The Demon's Paw | SCP-4996

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It won't matter that I lied to all these old white guys, telling them this was my dad's idea, when he sees what I've done, all will be forgiven. My eyes grow misty as I picture my dad smiling and pulling me into a hug. I love you, son, you'll say, and I'll say, I love you, dad. It will be beautiful, the best thing ever. Roger clears his throat next to me, pulling me from my fantasy. I wipe my eyes with one baggy sleeve of the velvet robe and focus on the task at hand. I need to get this right. I've been memorizing the words all week. I got this, I freaking got this. Straightening my back, I peer at the hood shrouded faces of the eight other men in the circle. Doing my best impression of my dad, I say, our sacred summoning can now commence my brethren. The responses beautifully orchestrated, as all eight men say, and such as our path, let his power guide us to our salvation. I look down at the painstakingly crafted seal on the stone floor. My back is still stiff from the hour spent on hands and knees, drawing the seal onto the floor with a specific and carefully measured mixture of goat blood, raven feathers, volcanic ash, powdered sulfur, and adrenal crumb. The last ingredient necessitated a hefty bribe to a corner, emptying my bank account. But it will soon all be worth it. Dad will be so happy, so proud. He will reward me for my accomplishment when he sees what I've done. He's beyond rich. He has a freaking dungeon after all. He should be back in under an hour, and when he does, the great deliverer will be here waiting. I clear my throat before speaking again. I, brother Simon, welcome you here as we embark on this journey. Have you prepared the tools? At Unison, we all pull ornate daggers from our baggy sleeves, pointing the curved blades toward the center of the seal. Now comes the heart part. I begin reciting the incantation. The other men in the circle hum a prolonged base note, as I work my way through the words that mean nothing to me. They're in a language older than human civilization. And despite all my practice, it takes much effort to pronounce them all correctly. They're not easy on the English speaking tongue. Two minutes later, I finish speaking the incantation. I'm exhausted, which means it's working. Excitement opens the adrenaline floodgates as I shift my blade, pressing it to the palm of my left hand. The others do the same. Let the sacrifice begin. In my mind, I say, Ouch, Ouch, Ouch, Ouch! As I cut a gash in my palm, I make a fist and turn the hand so blood drips onto the seal. Nine men, nine cuts, nine streams of unique blood. Immediately, the edges of the seal begin to glow orange red. It's working. The seal turns from a two-dimensional drawing on the stone floor to a three-dimensional image that seems to emerge from the rock. A wave of heat erupts from within the seal. And I have to force myself not to step back. These damn robes are already hot. But now I have immediate swamp ass to deal with. Maybe I can get a quick shower in before dad gets home. I turn my head away and shut my eyes, as the glow grows to a blinding orange white illumination. A cacophony of screams emits from the seal. Like a hundred thousand people are all screeching in utter agony. With a sudden whom? It all stops. The screams cut off. The heat disappears. The blinding illumination falls away, leaving after images dancing in my vision, as I face forward again, blinking. Before I can make out the finer details of the hideous creature standing before me, the thing lets loose a horrific blood-curdling hell that is somehow worse than the screaming I've just heard. This time, I can't help but step back two paces. Still hellling. The creature lurches for Roger, standing to my left in the circle. With one claw tipped hand, the creature grabs Roger's saggy old man face and rips it off. Connective tissue stretches between skin and muscle before snapping. The bloody-beared musculature of Roger's face jolts and jerks as he screams in agony. He stumbles away from the circle. The creature, standing nearly eight feet tall on black, hairy goat legs whirls around, throwing Roger's face from one massive hand. Air catches the torn-off face, spreading it out like a parachute before it lands on Joe Little's face. The eye and mouth holes lining up perfectly over Joe's eyes and mouth. Despite the overall horror of the situation, this strange occurrence causes us all to pause. Even the creature ceases its howling to look at Joe Little, wearing Roger's face like a mask. The rushing silence fills Dad's dungeon for several long moments before Joe Little screams and rips the face from his face. Chaos resumes. The creature, who has a naked, humanoid torso and demands head with large curved horns, renews its howling and flailing. As it spins around, I catch a glimpse of its face, which is a broad slab with wide-set yellow eyes. I naturally flat-nose and lips that sneer over sharp teeth. Its skin is a bumpy inflamed mixture