Phenomen Demon by Michael Mulvihill


“What’s your new place like?” John asked as they left the church.

“Comfortable enough,” Shane said.

A green Dublin double-decker carried them along Harcourt Street. From the upper deck they saw the tram lines, glittering in the October sun. Harcourt Garda Station slid past in brick shadow.

“At least it’s better than the last dump?” John pressed.

“Hot water on demand. Heat. Enough money to live.” Shane shrugged. “It’s a palace compared to before.”

The men smoked by the Spire, warming themselves with vodka from a flask.

“So why drag me out?” John asked.

Shane hesitated. “I saw something. At three in the morning, near Harold’s Cross Park. Walking back from Elana’s.”

“What did you see?”

“A rat. Only… it wasn’t a rat.”

He lowered his voice. “It was the size of a dog. Scarred, bleeding, with fangs like knives. Its eyes were red. It roared like a man. I hid behind a car and prayed. It changed… became a hairy giant of a man. Then it vanished.”

John said nothing. The silence unnerved Shane more than disbelief.

In the Admiral restaurant, the blonde waitress served them vodka and dumplings. Shane leaned across the table. “Tell me I’m not mad.”

John finally spoke. “What you saw was real. Demons wear any shape. Rat. Vampire. Wolf. They feed on our filth. They are legion.”

Shane swallowed hard.

That night, walking home drunk, a stench hit him near Harold’s Cross Park. Sour, rotting. He vomited into the grass and staggered into his basement building. The entry light was dead. In the stairwell, something dripped like blood into a bucket.

On the sixth step he froze. A shadow spread across the wall: horns, fur, a candle held aloft.

“I am Satan from upstairs,” a calm voice said.

A man in horns and a red mask stood before him, tail twitching. His voice was posh, South Dublin, but flat as a newsreader.

Shane forced a smile. “Would you shine that light so I can open my door?”

Satan obliged. “I lived down here once. Didn’t like it. Too close to the ground. Too close to the grave. So I begged the landlady to move me upstairs. She agreed.”

Shane unlocked his flat. The horned man leaned close. “How do you like my mask? Warm, isn’t it? The tail feels fake. Sometimes I think I deserve a better one.” He laughed without mirth. “Sleep well, dishwasher.” Then he clomped away.

That night Shane dreamed. Smoke leaked from the ceiling, filling the room without choking him. Floating in it was a rat. Its eyes locked on his. I was once human, it seemed to whisper.

A hand — huge, hairy, clawed — thrust through the ceiling, seized the rat, and squeezed until it squealed with pleasure. Then the dripping resumed. Not water. Blood. Thick drops streaked his windowpane.

Morning.

Shane padded barefoot into the kitchen and stepped on something wet. He looked down.

The missing cat. Tibster. Head severed. Blood everywhere. His knife lay beside it.

“Oh, God…” he whispered.

Upstairs, Satan blasted music and shrieked the lyrics like a banshee.

Then — a knock. “Hello Shane,” Stacey sang sweetly. “Are you there?”

Shane yanked the curtains shut, blocking her view of the corpse. He cracked the door.

“My apartment’s a mess,” he lied.

“Oh, I don’t mind,” she cooed. “I just wanted to tell you — Tibster’s back! Posters are gone. The chip must’ve found him. Isn’t that wonderful? We must always live in hope.” She smiled, then glided back upstairs.

Shane turned to the bloody ruin on his floor. His stomach turned. With shaking hands he bagged the pieces, scrubbed the carpet with ammonia and a toothbrush, then carried the remains to the park bin.

But even scrubbed clean, the floor reeked of copper and fur.

That night the music in his flat warped — Beethoven shifting into snarling punk rock.

Shane looked up. His own double stood at the door.

“You waste yourself on books,” it sneered. “Come outside. Let me show you what you really are.”

Shane felt himself dragged against his will.

On the street, rats poured from the drains. Fat, slick, tails thrashing. A horde, writhing. The double grew taller, more feral, sprouting black fur and a whip-tail. Fangs split his mouth.

“I am Vampire Rattus-Rattus, lord of the horde,” it declared. “We only appear to those who are already ours.”

The rats surged around a young Indian student, encircling him, squealing, biting. He screamed for help.

Shane staggered forward. “Stop!”

“Rip his throat!” the double roared.

The student went down, drowned in teeth and tails.

The double levitated, eyes burning. “You smell of sin. That is why we come. No God can save you. You belong with us.”

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