​Chapter 16. You May Call For Me

Beverly awoke. She was still sitting on the bench by the lake — but the world around her had changed. It was an awakening inside a dream.

Snow lay in a thick, perfectly even, untouched sheet. It had swallowed the ground, the paths, the rotting leaves. A dense, milky fog had descended over Carver Falls, devouring the trees, the houses, even the sky itself. All sounds were drowned in this white, soundless emptiness. The world consisted of white snow, fog, and Beverly.

The cold was gone. And with it, the despair. What remained was a strange, distant calm, as if she were watching an old, faded film.

Next to her on the bench — where a second ago there had been no one — sat a man. He was dressed entirely in black: coat, gloves. Beside him lay a sports bag, almost empty. His face was completely hidden inside a deep hood — nothing but a heavy shadow, black as ink. He sat motionless, staring into the fog suspended over the invisible surface of the lake. A deep, ancient sorrow seemed to hang in the air around him — so immense that her own despair felt tiny beside it.

“Celebrating?” he asked. A quiet, even voice — without age, without emotion.

Beverly set down the box of chocolates she’d been clutching. The bright festive wrapper looked garish, grotesquely out of place in this monochrome world.

“No. Not anymore,” she said.

To her surprise, she felt no fear. And that was the strangest part. She should have panicked — a strange man, in a deserted park, capable of anything. But she simply sat beside him and felt no threat — only recognition. Deep, irrational, almost familial. As if they were old acquaintances meeting again after a very, very long separation.

“Reality is a very fragile thing,” he remarked, nodding toward the fog. “Just a moment ago, there was a town here. Houses, streets, people. But now the fog has covered it, and the town is gone. Erased. What remains is you, me, and this bench. So tell me — which of these is real? What was here before, or what you see now?”

Beverly stayed silent for a long moment, turning his words over and over. They didn’t frighten her — on the contrary, they soothed her in a way that felt strangely comforting. As if they matched the chaos churning inside her.

“Who are you?” she finally asked.

The man in black turned his head toward her. Under the hood, there was nothing — only darkness.

“I’m the one people usually call Satan.”

He said it so casually, so matter-of-factly, that Beverly couldn’t help but give a small, incredulous smile. It sounded like a bad joke, a clumsy prank on an already nightmarish day.

“So you’re the embodiment of evil?”

“No,” he replied with the same quiet simplicity. “Evil is far too grand a word for such small things. I offer people a choice. A chance to create their own reality when the old one no longer suits them. And they always blame me for what they chose freely — and then call that evil.”

Beverly didn’t speak. She was trying to grasp the meaning behind his words. “Embodiment of evil” — the concept felt far too simple, almost childish, compared to the cold, ancient logic that emanated from him.

As if hearing her thoughts, he tilted his head slightly.

“Satan, in your language, means ‘the accuser,’” he continued. “Devil — ‘the adversary.’ But I neither lie nor wage war on humans. Tell me — where, exactly, would the lie be? That if you rob a store, you’ll be richer by a hundred bucks? That’s true. That if you kill your enemy, you’ll feel a flicker of satisfaction? Also true. I don’t oppose people. I oppose ideas — and what they turn the world into.”

He paused, and the fog around them seemed to thicken, becoming almost tangible.

“I don’t create the desires in your heart. I simply point to the doors you already wanted to open. I offer a choice. And you call me evil because you cannot bear the thought that the choice is yours — and yours alone.”

He fell silent, giving her time to absorb this. His voice, when he spoke again, sounded like the whisper of falling snow.

“People are the same in every age. A thousand years ago they wanted what you want now: wealth, love, power. Only the scenery changes. Swords become rifles. Parchment becomes neural networks. But desires... desires never change. A thousand years from now... who knows. Perhaps neither of us will be around.”

That last line — that faint note of uncertainty — struck Beverly as a weakness. The only weakness he had shown in their entire strange conversation. She seized on it like a crack in a flawless wall.

“So you’re not omniscient,” she said with a touch of mockery, a shadow of her old confident self flickering in her voice.

Something shifted in the darkness beneath the hood. An unseen smile.

“No. Omniscience is tedious. I see people — their desires, their passions. The truth they hide even from themselves. Take you, for instance. You want strength and power. You tell yourself you’re a scientist driven by knowledge, but that’s self-deception. Deep down, you’re a corporate ruler. You don’t want to understand the world. You want to reshape it. And I can give you that. In fact, that’s why I’m here.”