of what looks like scales, scabs, and weeping postules. This makes it appear a modeled pinkish red. This isn't how it was supposed to go. I barely have time to think these words, when the giant thing grabs Percy by his arms as he tries to run away. It spins the old man around and holds him up in front of its hideous face, screaming at Percy, as if the creature is the terrified one. Percy screams back, and not only out of fear, as the demon screams, spit flies out of its mouth, landing on Percy's face. The liquid sizzles, eating through the old man's skin, slowly melting his face. His legs flail under his billowing robe as he tries to get free. This isn't how it was supposed to go. I think again, taking several more steps back. Dad is going to be so pissed. As I turn to run, Dad's voice pipes up in my head. This is your mess. You clean it up. But I ignore what I call my Dad thoughts, and favor of what I think is a better solution. If I can get away before Dad gets home, I can just pretend like I was never here. Maybe the demon will kill all the old farts who are a part of my Dad's stupid cult, leaving no witnesses. I'm supposed to be away at school right now anyway. I can just pretend that's where I was all along. Yeah, it's the perfect plan. No holes in it whatsoever. I make it as far as the dungeon stares, when the two ornate wooden doors at the top of the stone stairwell burst open. Half a dozen men dressed in swat gear rushed through. I raise my hands, realizing that I'm still holding the ornate knife. I dropped a knife, but one of the swat guys fires his gun at me anyway. A sharp stab erupts in my chest. My muscles tense. I go stiff as a board, and topple to the cold stone floor, whacking my head pretty good. As I lie on the floor, electricity paralyzing me. I watch as the swat guys attack the demon I've summoned from the underworld. Black rose as blossom in my vision, erupting from the side of my skull that connected with the stone floor. But it's the strangest thing. A form I vision is fully obscured, and with the last bits of consciousness, I manage to cling to. I swear I hear the demon say the words. Don't taste me, bro. I awaken a bright room, sitting in an uncomfortable chair. Growning, I turn my head away from the light, hug myself, and try to go back to sleep. I was having a nice dream where I was fishing with my dad, but also not my dad, in that weird dream way. Mostly because my dad would never take me fishing, so it had to be someone else. But there was something different about this dream, dad. Something strange. Wake up! A female voice calls from somewhere nearby, but there's something static here about her voice, like she's talking through an intercom. No, I'm utter, adjusting in my seat. Trying to go back to that serene scene, fishing with dad for the first time ever. Wake up! What do you need to wake up? Still trying to ignore the voice. I suddenly remember what was different about my dad in the dream. He had goat legs and big horns coming out of his head. It all comes rushing back to me. The face ripping, face wearing, face melting, so much face stuff. I jolt up, nearly toppling out of the wheelchair as I blink in the bright light. The first thing I see is a large window, the kind with metal mesh inside the glass to reinforce it. Through the window, I can see the vague shape of a woman in a white lab coat. She's holding a microphone to her mouth. Your atmosphere is still relevant. Now, if you wouldn't mind waking up boarding 996, I would appreciate it. I'm still trying to figure out where the hell I am. Her words don't immediately register. Not until I turn the other way and look at the large piece of padding on the floor in one corner of the furniture less room. Gah! I exclaim, jerking to my feet and stumbling backward, bumping into the window. The demon is lying on the padding, seemingly asleep. Its fingers, tipped with sharp black claws, are intertwined over its stomach. Its chest rises and falls slowly. Eyes start around under closed eyelids, as if it's in REM sleep. Give me out of here. A whisper, looking over my shoulder at the woman. I'm afraid I can't do that. Not yet. My name is Dr. Niaveth, and I need you to. Oh, good. You're awake. I look over to see that the demon is sitting up. Looking at me with those yellow lizard eyes. Let me out of here! I scream, running over to the only door in the room and trying to yank it open. It doesn't budge. It's thick and metal and locked tight. Behind me, the demon stands. Its horns nearly touching the ceiling. It raises its hands, stepping toward me. A dart forward, grabbing the wheelchair by its handles and shoving the thing toward the demon. One of the metal footrests hits the demon and its goat shin. Oh! It cries in a bassy voice, tinged with a high-pitched squeak. What the hell, bro? I wasn't going to do anything. I was trying to apologize for the mix up earlier. It rubs its shin as it speaks to me. I stand, mouth agape. Huh? I don't really think you can blame me, though, dude. The demon