In a dimly lit chamber of the penitentiary, Thomas Calloway sat strapped tightly to the electric chair. The whispers around him faded as his final seconds ticked away. His crimes were unspeakable, whispered of in the dark corners of town, and even the guards felt uneasy. They had prayed for his execution, hoping that the terror would finally be over. But Thomas was calm, his lips moving silently in prayer—or something far darker.
The Warden, a stoic man accustomed to the macabre, gave the signal. An electric hum began to build, filling the room. Thomas’s mouth twisted into a smile as his voice dropped to a guttural whisper, calling out, “I offer myself to you, Dark One. I give you my body, my soul, in return for life unbound.”
The switch was thrown, and electricity tore through him, jerking his body violently. The room filled with the smell of burning flesh, and just as Thomas was supposed to cross into death, something impossibly powerful happened. The lights above flickered, dimmed, and the buzzing of the chair stopped. Thomas’s body slumped forward, motionless. But then, his head lifted.
His eyes opened, glowing with a deep, malevolent red.
The guards stood frozen, horrified as Thomas’s lips curled into an unnatural grin. “It’s not over,” he rasped, his voice now laced with a hissing darkness that wasn’t his own. The room grew unbearably cold, frost creeping over the glass panel that separated the viewing area from the execution chamber.
Suddenly, the lights shattered, plunging everything into pitch blackness. Panicked breaths filled the silence, each one louder, more desperate than the last. One by one, the guards felt something sharp and cold scrape against their necks, invisible fingers curling around their throats. Gasping, they struggled to breathe as unseen hands tightened, their faces turning blue before collapsing onto the cold concrete floor.
The warden, horrified, tried to call for help, but his voice was nothing more than a strangled whisper. He felt a sharp pain rip through his chest and looked down to see a phantom hand clutching his heart, its nails piercing into his flesh as if someone—or something—was trying to rip it out. His mouth opened in a silent scream as his life drained away, leaving him staring into the darkness, eyes wide open and lifeless.
In the flickering shadows, Thomas rose from the chair, his movements graceful, almost serpentine, as if a new life had awakened within him. The walls seemed to close in, the air thick with the stench of sulfur and burning hair. Blood trickled down from nowhere, pooling at his feet in patterns that writhed and squirmed as if alive.
One last guard, hiding in the corner, whispered a prayer, clutching a crucifix. But as Thomas’s gaze locked onto him, the cross melted in his hand, burning his skin and filling his nostrils with the sickly-sweet scent of charred flesh. Thomas stalked toward him, a voice—no longer his own—whispering in the guard’s ear, “Even God has no power here. Only I rule this darkness.”
With that, the guard collapsed, his eyes wide and empty, a look of pure terror frozen on his face.
The silence that followed was heavy, suffocating. The execution chamber lay filled with the bodies of those who had come to witness his end, but Thomas—now something far worse than a mere man—strode out of the room unscathed, a twisted smile on his lips. He was free, his pact with Satan sealed in blood and fear.
And as he walked through the darkened hallways, every light he passed burst and shattered, leaving an ominous trail of destruction in his wake. For death had failed, and now, true evil walked among the living.
