Whisky Demon

Frank lost everything to Whisky.

He hated his first drink as he hated his Mom. A friend handed him a small bottle of Bourbon and told him to take a sip. He put it to his lips and drank. And drank. Drank it almost up.
His friend's eyes went wide. He cursed. Then he lunged at him, trying to give Frank the beating of his life for drinking all his liquor. Somebody grabbed him, yanked him back.
Frank hated the drink. Disgusting. Sharp as fuel. Smokey as burnt wood.
Soon after, he went to the next store and bought a bottle.
When he grew older, he had bought many bottles. When he married, he bought some bottles to have fun. When his wife Mary would leave him, he bought even more.
After she ran from his misery, he lost his job as a teacher. The students didn't like a drunk math teacher. The parents hated him too.
Life threw rocks. Never missed.
He had only a few friends on this shit-hole planet, and they were called Jack or Jim, or whatever was cheap. They would cheer him up.
With every up, with every down, a new bottle would stack up in the corner, looking like a broken tombstone. Bottles boiled up everywhere in his room.
And then, he woke up in puke. Again. The smell was unbearable. His head hurt.
He couldn't get rid of his Mom until she died. He couldn't get rid of drinking until he died.
At that moment, he decided he would at least die trying.

Frank needed help. His wasted mind coughed, "Jesus, Jesus." Frank was not a believer. No idea where that came from. Nobody else would listen to an alcoholic who had hit rock bottom.
Might as well try.

Shaking.
Weak.
Reeking.

He trudged to St. Paul's Chapel on Main Street on a dark, cold day. Rain fell. Frank stepped out, shivering. No sane soul would leave the house on such a day. The rats didn't care. It wasn't often like this. But today was eerie. The rats didn't care if it was day or night. They feasted in the empty streets.

When he arrived at the church, he gagged. He braced himself against the old stones, and then he retched. The alcohol was still in him; it crept through his blood like the rats through the trash. He pushed through the heavy doors. The preacher stood at the altar, speaking to the flock. They had known each other since Frank was a kid. He knew what had happened to him. What man he'd become.
The preacher knew his way in; maybe he knew the way out.
Perhaps he'd listen. First, Frank had to wait until the mass was over. He sat down in the last row, and the others sang and praised the glory of God. He was wasted. Exhausted. His eyes dropped. Voices blurred. The singing was like medicine on a burn wound.

"I can see you."

Frank returned to the world. The Pastor had seen him. He knew it. His heart knew too. It beat faster, ready to jump from his chest. The quiet room laid upon him like a stone. The preacher's words... they rang like a gunshot in Frank's head. They felt like a gunshot straight to his fast-beating heart.

"I see you," the preacher said again. He stared at Frank. No glimpse. He stared at the bottom of Frank's soul. He could see him, more than just his mere presence. Frank started to smell himself, sweat and alcohol. He rubbed his hands and hoped the shaking would stop.

"God forgives everyone. He forgives you. We all know that. We also must forgive those who failed and struggled. Some of us are here today because they fight demons."

The preacher knew everything. He knew how deep Frank felt. Frank wanted to respond, say something. His mouth was dry. His knees got weak. Frank and the preacher stared at each other, and then, out of nothing, the sun came out. It stung like a knife in Frank's sore eyes. Tears ran down his cheek, and he covered his face behind his hands. The preacher became a bizarre twisted silhouette, a ghost. A shadow. Frank tried to look, but his eyes must have been blinded. All he saw were reflections and the sun's glare around the preacher–his nose stretched long, his eyes round and dark as the depths of hell. Did the preacher's voice change? Frank felt as if he would fall to the floor. But he didn't hit the stones. His mind cracked. Gave up. Like an engine burning out in the dark. Did he just die?

"Whisky is a demon! Sent straight from hell! Into the bodies and minds of weak men. I forgive those who lost the fight. And give those who want to stand up again my hand. Who fight the Whisky Demon!"

"Amen!" cheered the crowd. The sun hid behind the clouds again, and the twilight returned. Franks's arms fell to his sides; he stared at his hands. Nobody ever reached Frank a hand. Nobody. Except for the demon. The beast that now dwelled in him. This satan. The whisky demon. He stood up, ready to run. His heart beat louder and louder. Even the preacher must hear it. He almost fell and grabbed a chair. It was loud.

"Frank? Is that you?" the priest called.

Everybody turned to him. They all stared at him through tiny black holes, the eyes of an animal. A rat. He wanted to scream. But he couldn't. The rats looked at him. He was human trash. He was their feast. He stumbled away, turned around, and ran.