continues. One minute, I'm sitting in class at Satan University. And the next I'm standing in front of a bunch of old white humans holding knives. Except you, I guess. You're not old. But you were holding a knife. I'll admit it. A panic. I shouldn't have ripped that guy's face off. And the other guy, I forgot that my bodily flu into leg acid to you guys. I shake my head. You're not what I expected. The demon chuckles. Yeah, well, you're no prize yourself. No, I mean, don't you grant wishes and stuff? I was trying to... No. The demon says, an edge to his voice for the first time. You're thinking of my dad? He's the one who does all that stuff. I'm not up to the task yet. The demon says this with a mocking tone. As if he's quoting someone. His dad presumably. But how did? Apparently, according to these people. He gestures at the woman behind the window. You messed up when drawing the seal. Instead of summoning my old man, you got me. Oh. I say, hanging my head. I can't you do anything right. My dad thought, say. That's it? The demon says. Oh, that's all I get? Man, you people are really something. And I'm not on some racist shit. I mean, humans. I know some of you people actually think skin color and culture matters. But I think the whole human race is rotten to the core. You can't even apologize for messing a guy's day up. What a pathetic. I'm sorry. I blurred out. Tears threatening to escape. As I think about my father's reaction to this cluster, fuck. Really, I am. I'm just. I can't do anything right. Oh boy. Here they come. I start blubbering. Yapping about how my dad is going to be mad. And how I wanted to do this for him. And how I can't even summon a demon correctly. Before I know what's happening. The demon is hugging me. Batting my back gently with one massive hand. You'd think I would find it gross. But I don't. I wrap my arms around his waist and press my face against his chest. Even though his skin is rough and scabby in some spots. There has been a serious hug deficiency in my life. So I take what I can get. When I'm all cried out, the demon and I separate. I look up into his hideous, sneering face. Thanks. I really needed that. He drags a hand across his eyes, wiping tears away. No problem. I'm Simon. I say, extending a hand. You won't be able to say my name with your human tongue. Just call me Doug. I would shake your hand. But I'm afraid the tears I just wiped away will burn your skin. Oh, right. I put my hand down. Well, it's nice to meet you, Doug. I jerk at the woman's voice. Having all but forgotten she was watching this interaction. My face heats with embarrassment as I look through the window at her. What did she say her name was? Dr. Niavis? Now that the introductions are out of the way, let's get down to business. Simon, you're here because you summoned Doug. Since you're the summoner, he needs your permission to grant wishes. I look at Doug the demon. Oh, inflating in my chest. You can grant wishes? Doug backs away a few steps, waving his hands. No, I told you I can't do that. I won't. I'm not ready. You will do it. Dr. Niavis says, or we will be forced to take drastic action. We're sending in the first test subject now. Simon, you'll command Doug to grant this man's wish. Do you understand? I think of why I wanted to summon Doug's dad in the first place, as I look into his yellow eyes. What if he can help my dad? Wouldn't that make up for all the trouble I've caused? But it's clear he doesn't want to do it. He shakes his head, crouching in the corner. Please, bad things happen when I try to grant wishes. Don't make me do it. The door to the chamber opens, and a couple of swat dudes and heavy gear, a scorda guy wearing an orange jumpsuit inside. Then they retreat, locking the door again, leaving only the three of us. We're starting with something easy. Dr. Niavis says, go ahead, Mr. Cowan. Tell them what you want. The guy in the jumpsuit, Mr. Cowan, stares at Doug for a long moment, eyes wide and disbelief. Niavis clears her throat. Cowan shuffles his feet and brings a snickers bar out of one pocket. I want this candy bar to regenerate. I never ending candy bar. Nope. Doug says, shaking his horned head. No way. I won't do it. I haven't even finished school yet. I'm only a sophomore. They don't teach you stuff like this until you're junior year. Simon, please command Doug to grant this man's wish. Doug looks at me with frightened lizard eyes, reminding me of a cute baby alligator I once held when visiting Florida. He doesn't want to do it. Just leave him alone. There's no immediate answer from Niavis, so I turned at the window. She has her back to it, and she's speaking to someone else on the observation room. The man she spoke to opens the door and steps out into the hallway. A moment later, he returns with a newcomer. My throat seems to freeze, and it feels as if my lungs have just shrunk to the size of deflated balloons. I can't seem to get a full breath. Panic sets in. Through the window, I see my father. The illness has taken a toll on him, and