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Michael was more than shaken when he crossed the street, the clamour of cars beeping and revving as the traffic lights teased them fell to the wayside as he reached the antique double-doors of the public library.

It was a hybrid construction. Old stone foundations marked the original plan of the building, now mostly covered by a green lawn. Edges of grey protruded in places, dirtying the grounds with their unwelcome history.

Stopping to gather his wits, Michael felt his legs refuse to move. Applying his willpower, his body reluctantly continued, as memories tore away at his sanity.

He followed a brick path up to the front entrance. The doors creaked when he pushed his way inside. He checked the time:

7:01 p.m.

The library entrance passed him by, taking him on a whistle-stop tour of encased awards and pictures of notable donors. He entered a surprisingly spacious foyer. The far end caught his eye immediately.

“Neat."

Behind the large glass window in the centre of the foyer was an open area. Michael stepped closer, his vision coalescing, revealing a small shrubbery with running water from a fountain. An empty desk sat in front of the naturalistic centrepiece. He looked around. The place was quiet. Must be after-hours for library-goers, he guessed.

Already the rows of bookcases snaked their way into his peripheral vision — blocky wooden barricades, their dry must reaching his nose from afar. On both sides the library split into annexes, filled to bursting with tomes.

He walked past the popular sections, instead wandering deeper into the literary jungle, unsure of what he sought. Town history maybe? Local building records? Legends? Folklore? Anything to shed light on the strangeness he'd been privy to, and the things he saw unfold. His quest had no end in sight.

It was a long shot, but perhaps — if he studied long enough — he'd find clues that led to threads that led to explanations for the strange events going on in his family.

“Excuse me, but you're looking a little lost."

He turned to find the source of the voice. An old man, late fifties by Michael's reckoning, stood on the far side of a bookshelf, fumbling through unmarked volumes. Upon his discovery that the teenager had met his gaze, he clamped the book shut, blasting dust from between the pages.

“I've seen you here every day for the last week."

“Not a whole week," Michael said, “but the last couple of days certainly."

He rubbed his cheeks. “And do you know why you're here?"

“Course I do! What kinda person goes to library and just stands around?"

“Maybe I'm gettin' on in years but you could'a fooled me with your act."

Michael dipped his head, whether by embarrassment or just looking for a particular book the man couldn't tell. “Okay, maybe I don't know what I'm looking for. Maybe I like hanging out here. What's it to you?"

“Easy son, no need to get upset." The old man raised his hands, cementing his peaceful intentions with an honest display. “I work here, y'know."

“I didn't mean to be hostile. I'm sorry."

“No problem. Tell me: if you don't have a book in mind, why d'ya keep coming here?"

“Gets me out of the house." Michael looked away, scanning the top shelf that loomed above him. A brass plaque held a faint label — its markings worn away, only the engraving remained, arresting attempts at deciphering it with the glare of reflected light — that seemed to read: 'Municipal History'.

The man sighed. “Rough at home, is it?"

“No! Not like that," Michael stammered, “I...I don't...know anymore..."

“Sonny, I can tell you're not the type for lyin', so as far as I see there's not much help I can give you."

“Not looking for help, thanks."

“Okay then." The stranger began to leave, but returned at the last minute. “You sure you aren't lookin' for a book? If you hadn't noticed, this place has a lot of them!"

While the old man chuckled, Michael decided to brave a question: “I'm looking for stuff on local history — people stories, that sorta thing. Any hints where I could find some?"

“Hmm...well you're in the right section, if the state of some o' these books is to be believed!" He poked at the spine of a heavy volume sitting on the shelf. It cracked under the lightest touch, ruining the gold inlay that decorated its binding. “Piece of crap," he was heard to mutter.

Michael continued: “there's a house I want to know more about. One of the older ones in town."

“Oh?" His eyebrows raised. Now they were getting somewhere.

“It's called...Delmonde I believe."

His eyes lit up. “Ah! What a great start to your study of Carlyle's humble past."

“You know it?"

