Sam woke up early that morning to find Jack sound asleep next to her. His shaggy brown hair tussled from restless sleep. She wiped a few strands from his face with her hand as she smiled down at him. He hadn’t shaven in a few days and his jaw was covered in stubble. He wasn’t a hairy man in any way so his beard always grew in patchy, he still tried to pull it off however. Jack was convinced women loved a man with a beard and he was always trying too hard to attract them. He was funny, kind— and smart. If a woman couldn’t see him for those things she wasn’t worth his time—in Sam’s mind.

He opened his brown eyes to find her gawking at him. At first he looked shocked as if he didn’t remember the night before, but then he yawned and rubbed at the corners of his eyes before saying, "Morning quickie?" Making her laugh as he sat up in bed, "So—do you want to tell me what happened last night?" He asked.

She let out a long sigh, not really sure what to tell him. She didn’t want to sound crazy, even though she knew she might be.

"Had a God awful nightmare about a fire and a spider." She replied, shrugging her shoulders as she got off the bed.

"What kind of spider?" He asked.

"A big, black—hairy one."

"You mean a Tarantula?"

"Whatever, it was disgusting, and it hurt."

"They’re called Tarantula’s though, not spiders..." He continued.

"Whatever—"

"Well if you’re going to describe something you might as well—"

"You can just shut-up now." She swiped at him and missed as he shot off the bed quickly, laughing.

"By the way— why do you keep doing that?" He asked, watching her pull at the collar of her shirt.

"It itches." She walked over to her mirror and pulled back her shirt from her neck and shoulder, "What the—"

"Let me see that," Jack turned her towards him as he examined her. The skin around her neck and shoulder looked irritated. He could see small black fibers sticking out of her pale flesh, strikingly different to the red and white skin around them.

Suddenly he started looking around the room, throwing the pillows off her bed and stripping the blankets and sheets as he tossed them onto the floor. Then he lifted the mattress up in the air and gently rested it against the wall.

"What the hell are you doing?" She asked, still scratching at her neck.

"Stop scratching that!" He ordered, "I don’t think you just had a dream about a Tarantula, that black stuff in your neck and arm are hairs, Tarantula’s are notorious for spraying fine hairs that irritate skin." He continued to tear apart her room.

"Uh, Jack—this is Washington. I don’t think Tarantula’s live here."

"People have them as pets, dummy. Looks like one got loose,"

"Oh—my GOD!" She cried out, "So fucking gross!"

Now they were both tearing apart the room, frantically searching for the disgusting creature. When they found nothing in her room, they moved into the living room. Luckily her apartment was so small, and almost bare they didn’t have to many places to look. A good half-hour passed and with no luck they eventually gave up the search.

"It must have moved on, or maybe—it’s found it’s new home somewhere in your walls." Jack smirked at her.

"That’s not funny! Go home—" She pointed towards the front door, trying her best not to giggle.

"Fine, can’t watch TV here anyway and I’m bored. Pay your damn bills, would ya."

"Oh actually—can you drop this off at Pacific on your way home?" She asked, racing into the kitchen to find her electric bill.

"Sure," He replied walking after her, "You ever going to get a real table?"

"And put it where, exactly?" She handed him an envelope with a check in it.

He smiled at her and kissed her lightly on the cheek before grabbing his jacket off the chair by the door, "If you need anything, just call. Oh—and I mean just call me, not the police." He winked at her as she grabbed a book off the ironing board table and chucked it at him—missing him completely as he closed the door behind him.

She chuckled after him as she walked over to the door to pick up the book she has tossed. With out knowing it, she had started to scratch at her neck again. She walked to the bathroom, to examine the area, sure enough it was red and swollen. Upon closer inspection she could see the small black bits that dug into her skin. It was painful, and the pain was giving her a headache but she refused to take any drugs that might help, including aspirin. Her mother had died from a drug overdose when she was sixteen and from then on she had refused any and all medications.

She walked back into the kitchen to grab an ice bag out of the freezer, thinking maybe the cold would keep the area from itching so bad. When she opened the door, water came pouring out onto the floor, splashing up onto her feet and legs—making her screech from the cold surprise.

"God damn it!" She yelled, slamming the door shut. She reached for a kitchen towel next to the sink and dropped to her knees as she began to clean up the mess, as she ran the towel over the floor her thoughts raced to night before.

Z a g a n.

She jumped up, throwing the soaked towel in the sink and ran for her bedroom. She threw open her closet doors and rummaged through it for anything clean—"Damn it, I forgot to do wash." She muttered to herself. The only thing she could find was her white summer dress, that to be honest fit her a bit too snug now than when she had first gotten it. "Fuck it." She squeezed into it, slipping on her black flats and grabbing her keys off the coffee table before rushing out of the door.

****

The Seattle library was very large, it would not take much to get lost in the large rows upon rows of books— a labyrinth of consuming knowledge.

"Excuse me, where are the computers?" She asked the librarian, who sat at the large oak desk in the center of the lobby.

"Up the grand staircase, 5th door on your right." Without looking at her, she pointed to a large magnificent staircase made of cream marble.

"Thanks." Sam took off at a run.

"No running, please!" The lady behind the desk shouted.

"Shh! This is a library." Sam threw back at her as she climbed the steps of the staircase two at a time.

At the top she came to a long hallway, the doors seemed to go on for miles, but she entered the fifth one on her right. Many computers filled the room, not a soul was in sight. She sat at the first one she saw and immediately brought up Google. Into the search engine she typed the word she had heard in her dream.

The first thing that came up was a city in Poland, that couldn’t have been it— so she kept scrolling down. Soon she came to another, it said Zagan, it was what was in the parenthesis that made her heart race faster.

Z a g a n (Demon)

The blood drained from her face, her heart beat faster as the mouse arrow settled on the link. She almost didn’t want to know what the page had to say.

She clicked the left button on the mouse anyway and began to read...

’One of the Fallen Angel’s, 61st of the 72

spirits of Solomon. Zagan is a president

and king of Hell. He can appear as a Bull

with Griffin wings, or as a man. He is

henchman to Lucifer, he commands 33

Legions of the damned. He can make

fools wiser, wine into water, blood into

wine, blood into oil, and oil into water.’

She couldn’t read anymore—Lucifer’s henchmen—a king of Hell— a Demon. Why would she be dreaming of some demon? She had never heard the name before and couldn’t place it anywhere in her past or present until now. How could she make up something so real?

Next Chapter: Alienated