Free The Demonists by Thomas E. Sniegoski Page B

ited the clinging darkness.
    The Teacher listened to that special song, and heard in its beautiful tune a message only for him. A message that told him that sacrifices would have to be made for this wonder to be true.
    To actually become reality.
    And then Barrett realized that this fantastic moment, this transcendent experience had yet to occur.
    That this was all a dream.
    And his sadness and rage were like a thing alive. He looked at those who had spurned him, cast him out from their tribe, and he hated them more than ever before. One by one he took them, tossing them from the rooftop of the school, down into the enormity of his master, to be swallowed up by his awesomeness.
    To be one with the god.
    There was nothing he wanted more for himself, but he knew that his work was not yet done.
    To see this dream—this beautiful fantasy—come true, he had to do his job. He had to teach. He had to plant the seed.
    And in order for that seed to grow, the soil had to be rich, and moist with the blood of the innocent.
    Barrett Winfield opened his eyes to the new day.
    He lay atop the stained mattress, wrapped in sweat-soaked sheets, and realized that something had happened—that he was no longer the same—that he had been transformed.
    His old self was gone. Only the teacher now remained. The Teacher.
    He smiled. Barrett had been weak, without purpose, but now . . . The Teacher rose from the bed, filled with the drive to continue his holy mission and fulfill his purpose. He stood in the center of the room, surrounded by the filth of his old life, anxious to wash away the last remains of Barrett Winfield, to slough off that skin and reveal the Teacher beneath.
    Walking atop the detritus of years, he made his way to the bathroom. It was as filthy as the rest of the house. He had to pull out dozens of trash bags filled with old clothes before he could climb into the dirt-caked tub. Then he cast off his undergarments, adding them to the piles of dirty clothes that already littered the floor.
    Standing naked and exposed, the Teacher reached for the knobs, turning them, hearing the moans and groans of ancient pipes asleep from lack of use. The center knob turned with a whining shriek, and a blast of icy, rust-colored water vomited forth from the showerhead, gradually turning to warm as he shivered beneath the liquid spray. He stuck his face beneath the gout, to rinse away the last vestiges of Barrett’s appearance, his hands now moving across his dirty body, scrubbing at what remained of Barrett’s skin. He closed his eyes, imagining layers of skin sloughing off from his body, dissolving away and washing thickly down the drain.
    His hands moved over his stomach and chest, but stopped when he felt something that he hadn’t felt before.
    Something that shouldn’t have been there.
    For a moment he felt that sudden, typically human fear.
    Cancer. But he was beyond human thought now. He stroked the odd, fleshy growth just beneath, and in the center of his chest, feeling it move beneath his fingers. Strangely it did not concern him.
    In fact, it excited him, filling him with a sense that it was supposed to be there, that this was a message.
    The Teacher smiled and continued to scrub at the filth that was Barrett Winfield, until only the pristine form of the Teacher remained. Then he dried himself with some towels he’d found wedged beneath boxes of crusted cleaning products and returned to his bedroom to stand before the broken mirror.
    The Teacher admired his naked body, surprised at how different he appeared, and yet so familiar. Moving closer to the mirror, he brought a tentative hand to the discolored growth just beneath his chest and stroked it gently.
    Lovingly.
    And practically burst into tears as he watched it move with life and begin to grow.

CHAPTER SIX
    J ohn Fogg had been too excited to sleep.
    The flights had been inconsequential, giving him the opportunity to catch up on some reading, but he found himself horribly