“Of course I know it, I was the land registrar back when it underwent one of many restorations. Talk about coincidence!" He stroked his chin. “You might've noticed the stones sticking out of the ground out front — from back before the original library burned down. Similar construction to the earlier Delmonde residence. Same foundation blocks." The man looked lost, his eyes glassy, a hint of nostalgia peeking from behind the ocular curtain. “We only saved so much writin' when it caught fire...but, if I'm not mistaken there're local records with the information you seek nearby...let me go and check—"

“Could you wait a minute," Michael said, “you might know this off the top of your head, but are the owner's documented here? What kind of people they were is something I want to look at."

“I remember the house only when it was owned by a Mr. Mettick, who passed away twelve...thirteen years ago? Thirteen I think. House remained in trust until the recession, then it was sold cheaply. That's all I got off the top of my head."

“Family own it now."

“Really? That explains the interest in its history."

“Yeah, my kinda/sorta in-laws."

“Ah, been 'round yet?"

“I have, I didn't see anything special," he lied.

“No...there wouldn't be much to write home about. Building looks subdued these days, no glory now. It's only up close you see its legacy."

“Legacy?"

The stranger waved his hand dismissively. “Multiple tear-downs and rebuilds. Boring stuff. Every new owner wants to have their way with the place. Ruin the aesthetic more like!"

“And the owners, the people..."

“Yes?"

“Any...uh...weird stuff about them?"

“Hah! What kind of question is that?"

Michael bit his lip. “You see, the family member who owns it is really into...how do you put this...like, occult stuff. Witchcraft."

The old man made a peculiar sound: half-groan, half-sigh. It hung in Michael's ears for longer than appreciated, and rubbed him the wrong way. “Witchcraft..." he grumbled.

“Yeah, your family member has it right, same as the previous owners. Delmonde House was often regarded as a place of witchcraft. Stories that are fun to read and share but ultimately nonsense. Supernatural hocus-pocus, fed by stories of ancient rituals being held on the land in the days of the Old West!"

“What...Native American?"

“Nope. No Indians lived in these parts back then...always avoided the site — and if that ain't a helluva warning then what is?"

Michael's interest was piqued. He and the elder gentleman took a stroll along the history section, walking by a menagerie of worn and speckled covers. He noticed the man's steps were shaky. Maybe he's older than I thought...

His line of thinking was shattered when the stranger piped up again: “the stories of black magic and depraved activities are wholly European. But make no mistake — this weren't black cats an' broomsticks...this was blood rituals. Orgies. Real nasty stuff. The original owners, least as far back as records go, gave the house its name: Delmonde. French-soundin' doncha think?"

“I guess."

“Got some murder records too, if you're feeling gruesome. Same folks. Caught in late 1769 after a couple o' women went missing."

“Were they executed?"

“Oh yeah — you don't end up in that sorta trouble in those days without serious penalties. It was the son of the Delmondes who did it. Chopped 'em up good. Makes for good Halloween tourism, but I don't like much the sorts who visit the town off-season for those kinda shenanigans. Strange folk."

“Never heard about any of this, and I read up on Carlyle before we moved here."

“Family new here? Yeah, that's the reason. It's one of those Internet urban legend-type deals, where only geeks with enough time on their hands pay any heed to rumours of ages past. With the house bein' one of the oldest in town, torn down and thrown back up so many times you might mistake it for a new build, the secrets stick around. They linger...along with their stories."

“That's very useful to me."

“Useful?" The man snorted. “I hope you don't go down that rabbit hole — you heard it from me, yeah? They're tales of overactive imagination based on real events. Sure, there was nastiness, but nothin' supernatural, 'cause if you think that crap's real then I've gotta bridge to sell out-of-towners like yourself!"

Okay, so there's precedent, Michael told himself. He doesn't think it's all true...but I've seen some shit old man. I've—

He gulped, the memory of his night with mother vividly resurgent.

Eyes full of fire, leathery black wings...

The man leaned in close, beckoning him to listen carefully. “Here...if you wanna good scare think on this: house was owned by the earliest settlers, 'member? Natives ain't ever touched it."

Michael nodded.

“No...you dont get it...I said owned by 'em. Not built..."

