Granny

That damn pie looks so damn good sitting on that stove like that. I knew she would bake it...she always does...every sunday. Surprised the old bitch hasn't burnt the whole damn house down in her state. For some reason cooking evokes a certain level of familiarity in her. It brings back all of her olfactory senses. Its amusing to watch her prancing about with the ingredients...humans make such grand importance out of the most inane little things. Especially this one here...oh she's  really a gotdamn piece of work. Look at the silly way she places such care when mixin up the tiny bits of minced beef with pieces of celery, carrots, and onions.

I cant lie though....it does look very tasty. Very tasty indeed. So much so that some times I wish my vibrational frequency was low enough where I could eat mortal food without getting sick. It really pisses me off that her idiot son and that hideous turnip of a granddaughter always come by around this time every week. Their sickeneing loyalty to her is utterly screwing things up. It's really hard for me to operate at full power in a house with so much damned love energy lingering around. Bad enough I have to watch the two of them every week gobbling down all the damn pie as greedily as two whoring fat sows in a pen.

Her routine is always the same, she wakes up and before she heads to the bathroom she likes to take out the same picture of her husband. She places it between her legs. Once she's comfortable, she reaches for that same dirty old red toothbrush and then starts to masturbate herself furiously for at least an hour. The filthy old slut! Her thoughts are so beastial whenever she remembers him. In those moments she's like a wild animal. Its fucking insane, but I do have to admit....it gets me off as well. Me and some of the other boys take great pleasure in watching her fuck herself.

The times when her fucking faggot of a husband does show up to join her, things always turn into a fight. I ask myself just how in the bloody hell did he get so fucking strong in the first place? In our last encounter that piece of shit almost ripped off my damn ear. Now I cant physically get "close" to her or any of them because of his...fuckery.

It doesn't matter though. There are still ways around all of that white light shit. I still find the means to have my "fun". She's an old crusty black whore...she doesnt have a lot of time left on this plane. I plan on making her last days as miserable as fucking possible. Once I've figured out a way to get my seed into her, she'll be too tainted to cross over to the light realm and then I'll finally be able to claim her all to myself. When that happens she'll have no choice but to become my sex slave for all eternity.

There she goes..she's sitting on the toilet smoking a cigarette. Since that faggot died she's started smoking again. Literally  going through a pack and a half a day.

It's still early, let me liven things up a bit....

She's one tough resilient old bitch I'll give her that. No matter what I do, she always goes back to that damn book. It weakens me for a time I admit, but then I always regain my power and our little "game" continues.

"Skreeeeeeeeeeekkkk!"

"Oh Lord Jesus! Jesus! It's doing it again! Where's my bible?"

Mildred Dobbs rushes off the toilet seat still naked and searches around maniacly for an old black bible she always keeps nearby. Her knees are aching and her joints crack with stiffness. Today is a good day for her...at least she can remember the names of all her children. She finally finds what she's looking for nestled underneath the slightly stained pearl sheets covering her queen size bed.

She gets it open and turns to her favorite prayer-Psalm 91. The book is an old thing, a gift from her grandmother when she was just a little girl. The binding is coming apart at the strings, the cover is fading and dilapidated, the pages are stained yellow with age. Nevertheless, it serves its purpose, it's been her comfort and strength for 68 of her 81 odd years of existence on this earth. 

Mildred is trembling and scared but this psalm always gives her courage. She speaks in a low guttural tone, with a voice like a choked dream desperately trying to emerge from the darkness of bleak unconsciousness.

"Whoever dwells in the shelter of the most high, will rest in the shadow of the Almighty..."

As she finishes she feels the panic start to subside. The cauldrons of fear begin to cool, and her weary heart is at ease once more.

"You ain't gonna get me you dirty dog muthafucka!"

Vehemently she curses in defiance and disgust. Fully aware of the malevolent forces now inhabiting her living space. It's been like this for six whole months. Ever since her late husband passed away. An endless series of diabolic sounds, whispers, ramblings, and intimations haunt her waking moments. In her dreams she sees wild and horrific images of torture and suffering too violent and perverse to dare describe into words. Most of the really bad parts she keeps to herself. Not daring to speak about them for fear she may be thought even more senile than she already is.

Only her six children know of her ordeal.