he looks much worse than he did the last time I saw him a few months ago. His son-leathered skin has lost its dark hue, leaving behind only shades of gray. His head of hair, once full and gray white, is now sparse. He's hunched over, shrunk in by disease. He totters up to the window and fixes his gaze on me. I want to see some sign of softness, some indication that he's not furious with me. I don't get it. His eyes are stony, seemingly the only parts of him that haven't been made weak and feeble by the sickness destroying his body. Simon, do what she says. Trumbling and still trying to dry in a full breath, I turn back to Doug. Grant his wish. I command you to grant his wish. Doug stares at me for a long moment. In his eyes, I see empathy, understanding and sad resignation. He stands to his full height, swallows, and looks at Cowan. The way this works is, I need a payment. Why are you willing to give to have a regenerating candy bar? Cowan shuffles again, looking down at the wrapped snickers in one hand. How about a piece of the candy bar? Fine. Doug says, give me a piece of it. Cowan does, unwrapping the thing and tearing a piece off. But he refuses to get close enough to Doug to hand it off. Instead, he gives it to me and I give it to Doug. I glance over my shoulder at the window and my dad beyond. He goes out of his way to keep his gaze on Doug. I shut my eyes and concentrate on my breathing, feeling like I'm five years old again, and I've just made a mess in the kitchen. Doug holds the piece of candy bar in one hand. He stares at it, his lips moving. Suddenly, the piece disappears in a puff of smoke. Okay, he says, it is done. Eat the rest of the candy bar, but the wrapper in your pocket. It will regenerate soon after. Cowan grins, revealing two rows of rotting teeth. The guy must really like candy bars, and hate toothbrushes. Whether you're off to the big match, enjoying a trip to the coast to catch up with friends, or exploring some incredible history with your family. With up to a third of most rail travel, a rail card can help you save on train journeys all around Great Britain. Find the one for you at railcard.co.uk. He scarves the remainder of the caramel peanut chocolate treat and shoves the wrapper into his pocket. He's still chewing when his face transforms into a ricktice of pain. He doubles over. Chocolate-tinged drool spilling out of his mouth as he grips his belly. Oh no! Doug wines. I knew it. I told you something like this would happen. Still in pain. Cowan straightens and tears at the buttons on his jumpsuit. Blood spreads over the orange material. He finally gets the buttons ripped off, revealing the injury in the fleshy bulbous area just below his belly button. There's a chunk of flesh missing. The exact size and shape of a snickers bar. Take it back! I tell Doug. Take it back! He shakes his head face and agony. A cat. It's not possible. Help me! Cowan says, tenderly cupping the injury with one hand as he rushes to the door he came through. Simon, please inspect his pocket for the regenerated candy bar. I have as commands. Get him a fucking doctor! A shout turning to the window. As soon as I see my father there, all strength leaves my voice. Do what she says, son. I move over and dig into the man's pocket, pulling out the candy bar. He barely notices. Too busy crying in pain and shouting for help. I hold the snickers bar up for Niavus and my father to see. Good. The doctor says. Now eat it. What? No fucking way! Did you want us to help your father? Niavus asks. Fine, I say. Already close to gagging. I open the wrapper, half expecting to find that the bar is just a chunk of bloody flesh. But it's not. It looks like a legit snickers. I take a bite. Thankfully it tastes normal too. It takes me a few minutes to eat the whole thing, but when I'm done, Niavus commands me to put it back in Cowan's pocket. By now, Cowan is sitting against the wall next to the door, weeping as he holds the sleeve of his jumpsuit to his wound. No! He says as I approach. No! He kicks at me, but I jump back. He won't let me. I say to the window. Dad says. Can you help me? I ask Doug, who sits in the corner. He shakes his head and doesn't answer. I move closer to Cowan. This time, when he kicks at me, I grab his leg and drag him away from the wall, leaving streaks of blood in his wake. He screams and flails weekly. I drop his leg, dart around, and kick him in the head. It's not enough to knock him out, but he stops fighting long enough, allowing me to shove the wrapper into his pocket. Now that his jumpsuit has been pulled open to reveal his bare torso, I see that just below the first wound, another identical one appears. For a moment, I can see into the wound, roughly four inches long, an inch wide, and an inch deep. The yellow fatty tissue, the inflaming nerves, the blood vessels that begin to fill the cavity. Cowan screams in pain, slaps a hand over the new wound, and screams again as he rolls over. The door suddenly opens. I look up to see a SWAT guy pointing a gun in