The Supernormal
By
Ghost Stephens

Have you ever had your face ripped off by a hell-hound?

Let me tell you: it’s not a pleasant experience. More unpleasant, in fact, than falling off the edge of the world, stepping on a LEGO, or considering the possibility of extracting the entirety of reality from a piece of fairy cake.

The problem with hell-hounds is that they’re dogs, and dogs are very loyal and protective of their masters. However, they also come from a place where the nicest thing likely to happen to a person is a refreshing bath in a magma pit, followed by an invigorating sauna session hanging by their angles above a geyser - guaranteed to remove dirt, mainly because all the skin it’s attached to has gone as well.

A hell-hound, then, is likely to savage any who threaten its master.

Panting softly, Buttons rubbed up against Hannah’s leg.

“Why did the style suddenly change?” she said, twitching.

She was sandwiched between Crow and Lydia on a cramped two-seater sofa, blue with rough material and stuffing falling out of the cushions. They were in a small living room which featured only that sofa, an armchair of the same design, a light wooden coffee table covered in scratches in front of them, and a large, flat, high-tech television in the corner.

Heavy purple curtains were drawn across the wide and misty window as the sun completed its downward journey.

“Purple is an appropriate colour,” said Hannah. “Why does Ghost Stephens need so many adjectives?”

“I mean, he did die,” said Crow, shrugging. “Maybe he’s been taking lessons in Hell.”

Lydia narrowed her eyes. “Are you implying that Adam Douglas is in hell?”

“Oh yeah, most writers end up in Hell.” He sniffed. “Too much questioning.”

“It seems like it’s back to normal now,” suggested Alex from the armchair.

“I dunno,” opined Hannah, “suggested isn’t a common speaker tag. And what does opined even mean?!”

“Perhaps this is part of Armageddon,” condescended Lydia.

“Yeah.” Crow crossed one leg over the other, nose palpitating. “Or, and hear me out here, the hell-hound ate him and now he’s writing this from beyond the grave.”

Looking down, Hannah scratched Buttons’ ear. He licked her hand.

“Buttons isn’t a hell-hound!” insisted Alex, frowning.

“Alright. Still.” Crow sniffed. “Does anybody else smell that?”

“Smell what?” asked Lydia.

“Brimstone.” He pointed at Buttons. “It’s coming from over there.”

They all shook their heads slowly.

“Right, well.” He rose to his feet, heading to a door in the back wall. Spinning back around, he halted. “Actually, Alex, where exactly are your parents?”

Hugging his legs, Alex said, “mum’s not around, and dad works late. He’ll be back about ten.”

Something twinged in Hannah’s chest.

“I see,” said Crow, hands behind his back. “So you’ve just gotta look after yourself?”

Folding his arms, Alex said. “I’m fifteen. And I have Buttons.”

“Yeah.” Crow strode to the kitchen door, pulling a phone from his jacket and waving it. “Hell of a guard dog. Seems like the author has a grip on his ghost style, now, so I’m just gonna make a call.”

Alex eyed them all suspiciously. “Who even are you people? What is the BMA?”

She started; it had taken him long enough.

He’d let them in without questioning, and not even asked Lydia for ID when she’d claimed to be part of an organisation. One that didn’t exist.

Preferring to err on the side of trust, even Hannah had her limits; inviting three weirdos in off her doorstep was definitely one of them. More power to him, she supposed.

Maybe she should take it as a compliment.

Or slap him in the head.

“We already told you,” shouted Crow through the open door, “we’re here to stop the apocalypse!”

Alex’s jaw dropped. “But… what does that have to do with me?”

“You’re the bloody Antichrist! No, not you, Azure.”

Trembling, his eyes overflowed. Buttons yapped and ran over, jumping up to snuggle in his lap.

“That can’t be a hell-hound,” said Hannah, studying it. “No way.”

“Of course not,” said Lydia, flapping her hand. “This boy is far too dim to be the Antichrist.”

“Hey!”

“What if we were demons here to kidnap you and use you for nefarious purposes?”

“I didn’t know about any of this until five minutes ago!”

“Also,” said Hannah, “one of us is a demon.”

Blanching, Alex’s eyes widened. “What?”

“Or so he says,” said Lydia, sniggering. “I’m still not entirely convinced about this entire thing.”

“Then why are you here?”

She shrugged. “I had nothing better to do.”

“Or so she says,” said Hannah, smiling, “but she still shows up every day.”

“Quiet, girl.” She coughed, noting the four demons who had appeared in the other doorway, which led to the hall. She narrowed her eyes. “How long have you been there?”

“Not long,” said the one in the lead.

Shaking her head, Hannah said, “how did you get here?”

“None of your business,” said the demon, sneering.

She threw her arms up. “I think the readers deserve an explanation, at least! How about some description?”

Right, sorry.

The lead demon looked human, aside from the shadow effect covering his skin, and the ram's horns curling up from his temples. Tall and burly, he cut an intimidating figure accentuated by the fact he wore nothing but a loincloth. Black hair hung loose down his back; his eyes were a sickening yellow

The others were dressed similarly, with differing builds and an odd collection of animal horns, which didn’t always apply to the ones on their heads - the loincloths were painfully small.