She calls them frequently whenever she can remember how to use her phone. Her eldest son Robert comes to visit her every Sunday. He is the only one that still fights for her to stay in her old house. The rest unanimously want her in a nursing home. They feel it's better she be around trained medical professionals than to live by herself at her age.

"Hello...R..Robbie? ..is that you baby? Can you come see me today? It's happening again, I just heard it. Please hurry baby...I'm scared."

Mildred grips her bible and holds it close to her heart. She slips on a pair of black slippers, puts on her favorite pink dress followed by her old grey wool robe. Tying the withered strands of her grey hair into a bun, she walks into the kitchen and starts an old aluminum kettle of tea. If her son could see her performing this action he would scold her. Although he still savors her food he always reprimands her about cooking when he's not there. With her memory being so bad he worries that one day she'll fall asleep and forget to turn off the gas stove. Luckily for both of them it seems  that just for today she has her "wits" about her enough to remember to turn the knob to the "off" position once the kettle starts to whistle.

She proceeds to pour the hot steaming liquid into a green mug given to her as a gift from her favorite granddaughter. The words "I love you grandma" are inscribed in big golden letters across it. From all the way across the room Mildred can literally feel a sinister pair of eyes watching her every movement. They are hateful eyes filled with nothing but insidious evil. The intense malignant energy emanating from the entity frightens her to the core causing goosebumps to appear all over the skin on her body. Her hands begin to tremble uncontrollably and she almost drops her mug. The stubbornness in her spirit however doesn't allow her to give in to the foul desires of the creature. A lifetime spent dealing with the harsh realities of raising six kids in a society seasoned by racism, bigotry, and discrimination have hardened her inside and out. She's never ran from a fight in her entire life and she damn sure isn't about to start now. She refuses to cow to the fear bubbling up inside her. So still clutching her bible in one hand and her mug of herbal tea in the other, she valiantly makes her way onto her front porch. The old faded eggshell white oak boards creak loudly under the weight of her defiant footsteps. She hobbles her way into her old rocking chair and begins to hum a hymn whilst taking a sip of herbal tea.

From her porch she has a sideline view of the entire neighborhood. There's a large Hispanic community that lives on this block now. Most of them have lived here for the past 10 years. Mildred can remember when she and her husband used to sit on this same porch watching their kids play in the yard. Back when they were the only two "colored" people on the block. It's a nice quiet southern community, her parents were a pair of west indian immigrants who married young and seeing little opportunity on their island, sold everything they had to come to America and work in the deep south as sharecroppers. She was born in a small town only a couple of miles away. She and her husband bought this house once they got married back in 1964.

My how things have changed since then.

She can still remember the day when Dr. King was murdered, still remember the sadness and disbelief in all of the adults around her. She remembers when she had to use a separate bathroom or go to the blacks only movie theater all the way across town. So many things have changed since those days and Mildred's old eyes have been blessed to have seen many wonders. She's seen a man walk on the moon. Seen people carry around whole computers in their pockets. Most amazingly, she's seen her country swear in it's first black president. Something that people in her day always thought would be impossible.

Mildred knows as long as she sits under the warm orange glow of the sunshine it cant get to her. She knows there are rules to this little game that even it must follow.

She will sit and wait until her son pulls up in his black SUV.

The daemon prince T'yal menacingly sulks in the kitchen. She is right, it cannot follow her so long as she remains under natural sunlight. It is perched on a countertop just above the kitchen sink. It's slender scaly pink body writhes and moans in lustful frustration. It wants her....it desires her. Yet each time it is thwarted. Her son will arrive soon with his miserable little daughter. They will exchange the usual sickening displays of love and affection then commence to eating the pie that she has so graciously prepared.

Suddenly a fiendish idea births in its black consciousness.

Since it cannot directly approach her or any of her loved ones at the moment. Then perhaps it can find a way to destroy all of their lives by way of some other means. After all it is not a being comprised of flesh and blood but one made up of pure infernal energy? Thus it can assume any form and enter into inanimate objects and people...provided they are willing participants.

It looks at the pie and a devilish grin washes over its face. There are no laws preventing it from inhabiting a dormant object. The beautiful warm pie will make a delicious host it thinks to itself. Savoring this prospect, the entity almost curses itself for not thinking of such a wondrous idea sooner. For how else could he truly become one with his "bride"?