His young charge furrowed his brow. Confusion rife in the lines of his face.

“...the original predates the first settlers in the area. That's awful peculiar, doncha think? Whoever built it ventured far out into the wilderness in their time, all on their lonesome. Bravin' storms, starvation, and savagery to drive the first posts marking the foundation of the first version of Delmonde House."

Okay, that's much creepier.

“How's that for scary, huh?"

Michael gave him a weak smile. “Thanks, that's more like it."

“Ugh, kids and your tall tales...well run along an' git, son, place is closin' soon."

“I thought you'd tell me some more, but if you want folks out then that's okay I suppose. Thanks for the...um...stories...uh, mister?"

“Smitty, call me Smitty. Everybody refers to me by my last name, Smith. Can't get 'em to stop so I like to make it more informal."

* * *

Leaves flew past Axel's blurred vision as the dog rushed through thicket, zipping across empty roads. The night shrouded his exploration, the scent of his prize teasing the hound as he galloped. He'd watched them for several days now, waiting for the right moment...

The tell-tale laughter of the binge-drinking teens reached him shortly thereafter. Having found his mark, the beastly hound roamed the periphery of their location, seeking out a place to settle and observe.

“Mark! Gimme back my drink!" one girl cried, her speech slurred.

“No...you've had enough. It's my turn to get blind drunk."

“C'mshh—" she attempted to swipe at the can held in front of her, but missed and tumbled forward. “Asshole." The group continued to mutter and bark, inebriated in secrecy lest their parents find out.

Axel's beady eyes stared at them, his low growl transforming into a needy whine.

Next came a round of tablets, definitely something their families shouldn't know about. They'd developed a pattern, the canine noted: first beer, then harder substances. His inquisitive mind wondered about the taste...what kind of food and drink could cause them the pleasure he heard carried by their voices, reeking of lost inhibition? Saliva dripped from his muzzle. Sitting, watching from afar, he felt his darker intentions take over.

There was something else he wanted to sample first.

The delinquent named Mark continued his torment of who was likely his girlfriend. Her female friends didn't bother to aid her, and the other males were too wrapped up in the high generated from whatever was in those chalky, strangely chewy tablets. Unbeknownst to the gang, they were being stalked.

Axel scanned them for a prize. His promised reward. Mistress gave him free rein to choose his bounty — and in that instant he had been overcome with her intent. Feel. Taste. Feel. Taste. The concepts echoed like commands in the hound's mind, blaring aloud inside his skull at an unbearable volume.

He had his pick of the group. And pick he did.

“Hey," said one of the more alert members, “it's that dog from before." He pointed to the dark figure of Axel trotting toward them.

“You mean he isn't part of the trip?" another crowed, his focus weak and balance upset.

The creature approached, eyes glowing red in the black of night.

“Ooh...spooky!"

Two approached him. One tall. One short.

“Who's a spooky boy? Eh?"

“Don't think you should go near it," spoke the voice of reason for their little foray.

The tall figure turned and snarled. “Shut up Gracie! It's a dog...I'm good with dogs..."

If dogs could smile, Axel would be grinning. Beneath his fast-growing pant, his mind swam in thoughts of uncontrollable sin. Uma's taint merged with his very being. Mistress was all he knew. The old family pet long gone, in its place a loyal beast. Ready to serve until the end of its existence.

Mistress was everything. Generous. Commanding...Axel gathered to him an idea. It wasn't his place to simply avail of her kindness — no, he would give something back. A thing that he'd sensed deep inside her, obscured by the infernal light of her soul.

She wanted to be worshipped. He could give her worshippers.

That didn't preclude his own enjoyment, however. First things first.

“Come back!"

“No way man — this dog's the coolest! Look at it, like a fuckin' heavy metal cover!"

“The hound of Sa _-__ ta-a-a-an,_" one behind them warbled, breaking out the air guitar. The drugs in their system dulled them to the danger posed...their instincts screaming from within a padded room.

Axel laboured under heavy breath, feeling his body tense up. His shaft hardened, emerging from its bulbous sheath. Feel. Taste.

