The Demonists Read Online Free

thought of the happiness he would feel as he ascended to the kitchen and raced through the mudroom door into the yard, where he would hungrily gulp the cool autumn air. And he knew that he would cry tears of sadness for his friends, but also sheer joy that he had not shared their terrible fate.
    That he had survived.
    He would have experienced all of that, if only he had been allowed to live.
    If only .

CHAPTER TWO
    I n this place, John Fogg was a child again. In puddles that spread across the vast city street, he could see the reflection of himself clad in his favorite pajamas.
    He was remembering a time, so very long ago now, that he had gone to New York with his folks to see a holiday show. He hadn’t been paying attention, caught up in the excitement of the city and the season, and had stepped away from his parents, eager to see the next of Macy’s wonderfully magical display windows. And suddenly he could no longer find them in the always moving crowd of people that flowed around him.
    No matter where he looked, he saw only unfamiliar faces, and he had cried out for his mother and father for what seemed like an eternity, until finally they were before him. The looks of relief on their faces slowly dissolved to anger, and then the scolding began.
    But he would take the scolding and the nearly painful squeezing pressure of his mother’s grip upon his hand.
    They had found him, and that was all that mattered. John was back on those cold winter streets, only now it was nighttime, and it was raining. He was alone, clad only in his pajamas.
    Why had he gone out onto the city streets wearing only his pajamas?
    He had no answer, just an ever-increasing sense of dread that expanded in his belly like a balloon.
    “Hello?” he called out, but the only response was the patter of freezing rain on the hard, puddle-dappled streets.
    Why am I here? Why am I alone?
    It was the first time that you let the fear in, answered a voice from someplace nearby.
    John spun, looking about Herald Square, finding only parked cars and gray, rain-drenched buildings—not a soul to be found, except for him.
    “Who’s there?” he demanded. “Ma? Dad?”
    Someone laughed. At least he thought it was a someone—hoped that it was a someone.
    Your fear was like a door, John Fogg, the mysterious voice said. So intense that it swung wide, opening you up to all sorts of possibilities.
    “Why can’t I see you?” John asked, his eyes darting to every corner, every shadow. “Why don’t you show yourself?”
    Do you want to see me, John Fogg? the voice asked with all sincerity. Do you really want to see me?
    John didn’t know how he should answer at first, but he managed to push past the expanding bubble of fear in his gut. At least he would have one answer; and for him, it was always about answers.
    “Yes.” He braced himself. “Yes, I really do want to see you.”
    Again he heard that laugh, only this time it was joined by others— many others.
    Well, who am I to deny a child’s wishes?
    A patch of shadow across from where John stood in front of one of Macy’s blackened windows shimmered and waved like a stretch of ocean caressed by the wind. A shape pulled free, standing motionless, watching the boy.
    John felt the nearly uncontrollable urge to run but held his ground, watching the man.
    Maybe . . . maybe he would help him.
    Slowly he began to cross toward the figure. A vague swath of light from a nearby traffic light suddenly illuminated its face, and what John saw stopped him dead in the middle of the deathly quiet Manhattan street.
    The face was as white as the moon in the sky, with eyes as round as the planetoid but void of anything other than deep, sucking darkness. Its mouth was pulled back in a smile that— John supposed —was to be considered friendly and comforting, but couldn’t have been further from that. It reminded him of an old animal trap he had once seen in his uncle’s shed while on a summer visit to West