Frank didn't know how long he'd run. Eventually, he was out of breath. Then, he strayed aimlessly through town, not sure where to go. Hours later, he came to Jack's street corner. Frank was close to home. He wanted to quit today, but today was not the day. Today was a day to drink as much as he could, a day where he would wake up the next day on the floor again.
Jack slept drunkenly, leaning on the cold wall. He must be freezing. "I look like him," Frank thought. Like a drunken bastard without a helping hand. "Time to feed the fucking demon, and get out these fucking rats of my mind."
Jack wouldn't complain if Frank stole a sip. But something was wrong with him. Jack usually had the red face of a drinker, but today it was pale and gray. He held the bottle in his arms, half hidden in his jacket. Frank reached for the bottle–then he screamed. A big rat jumped out of the coat, touched Franks's hand, and ran away. Frank fell, almost hit his head. A rat! Again? Rats! Rats everywhere! What is this, rat city?
Rats in the trash, rats in the church. Rats eating the fucking dead!
Frank felt something wet, and he knew he had peed a little. It happened more often recently, but it was not much. What did this rat do with Jack? Jack was dead. God knew. Frank got up and ran again. He left the bottle where it was, in Jack's dead hand.

Frank's apartment was a shit-hole. He was happy about the broken window because the rent was cheaper that way. The shower didn't work either, and that also helped. His shaking fingers couldn't insert the keys. He could only think about Jack. Was the rat the whisky demon? Did this thing... bite a way out of Jack? Did demons have a form?
He entered his home. Finally home. Damn you preacher. No demons exist in this world. Did he lose his mind? He looked into the dirty mirror as if he could see his mind there. He stared at himself.
"I can see me. No demon inside me."

Something didn't look right. Something didn't sound right. His ears felt wrong; the noise of the street sounded muffled. Everything was dirty; maybe it was dirt. He grabbed some clothes from somewhere and rubbed the mirror. Then he could see what it was. He froze. It was him. But it also wasn't. His eyes were black pits. His teeth–jagged. Too long. They didn't fit his mouth. And his nose... his nose grew while he watched it. He knew what was going to happen to him. Or did he? Was this a Fata Morgana? A hallucination? Frank started screaming. He could not hear a sound, but he screamed. Then he hit the mirror with his fist, as hard as he could. The pain brought back the sound. His knuckles were bloody. The mirror broke into pieces. He stood there for minutes. Then, slowly, unsure, he picked up one of the pieces. Looked. It was him. Frank was Frank. "I can see me again."

Frank pushed himself against the wall. He cried. He peed even more, but he didn't care any longer. It wasn't too much pee, anyway. Just a drip. Night fell, finishing the failed job of a dark day. Street lights turned on. Frank was afraid in the dark but didn't need to turn on the light. The street lights were bright enough. When no tears were coming anymore, he made a decision. There was nothing to lose anyway. At least not today. He got up, went to his stash, and got a brand new bottle.

"Jack for Jack. May the Jack Daniels kill me. I don't give a shit."

He was ready to drink the whole bottle at once. It would kill him if he was lucky. Or he would wake up next day, hours away from this nightmare. He removed the plastic cap. The bottle agreed. Frank could feel its excitement. It pulsed. Like a bloodstream, just with liquor. He stared at the bottle. The one that would maybe kill him. It looked weird. It had the color of a muddy pond. Where was the liquid sunlight? How long had it been waiting for him? Something was rotting inside. Then he lifted the bottle. How was it so heavy? Maybe it was him. Frank was ready to die.
Maybe he wasn't drinking from the bottle.
The bottle drank from him.
Maybe the bottle lifted him.

"Whatever is in you, you better kill me in one go, motherfucker."

Then he drank. The taste was different, muddier. Some particles of sand ran down his throat, but he didn't stop. He drank and drank, like the first time. Suddenly, it came out of the bottle. Slipped into his mouth. His eyes opened in terror, almost fell out his head. He yanked back the bottle. It tried to get deeper into his mouth, but he grabbed it, tried to get it out, pulled. It didn't give up easily. It was long. A snake? Frank cursed himself for saying he wanted to die. He didn't anymore. Then he got it out and threw it against the wall. He picked up the bottle and threw it right after. What the fuck was that. Couldn't he even drink himself to death without something trying to kill him first? Even Jack managed to die from Whisky. His heart beat again.
Wumm. Wumm. Wumm.
Like a German heart.
Like a Panzer.
There was no noise that sounded like this. He searched for whatever it was, but it was gone. He looked around in his dirty room, but it was no longer there. Frank hoped it got out of the broken window. He didn't believe himself.

Would he die? Did he just get a heart attack? Was this how Jack died? Maybe the preacher was right. Whisky was a demon, and he was possessed. He felt it. All the time, he felt it. Didn't he? It was there. He tried to get calm somehow, to listen to himself. There it was. It actually was there. He felt it moving through the bowels. Then through the breast. His arm. This Whisky drinking arm.
This was it.
Now he knew the truth.
He was doomed.
He was possessed.
Possessed by the Whisky demon.

