Thanks for continuing to read my story!

Note: I said in my last update that I was planning on only posting on Saturdays (for consistency I guess) but honestly I'm way too obsessed with this story and will be posting much more frequently than just once a week. However, I am moving soon and MAY be posting a bit less frequently come September, but let's see what happens.

Trigger Warning: Graphic violence against animals (seriously, if you're not comfortable with violent animal deaths, message me and I will be happy to just recap this chapter for you).

Erik

Chapter 19

The Hellhound

I used to find the rain and thunder relaxing. Fascinating. Marie would pick out a dark fairy-tale and read it to me, as I cuddled against her, and the booming sound outside became a sign of closeness and love.

When I was eight years old, thunder became a signal for horror and loss.

The entire village of Saint-Martin-de-Boscherville knew my face. They'd never seen it, but the midwife who delivered me spread the tale far and wide, believing me to be the spawn of Satan. The tales started true - no nose, discolored skin, misshapen lips, and sunken features. But they began to become fanciful:

I had glowing red eyes.

I sprouted wings at night.

I would go onto people's farms and bite the heads off of chickens.

My mother relayed this information to me, of course - letting me know just how hated I truly was. Sometimes she heard these rumors in whispers when she walked by. Sometimes they arrived in the form of harassing letters - that was how we learned of the headless chickens.

In hindsight, I was surprised that she was never attacked on her walks. That Marie wasn't turned away from buying groceries. That our house was never burned to the ground with all of us trapped inside. The only explanation I could think of was the element of doubt that the rumors were true - or perhaps that the village enjoyed the rumors so much amidst the remainder of their slow lives that they didn't want to put an end to the source of the fun. The rumors, though chilling, were surely entertaining.

Because that's all they were.

Rumors.

My eyes, of course, were not glowing or red, but green and brown. My green eye was my mother's, as was my black hair. I suspected that if I hadn't been born with the face I did, I would have had hers - a beautiful visage.

I was sure that I inherited my brown eye from my father - but she would never speak about him to me (except to blame me for his death) so I would never know. All I knew was that he was good-looking - that, my mother did say: he'd been her handsome prince.

What a shame that I, a monster, came from such beautiful parents. That the beautiful house they'd once shared together was now the Village House of Horrors.

If I could have sprouted wings, I would have used them to carry myself and Marie far away from that blasted house, but the truth was that I was never allowed out of the house - I certainly never had the chance to chew on chicken heads. I pity whatever poor farmer was losing his animals to a bird-decapitator, but I dare say that it wasn't me.

But facts matter little when fiction spreads like wildfire.

It was because of the rumors that, despite my mother's wealth, our only servant was Marie. She cooked, cleaned, and cared for me. As it was only the three of us, it was thankfully not a daunting job - and, as I wanted to spend as much time with her as I could, I helped whenever I was able.

Marie took Sasha to the backyard three times a day - morning, afternoon, and evening. But now it was dinnertime, and I'd been training Sasha to roll over on command, giving her cheese as a treat whenever she got it right.

The cheese was not agreeing with her.

Marie was cooking in the kitchen, and Sasha was whining and scratching at the backdoor, looking at me as I watched her, and barking periodically, insisting that she really did need to relieve herself please, knowing she'd be in trouble if she did so in the house.

I hated the feeling of being in trouble. I knew what it was like to fear the anger of others.

Sasha let out a particularly loud, desperate bark.

"For God's sake!" called my mother from the parlor, where she was reading a novel. "Would somebody please let the dog outside?"

Marie called back from the kitchen, "I will as soon as dinner is ready, Madame!"

I wasn't supposed to touch any of the doors that led to the outer world. I wasn't supposed to. But I didn't want Sasha to be in trouble. And I knew I'd be in trouble, too, for giving her food that led to the mess.

Quickly, I opened the door for Sasha, and when she'd run outside, I closed it just as hastily, heart hammering. There was a very light drizzle, and the November air was cold, but she didn't seem to care as I peeked out the window to see her squatting. Marie usually took her outside for twenty minutes. So I would call her back in that time.

"Erik?" called Marie.

"Yes?" I responded, still looking out the window.

"Where is my little helper?"

"I'm coming." I left my post at the window and went into the kitchen. She handed me silverware and tasked me with setting the table. I did so quietly, continuously looking at both the grandfather clock and the direction of the backdoor. I went back to the kitchen a few more times and collected a teapot, cups, and linen cloths. I brought those to the dining room as well.

Twenty minutes wasn't yet up, but the rain was coming down harder now. This had been long enough for Sasha to complete her business. I hurried to the backdoor and opened it.

She wasn't there.

And I wasn't supposed to be here in the doorway.

