(Author's notes: This story has to do with my head cannon of Jim Starling and what happened to him in my story "Twisted Strings of Fate". You don't have to read TSoF to read this short story, just know that Jim has gone through therapy dealing with Negaduck.)

Consorting with Demons

Jim Starling waited in the dark. Nobody was there with him but he wasn't alone. He heard himself breathing in and out, felt the blood pumping in his ears as the anticipation built, and strengthened his grip on the rubber covered handle. It was his lungs, his blood, and his hand that did all these things, but he shared them with someone else. Because it was for Negaduck that he was there.

Dr. Hodgens had told him that this was a bad idea. Perhaps she thought that the excitement would be too much for him. Or maybe it was the fact that he was giving up control to his inner demon that she thought that he would lose himself. But he couldn't keep his dark side down any longer. Negaduck was a volcano ready to explode when the pressure became too much. This was better. This would be venting some of the pressure, tiring the monster inside him so he wouldn't have to wrestle with his subconscious every day.

No, this was for the best. Better to let him out now where he couldn't do any harm then for him to break out and regret it later.

Jim heard footsteps in the dark hallway. He barely raised his head when Negaduck took over, the desire to bring fear into young hearts bringing out the villain. This wasn't the first time, but tonight would be the last. Then would be the finale, his encore, his coup de grace, and then it would be back into the dark recesses of Jim's mind.

Negaduck was going to enjoy every last minute of this.

Through the dark and the fog, he could make out a group of five.

The whispered voices told him it was a mixed group of boys and girls, teenagers by his guess. They were perfect.

He reached for the ripcord on the chainsaw and pulled it with all his might. The chainsaw wasn't new, so it chugged the first time. But the sound got the kids' attention. He pulled it again, and the small motor sputtered then revved.

The group of teens pulled together like sheep when a pack of wolves had them cornered. They held onto each other and he could hear whimpers and little screams from a few.

Negaduck stepped out of his niche in the wall and raised the chainsaw, letting it growl that high, grinding scream that only a machine of this make could do.

Then he laughed. It was a laugh that came from the dark side of his heart and from that locked chest in his brain. He hadn't laughed like that for so long.

The teens screamed as one, their voices bouncing off each other in a cacophony of discordant notes as they scrambled away, keeping as far away from the chainsaw-crazed duck as possible. And as their screams faded away, they turned into hysterical laughter from those who had been scared, but in a fun, safe way.

And even though the terror he had evoked from the teens was just as real as the jungle habitats for tigers at the zoo were, it gave Negaduck a satisfying feeling, the same feeling one would get when partaking of their favorite food or scratching an itch that had evaded them for a long time. And as he rode that feeling, he could hear the next group of thrill-seekers coming his way.

At the end of the night, Negaduck had scared hundreds of citizens of Duckburg and visiting tourists, and felt as content as a predator with a full belly. He hardly needed convincing to give Jim back control.

Taking off the hockey mask and shutting down the chainsaw, Jim found his old friend and the owner of the haunted house attraction. His friend was a retired television director and writer, and when he contacted Jim about opening a Halloween attraction, he was more than willing to help. Although a majority of the actors there were local kids and college students, they had put on a grand display thanks to Jim's tutelage and his friend's vision.

"I heard you really outdid yourself tonight," his friend said as he shook Jim's hand. "I have never heard so many screams as those kids raced out the back door."

"I told you, the more authentic, the scarier," Jim said, patting his chainsaw.

Unlike other haunted houses, the actors used chainsaw props that simulated the sounds decently, but it was never the same. Which was why Jim borrowed his gardener's chainsaw for this role. Oh, the chain was taken off of it, making it perfectly safe. The props didn't have that distinctive smell of gas and oil and of woodchips burning from the friction of the saw. The props didn't have the heft of a real tool, which added a sort of stance in the actor. And of course, a plastic prop couldn't give off that aura of danger that the real McCoy had, the pure vibration of that powerful motor as it roared to life.

Authenticity was key. That's what he taught his budding actors. If they weren't scaring people with all the senses, were they really that scary?

"People have been raving about my house of horrors all over on the Internet," Jim's friend said. "I can't thank you enough for your help."

"It was nothing. Happy to help," Jim said, thinking that he didn't really do anything. It was Negaduck doing all the work.

"You talked a lot of authenticity, but a lot of what you do is just acting," his friend chuckled. "But I could have sworn we had a genuine psychopath in your role. You were like another person."

Jim smiled and nodded, taking the compliment for what it was. Authenticity is key.

"I hope to have you back next year. I was thinking of doing a zombies theme."

"Sounds good. I wouldn't miss it," Jim said, shaking his friend's hand one more time.

And inside his head, Negaduck—sleepy and content—echoed his words. Yes, until next Halloween.