my face. Back off! I do. The guy covers me while another point is gun at Doug. Two others rush in, grab Cowan and drag him out. It's a smooth operation that takes 15 seconds. Cowan screams are muffled as they shut and lock the hefty door, as he's dragged down the hall. Hopefully to see a goddamn doctor. For a long time, I stare at the blood on the floor. The sounds of sobbing draw my attention. I turn to see Doug on his furry knees on the corner, head hanging, chest, heaving as he cries. A glance at the window reveals that the observation room is empty. No doctor, niavis. No dad. He didn't even say goodbye. I don't know why I'm surprised. That's kind of his thing. I can only hope they're fulfilling their end of the bargain now, making him better, making him healthy again. A father-sized pit of sadness opens underneath my feet, and I tumble in, wondering if dad will ever even talk to me again. I just want to fall to my knees at his feet and beg for forgiveness. Tell him I'm sorry I messed up the summoning. Tell him that I'll do whatever it takes to ensure he gets healthy again. Then he gets to live longer than his 68 years. Even in the depths of my own despair, I can't help but feel bad about what I've forced Doug to do. I stumble toward him on rubbery legs, not sure whether I'll beg for his forgiveness or simply try to comfort him. Even as I move toward Doug the demon, I realize that he has every right to be pissed at me, to tell me to screw off, but he doesn't. And I'm forever grateful. Because I'm not sure I could handle his rejection in this state. I wrap an arm around his scaly, scabby back and say, I'm sorry. As I move to wrap my other arm around him in an awkward embrace, one of his tears falls and lands on my arm. It sizzles as it eats into my skin. I scratch absently at the edge of the bandage on my arm while the SWAT guys, who I now realize aren't police at all, but are guards of some kind, escort a one-legged man into the room. It has been many hours since I hugged Doug the demon and got a nasty surprise for my trouble. I don't know how many hours, because I have no way to tell time. But after a doctor tended to my wound, I was taken to a cell with a twin bed and a platter of cold food. After eating the bologna and she's sandwiched, slurping down the container of jello and drinking the carton of milk, I fell into a shallow, restless sleep. I awoke to guards in the cell. They forced me to get up. They escorted me here. Now, I stand next to Doug the demon as the guards leave. The room has been cleaned of Calvin's blood. I wonder what happened to the man as I study the newcomer. The one-legged guy wearing an orange jumpsuit sits in a wheelchair. I wonder if it's the same wheelchair from yesterday. The one I awoke in after the whole summoning snaffoo. Whereas Calvin was a slight, mousey guy, this dude nearly spills over the handles of the wheelchair. It looks like they gave him a chair two sizes too small for his bulk. He stares past me a Doug with steely eyes, not a hint of surprise in them. His gray stubbled face is broad and flabby, and so large, it makes it seem like he doesn't have a neck. Thick, airy forearms rest lightly on the arm rests. You know the drill by now? Nive says from the other side of the window. Grant Lieberman's wish. One of the first things I did when I came in here was look through the window. My dad is in there, sitting in a chair, watching with disinterest. I want to ask if they made him healthy again, but from the glimpse I got of him, I'm sure they haven't. And I'm sure they won't until they're done with these experiments. It's the only leverage they have over me, and it's damn good leverage. Give me my leg back." Lieberman says, gesturing at the empty flap of jumpsuit below his left knee. I want my leg back. I turned a look pleatingly at Doug. You don't have to do this. You whispers. You really don't. Yes, I do. I whisper back. I expect more of a fight, but Doug sighs and moves toward Lieberman. I need something in exchange. Like what? Like, I'm about a high five. I've always wanted a high five someone. It's not a thing where I come from. I've tried to make it a thing, but demons and torgent souls aren't into it. The one-legged man shrugs. Fine. The two of them high five. A flash of flames erupts from their hands as they meet. The slap of palms echoing unnaturally throughout the room far longer than it should. Doug backs away, moving past me, as if scared of what he's just done. Lieberman winces and shakes his hand out, but he stops as something leg-shaped appears in the previously flaccid pant leg. All three of us look at the thing, but even before my eyes fall on that foot sticking out of the cuff, I can tell it doesn't match his other leg. The foot of this new leg is shriveled, rotting and putrid. The flesh squirms with maggots, bits of sickly yellow bone or visible through holes that seem to have been put there by small animals. Rats, maybe. Lieberman gasps, his huge chest expanding and contracting as he reaches down to pull the