His words fell into the quiet like black stones dropping into white snow. A diagnosis — one she had been terrified to make herself. All her scientific curiosity, all her ambition — he had sliced through them like a surgeon, exposing the raw, ugly hunger beneath.

“And what do you want from me?” she asked, trying to hide behind irony again, but her voice trembled. “My soul?”

The man in black did not laugh. He took her question with absolute seriousness.

“In a sense, yes. You will no longer be human. All the scenery of their world”—he gestured toward the fog where Carver Falls had been swallowed—“their laws, their faith, their Pact... none of it will bind you anymore. You will have another world. Our world.”

He paused, as if letting her look down into the abyss. He nudged his foot slightly, shaking off snow.

“But you’ll receive everything I’ve promised. Power. Authority. And more than that. You’ll gain the ability to build your own world out of the ashes of this one.”

“I don’t believe in devils, psychics, or homeopathy,” Beverly snapped, with the crisp tone of the star student in her program. “I’m a scientist. And right now I’m just asleep. This is a regular nightmare brought on by stress.”

“As you wish,” the man said calmly. There was a hint of amusement in his voice. “Science is a lovely but dangerous belief system. It replaces doubt with dogma and convinces you that you understand everything. But... when you’re lying on filthy snow, gasping and choking on your own blood—remember that you still have a choice. You may call for me, even in your mind. And then the contract will be signed.”

The words hung in the white, soundless fog: the contract will be signed.

And suddenly sensation returned to her body, sharp as broken glass. Beverly inhaled sharply.

She was sitting on the same bench in Carver Falls — but the surreal fog was gone. In its place stood an ordinary, filthy October evening. Snow fell in wet, heavy clumps from the black sky, melting on her clothes. She was frozen to the bone, a stubborn tremor shaking her entire body.

A dream. It was only a dream. A stupid, ridiculous dream triggered by stress, cold, and despair. She wiped her face with numb fingers, trying to chase away the remnants of the vision — the dark figure, the absurd offer. There were no devils. There was only winter, poverty, and war.

The park had emptied. The streetlights glowed with a faint, sickly yellow haze. It was already late — Beverly had missed the last bus. She would have to walk.

She forced herself to stand. Her legs, heavy with leaden exhaustion, barely obeyed. The cold had crept under her coat and was now freezing her from the inside out. Casting one last glance at the dark water of the lake, she turned and left the park.

The way back to campus cut across the entire town.

At night, under the snow, Carver Falls looked like a ghost city. The few streetlights barely illuminated the snow-covered sidewalks, only emphasizing the emptiness. Shop windows were dark, two-story houses stood as silent black silhouettes. No cars, no passersby. Only her and the crunch of fresh snow under her feet remained.

The shortest route led through the industrial district on the outskirts. By day, it was dreary; at night it became a dead field of metal and cracked concrete.

Every other streetlamp was out, and the tall walls of warehouses and abandoned workshops cast deep, impenetrable shadows. The wind howled through the gaps between buildings, driving wisps of snow and bits of trash along the ground. With every scrape of rusted iron in the wind, something inside her chest tightened. The dream of the man in black had dissolved, leaving behind a slow, nauseating sense of doom.

She was almost running when she heard them. First came loud, drunken laughter echoing off the concrete walls. Then — voices.

“... I’m telling you, six months! Six fucking months, and we’ll knock those Asians flat!” one shouted.

“What, six?!” another bellowed. “Three months! Our strike fighters will grind them to dust!”

Beverly turned sharply down another street, trying to avoid them. Blood pounded in her ears, drowning out everything but their footsteps.

Too late. One of them had seen her.

“Hey! College girl!” he yelled after her, snow crunching hurriedly behind her. “What do you think, huh? We gonna smear those slant-eyes or what?”

She quickened her pace without looking back, but they caught up easily — heavy work boots, khaki jackets. They closed in around her, cutting off her escape. They reeked of cheap liquor and engine grease.

The one who had shouted — tall and scrawny — grabbed her coat sleeve and yanked her toward him hard enough that she almost lost her footing.

“So what, huh? Maybe you’re one of them...” he growled, his bleary eyes struggling to focus on her face.

“Let go! Please—just let me go!” she cried, trying to pull free.

“Nah, she’s not fucking Asian,” the second one muttered behind her. “You can tell.”

“Still one of those... the smart ones,” the tall one sneered. “They’re all smart over there, those damn Asians. Lemme fix her pretty eyes.”

He struck her in the forehead. The blow wasn’t blunt like a fist — it was sharp, slicing. Pain seared through her, and something warm and sticky spilled down her face, blinding her.

