Dark Horse

Forty

The demon hugged its secret pleasure to its breast. To have a person at one's mercy, to manipulate their fears and terrors and stretch and play with their emotions, was the most powerful feeling on earth.

And now the demon had made another startling discovery. Contrary to all its expectations, men were nowhere near as satisfying as women when it came to the indulgence of torment. Not even close! Too solid and one-dimensional in their thoughts. No imagination to play on. Masculine suggestibility did not have one tenth of the fertile soil that the female mind enjoyed.

The demon turned farmer.

Sowing seeds of terror, watching them sprout and take root in the soul it had chosen. And, like any good landsman, it nurtured its crop, feeding its victim's destruction a bit at a time, just enough to make the crop grow, but not so much that it would bolt.

Because the best time to reap is when the crop is young and at its most tender…

The demon was content to wait.

Time was on its side.

Always had been. Always will.