Aerie

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It never seems to rest, Alastor reflected as he shoveled the last bit of a hearty breakfast of eggs, bacon, and toast into his yawning maw. He belched powerfully, speckling his ample front with flecks of chewed food, and dropped the greasy paper plate to the floor beside his leather recliner. It was nine o’clock in the morning, and what the fallen angel had hidden in the basement of the Bourbonnais, Illinois, home was already calling out to him.

“Alastor,” it whispered like the buzzing of a housefly. “Come, Alastor. Look upon what you have cast away.”

Alastor chose to ignore it. The monkeys, Reggie and Katie, he thought as his eyes caught the clock on the wall, they’re often amusing. He snatched up the remote control in a meaty hand, scattering potato chip bags and candy bar wrappers from atop the coffee table before him. He would lose himself in the trifle of morning television, a distraction from the incessant whispers in the cellar.

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