The second blow hit lower, along her cheekbone; a white-hot stab shot through her skull. The world shrank to a throbbing red point. He hit her again and again — short, vicious jabs that snapped her head from side to side.

She staggered and dropped heavily to her knees in the wet slush. The pain flashed hot and bright across her face, but through the red haze her mind worked with icy precision. She curled inward, bracing herself, waiting for the opening.

The tall man, convinced she wouldn’t resist, leaned in closer, breath heavy with booze. He reached for her jeans, fumbling at her belt.

That was the moment she lunged. She shoved him away blindly and crawled backward through the snow, trying to get her feet under her. He immediately grabbed her pant leg and yanked. Two short, light jabs landed against her chest. His blows were weak.

Adrenaline cut through the pain; the red haze lifted. Beverly tore out of his grip, flipped over, sprang to her feet, and—stumbling—ran toward the nearest alley, a narrow gap between two warehouses.

She rounded the corner, swayed, but managed to stay upright by bracing herself against the frozen brick wall. She couldn’t breathe. Every breath came out as a wet, bubbling rasp in her chest. The bag she’d been inexplicably clinging to slipped from her fingers; the small bottle of champagne hit the concrete with a dull crack, hissing out useless bubbles. The box burst open, and the chocolates scattered across the snow like knocked-out black teeth.

She coughed and tasted something warm and metallic. Dark stains spread quickly across her coat, soaking into the fabric. She touched her face — her fingers found not skin but torn, sticky shreds of flesh. A knife. He’d been hitting her with a knife.

Strength drained out of her all at once. The adrenaline that had carried her sputtered out in an instant, leaving only weakness and pain. Her legs buckled; they no longer held her weight. With a groan, she slid down the wall, leaving a smeared, wet trail on the bricks.

And then the pain came. Not the sharp, stinging pain of the blows — a different pain. Deep, engulfing, radiating from inside her. It burned in her chest where the blade had gone in, a heavy, suffocating pressure crushing her lungs. Each heartbeat sent another wave of nausea rolling through her.

She heard their voices approaching from around the corner. Drunk, smug. They were in no hurry. They knew she wasn’t going anywhere.

This was the end.

That thought didn’t frighten her — it pulsed in her mind with a cold, detached rhythm. So this was how it ended. Not in a gleaming BioTech lab, not in a war for humanity’s future, but here, in a filthy, snow-choked alley, under the knife of three drunken bastards. All her brilliance and ambition — all of it was spilling out of her now with her blood, soaking into the grime.

And then, at the very bottom of her despair, an image surfaced in her fading consciousness.

The man in black on the bench. And his words.

She gathered the last shreds of her will. It wasn’t a scream or a prayer — just a pure, dispassionate thought, forged from hatred and the raw desire to live. A thought hurled into the void.

I accept.

And the void answered. Through the veil of pain, she heard a sound. A quiet, impossible creak of old door hinges. With inhuman effort, she turned her head.

A door had appeared in the solid brick wall of the warehouse. An old door, its blue paint peeling and cracked with age. Warm, dim, honey-colored light spilled from the doorway — light that cast no shadows. It didn’t illuminate the filthy alley; it simply was, a soft, warm island in the middle of the howling, frozen wasteland.

The voices around the corner were getting closer.

This was her only chance. Forcing herself through agony that exploded in every cell of her body, she crawled. Each foot of distance cost her unbearable torment. She left behind a dark, steaming trail in the snow.

Reaching the threshold, her blood-soaked fingers clutched the warm wood. She dragged herself inside, and the door closed silently behind her, cutting off the storm.

Silence. The heavy, dusty silence of an old, dying house.

The air was stale, smelling of rotting wood, mouse droppings, and damp, decaying leaves — like the scent from that park. Faint light seeped through the boarded-up windows, catching on heaps of trash, broken furniture, strips of torn wallpaper hanging from the walls like flayed skin.

She crawled farther across the filthy floor. Pain was everywhere — in every movement, every breath. Unable to tell where reality ended and the blood-loss delirium began, she dragged herself into a corner where a pile of rags lay, and she collapsed into it, burying her face in the dusty, death-scented fabric. She rolled onto her back.

The ceiling above her — discolored by a huge brown water stain — swayed, rippled, dissolved. Consciousness slipped. And in that fevered delirium, on the border between life and death, He came.

