Earl Wheaton

Earl's room smelled of dust and cheap deodorant. A piece of chalk lay crooked on the floor—he'd been hastily drawing a pentagram, copying it from a book Derek had slipped him.

"Are you sure? The white race is no joke. The ritual might not work," Derek said.

"Coward," Earl snorted. "Go away, I can handle it myself."

Derek left. Earl was left alone, listening to the howling wind. The clock showed 11:47 PM. He hadn't chosen the white race for strength—it was just that the demon looked majestic in the picture: white hair, glowing eyes, marbled skin. He wanted to wipe his friend's floor.

Earl lit three black candles, placed them in the corners, and began to recite a spell in the ancient dialect. The words slipped like pebbles in his mouth. At first, nothing happened. He wanted to spit and blow out the candles, but noticed that the flames had frozen—time had stopped.

He shouted the last word, and one candle burst. Ten minutes passed. Nothing.

“Bummer,” he exhaled and stepped towards the switch.

At that very moment, the candles went out, and then the lights in the entire house—not a flicker, but a complete blackout. A profound silence fell. Earl could hear the blood ringing in his ears.

A light began to appear in the center of the pentagram—white, shimmering like moonlight through water. Shoulders, arms, and a face emerged from the glow. The silence exploded into a whisper of many voices right inside his head.

He stood in the circle. The White Race. His skin shone with a milky sheen, his long hair flowed without a wind, his crystalline eyes stared with an expression that was impossible to read: irony? anger? emptiness?

Earl wanted to scream, but he couldn't. He stood there, afraid to breathe. The demon slowly bowed his head, and his lips twitched in a smile that didn't reach his eyes.