The storm might be over, but I can see that it did some damage, especially once I enter the woods bordering the village. Branches and fallen trees litter the forest floor. I crunch my way down the wide path to Helsing’s cabin, but when I reach the clearing, I freeze, confused.
I’ve been to Helsing’s cabin before. It’s small and simple, remote, away from everything. But the windows have never been boarded up before. It’s built to withstand this sort of storm without it.
I hesitantly approach. Whoever boarded up the windows did a shitty job. It’s just some two-by-fours hastily nailed to the walls. A couple of them have fist-sized gaps in between, and through them I can see that there’s light inside the cabin—so I know he must be home. I walk to the door and knock uncertainly.
“WHAT?” screams a voice inside.
I hesitate. It’s definitely Helsing, but there’s something wrong; there’s something about his tone that makes me want to run all the way back to the school without stopping. I haven’t made up my mind whether to do it or not when the door wrenches open and Helsing stands before me.
“Oh my God,” I whisper. He’s shirtless. He looks like he hasn’t showered in days; in fact, I smell something sour wafting from inside the cabin. His old scars crisscross all across his chest and stomach, reaching up his neck. There’s a crazed look in his eyes, and he’s thinner than I’ve ever seen him. If I thought his cheeks looked hollow and gaunt before, he’s positively skeletal now.
“Avery,” he croaks hoarsely. “Come in.” He turns and walks from the door, leaving it open.
Everything in me is screaming to run, but I step inside anyway. Helsing walks over to his couch and collapses facedown onto it. His house is in absolute disarray. It looks like an animal tore through it. His workbench is littered with trash, and his tools are scattered around the floor. His kitchen has food and weapons strewn through it. There are blankets everywhere—on the floor, thrown into corners, and one’s even hanging from the top of a shelf. All his windows are blocked by the boards outside.
“Helsing?” I say. “What’s going on?” I glance over at him, still face down on the couch. Did he fall asleep? Did he … die? My stomach drops.
But then Helsing springs to his feet. He screams—a primal, guttural sound—and snatches a knife off his coffee table.
“Helsing!” I shout, but he runs past me into the kitchen and starts yanking open drawers and cabinets. Canned food tumbles out and bounces off him, but it doesn’t look as if it hurts him at all. He slashes open a bag of chips and tips it over his face. Some land in his mouth, but most of them miss completely, cascading down his chest to fall in piles on the floor.
If this is what he’s been doing, then I have a pretty good guess as to how the sour smell hanging in the air got started.
He looks around wildly, chewing his mouthful of chips. Then when he swallows, he stumbles, his posture shifting. He leans heavily against his fridge, transformed in an instant.
“Avery,” he croaks again.
“Helsing?” I ask him. “Are you okay?”
“No,” he says emphatically, and looks up at me. “No, you have to—you have to leave, I’m—in Jerusalem, I—Solomon’s Temple—” He takes a step toward me and crushes a chip underfoot. He seems to snap again, and he flies back into his rage and snatches up a can of peas, stabbing it over and over with his knife before he finally gouges a hole into it. Just like with the chips, he turns the can over into his mouth, but he doesn’t even get a full mouthful before he roars and throws the can away from him. Peas fly out of it as it smashes into the wall.
“GET OUT!” he yells at me. He brandishes his knife and starts walking toward me. “GET OUT!”
“What the hell is wrong with you?” I shout, taking a step back. This isn’t a parasite or a sickness. This is something much, much worse.
He changes again, looking tired and scared. “Incubus,” he says to me. “Jerusalem—incubus—GET OUT,” he screams, baring his teeth, and he leaps at me.
I yell in horror and dodge away as his knife swings toward me. I circle around behind the couch and duck behind it just as something sails over my head. A plate shatters against the wall behind me.
It goes quiet. I sit behind the couch, shaking in utter terror and straining to listen for any movement. Has he collapsed again? What’s he doing? I peer beneath the couch, but I don’t see Helsing’s feet.
BAM. I scream and scramble backwards on my hands like a crab as Helsing appears beside me. He just jumped over the couch. I reach up and grab his wrist as he swings at me again, but he’s stronger than his appearance lets on. I fall backwards as he bears down on me, pushing his knife closer to my throat.
And then he snatches himself away from me. “Avery, shit, I—Avery, you have to do something for me.”
I stare up at him with wide eyes as he glares back.
“Avery, you have to kill me.”
I get to my feet and back away from him. “Helsing, you’re not well,” I tell him, trying to keep my voice level.
“You have to kill me!” he shouts. He turns the knife and shoves it at me handle-first. “Kill me!” he screams. “Before it takes over!”
“Before what takes over?” I yell desperately, wrenching the knife from his grip.
“Incubus,” he gasps. “Solomon’s Temple. KILL ME!” he screams. “Before it’s too late! KILL ME! DEMON! KILL ME!”
But I can’t. Of course I can’t.