The demons whisper. I smile, because everything is okay; this is normal for me. Forked tongues enunciate sandpapery syllables, soft and sultry in my ear. Heavy claws drag along the ground behind me. I cannot see them, but I know they are there, because they are always whispering.

They never shut up, not even when I am working. I suppose they get bored, because there is not much else to do in my cubicle besides work, but every time a coworker glances at me or speaks to me, the voices in my head swell into a jumbled cacophony.

“How dare she look at us!”

“Do something, Liz!”

“Rip his throat out! Feel his blood on your hands!”

“…you’re too docile, Liz.”

“Knock it off, guys. You are not funny,” I mumble. All of my coworkers think I am nuts, but they have no idea.

They seem agitated. I whisper back to them in low, harsh tones. I tell them no. They are my friends, but they have bad ideas. Their jokes are not funny. They want me to hurt somebody. After a while, the voices grow louder, more insistent. 

Sometimes, it gets hard to say no. I really just want to enjoy my dinner, but every time I look up from my plate, I feel a thrill of bloodlust that isn’t my own. 

The waiter comes to refill my drink. My fingers itch for the knife.

I hurt someone today. No, I did not hurt him… I fucking ripped him apart. His blood was all over the place, it stains, it stinks so good but it tastes even better ─ This is not healthy, I know it is not.

Tinny music crackles over the old radio on the countertop. I sit cross-legged on the kitchen table and speak raptly into the near-silence. I can see them now.

They are everywhere, curled and sprawled languidly on the floor and the countertops and the windowsill. Round yellow eyes with constricted pupils blink up at me. There is a certain gleam in those evil irises that I find comforting. I tell them all about it. 

I do not think I have ever seen anything quite so beautiful. They are all identical in their sleek reptilian bodies and square, skull-like heads. Long doggish snouts grin at me, pearly white teeth flashing, forked tongues spilling out from behind the jagged confines of their smiles. I tell them all about it, and I think they approve.

My mother says I should start dating. She says I am too old to be so lonely. What she does not understand, though, is that I am not lonely. How could I be, when my best friends are always with me? They have been with me for almost ten years. Regardless, she has set me up with her friend’s son.

He is a nice boy. He is very polite. I think he knows that there is something wrong with me. I think it is obvious now. The waitress is avoiding our table; I think she knows too.

I think I love this boy. My friends are all incredulous; they protest at the tops of their lungs, but I tune them all out. I walk down the aisle in my white dress. My mother is crying.

She is so happy. So am I, I think.

I am pregnant. We are all very pleased. My husband cried when I told him. My friends all gambol joyously around me. They say that this is perfect. They are thrilled for me. They say that I am glowing.

Somebody has killed my husband. They could not prove it was me, but we all know. Nobody will talk to me, not even my mother. I think she regrets introducing us. I do not blame her. I vaguely remember washing his blood down the sink. I cannot remember why I did it, but I think my friends approved.

My head is so full of noise. They have become so chatty, like they were before. I try to tell them that it will never happen again, but they will not listen. They are so confident, so ecstatic that I am becoming more like them. It takes a long time to convince them.

Then they become sulky. Persistently, they try, but it is clear that they will not win. I am good at this game by now. We play it all the time. I am getting bored, however. The game is no longer fun. I cannot recall if it ever was. 

My head has been so quiet since my son was born. I miss my friends. I wonder where they went. I cannot remember ever feeling so alone… 

Years pass in silence.

It is four years before I am comfortable leaving him with a babysitter. Her name is Julia, and she is lovely and kind. I have been so lonely with the loss of my friends. I have decided that it is time to date again. 

I was wrong. This man was scum, nothing at all like my husband. I break my promise, and as I wash the blood from my hands, I expect for my head to become flooded with noise. I expect to witness the reappearance of my friends behind me in the mirror. It does not happen. All remains quiet, and it takes a lot out of me to avoid crying. I do not remember the last time I cried. I do not remember a time before I felt this empty. 

I go home instead. It is so quiet there, too. I wonder if my son is sleeping. I go to his room.

He is crouched over something. There is something red all over him. It is blood. 

He is crouched over Julia. Her blank eyes stare at me, asking why. Her blood is all over his face, all over his fingers. He is chewing on something, and I do not have to wonder what. Julia’s jugular is torn. 

My son swallows and looks up at me, smiling widely. His eyes are the most beautiful golden yellow. They are not supposed to be.

“Hi, mommy,” he giggles. His little teeth are so brightly white, so inhumanly sharp. The words drag themselves from his throat so violently. That is not him. There is something, a glint in those eyes that are not his, that seems familiar.

“Hello, Liz.”

I see them now, coiled lovingly around my son’s body. My friends are back, only they are not mine anymore. They are beckoning me with their forked, lolling tongues and their steely talons. Their bodies are warm, welcoming. My son is toddling towards me, chubby hands outstretched. My friends all wear identical grins. My son is talking in that same distorted voice, but I am not listening. I stare longingly at my friends.

“Did you miss us?”

I did.