Cain scrambled to his feet and bolted for the stairs. The Malignant lunged, its gaping maw aimed to swallow him whole. Cain's eyes darted around the living room, snagging on a wooden dining chair. He snatched it up as he ran, and at the last second, he swung it in a wide, desperate arc. The chair connected with the creature's side and shattered into splinters. The blow didn't hurt it, but it altered its trajectory just enough. The Malignant crashed into the wall with a wet thud instead of landing on him.
Cain didn't look back. He took the stairs two at a time, his heart a frantic drum in his ears.
Behind him, the Malignant righted itself with an angry hiss. Where its acidic saliva had dripped on the floor, the linoleum bubbled and melted away, leaving smoking pits. It dropped to all fours and began to crawl up the stairs after him, its movements unnervingly swift. It drew in a long, rattling breath, savoring the scent.
"You can run," it taunted, using Amelia's voice, each word a grotesque parody. "But I can still smell you."
It continued its cruel monologue as it ascended, mocking him for being a bad friend. Unlike Gabriel, it hissed, he was never there when Amelia needed him most. As it neared the top of the stairs, it could see the trail of his terror like a visible mist in the air, leading to a spot just behind the corner wall of the hallway.
The Malignant, confident in its prey's helplessness, slowed. It crept to the edge of the wall and began to peek around it.
Cain was waiting.
He erupted from his hiding spot and brought his old acoustic guitar down on the creature's head with all his strength. The wood cracked with a discordant twang. The impact sent the Malignant tumbling back down the staircase in a tangle of limbs.
"Got you, bitch!" Cain yelled, a burst of adrenaline-fueled triumph surging through him. He stood at the top of the stairs, raising a defiant middle finger.
The Malignant looked up from the heap at the bottom. Its torso-maw contorted. It spat.
A glob of thick, clear acid shot through the air. It struck Cain directly in the chest. There was a sizzling, tearing sound. Cain watched in horror as his shirt, his skin, his flesh dissolved in an instant. The acid ate through to bone, then through the bone itself. The world went white with agony, then black.
He blinked.
He was back behind the wall, his hands clenched around the neck of the guitar. They were shaking violently. His heart was trying to punch its way out of his chest. A cold sweat drenched his body. The strange mark on his forearm pulsed with a faint, warm heat. His ears rang with a high-pitched whine.
A vision?
Is this because I'm still dreaming?
The Malignant's mocking voice floated up the stairs again, the same taunts, the same cadence. Cain pushed the terrifying premonition aside and focused. He tightened his grip on the guitar. He heard the faint scrabble of claws on the steps, then the subtle shift of air as something peeked around the corner.
He swung.
The guitar connected with the same sickening crunch. The Malignant shrieked and tumbled down the stairs once more.
"Got you again, bitch!" Cain shouted, the laugh ripping from his throat. He started to raise his middle finger again, but the memory of searing, instant death flashed behind his eyes. He jerked his hand down.
He didn't wait. He turned and sprinted down the hallway toward his bedroom. Behind him, he heard the wet spat of acid hitting the exact spot where he'd just been standing. He slammed his bedroom door shut and leaned against it, his breath coming in ragged gasps.
The Malignant recovered. It let out a furious roar and leapt, clearing the rest of the stairs in a single bound. Its claws dug deep grooves into the hallway floorboards as it landed. It paused, sniffing the air, then began a slow, deliberate crawl toward his door. It stopped just outside.
"I know you're in there, Cain," it whispered, Amelia's voice now a singsong taunt through the wood. "You've always hidden in your room. Ever since you were a child. Because you're alone. You've always been alone." It laughed, a wet, gurgling sound.
Cain pressed his back against the door, his heart hammering so hard he felt dizzy. His eyes swept the room. There was nothing. Just his bed, his dresser, a small desk chair. No weapon. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to force himself awake, to break the dream. It was useless.
Panic was a live wire in his veins. The Malignant kept whispering, digging at his deepest insecurities with stolen words.
Then, a new sound. A soft crack. He looked down. A fissure was spiderwebbing across his bedroom floor. From it, a thick, ink-black liquid began to ooze, not with the acidic sizzle of the Malignant's drool, but with a cold, silent menace. It spread rapidly, covering the floor, pooling around his feet. He was too terrified to move.
The liquid rippled at its center. Then, two massive, humanoid hands emerged from the pool, pressing down on the floor as something pushed itself up.
