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I was seventeen in Kansas when my bodyguard said, “Let’s see the gate to Hell
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before sunrise.” We drove to Stull Cemetery, windows down, the moon gone.
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The air thickened like wet wool over my face and the car reeked of demon
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stench. My phone froze on the camera screen. I snapped one
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blind photo. Three faces glitched into the frame: not human, not masks,
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textbook demons, horns sketched in static. That night the fly followed me
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back, buzzing in perfect 3’s: 3 A.M., 3 knocks.
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Three scratches across the mirror. I felt a cold weight sitting on my chest.
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