pant leg up over the shin. The stench reaches me, a foul bouquet of decaying, diseased flesh that invades the back of my throat, threatening to expel the contents of my stomach. A high-pitched wine escapes Lieberman as he pulls the pant leg up, revealing the entirety of the leg, frightened by the movement. A rat burrows out of a flesh hole in the meaty calf muscle and leaps to the floor, starting away. It's only when I see where the putrid flesh connects to the healthy flesh that I realize the implication of his wish. He can feel it. I think it mewed horror. He can feel the leg. Lieberman screams in agony. Get it off me! Get it off! Fuck it hurts! Someone get it off! Doug suddenly rushes past me, falling to his knees in front of Lieberman. He grips the rotten leg at the ankle and puts his other hand on the healthy part of the leg just above the knee. His back muscles undulate under his scaly pink red skin as he yanks, ripping the rotten portion away. Blood pours from the wound. Lieberman continues to scream in agony. Guards rush in, pointing their weapons at us as they wheel the man out, once again leaving a trail of blood behind. When they're gone, and Lieberman screams are fading down the hall, I look over at Doug. He's still holding the rotten leg. He follows my gaze and jerks, tossing the leg away as if he forgot he was holding it. It lands in the corner. The rat that missed its chance to escape the room when the guards came in, scurries across the floor and burrows back into the leg, home sweet home. I turn just in time to see Dr. Niavus and my dad heading toward the door. I did what you asked! I made him do what you wanted! Now cure him! Please cure him! Niavus glances over his shoulder but doesn't answer. Dad stops at the door and looks at me. Dad, I'm sorry! I was just trying to help. I love you! My father's face twists into a sneer. His mouth and cheeks move for a moment before he pauses. Then, with calm precision, he spits on the floor at his feet, showing me what he thinks of my words. A jolt of recognition sounds in my head, like the first discordant note of a heavy metal song. Something so familiar about what he just did, spitting on the floor like that. Dad turns and walks out into the hall. Niavus follows and shuts the door. I stare through the window, thinking, he'll forgive me when he's healthy again. When all this is over, I know he will. I let the fantasy take me, because it's easier than thinking about Dad's reaction right now, or about that strange jolt of recognition that wants to open up a dark box in my mind. But as I think about how it will be to have the old dad back, the non-feeble energetic dad, I can't keep the dark box from opening. And as it opens, it releases another note, as if it's a music box program to play metal. The third note plays another jolt, and then another and another. Soon, a mosh pit of memories careens through my head. The bit starts off somewhat slow. The memories crashing into each other with mild violence. Every time I said goodbye to my father and never got a response back, as an infant just learning to speak, as a child, as a teenager, as an adult. The mosh pit goes a little faster, as the swirling memories change. Every time he looked at me with disgust and disappointment, once again, these memories go back to my days as an infant. Some of my earliest memories are of disappointing my dad in some way or another. Then things get really bad in my head, like a thrash metal band is playing, and the memories are all wearing spiked bracelets and steel toe boots. Dad shaking me as an infant to get me to stop crying. Dad, backhanding me when I forgot to put a toy up in the playroom. Dad slamming me against the wall by the neck when I challenged his authority as a teenager. And the last one, the worst one. Back before I left for college. Dad punching me in the face, breaking my nose when I finally came clean to him about my sexual orientation. The broken nose hurt plenty, but when I was on the floor, he stood over me, snorted and hawked until he had a huge luge gathered in his mouth. With the same calm precision I saw just now, he positioned his mouth over top of my face and spit that luge onto my shattered bleeding nose. I could have moved, I was dazed, but not that dazed. It would have been easy to shift my head out of the way, but I didn't. Because even then, in some fucked up way, I knew that moving to dodge the luge would disappoint Dad. And God forbid I ever do that, the retrieval of these memories I had somehow locked away has me punch drunk. Legs rubbery, head reeling with the mental mosh pit, I stumble over to Doug. Stay away from me, he says. I speak in a voice so strong, it takes me a moment to recognize that it's my own. I can stop this, I will stop this, but you just have to grant one more wish, just one more for me. Doug the demon has his back to me, facing the corner like a petulant child. But as I tell him what I want, he slowly turns to face me, and by the time I'm done, his face is slack with surprise. Listen