His blood felt like oil. There was no hiding no more. And no blood, no real blood. All his body fluids had turned to whiskey. He was no longer him. Nobody could see him anymore.
Gone.
An incubator. A breeder for a demon. One that will be born as a rat. Jack went first; he bred a demon until it broke out of him. God knows what this fucking demon rat was doing. Infecting others, maybe. Most likely.

Frank wanted it gone. It needed to go. No other way. No hospital would take him, a man who smelled like a bottle, who pissed himself, without insurance. He had to do it. Where are the knives? Frank went to the kitchen and found one in the sink. The sink was an ugly cave, full of all kinds of diseases. He didn't know when the knife landed there or what he did with it. He only knew there was no time to waste. He could feel it moving, faster, stronger.

Frank stripped his dirty shirt, got on his knees, and watched his body. He could see it moving under his skin. It went in circles, sometimes slower, sometimes faster. It knew Frank was hunting it. "Oh god, no, god, god, help me one last time," Frank cried. He tried to hold the thing with his hands somehow, but he had no luck. Then he stabbed, cautiously, not too hard. Frank howled into the night. A drop of blood appeared where he hit. But the thing moved on and on, circles under his skin.
Then he slashed ahead of it, trying to cut it off.
He was afraid before the pain. But he was more afraid of not getting it out in time. He held down the knife, and briefly before the thing came through it, he took all his courage and moved the blade over the skin. Frank roared in pain. It still moved, and his skin made these waves.

"Get it out."
Something laughed.
Quietly.
He had almost missed it.

Frank started to stabbing, one by one, trying to hit the thing where he thought its head was. The disgusting creature from the bottle... it must look like a snake.
He stabbed.
Once.
Twice.
Six times.
By the sixth time, he wasn't even screaming anymore.
The street was muffled again. The sounds of his screams were gone.
He had a mouth.
But no one could hear him scream.
He just wanted to get it out.
To be clean again.
Oh god, he would even go to church.

Almost deaf, he searched his body for the Whisky Demon. His heart was made out of steel again.
There you go.
It was in his guts.
Now was the time.
He took all the courage he had left.
It stopped moving. Now was the right time to end this fucking thing.

"Let's farewell, Frank," he heard a quiet voice. "You spent. Doors open!"

What?
Frank felt his skin itching like never before. He looked at the back of his hand. Hair was growing where no hair was before. "You are right," Frank mumbled, "I am spent."

The preacher got out of his car when the screaming started. Screams of utter pain. He froze for a second. Then his past as a military medic kicked in. He ran toward the apartment with the broken window.

Silence.

"Frank?" he yelled. "You in there?"

He rattled the door. Locked.
He turned to the window, pressed his face to the glass.
The silence was deafening.

"Frank?" he called again.

Something—or someone—was in there.

He knocked harder. The street lamps burned.
The preacher tried to breathe. The air was thick like fog. Like oil.
He felt like drowning in fog.

What was that on the floor?
Was that… Frank?

"I can see you, Frank," the preacher called.
"Can you hear me? Get up!"
The silence was deafening.
The silence screamed: somebody died.
This was a dead body.
Frank died.

Then—something leapt from the broken window, landed on his shoulder.

Tiny blades in the dark.
Teeth.
Tearing.
Blood.

Pain rolled through him. Made him fall.
He screamed. The thick fog muffled it.
His heart beat.

Wumm. Wumm. Wumm.

He hit the thing. It scurried down his back, vanished.

His hands shook.
His knees weak.
Heart racing.
His neck, warm. Wet.
Blood.

A rat? A goddamn rat.
Did it bite him?

It carried something. He felt it already.
His blood felt thick. His body sluggish. Weak. Was it the shock?
Was it the pest?

Then—laughter.
"Frank?"
"No."

It came from nowhere. It came from everywhere.
His heart made Wumm.

Wumm.
Wumm.

The noise of his heart. The echoes of the voice.
Bouncing, folding. The silence became noise.
Noise only the preacher can hear.

"Frank?" The preacher spun in circles, searching the shadows.
Desperate.
"Frank, where are you? I could see you before. Is this you?"

"No."

The preacher froze.

This time, there was no echo.
His heart made no noise.
No more beating.

The voice was close.

Not from the street.
Not from the window.

It came from inside his head.

No. Impossible.

He shook his head. His collar was blood red.
More warm blood dripped down his neck.

How did this happen?
He didn't know. What a terrible day.

He wanted to go home. Wash off the blood. Wash off the street.
All he wanted was a bottle of good bourbon.
He doesn't like to drink.

But if this day wasn’t an excuse to drink…
Then what was?