The Demon Side

• Title Page
  
• Chapter One
  
• Chapter Two
  
• Chapter Three
  
• Chapter Four
  
• Chapter Five
  
• Chapter Six
  
• Chapter Seven
  
• Chapter Eight
  
• Chapter Nine
  
• Chapter Ten
  
• Chapter Eleven
  
• Chapter Twelve
  
• Chapter Thirteen
  
• Chapter Fourteen
  
• Chapter Fifteen
  
• Chapter Sixteen
  
• Chapter Seventeen
  
• Chapter Eighteen
  
• Chapter Nineteen
  

Book One of the Demon Side Series

Heaven Liegh Eldeen

Smashwords Edition

Copyright © 2011 by Heaven Liegh Eldeen

ISBN: 978-1-61333-142-2

Cover art by Dara England

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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

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DEDICATION
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This book is dedicated to all of the Service Members in the United States Armed forces. If not for you I wouldn’t have the liberty to write freely. Thank you!

Acknowledgements

I’d like to thank my husband for listening to me ramble on about Demons and Angels for the past year and my personal prince of darkness and crayons for helping mommy so much. To Kim, Julie, Echo, and Amy, thank you for putting up with me while I locked myself at the computer and supporting me in my writing. Huge thanks goes to Shrek at Righteous Ink for all of your input on the cover. I greatly appreciate it! Special thanks goes to Terry MacFarland, a fellow Morrissey and Smiths fan. And without further ado I have to thank my Decadent Publishing family! Thank you so very much for all that you have done. You made a woman’s dream come true!

De-mon (dè’men) n.
[[an evil spirit
2
a source or agent of evil, harm, distress or ruin
3
an attendant power or spirit: genius
4
supernatural being of Greek mythology intermediate between Gods and men
5
One that has exceptional passion, drive, or effectiveness (a Demon for work)
Webster’s Dictionary

I am called by many names—ghost, apparition, entity—and some have called me a vampire, but my given name is Rahovart. If you look up the definition you will find that I fall into the category of Demon. Ha-ha. “Exceptional passion,” so the definition states. It makes me laugh; for over five hundred years, I’ve only felt boredom. That is how far in my past I can remember. I’ve spent the last hundred or so years trapped in this “beautiful three-bedroom, two-full-bath, completely furnished twenty-one-hundred–square-foot Victorian with a gorgeous vista of the Potomac River located in historic Quantico Town for only fifty thousand dollars.” At least that’s how the realtor describes my “sanctuary” on the flyer.

Quantico Town is a civilian town smack dab in the middle of Marine Corps Base Quantico. Few Marines actually live in Quantico Town; they stay in base housing or the barracks where rent is free. A town of only five hundred and fifty people, it isn’t the hot spot to be for young men and women leaving home for the first time. On Potomac Avenue alone—a road only four blocks long—there are five bars, several tailors, a Domino’s pizza, a laundry mat, and a Masonic Temple. That pretty much makes up what the locals call Q-Town. Or so I’ve heard from my former tenants. I haven’t actually seen the town. If dusty, dingy bars or having your uniforms tailored is what you’re looking for, this is the place to be. This combination makes Quantico Town a haven for fallen souls such as me. Fifty thousand for this place is really quite the deal if you ask me. Other listings for this neighborhood are going for considerably more. The furniture alone in this house is worth twice that, being so “antique.”

Why such a deal? Rumors have it that this place is haunted by angry spirits. Strange things go bump in the night. Objects move with no explanation, and if you listen closely, you can hear the voices of Civil War soldiers and chants of the Native Americans who once danced upon the grounds. What can I say? I am a master of my craft. In three years, I have managed to get rid of seven families. According to my eavesdropping on the realtor, family number eight will be looking at the house today. A couple in their forties with what I am assuming is a teenage daughter, since the realtor talked highly of the local high schools and their cheerleading squads. Oh, how I hate cheerleaders.

This family may prove to be a little more difficult than most. The teenage girl I will scare, but her father may be a different story. He is a Marine, conditioned to be fearless and tactical. I have only come up against one other Marine in this house. He was careless enough to get one of the barrack rats pregnant, married her, and took on three bastard stepchildren. He would explain away everything I did by saying the house is just old. His wife left him, taking the kids with her after a year of torment and abuse from me, and he still would not budge. After two years and every effort on my part, let’s just say he and I finally parted ways.

