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“Hell is empty and all the devils are here.” —William Shakespeare
the guy had gone bone white, man. He had the devil in him.”
You didn’t arrive in Dread’s Hand, he realized, but rather Dread’s Hand came at you piecemeal, a bit of itself at a time, like someone reluctant to make your acquaintance.
A man walks in there, he stands a chance of being touched by the devil. And that man, he goes sour.
“Not just some spirit, Mr. Gallo,” Drammell said. He wiggled a set of fingers at him, as if they were claws. “But the devil himself. ‘Bone white,’ they call it. When a man loses everything inside him that makes him human, and gets taken over by the devil. Possessed.”
You raise a baby in a room with no windows, and they’re apt to grow up thinking that there ain’t nothing beyond those four walls.
The flashlight app’s insufficient beam could only illuminate small puzzle pieces of the room, one section at a time.
The web glistened like gossamer in the glow of the cell phone’s flashlight.
“Enough,” Drammell interrupted, his voice raised and echoing across the hillside like the report of a pistol.