up, huh? That means you, yes, you. We know you're pointing at yourself. When it comes to party power games, we've got a place made for all sorts. From the experts to the drama queens. It's made the JC. The finance bros, look at those stocks, lads. We'll stick with slots. It's what we're good at. And not forgetting you. Yes, you, the one listening. Because at party power games, we've got all sorts of games for all sorts of tree calls. Eligibility rules in terms of conditions apply. Please cut board responsibly, Aisin plus cut boardie dot o. More than an hour has passed when they bring the next prisoner in, and the interim, they have cleaned up the blood on the floor, probably so they don't freak out the next person. It's bad enough seeing the huge demons sulking in the corner. Blood on the floor might be a little too much to handle. The time has also given me an opportunity to carefully consider my plan. I've discussed it with Doug in low whispers, and I've gone back can forth in my own mind about it. Doug the demon is right. I don't know what will happen, not really. Neither does he. Its clear Doug has good intentions, but he's not very good at the whole wish-granting thing. Or maybe it's supposed to work this way. That's what I'm counting on, actually. That doesn't mean I'm not sick to my stomach. As they escort the newcomer in, a haggard, middle-aged woman in an orange jumpsuit in a shaved head. I have to steal myself for what comes next. Niavese and Dad move into the observation room moments later. While the woman is staring slack-jawed at Doug the demon, a share a look with him. I read in his expression a question. Are you sure? I'm not once. I'm sure. As I approach the reinforced window, I keep my eyes down. My dad's form is there in my peripheral vision. But the thought of looking him in the eye makes me queasy. As I stop, my face inches from the window. My leg muscles begin to twitch, like they're preparing to give out. But I have to do this. I promised myself that if I didn't do this part, then I wouldn't do the next part either. Miss Escodera, please tell the entity what you want. Niavese says from the other side of the glass. Wait! I say. Wait just a minute. As I raise my head to look at my father. My eyes close as if on their own. I've confronted my father a handful of times in my life. And I've always come away feeling small, humiliated and weak. The memories are so potent. They threaten to make me collapse to my knees and beg for forgiveness. But a sudden realization keeps me standing. Those interactions aren't just memories. They were also training sessions. My dad was training me to be small. He was training me to be humiliated and weak. He's been training me my whole life. Not teaching me how to be my own person, how to be kind and fair and stand up for myself. He's been training me like he would train a fucking dog. I open my eyes and stare through the window at my father. He meets my gaze and the sight of his lip twitches in a familiar sneer. This has been a long time coming, dad. I say the window between us helps. It will keep him from hitting me and that's a big help. I just wanted to say that I love you, but I'm no longer your fucking dog. A rotten smile spreads across my father's sickly features. I spin around and march over to Doug as my dad bellows from the observation room. Boy, you'll always be my dog. You'll always piss on the floor and get into the trash and up other male dogs. Because that's all you are. You're a fucking animal. No, you're worse than an animal. At least a dog learns its lesson and he'll feed it enough. You're a coward. He keeps going, but I tune it out as I whisper my wish to Doug. He's sitting in the corner, so I don't even have to crouch to speak into his ear. When I'm done, I offer my right pinky finger, holding it in front of his face. Are you sure? He asks for the hundredth time. I'm sure. It seems like the price I should pay and it's all I'm willing to give up for that asshole. Dad is still yelling, but his voice is growing horse. I realize with a jolt of excitement that I've gotten to him for the first time in my life, I've knocked him a little off balance. Doug opens his mouth. I slide my pinky into his maw. I never realized just how sharp all his teeth are. I tell myself it's a good thing. The dull teeth would make this hurt more. He gently closes his mouth, teeth clamping my finger at the middle knuckle. Now Niavese is shouting too. Shouting for the guards to stop me. The door to the chamber opens. I look over to see several guards rushing in, turning back to Doug I shout. Deal it! He bites down. There's a crunch like a rotisserie chicken bone breaking. The pain makes me spasm, but the pain is nothing compared to what my father has inflicted on me through the years. I spin around and look through the window. Dad suddenly stops his tirade. His eyes going down to my injured hand as it leaks blood all over the floor. For a moment, I think I see a flicker of concern on his face. And for that briefest of moments, it