The flat splinter of sunset blinked off and on through the trees as he ran but he kept going, scratching and scraping at his skin as he went. Somehow, the deep, black whisper had etched itself into his ears and was now roaring through every inch of his skull, no matter how deeply he peeled his own body. The forest around him vibrated with the words of the demon’s curse. The leaves of the ferns curled in on themselves, shrunken by its heavy tar like the arms of burns victims raised in fisticuffs. He crashed through the thick undergrowth, thankful for the bright relief of the thorns, and felt that the fire in his lungs was about to flash through everything if he could not headbutt his way through something to freedom. 

The undergrowth abruptly cleared and he saw the great flint spike of Cushin’s Tooth only a handful of seconds ahead. The dread of the fall boiled cold at the base of his stomach. He goaded himself to keep going and charged into the dense shadow beneath the cliff, studded with secret rocks and winds that fought with each other over the spoils of the clumsy. Once he had plunged into the valley for four whole seconds and felt the wind flay his cheeks to somewhere behind his ears, he yanked on the ripcord of his parachute and felt the air resistance stomp on his stomach. He was drifting now, a parchment phantom in a thermal teeming with carrion birds. He tugged on the risers to guide himself left into the belly of the chasm, towards the stunted beach with its ankle-breaking rocks that marked the start of the trail to the top of the mountain. 

The landing took the breath out of him and almost sent him face-first into the dirt. He crouched and patted himself down cautiously for almost a minute until he could see clearly again and felt sure that he had left the stain of the demon on the top of the hill. Even then, he knew it was only a matter of time: the demon was not bound by form or stamina or gravity, and could sniff out the beat of his heart from the other side of the valley. The mountain from which he had just jumped blotted out the moon entirely and he could barely discern the trees lining the path ahead. Fumbling through his pack, his fingers sought two things: his pocket knife, to cut him free from the cords of his parachute, and his flashlight. He reasoned with himself that firing up such a clarion beacon would make no difference as far as the demon was concerned; it would draw the other bloodsuckers of the forest to him, for sure, but he could swat and carve them off with the knife on his belt. With the dense slice of light cutting a path before him, he began the ascent. 

The mountain was violently silent. He flicked his gaze from left to right in an attempt to fend off predators, but saw only blurry sketches of leaves and voodoo doll roots that mouthed their wordless screaming incantation at him. Just as the ground had started to crumble and dissolve into slurry under his feet, the rain began to fall. As the first drops hit his skin, he knew it was not the rain: it was the demon, splashing its ichor from its unseen thurifer and waiting for the maggot droplets to gnaw their way into him and strangle his heart. He had to get to the archway at the top of the mountain. 

After ten minutes of thrashing his way through the sporadic darkness and feeling as though someone were stamping on his lungs, he cleared the forest and saw the archway standing in the middle of the flat clearing, ageless, as it always had been. He stopped worrying about scraping the demon rain off his skin and pulled the tube of flammable gel from the pocket of his jacket. The gel smelled of blinding moonshine and paint stripper, and it bit when he smeared it over his bare arms. The archway would cleanse. It would embalm him and shield him from curses. He spread the gel over his face and winced as it fed on his wounds. 

The demon rain continued. He could hear its voice now, low and sweet and greasy, instantly shoving him into the headspace of being incoherently drunk at the end of a night at the club. Champing at the bit to make the grubbiest, most life-insulting decision his brain could find. He started to itch again, compulsively, but caught himself and smoothed the gel down over his bare skin. 

The archway stood and he spoke to it. He murmured and half-sang the words of the dead who had sealed themselves into life by binding themselves to its structure, this crumbling, moss-eaten shell that could bless with love or bounty or health if you nourished it with its song. As he stepped across the threshold, he closed his eyes and smiled at the sear as the gel caught fire over his entire body. He had been baptised by the archway, anointed with a chrysalis of scars that the demon could not penetrate. His holy circle had been marked on his skin not with salt, but with fire. He collapsed into the grass on the other side of the archway and coughed his way into as much of a laugh as the skin of his chest would allow.