An Aspect.
It rose to its full height, an eight-foot-tall monument of nightmare flesh. Its form was a chaotic fusion of muscle, exposed bone, and solidified black tar that coated its limbs like armor. Six powerful arms, each ending in hands large enough to crush a human skull, twitched at its sides. Molten rock, glowing with a dull inner heat, dripped from its palms, hissing as it hit the void-pool floor. Two massive, twisted horns curved from its head. It had no eyes, just a massive, lipless mouth frozen in a permanent, jagged-toothed grin. From its back, eerie blue flames burned without consuming, casting the room in a cold, ghostly light.
It stood before Cain. The sheer presence of it was a physical weight, a dread so profound it stole the air from his lungs. The pressure radiating from it was so immense it even affected the Malignant outside the door. The creature's taunts cut off, replaced by a whimper of pure fear. Cain heard it kneel, its body pressing submissively to the floor.
The Aspect took a step forward. The floorboards groaned in protest. It leaned down, bringing its grotesque, grinning face level with Cain's. When it spoke, its voice was not sound, but a vibration felt in the bones, the sensation of death given words.
"Shall I save you?"
One of its enormous, magma-dripping hands reached out. It cupped Cain's cheek. The touch was instant, unbearable agony. His skin blistered and melted where the burning tar made contact. He couldn't scream. He could only gasp in short, desperate pants.
The Aspect asked again, its breath a furnace blast. "Shall I save you?" Its jaw unhinged, and a long, black, prehensile tongue slithered out. It rasped over the weeping burns on Cain's face. The creature seemed to savor the taste of his terror.
"What… are you?" Cain managed to stutter, the words a broken whisper.
The Aspect stopped. It tilted its head. "I am."
Then, with a burst of motion faster than thought, it lunged. Its jaws, lined with rows of needle-sharp teeth, opened wide and engulfed Cain's entire head.
Everything went black.
Cain's eyes flew open. He sat bolt upright in bed, a scream tearing from his throat. His hands flew up to shield his face from an attack that wasn't there. He was drenched in cold sweat, his entire body trembling.
Lucifer was there instantly, materializing beside his bed. She felt the storm of panic and primal fear radiating from him. "What is wrong, Cain?" she asked, her voice calm. She reached out and placed a hand on his shoulder.
He flinched violently, his survival instincts taking over. He swung a wild, desperate punch at the figure beside him. His fist connected with her cheek with a soft thud. It had no effect, as if he'd struck a marble statue.
Lucifer's eyes glowed softly. She didn't react to the punch. Instead, she focused, gently dividing and dispersing the overwhelming panic and fear that gripped him. The suffocating terror began to recede, like a tide pulling back.
Cain's vision cleared. He looked up and saw her face. The morning sun streamed through his window, illuminating her golden hair and serene features. She was giving him a small, reassuring smile.
"By the rhythm of your heart and the shallowness of your breath, I perceive you endured a fell dream. A nightmare of grave intensity," she said, sitting on the edge of his bed, her hand still a steadying weight on his shoulder.
"Lucifer," he breathed, his voice hoarse. He lowered his fist and slowly looked around. This was his room. His real room. The familiar cracks in the ceiling, the faded band poster on the wall.
Am I still dreaming?
The high-pitched ringing started in his ears again, just like in the dream. He moved his arm, and a sharp, burning sensation lanced through his forearm. He looked down.
There, etched into the flesh of his right forearm, was a perfect, livid burn in the shape of a large, grotesque handprint. And beside it, a strange, intricate symbol he had never seen before seemed to have been branded into his skin.
"What the fuck?" Confusion warred with dawning horror on his face. When he looked up at Lucifer, her expression held no surprise. It was as if she had been expecting this.
"It seems the Aspects have located you already," she said, her voice quiet. She reached out and touched the burn mark. Under her fingertips, the angry, blistered flesh smoothed and healed, the pain vanishing. But the handprint scar and the strange symbol remained, indelible.
"What are you talking about?" Cain asked, his brow furrowed.
"This is the Mark of the First Murderer," Lucifer said, her voice dropping into a low, solemn register, as if reciting an ancient and dreaded truth. She continued to gently stroke his forearm. "There is but one explanation for its manifestation upon you."
She met his wide, frightened eyes, her own glowing with ancient knowledge.
"You are the reincarnation of Cain. The murderer of Abel."