The Devouring by Simon Holt

froze her in place. One of the demons smiled and brushed her bloody cheek with a long, grotesque finger.
    “You’re weak, scared. You’re a cripple,” it hissed. “You’re
all
cripples.”
    The spot where the demon’s finger had touched Reggie’s face ached with a sharp and wicked cold. She felt the blood congeal on her skin. Flesh cracked like thin ice. She looked down in horror as puzzle-sized pieces of her fell to the floor and splintered. In moments her face was no more than a white skull.
    “Reggie!” Henry cried.
    Amid his screams, Reggie heard faint music — a calliope tune that sounded familiar. The demon children chanted as they dragged Henry out of the broken picture window.
    Once he’s gone, there’s no way back.
    Once he’s in, there’s no way out.
    Left to linger in the black,
    Lost to endless fear and doubt . . .
    Henry’s fading cry mingled with the horrible chorus.
    “No way out ... no way out ... no way out . . .”
    Reggie shot up in bed. The terror swelled in her windpipe. The air couldn’t get past it to her lungs.
    Gradually, her ragged gasps slowed. She leaped out of bed — she had to make sure that Henry was okay.
    Reggie tiptoed across the hall and peeked into Henry’s room. General Squeak screeched at the sudden intrusion and scampered around in the dark.
    “Henry?” Reggie called. “Henry, wake up!”
    She flicked on the light. The quilt was askew, the hapless, mauled Kappy lay sprawled on the floor, but Henry was gone. She ransacked the sheets of the empty bed and swung open the closet door. Nothing. She ran down the hall to the bathroom, turned the light on, and pulled back the shower curtain. Nothing. The guest room. Nothing. Back toward Dad’s room.
    Where was he? Was she still dreaming? Had he been scared by the dark, and gone to sleep by Dad?
    She peeked into the master bedroom. Her father snored low and deep. She tiptoed to the far side of the king-size bed and patted the comforter, but Dad was sleeping alone.
    Reggie sprinted back into the hall and down the stairs. The smell of smoke poked at her nose.
    She paused, and, hearing the crackling of burning wood in the fireplace, headed toward the den. The room was dark but for the amber glow of the fire, which cast Henry’s shadow, long and distorted, on the wall. He knelt in front of the fireplace, a checkered afghan draped across his back. Reggie stepped down the two stone stairs into the room. Henry spoke without turning around.
    “Needed to warm up, Sis. That’s all.” His voice was icy calm as he prodded the embers with a poker. “Dad never fixed the cracks in my window. The cold still gets in.”
    Reggie inched forward. Though he spoke softly, his voice sounded ... 
older.
    “You’re not supposed to be doing that, Henry. You know what Dad says about messing around with fire.”
    “Dad doesn’t care. I could burn the whole house down and he wouldn’t even get out of bed.”
    “Come on.” Reggie squatted beside her brother, tilting her head to view him in profile. Shadows from the fire played on his skin. “You don’t mean that. Dad loves us. He loves you. He’s here for us a hundred percent.”
    “Dad’s old and lost and afraid. You can smell the fear on him. Like rotting fruit.”
    “Why did you leave the house today, Henry? Were you afraid? It’s okay. Tell me the truth.”
    Henry’s arctic blue eyes sparkled.
    “No, I wasn’t afraid of anything.”
    Reggie clutched his arm. Its coldness shocked her.
    “Henry, I want to help you.
Talk
to me.”
    “I don’t need help. I’m fine,” he said simply. He stretched a hand to the fire and waved his fingers above the bright, wagging tongues, smiling like a child with new friends. He stretched his arm farther, his hand lower, stroking the flames.
    “Henry! No!”
    Reggie lunged at him, and they went tumbling away from the fire. Henry dropped the poker and it clanged onto the floor; the tip landed on the oval carpet and the wool