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after, faces white, eyes filled with terror.
    I'm in a world of my own. A world of webs and blood. Demons and corpses. Nightmares and terror. The name of the world from this night on —
home
.

DERVISH
    L OST , spiraling time. Muddled happenings. Flitting in and out of reality. Momentarily here, then gone, reclaimed by madness and demons.
    Clarity. A warm room. Police officers. I'm wrapped in blankets. A man with a kind face offers me a mug of hot chocolate. I take it. He's asking questions. His words sail over and through me. Staring into the dark liquid of the mug, I begin to fade out of reality. To avoid the return to nightmares, I lift my head and focus on his moving lips.
    For a long time — nothing. Then whispers. They grow. Like turning up the volume on the TV. Not all his words make sense — there's a roaring sound inside my head — but I get his general drift. He's asking about the murders.
    “Demons,” I mutter, my first utterance since my soul-wrenching cry.
    His face lights up and he snaps forward. More questions. Quicker than before. Louder. More urgent. Amidst the babble, I hear him ask, “Did you see them?”
    “Yes,” I croak. “Demons.”
    He frowns. Asks something else. I tune out. The world flames at the edges. A ball of madness condenses around me, trapping me, devouring me, cutting off all but the nightmares.
    A different room. Different officers. More demanding than the last one. Not as gentle. Asking questions loudly, facing me directly, holding my head up until our eyes meet and they have my attention. One holds up a photograph — red, a body torn down the middle.
    “Gret,” I moan.
    “I know it's hard,” an officer says, sympathy mixed with impatience, “but did you see who killed her?”
    “Demons,” I sigh.
    “Demons don't exist, Grubbs,” the officer growls. “You're old enough to know that. Look, I know it's hard,” he repeats himself, “but you have to focus. You have to help us find the people who did this.”
    “You're our only witness, Grubbs,” his colleague murmurs. “You saw them. Nobody else did. We know you don't want to think about it right now, but you have to. For your parents. For Gret.”
    The other cop waves the photo in my face again. “Give us something — anything!” he pleads. “How many were there? Did you see their faces or were they wearing masks? How much of it did you witness? Can you …”
    Fading. Bye-bye officers. Hello horror.
    Screaming. Deafening cries. Looking around, wondering who's making such a racket and why they aren't being silenced. Then I realize it's
me
screaming.
    In a white room. Hands bound by a tight white jacket. I've never seen a real one before, but I know what it is — a straitjacket.
    I focus on making the screams stop and they slowly die away to a whimper. I don't know how long I've been roaring, but my throat's dry and painful, as though I've been testing its limits for weeks without pause.
    There's a hard plastic mug set in a holder on a small table to my left. A straw sticks out of it. I ease my lips around the head of the straw and swallow. Flat coke. It hurts going down, but after a couple of mouthfuls it's wonderful.
    Refreshed, I study my cell. Padded walls. Dim lights. A steel door with a strong plastic panel in the upper half, instead of glass.
    I stumble to the panel and stare out. Can't see much — the area beyond is dark, so the plastic's mostly reflective. I study my face in the makeshift mirror. My eyes aren't my own — bloodshot, wild, rimmed with black circles. Lips bitten to shreds. Scratches on my face — self-inflicted. Hair cut short, tighter than I'd like. A large purple bruise on my forehead.
    A face pops up close on the other side of the glass. I fall backwards with fright. The door open and a large, smiling woman enters. “It's OK,” she says softly. “My name's Leah. I've been looking after you.”
    “Wh-wh … where am I?” I gasp.
    “Someplace safe,” she replies. She bends and