GOD HATES HEAVY METAL: THE DEMON’S DESERT

Grandma rocked in her chair, the firelight flickering in her cloudy eyes. “Your great-grandfather told me stories, bambina. From Calabria, where he was a boy. Dark stories.”

I leaned in. I loved when she spoke of the old country.

“He said children vanished. Gone from their beds, their yards. No screams, no footprints. Just... gone.”

I swallowed. “What happened to them?”

Grandma’s wrinkled hands tightened on her shawl. “People whispered of Il Divoratore. The Devourer. A winged demon with skin like old leather, claws like sickles. It took children to a cave in the hills, where the earth cracked open like a wound.”

The fire crackled.

“They say the cave led to a desert in hell. There, under a sky with no sun, the demon stretched the children out, pinned them like hides. The heat dried them, turned them tough, like jerky. Then, he ate.”

I shuddered. “How did they stop him?”

She smiled, but there was no warmth. “They never did.”

The wind howled outside, rattling the shutters. I forced a laugh. “It’s just a story, right, Nonna?”

Her gaze drifted past me, to the dark window. “Your great-grandfather always said he saw it once. A shadow above the village. Wings blotting out the moon.”

I turned slowly. Through the glass, something large shifted in the black sky.

The fire sputtered. Grandma’s hand found mine.

“Hush now, bambina,” she whispered. “Close your eyes. Pretend you’re not here.”

Art and story by Hal Hefner.
Produced by Catmonkey Studio