly real.

My father went to the spot where the river splits - where I'd left my jacket, pole, creel - to gather my things. I didn't tell him about the monster of a brookie I'd caught, the one that had been eaten by a monster of a man - I didn't ever want them to know the fear I felt.

They didn't understand why I stopped sleeping after that summer. And they never understood why I never went into those woods again. I think, to some degree, my father believed my 'there was a man in the woods with me' tale - because when he'd gone to gather my things at the riverside…he'd found one single slim cigar burnt only at the tip, and he knew I didn't know the first thing about smoking. However, he never asked me about it - only mentioned what he'd found - and I never said anything further on the subject.

And that was how it went.

That's how it still is.

I roll over and face my wife of the last three years. Her facial features are soft and carefree as she sleeps peacefully - blonde hair cascading across her pillow in a platinum fountain. I've never told her of my encounter with the Devil that day, and she - like my parents - can't understand my insomnia issues any more than what the prescription bottle in the bathroom medicine cabinet tells her.

I still hear him at night or when I'm alone - I hear that voice. Fisherboyyy. He calls, voice sickeningly sweet and teasing - still mocking my fear.

Rolling unto my back, I stare at the ceiling fan, at the mirror, at the closet, out the door and into the dark hallway.

I'm waiting.

Waiting for him to reappear.

And, although I always keep large brookies stocked in our ice chest out in the garage - another thing my wife can't understand -

- I can't be certain if I'll try to outrun him this time.

Fisherboyyy.

Let the Devil catch you but by a single hair…and you are his forever.
-Gotthold Ephraim Lessing

Well there you have it. Another one of my crazy ass spin offs. I feel it's rather different from what Stephen King wrote for The Man In The Black Suit. Then again, a lot of things are similar (like the sequence of events and dialog between Roxas and the Devil, for example). However, I don't feel like I stomped on his parade any by jotting this out.

But if his lawyers really wanna take the time to sue me…

Well then - that would just be unfortunate.

Oh, and if you couldn't figure it out - Cloud and Aerith are Roxas' and Sora's parents.

Direct quotes from the book that should be cited are as follows (as you can tell, I enjoyed the conversation he used in the book, so I took the base quotes you see below and twisted them, adding or removing words - but, here are the actual quotes from the book):

"You never answered my question." -- "Are we well met?" -- "Hello Sir." -- "You would want to live without your mother…" -- "…Your father is the kind of man that needs a warm hole to stick it in…" -- "I can save you all the unpleasantness of that situation." -- "Murdered people always go to heaven." -- "We will both be serving God this afternoon." -- "It takes more than a fish to fill me up."

There are probably a few more, but I don't feel like sifting through 7,500+ words to dig up all of them. Credit to Stephen King applies where and when needed to any of the above.

Thanks for reading.

AceAnomaly