His hardness poking the night air, he intensified his gaze on the approaching pair. The short female tripped and fell, remaining motionless on the ground apart from the angling of her head to watch the taller male proceed without her.

Mark carried on his approach, the murky shape of the dog getting closer. When he finally reached the point to see clearly the threat posed by the large, fearsome canine, he stopped. He teetered as his drunkenness sloshed within him. He saw the red eyes in full — their glory burned into his mind.

Panic set in.

He tried to speak, but nothing came.

His eyes darted about the beast's figure, catching the sopping wet maw — dripping with anticipation — and the stiff length the creature sported.

He tried to move, but nothing did.

Those eyes...

Obey.

One word. One overwhelming sensation.

Obey.

His arms and legs moved, not of his own volition. He came closer, walking in a manner far more sober than he was capable of. Before him, Axel sat, staring at him, never breaking eye contact.

His mind emptied. Who he was, what he was doing...it departed him. Imprisoned in his own body.

“Mark!" someone called out. “C'mon back! Leave that thing alone."

“Mark?"

His former companion crawled on the ground, her clothes stained from the grass and muck. She slid along the earth, struggling to get to her feet. More came. They blew past her, heading straight for Mark. She kept going. Four of her friends stood beside him, also stopping dead in their tracks. Her grip slipped, and she smashed face-first into the dirt. Spitting chunks of soil from her mouth — a solitary strand of grass glued to her lip — she shouted to get their attention.

No response.

All of the group bar her had come to see the creature. All now stood deathly still. She rose to her feet, legs wobbly, and stomped toward the crowd.

“Guys...what the fuck are you doing?" A belch came from her gut, hot on the tail of her last sentence. She fell forward, landing at Axel's feet.

One glimpse, that's all it took. She felt hollow. Her sense of self disappeared. She peered at the others from the corner of her eye; the hound's unspoken order ruled their puny minds. She was no different...

They stood, mesmerised.

Axel dismissed the group. They dispersed, returning to their makeshift camp and packing-up their stuff. The clatter of bottles and cans marred the otherwise silent atmosphere. Not even the wind interrupted his hold on their minds. Pretty soon the only person left was Mark...besides Gracie, who remained a horizontal mess.

Feel. Taste. He couldn't wait to!

Suddenly, the black-furred canine bolted — leaping onto Mark, sending him twirling into the Earth's harsh embrace. Claws shredded clothing. As blood-red lines formed on his back, Mark found himself pushed down. He shivered in the cold.

Axel pinned the supple body of his target, snagging the last remnant of his clothes in his teeth and tearing. After viciously unwrapping his prize, he mounted the frozen human. His feral cock dangled from its sheath, engorged. His victim barely struggled, an inner surprise the largest part of his reaction — locked away from the outside world thanks to Axel's mental dominance. He'd sup from their beverages, consume their tablets, share the same joy of the illicit that surged through their drugged forms...but before all that, he had a reward to claim.

Entering the tight passageway provided to him by his very first mind-slave, Axel growled. Beneath him the human went limp, helpless against his vigorous thrusting. The dog's hip bucked, cursing the night with an unnatural coupling, forcing himself into the teen.

His human submitted, taking the demon hound's rocket without a word. Though, the constricted interior of his ass proved his subconscious still resisted. With more effort expended, he washed over the young man's mind, stimulating his nerves, convincing his instincts to let him proceed unobstructed. As the rush of the hunt met his already-incensed need, Axel yowled.

Gracie was trapped, unable to look away as the enormous dog penetrated her boyfriend, pumping his tight asshole with its swollen, beastly cock. The fact he was her boyfriend long absconded from her memory. Instead, the revulsion deep in her gut told her this was supposed to be horrifying.

This ungodly scene played out minute after minute. Her friends assembled in the distance, standing to attention as if soldiers of an unknown adversary. She managed to jerk her head, and a hoarse cry escaped her. But no-one was around to help. The only audience Mark had was signified by her round, scarred face, wide and glassy-eyed.

In the throes of pleasure, Axel lost control. It wasn't for long, and was regained quickly, but 'twas enough to let her shout in desperation...

The depths of night cared little about the screaming.