The Devil You Know

Three months ago, my sister-in-law disappeared. Diana vanished without a trace. She was seventeen. Ten years younger than me and eight years younger than my wife. While she was an adopted sibling, Diana and Emma, my wife, were really close. Emma was closer to Diana than to her blood siblings. Hell, some of that rubbed off on me, too. I love that kid. We were both trying to help her figure herself out. She has had some issues she had to deal with. That’s what you get from foster care and years of neglect.

Diana was into the whole Satanism deal. She had only scratched the surface of the so-called Dark Side, Hollywood Satanism or Pop Satanism. Fueled by youthful spirits of rebellion, she gravitated toward the anti-Christian anti-traditionalist mindset. Finding her interests to be a well of untapped potential, I introduced her to the Misanthropic Luciferian Order, the Setian Temple, and all other offshoots of “Devil worship” to show her just how silly all things were. Soon enough she ditched her whole Satanist approach, finding it utterly idiotic in her own words. Smart kid.

The moment we found out she disappeared, I immediately regretted introducing her to the MLO and DSMB. My worries became justified in my own head after she had failed to show up anywhere a whole day after Emma had last seen her. Diana had reoccurring bouts of depression; some of which were incredibly close to being outright suicidal. The possibility of her taking her own life became all too real with each passing day. We couldn’t find any signs to the contrary. I was eating myself over, potentially having a hand in that.

Everything went to shit after Diana had gone missing. Emma was obviously having it worse than me, infinitely so. The stress of it all was driving us both crazy to the point we’d just spend nights in bed staring at the ceiling together, unable and unwilling to fall asleep. Life seemed to slow down and lose some of its color.

Thankfully, the ordeal didn’t affect our marriage. I’d hate to add additional stress to Emma’s already crumbling psyche. The one thing that seemed strange to me was that my mother-in-law stopped calling in. Usually, she’d call a few times a week just to chat with Emma and me.

She’d been trying to compensate for being a terrible mother earlier in Emma’s life. I know that it’s reasonable for a mother whose child had gone missing to lose interest in casual chatting, especially so soon after the disappearance. What was odd about it is that Diana was last seen by anyone at our place. And yet, my mother-in-law never called or came to talk or anything, really.

She just refused to speak. When Emma had driven over to talk to her mother in person. Her mom simply refused her entry, and they ended up having a huge fight over it. I was livid when I found out about it. Once again, Emma’s mother was having these pointless, idiotic outbursts over nothing aimed at her daughter, at my wife. Over absolutely nothing. It had nothing to do with Diana’s disappearance. Nothing at all. She just refused to see her, that’s it.

There was little I could do, however, and the anger quickly turned into overwhelming sadness. That night, I’m sure I had a nightmare. I’m certain I was seeing the bloated, decaying, deathly pale, grotesque imitation of Diana’s form stare at me from the distant end of a corridor covered in darkness. Maggot-infested gashes covered almost every inch of her arms, face, and neck.

The nightmare became a reoccurring event, haunting my mind nearly every day for three months. Between nightmarish episodes, I’ve started suffering from sleep paralysis and the hallucinations associated with them. The worst part of it is that I don’t see any odd demon lurking at the base of my bed or the corner of my room. I keep seeing that disgusting parody of Diana’s body standing there, bleeding out worms and dirt as her blue eyes look at me pleading…

I haven’t told Emma about that. I didn’t want to worry her. She knows I’m suffering from night terrors, and I’m pretty sure she is, too. She had told me she was having nightmares as well. It scares me to think she might’ve been dealing with the same horrendous terrors I have.

The breaking point came last week. I came home from work, ready to just fall on the floor of the living room and pass out from sheer exhaustion. Seeing me home, Emma started throwing a fit. Gradually raising her voice to the point of screaming at me about how she could no longer take it and being sick and tired of everything.

At first, I did not know what to do or say, but then she just lowered her voice and kissed me. Sighing deeply, Emma said she needed a break from all of this.

Right then, I found a new breath and suggested we go out camping for the weekend. We used to camp together all the time when we started dating. Camping away from the stress, the pain, everything was a good idea - great even. Not a moment passed, and we both were already packing.

I ran down to the basement to pick up our camping gear, but as soon as I opened the door, all of my plans were blown away. Along with my ability to breathe without suffocating on a thick cloud of rotten eggs and mold-like substances floating through the air.

I haven’t been there in months, but I clearly remembered not leaving anything that could sprout mold or spoil in the basement.

Resisting the urge to vomit because of the stench, I stepped inside, with a clear goal in mind; to turn on the light and get rid of the source of the vile stench.

The light went up; illuminating the space all around me. Thoughtlessly exposing what had stunk up the basement. It was forcing me to face the sickening mess carelessly dumped in a corner of the basement. Shock and nausea reverberated through my body as I could only stand there and stare at what was once Diana.

Her partially decomposed body. Bloated, black, and blue. Her torn jacket betrayed many cut marks.

Her mother’s favorite kitchen knife still lodged in her eye socket.