feels like I have the kind of dad who would actually care if his son got hurt. But the moment passes, and dad smiles a greasy smile. He's enjoying my misfortune. The guards reach me, grabbing hold of my arms. As they drag me toward the door, I keep my eyes fixed on dad. His gaze follows me, still smiling. And just before I lose sight of him, his contented expression morphs into a mask of torment. But his eyes never leave mine. They go wide with understanding, even as his facial muscles jerk and twitch in response to whatever is happening inside him. He collapses to the floor in the observation room. The guards drag me out of the chamber, past the wide-eyed woman. Before they can shut the door, I meet Doug's gaze with a huge smile. Thank you. I have a step into the cell as I'm lounging on the twin bed, gazing at my bandaged pinky nub. She's with a guard who closes the door behind her. I sit up, expectant. He's dead. She says. I don't have to ask who she's talking about. I say nothing. You wished for your own father's death? She asks, not trying to hide the disgust. A chuckle. No, I couldn't do that. I wouldn't. I'm not an asshole. Okay. So what did you wish for? I'll tell you if you let Doug go. Something flashes across the good doctor's face. Anger. I can make you tell me. She says after a moment. I'm sure you can. We stare at each other. She makes no move. Finally, she sighs. Doug is gone. I sit up more. What? You let him go? Niavez clears her throat. No. He disappeared. Presumably back to where he came from. Hell, as I'm sure you'd call it. Almost as if he had planned all of this. Like the whole thing was just to teach you some kind of lesson. Or to kill your dad. I can't help but smile. So what did you wish for? I wished for my dad to finally be content and happy. Not with me, but with life in general. Niavez chooses on that for a moment. And he died. I guess so. You would know better than me. You knew that would happen. Not really, no. But I knew dad would never be content. Never be happy. Not while he was alive. So I had a feeling. I would have much preferred he stayed alive and enjoyed whatever time he had left. But I also wasn't holding my breath. So you wished for your own father's death. Disgusting. Says the woman who was holding him hostage to manipulate me and Doug. I don't think you have any room to talk. Niavez norts derisively. You're never getting out of here. You know that, right? This time, tomorrow, you'll be in an orange jumpsuit. A guinea pig in the most heinous experiment I can think of. Whatever your dad puts you through, it will seem like a walk in the park compared to what's coming. I try and fail to keep the dismay from my face. I guess I hadn't thought far enough ahead. I had been hoping that with my dad gone, they would just let us go. But that was dumb. I can be such an idiot sometimes. Maybe dad was right. Maybe. No. I shut those thoughts down. But Niavez has already seen my reaction. She grins. Her expression reminding me of my father's greasy smile. She in the guard leave, locking me in the cell again. Shit. I say, getting off the bed to pace in the small, windowless room. Shit. How the hell will I get? Smoke suddenly fills the room, causing me to cough. I can't see even a few feet in front of me, but I feel a presence in the cell. Shit, dude. A familiar voice says, sorry. Doug steps toward me, waving a massive hand in front of him to clear the smoke. A fire alarm starts blaring. What? The demon smiles. What do you say we get out of here? I nod. Still not quite believing what I'm seeing. Then my face falls. Doug notices. What's wrong? Niavez said that this whole thing was planned, that you wanted to kill my dad or teach me a lesson or something. Is that true? Doug scoffs. What? The way, man. I wish that would have been pretty cool. Then how did you get free? Oh, my dad came and got me. He was pissed that I had been granting wishes and shit, but he was even more pissed at the SCP Foundation. Doug gestures around as he names our tormentors. So yeah, he got really mad at me. But you taught me something, my friend. You taught me to stand up to my old man. When I did, he actually stood down. Although he didn't say it, I had gained some respect in his eyes. And when I told him I needed to come back and get you, he granted me the power to do it. So yeah, that's why I'm here. I can take you home. Looking up at Doug's hideous face through the smoke, I grin. He pulls me into a hug. I hug him back. Just don't cry on me. He laughs. And we disappear from the cell, just as guards rush in. SCP 4996 is a tartarian class demonic entity that will attempt to orchestrate deals with any person who comes near to them. Any deals will be interpreted by the meaning of the request, often resulting in a beneficial outcome for the other party. But this is accompanied by an unintended side effect. These effects seem to be largely unrelated to the terms of the original deal, though the effects severity of the effect will often scale with the deal's complexity.