"Sasha?" I called softly.

Only the rain answered me.

My ears buzzed with sudden panic. My heart picked up again. I couldn't go outside. But where was she?

I closed the door and went to Marie, who was spooning stew into bowls and humming to herself.

"Marie?" I said, voice small.

She looked at me, saw the fear in my eyes, and frowned. "What is it, love?"

"Sasha," I whispered, and the moment I did, my breathing came in and out quickly against my will. I gripped the door frame as tears threatened to escape.

Marie put the spoon back into the pot and went to me. She didn't have to kneel to put her eyes at the level of mine - I had grown tall for my age. She only crouched a bit and put her hands on my masked cheeks. "What happened, baby?"

"I - let her - outside," I said between breaths. The tears fell. I was becoming dizzy. "And I - can't - find her."

Her eyes scanned mine. She wasn't angry. "You opened the door?"

I nodded.

Concern lined her features. "You know you're not supposed to."

Oh no.

She was disappointed.

Marie was disappointed in me.

Maybe she wouldn't kiss me tonight before bed.

Maybe I'd never be kissed again.

I sobbed.

She took me into her arms immediately, shushing me, running her fingers through my hair. I hugged her back. "I'm sorry," I cried quietly.

Lightning flashed in the windows. Thunder rumbled overhead. The rain pattered against the window harshly.

I pulled away with a gasp. "I have - to go - find her," I said urgently, still hiccuping.

Marie looked at me sadly. "Erik, it's a downpour."

"She'll - get wet." I swallowed, reaching under my mask to clear the saltwater that was running underneath it. "She could - get sick. I have - to go - and-"

"You're not supposed to go outside, Erik." She looked in the direction of the backdoor. "I will go and find her after dinner. It might stop raining by then. If she's not in the backyard, then she might be hiding somewhere dry."

I looked at the kitchen window. The rain really was coming down hard. There was no possible way it would let up in an hour.

But I had no choice other than to listen to her. I didn't want to disappoint her again.

She informed my mother that dinner was ready, and she had me set out the bowls of stew onto the table. My mother didn't pull her eyes away from the book she was reading as she sat down - as usual, she ignored us completely and instead spent time with the precious, perfect characters in her stories. Normally, too, Marie and I ate fairly silently, only smiling at one another every so often to acknowledge that we saw the other there and that, despite the lack of conversation, this was time spent together.

Today, I only stared at my bowl. There was no chance of me eating anything. So I nibbled and sipped at the stew - just to keep the appearance that I was consuming my meal. All I could think about was Sasha, alone and cold and wet out in the storm.

Another rumble of thunder sounded overhead and I flinched. I looked up at Marie to see her smiling comfortingly at me. I forced a small smile back and took another bite of dinner.

It was when my mother finished her food and went back to the parlor without a word that Marie got up. I was up as well, fast as the lightning outside. She asked me to clear the table, telling me she would bring an umbrella and take a quick walk around the house - but if she didn't see Sasha now, it was safer to continue the search after the storm passed.

I nodded silently, picking up bowls and silverware. Mine was still near-full. I brought them to the kitchen, and was in the middle of cleaning them, when I heard the front door open, the sound of the rain increasing in volume, and then Marie let out a shriek.

I left the dishes behind and ran for the foyer, alarm making my feet fly.

"What's going on?" called my mother, though she didn't bother coming to check.

When I reached Marie, she'd already closed the front door. She looked at me with wide hazel eyes, running a hand in shock through her red hair. "Erik," she whispered, "go to your room."

"What is it?" I demanded. "What's wrong? Is it Sasha?"

"Erik. Please."

"Did you find her?"

Her face was white. "Yes." Her face contorted. "Erik, go to your room. I will come up in a bit."

I didn't listen. Something was wrong. "What's going on? What happened to Sasha?"

Her eyes closed and she placed a hand on the wall. She appeared as though she were about to faint. "Erik," she begged, "please go to your room."

The panic set in again.

Something was very wrong.

Before she could stop me, before I could think about how my actions could cost me her affection, I pushed past her and opened the door. I looked into the front yard.

I saw it immediately.

My blood stopped in my veins, but the sight of it brought me closer like a moth to a flame. Going toward it would surely kill me - but I couldn't stop moving. I couldn't help it. I was cold - not just because of the torrential rain and freezing temperature.

And I did die when I went to it. Something in me broke.

It was the beginning of the end of my innocence.

Tied around a branch of the large oak tree was a rope.

Hanging at the end of the rope was a noose.

In the noose was Sasha's broken neck.

And on the trunk of the tree, illuminated by the lightning that struck, was carved the phrase:

LE CHIEN DE L'ENFER