He was tall, bestial, covered in writhing black sigils. His head — that of a black goat, with long horns curving backward. In his eyes, glowing with a dim, inhuman intelligence, there was no pity, no lust. Only distant, clinical curiosity. He knelt beside her. His touch was emptiness itself — not even cold.

He took her — not in violence, not in desire, but in ritual. A brutal, primordial act in which her pain, her humiliation, her dying body became an altar. An act of rupture, final and irreversible, tearing her away from the old world.

And in that darkness she felt his teeth. She felt her body dissolve as a dark new force poured into her. Beverly Gacy was dying — so someone else could be born.

She inhaled sharply, and the world snapped back into place — cold, real. She was lying in the same spot, in the snowy alley, slumped against the brick wall. Snow melted beneath her, soaking her jeans with icy water. She touched her wrist — the pulse was steady and strong. She lifted her trembling hands to her face, bracing to feel torn shreds of flesh — but her fingers found smooth skin. No blood. No wounds.

Beverly looked around in shock.

Night. A dark, empty alley. The box of chocolates lay beside her, the bright wrapper torn open, chocolate spheres scattered across the filthy snow. The paper bag lay in a small puddle of fizzing foam, glass shards glinting green in the dim light. The drunken voices, the footsteps — gone, as if they had never existed at all.

Swaying, she got to her feet. Her body felt foreign, too light, as if someone had reached inside and removed all its weight — and with it, all its fear. She rubbed her frozen hands: clean, without a single scratch.

The wind drove flurries of snow across the ground, erasing her tracks. A dream? But the blood, the knife, the man in black, the horned figure—everything had been too vivid, too sharp. And that door... Now there was only a plain wall. Old brickwork, eaten away by time.

Beverly picked up the bag and wandered out of the alley. Carver Falls slept under the snow, silent and indifferent. She walked through the industrial district, then through the woods, feeling neither cold nor the flicker of the occasional streetlamp. Her mind was blank, except for that hazy dream of the man in black. Only one thought pulsed inside her, steady as a metronome:

I accept.

She reached campus past midnight. The dorm met her with dim hallway lights and the smell of damp. Jennifer was sitting on her bed, surrounded by textbooks, a pencil between her teeth. When she saw Beverly, she jumped up, voice trembling.

“Bev, God—where were you? I called you a hundred times!”

Jen rushed toward her but stopped short when she noticed Beverly’s pallor and soaked clothes.

“What happened? Are you okay?”

Beverly forced a smile, though her lips barely obeyed her, as if they belonged to someone else.

“Missed the bus,” she mumbled, tossing the bag with the shattered bottle inside onto the desk. “Was stuck in town. I’m sorry, didn’t mean to scare you.”

Jennifer didn’t believe her, but she didn’t press. She knew well enough: if Beverly didn’t want to talk, there was no cracking her.

“You’re soaked,” Jennifer murmured, handing her a towel. “Go take a shower, warm up.”

Beverly nodded, peeled off her wet clothes, and slipped into the bathroom. The hot water burned her skin, but it didn’t warm her — the cold was rooted deeper, somewhere no heat could reach. She stood beneath the shower, watching the stream swirl down the drain, trying to understand what had happened. The knife. The blood. The door. A dream, or a reality hidden the way a town disappears in fog?

Wrapped in a towel, she stepped to the mirror. It was clouded with steam; she wiped it with her palm.

And in the blurred, misty glass behind her stood another woman.

Tall, with hair black as pitch cascading down her shoulders. Her face was torn, the flesh ripped open to the bone; her eyes glowed an inhuman gold. Horns curved from her brow like those of the goat from the vision — but they weren’t grotesque. She was beautiful, though not with any human beauty: wild, terrifying, mesmerizing like a storm.

She watched Beverly with a satisfied smile, and her hand lay on Beverly’s shoulder — weightless, but commanding.

Beverly didn’t scream. Didn’t flinch. She looked at the creature in the mirror and felt her fear dissolve, replaced by something else. Not horror. A dark, electric fascination. This wasn’t her — and yet it was. Not a victim, but something greater. Something that feared neither knives nor wars nor a world intent on devouring itself.

A heartbeat later the reflection vanished, leaving only Beverly in the mirror — wet, pale, but strangely calm. Something inside her had shifted. The confidence she’d had the day before returned, but it was changed. Deeper. Darker.

She walked back into the room, lay down without a word. Jennifer was still flipping through her textbook. Beverly closed her eyes, and darkness folded over her like the waters of Carver Falls.

She fell asleep, knowing she no longer belonged to this world.