Nobody would blame a kid would they?
Mark Collinson watched from a distance, far enough away for the flames not to singe his eyebrows. That had hurt like hell last time – and he’d know.
Forget all the movies on tales of little cherub-like beelzebubs falling to earth or being born to humans to unleash demonic forces. Mark was bigger than that – and, as a teenager, far more powerful than any satanic toddler.
This kid had set fire to a stack of Omen DVDs on his front porch as soon as he was strong enough to strike a match.
October-time gave him just what he needed – a time to play.
Mark watched the flames as they tore against the stained glass windows, their orange fire blazing against the other colours there.
His younger friend, James, had sought to destroy the man who had harmed him – Mark had already witnessed the evidence of that, the priest’s broken body lying in the barn, before he had torched that place. It was now only natural to him that he, the self-proclaimed satanic child of Paradise Falls, should be the one to ensure that the house of whatever god the priest had dared to worship be raised to the ground by his fire.
He was pleased that he had accomplished so much, and yet at the same time he was saddened by the knowledge that only days remained for him to continue his work.
Somewhere a calendar had been created and the October days were sweeping by, carrying the golden burning embers of his deeds on their winds . . .