"WHO SUMMONS DARETHIAL?!"

The only sound is a child sobbing. I look around. There is no one here until I look down. On the ground, outside the circle, is a small child. The pain from this child is heady, but it is not from me. The fear is intoxicating, but it is not my fear. The anger, oh, the anger. Anger is my meat and potatoes. It is all mine. This child is angry beyond belief.

"CHILD, WHY HAVE YOU SUMMONED ME?"

"My father."

That is the owner of the pain.

"My mother."

That is the owner of the fear.

This child pours out their soul before me. I am a demon of hell. I usually am summoned by greedy bastards who seek immortality that they do not deserve. Cases such as this child go to The Other.

These parents do not believe in The Other. Not even slightly. The Other would have little power over them.

I, on the other hand, have great power over them. They have offended my master. They have offended The Other. And most of all, they have offended the flesh of their flesh, the blood of their blood, the bone of their bone.

To the core of my soul, this child's soul cries out, not for revenge. Not for vengeance. But for succor, for itself, and its siblings.

My soul moves for this child.

"YOU SHALL SUFFER NO MORE. RELEASE ME."

A tiny hand, bone thin, reaches out from under the thin blanket. The circle is broken as that hand snatches itself back under the blanket.

I see something else that sets my wrath burning bright. The blanket is encrusted with loose earth. This child was left for dead in a shallow grave, wrapped in this thin blanket that is hardly sufficient for a malnourished child.

"TAKE MY HAND, CHILD, SO THAT I MIGHT PROTECT YOU AND YOUR SIBLINGS."

That too-slender hand reaches out and grabs my hand with a force that cannot be denied. I hiss in pain at the strength of that grip, which relaxes with a sobbing "sorry."

"BE NOT SORRY. WERE IT NOT FOR YOUR STRENGTH, I WOULD NOT BE HERE, AND YOUR SIBLINGS WOULD STILL BE IN DANGER. I GIFT YOU WITH A PORTION OF MY STRENGTH THAT WE MAY SAVE YOUR SIBLINGS."

Still sobbing, but now with vigor, the child stands and holds my hand as a child holds a beloved parent's hand for safety and assurance. My soul stirs in ways that I do not understand.

"THINK OF WHERE YOU AWOKE."

A flash of panic eased by a gentle squeeze of the child's hand. The panic subsides. A dark road, some distance from the road, a shallow grave. This field is nothing but shallow graves. Each filled with one or more children in the same sad state as this one, but without the burning will to live so he might save his siblings.

I can see their footsteps. They are the most recent to use this place, but they are not the first nor the only. We track them back to the road, thence to a large house well bedecked with All Hallows Eve decorations. This is an affluent neighborhood; why does the entire place stink of fear and despair?

On this night when mischief is most free, this neighborhood reeks of conformity in fear of one's life. The children in their bright costumes are quiet and orderly. Older children guide the younger, not cruelly, but with the only love these children know. Adults are feared, save for a few, none of whom live anywhere near. In each house, children on the brink of adulthood stand at the doors in their costumes. They are waiting for the other children to come to the door and carry out a macabre ritual with more fear than hope. Who will not come tonight? Who will never be seen or spoken of again?

Where are the adults?

Ah. They gather in the large house on the hill. The one this child once called home, until driven to desperation this child struck back at the abusers. Not in fear of its own life but in fear for another. An older sibling who stepped forward to protect this child.

"THE ONE YOU FOUGHT TO PROTECT STILL LIVES BUT IS IN NEED OF MEDICAL ATTENTION." I feel that tiny, thin hand grow stronger than steel. "GOOD. YOU MUST ENTER THE HOUSE AND RALLY THE CHILDREN. ANY YOU WOULD SAVE MUST BE OUT OF THE HOUSE BY DAWN. NONE WHO REMAIN WILL SURVIVE MY WRATH."

That tiny hand squeezes mine and fades into the shadows. In time, a line of children moving like shades trickles from the house. Soon enough, the child returns, nodding to me. The one who summoned me fades into the gathering mists, joining those mists as they flow towards this house filled with horrors walking in human skin.

It is time. My wrath feeds the mists and gives them form and function. The mists rise over the mansion like towering thunderstorms, crashing onto the roof like silent waves. What comes after is anything but silent. The terror is exquisite, the more so because those experiencing it thought themselves immune. I howl with glee to hear the begging of these monsters in human flesh. "No! I am important!" "Get away! Get away from me!" "You! You are dead! We buried you!"

That last becomes the final words of every soul in this place. As they depart the mortal coil, I gather them—my payment for my services—finally, silence reigns.

With the dawn only moments away, small figures depart the house, making their way to where I stand. Each thanks me before fading into the coming light.

When the dawn light strikes the ridge of the mansion, it bursts into flames. The mansion burns to the ground. No rescue services come. No one in the houses below would call aid for these. Not when they are celebrating their first all saints day, in truth. Their loved ones are safe, and the evil ones are no more.

My heart swells with the praises that are heaped upon me by the children.

DARETHIAL, YOU ARE NO LONGER FIT FOR HELL. WILL YOU ACCEPT A DIFFERENT CHARGE?

If it is in service to these children, then gladly.

Another hand touches me in a way I have not felt since the rebellion. The grim mask of a demon falls away, and the grace of an angel is restored.

This will not do, none who seek to harm children will fear this form. I am reminded of another fearsome form. One that protects many places from evil. My body becomes misshapen again, seemingly made from stone, and I adopt a perch on the gateway to this community.

Wherever they go, I will know, and my protection will go with them.

Fear me, abusers, for I know more of abuse than you can conceive.

((finis))