He fingered the sharp blade, the whispers getting louder.

Go on.

Do it.

It's for the best.

He swallowed stiffly, closing his eyes.

The whispers started about twenty years ago. He had just finished college and was looking forward to starting his career. But the whispers held him back. The warned him about things to come. Evil things. The chanted about demons, angels, hunters. The first episode left him sweaty and writhing painfully on his bedroom floor.

Delrith.

They called. Teasing. Beckoning.

Delrith. We need you.

He'd tried everything; earplugs, headphones, alcohol, even a few lines of cocaine. Nothing seemed to silence the banter. He'd finally decided to see a shrink, who came to the abrupt conclusion that Delrith was suffering from a severe case of schizophrenia.

"Nothing a little prescription can't fix," he had said, jotting on a small slip of blue paper, which he handed to a confused Delrith.

He had taken the thick grey pill faithfully, eager to rid his mind of the voices. He had taken that pill for fifteen years. Fifteen God damn years he had stuck to his shrink's orders. Downing the pill twice everyday with food. Nothing changed. The whispers just got more persistent. Louder, pushier. They had even found a way to control Delrith's actions. It started with a scraggly-looking stray cat.

Go on.

It's just an animal,

No harm done.

Delrith had refused, shoving his hands up against his ears and turning his back on the stray.

Delrith.

This is important.

His hands fell limp at his sides. What do you mean? He asked.

The Apocalypse,

It's approaching.

And sooner than you think.

Do it Delrith.

It will keep the End at bay.

And so he did. He had picked the stray up roughly. Tears stagnant in his ebony eyes, he wrapped his hands around the cat's scrawny neck. He kept his eyes on the ground and flinched at the feel of breaking bones; the snap as the stray's vertebrae cracked sickeningly. He had dropped the cat and was violently ill behind a nearby dumpster.

Good.

The voices praised.

Very good.

A whimper snapped him out of his thoughts and he curled his fingers around the smooth, wood handle of the knife.

Do it, Delrith.

Do it now.

He pulled up his blood-stained surgical mask and stopped to inspect his reflection in the cracked mirror on his bathroom wall. He hated what he saw; old ragged surgical scrubs stained with gallons and gallons of bright red dried blood, gloved hands, knife clutched tightly in one. He closed his eyes and turned away. What he had become…it frightened him to no end. He curled his free hand into a meaty fist and hurled it at the mirror. Tiny glass shards rained down to the grimy tile floor, casting a brilliant array of color on the dim walls; little rainbows.


Dean pulled the Impala up a narrow gravel driveway. At the end of the driveway stood a ramshackle cabin surrounded by dense shrubbery and unkempt grass.

"Honey, we're home," Dean sang, turning to grin childishly at Sam.

Sam just rolled his hazel eyes as he unfolded his large frame from the passenger seat.

The brothers walked cautiously up the rest of the driveway to the scarred wood of the front door, but Sam stopped in mid-stride.

"What?" Dean hissed annoyance apparent in his emerald eyes.

Sam nodded his head in the direction of the neighboring pond. A slick 1970 Corvette sat hidden by a few low hanging branches and spattering of branches.

Dean's eyebrows rose appreciatively and he whistled quietly.

"Sweet ride," he rasped, smirking at his baby brother.

"There's someone here," Sam said, a pout already forming on his face.

"Well, no duh someone's here, Sammy! We're here to take them down, remember?"

Dean turned sharply and continued to the front door of the small wood cabin.

Sam sighed and reluctantly followed, stealing one last look at the classic '70s muscle car and Sam had to agree with Dean; the car was pretty freaking sweet.

I ambled along through the halls of the rundown hunting cabin. Genna close behind me, the jingling of her skull earrings echoing off the walls.

"Where the hell are we?" she asked, her flashlight beam wobbling ahead of us.

"I honestly have no idea. But there can't be too many places you could do a ritual Pagan sacrifice in a tiny cabin."

"True."

We continued walking in silence, the beams of our flashlights illuminating cobweb-filled rooms and dirty carpet. Our footsteps shuffling along the only sound.

"HELP!"

"Did you say something?"

Genna raised an eyebrow at me and tilted her head.

"No."

"You didn't hear that?"

"Hear what?"

I shrugged.

"Guess it's nothing."

I turned to keep walking when I heard it again.

"SOMEBODY PLEASE!!"

It was louder and sounded frantic.

I turned to face Genna, arching an eyebrow.

"You hear that?"

"GOD PLEASE NOOOOOOO!!"

I don't think I ever ran that fast in my entire life.