Hannah growled. “Not that kind of description! You missed an entire event, you idiot; how do we not notice a bunch of demons walking in?!”

Saphira flew across-

“That’s the wrong story!”

Knitting his brow, Crow reentered the room. “Oh, bugger. Hello, Malacoda.”

The long-haired demon inclined his head. “Ah, Crow. It appears you beat us here. Shall we?”

Hannah and Lydia jumped up, standing in front of Alex; Buttons leapt from his lap, growling at the demon quartet.

“No,” said Crow, a pair of elk antlers sprouting from his forehead. “We shall not.”

“In that case,” said Malacoda, smirking. “We’ll just take him anyway.” He thrust a glowing hand at Crow, face scrunching when it didn’t work. He studied his hand.

“Boss,” said one of the other demons, with a bull’s horns and deep red hair, “they got a magus.”

***

Grinning, Lydia stepped towards the demons.

The plane of Hell was real, but the stories had been embellished there and back. Still, demons were dangerous; that’s why she’d attacked Lord Lost so fervently.

“Take Alex,” she said to the others. “I’ll stop them here.”

Crow marched over, staring into her eyes. It unnerved her; she felt as though she were diving into yellow pits of madness.

“Don’t be stupid,” he said, “this is an elite squad. There’s no way you can take them on alone.”

She scoffed. “In other words, they might provide a moment of entertainment.”

Exhaling, he said, “just don’t get yourself killed.”

Who did he think she was? If he’d spent enough time on Earth to love it as much as he said, there was no way he didn’t know who the Blackwells were.

She had nothing to worry about.

“How are we supposed to get out?” said Hannah, swallowing. “They’re in the doorway.”

She thrust out her right arm, creating vibrations in the air and shattering the window. Crashing and tinkling, the glass fell to the ground outside.

A freezing breath wafted in and caressed the skin of her bare arms.

Yanking the curtain open, Crow gestured the others out. “Right, let’s go. We can take my car, I left it round the corner the other day.”

Alex glared at him. “Have you been watching me?”

He scratched his ear. “No, course not. Come on!” Jumping through the empty fenestration, he looked back with an urgent expression.

“Why would you leave it there?” said Hannah, dragging Alex’s arm as she hopped out.

“Fancied a walk.”

Alex held out an arm as he exited. “Come on, Buttons.”

Retreating, the dog snarled at the pair of demons who had tried to follow, its eyes glowing red; they were hesitating, and that was all she needed.

Maybe a different flavour, this time. She didn’t want to bore herself.

It was almost like clutching at smoke, but she could catch smoke - and she caught the nuclear forces holding their bodies together, even if her brain was overheating.

Intensifying them, she removed the empty space from their atoms.

They disappeared.

“Run!” she yelled, and the others didn’t need any more prompting. Buttons galloped after them, and she regarded Malacoda and his lackey with a smirk.

They both had eyes like dinner plates; Malacoda curled his lip and flared his nostrils, whilst the minion ground his teeth, fists clenched.

“What did you do to them?” said Malacoda, voice low.

She licked her lips. “I made them as small as… well, something very small. I imagine the extra empty space in their heads didn’t do them any favours.”

Looking down, Malacoda chuckled madly. His goon, though, let out a primal cry and charged at Lydia.

As he reached out a hand adorned by glittering claws, she swayed her head aside. Grabbing his wrist, she shoved her hips into his leg and flipped him over her back; when he was vertical, she flashed him a killer smile.

He thumped down on the chair, a strangled cry escaping his throat as he slumped face-first to the floor.

Shrouding her hand in an air blade, she shoved it through his neck. He gurgled.

She suddenly left her feet, but it felt like she’d left her stomach behind. A pair of muscular arms wrapped around her torso, dragging her into the air; they crashed through one ceiling, and then another, dust invading her eyes and lungs.

She hacked, her lungs convulsing as she struggled for breath. Her eyes watered.

Looking down, she grimaced. They were at least a thousand feet up, and still climbing; houses quickly became specks, and roads tiny ribbons of black. She felt dizzy, her head trying to swap places with her feet as her stomach lurched.

“See you in Hell,” said Malacoda, slinging her down.

Shooting towards the ground, she tried to turn her head; the fucker had grown wings. Why hadn’t Crow warned her about that? Did he even know?

She should have asked about the hierarchy in Hell, rather than being dismissive.

Live and learn, she thought.

As she was about to die.

The ground rapidly approached, her heart beating drums against her tonsils. She suppressed a scream; screaming wouldn’t help.

The wind tore at her, ripping across her eyes and skin. She teared up.

Fifty feet.

Tensing her muscles, she readied for impact.

Thirty feet.

She smiled sadly.

Ten feet.

A face appeared in her mind, pale and a little drawn and surrounded by beautiful chestnut hair.

She hit the ground.