Today is the day I will get a chance to size up my prey, fresh meat, new blood. When people come to look at a house, they only pay attention to creaks in the floor and whether or not there is a dishwasher. I typically use this time to play small pranks—a door closing on its own, footsteps on the stairs when no one is there, or a shadow passing by. They don’t notice, too taken aback by the cherry wood railing of the stairs, decorative trim throughout, glass French doors, and authentic crystal chandeliers that hang from vaulted ceilings. I find it all rather stuffy. Dark colors make a home for me, but never quite scream “family living.”

One o’clock. The realtor arrived late. I waited on the stairs by the front door, but to my surprise, they entered from the back door of the house, right through the kitchen.

“In here we have the dining area. As you can see, the cherry dining table seats up to eight comfortably and ties in perfectly with original accents and moldings in the room. The beautiful Swarovski crystal chandelier is a modern addition that adds just the right amount of lighting to showcase the room for any occasion.”

The realtor spoke like a seasoned con-artist. She had no heart. I guess that’s why I’ve had so many victims over the years; she has no remorse for how many people move out. She’s extremely obese but wears clothes two sizes too small and reeks of fast food onions and cheap perfume. Tacky red lipstick runs up the wrinkles on her thin chicken lips, and her hair-sprayed beehive could pass as a helmet for a crash test dummy.

Over the past twenty years, I have seen this woman swindle and cheat dozens of families. She’s only after the almighty dollar. No morals, no conscience. I wouldn’t offer her a doughnut even if she were on the street starving, much less hand her my life’s savings. Of course, I shouldn’t complain. She does a great job ensuring I have fresh souls to torture.

“If this place is so great, why’s it empty?” A sarcastic resonance rang from the girl.

“You’ll have to excuse my daughter, Mrs. Riley. The idea of having to move again has been hard on her.” A man’s voice cut through the house.

“It’s fine, fine. Will your wife be joining us today, Gunnery Sergeant? Divad?”

“No, she’s finishing up with our packing back in North Carolina. Etta and I came ahead to get things ready in our new town. We can’t have her missing any school.” The man’s voice held a firm tone with a bit of a high pitch to it. Maybe all of his years yelling like a buffoon in some poor schmuck’s face strained his vocal cords. I crept slowly down the stairs to get a good look at my soon-to-be roommates. Mr. Divad appeared exactly as I imagined: five-foot-nine, one hundred eighty pounds, neat short hair, and squared-off stance with his chest puffing out of his grey polo shirt. If his black dress slacks were any tighter, I’d see more of him than I would care to. He is definitely your typical all-American Marine. Physically, he seemed fit enough to take a beating, but was his mind strong enough to endure the torment that I would soon unleash on him?

Etta, on the other hand, was not what I pictured at all. She stood at least five-foot-seven with a little extra weight around her middle, putting her at maybe a hundred and sixty pounds. Her curly brown hair was pulled back into a ponytail, except for long bangs that seemed to fall in her eyes every other second. She shared her father’s chocolate brown eyes, but her full lips must have come from her mother. Her slightly baggy jeans were pulled as high as they could go and her flannel shirt covered any shape she might have. Her whole outfit and stance screamed tomboy. Etta might not be as easy to scare as I first thought.

Girly girls are easy to run off. Throw one roach in their hair, and they’re ready to pull up stakes and move across the country. Tomboys on the other hand tend to think like…well, boys. A simple cockroach or creaking door isn’t enough to scare them. I sensed that Etta would be a tough challenge. In some demented way that inspired me to be even more creative. I was ready for the test.

“On the second floor, you’ll find two spacious bedrooms and the master bedroom, which has a beautiful full bathroom.” The realtor’s raspy voice carried throughout the house. She always talked louder than she needed to. I hated attention hounds. They always took attention off of me.

Now they were coming upstairs, my favorite place to play. A good way for me to get a sense of a person and what they’re about is what I call a walkthrough. It’s basically how it sounds. I open my senses as they walk through me and gather all energy coming from their living flesh. Standing at the top of the stairs, I watched as the realtor came up, followed by Mr. Divad, and behind him, one baby step at a time, Etta.

Etta had barely made it to the third of fifteen stairs by the time her father went off looking at bedroom number two. She stared as if she knew something was wrong. She knew I stood there, waiting. A youth’s intuition—a sense many don’t ever use. The young live on what excites them at the moment. After what seemed an eternity, she made it to the last step and stopped. Her gaze moved down to my feet and traveled up until it met mine. She knew.