Author's note:

The Character of Joshua and others in this story speak In South London Dialect; sometimes their spoken English may be technically incorrect.

At the age of sweet sixteen, I learned the truth.

That opening sentence makes me sound old, doesn't it?

I'm not, I'm seventeen.

I'm here to tell you the truth. If you don't want to hear it, I suggest you bow out now. If you can take the truth, I dare you to read on.

I learned the truth at 3.A.M, last year, on my sixteenth birthday.

It was a typical day at school: daydreaming and avoiding the other kids.

Because, the other kids think I'm creepy.

A combination of elements makes them think this of me. Firstly, my eyes, they're pale green. I get them from my mum, she's Irish. Secondly, my name's got 'bad' in it. I'm called Benita Badoe. I get my surname from my dad, he's from Ghana. And thirdly, this is the clincher, my birthday is the 31st of October: Halloween.

Also, I have no friends. So you can understand why I freak the other kids out.

Still, they leave me alone; I don't get bullied, I get lonely.

On my birthday last year I was feeling particularly lonely. I was missing dad, he died suddenly while visiting his parents in Ghana. He was my hero, but heroes often die.

Mum was away with work, so this was my first birthday alone, "We'll have a big meal out, when I get back darling," she said, hugging me goodbye.

I wasn't mad with her. It's only mum and I in our family now; she has to provide for us both.

After school I treated myself to my birthday meal: chips and a can of coke, consumed while I dawdled home.

As usual, I stopped off at the library. I pretended to study, but I went to be around people; the company of strangers diluted my lonely.

And, there's a boy goes there that I was crushing on. I was crushed that he wasn't there. Absolutely gutted.

But I guessed he had brothers and sisters and was out trick or treating, or just generally having a life; something I don't have.

Usually I'd cut through the park to get home fast, but I decided to take the street route. Strangely, I didn't want to be in the house on my own for long, so this route would waste time.

I say strangely, because normally I don't mind my own company, but this evening I felt different. Maybe it was turning sixteen, I thought. Or perhaps it was Halloween and kids my age were having fun.

Whatever it was, I had this strong compulsion to cut through Petal Road.

Petal Road is legendary in my area. Years ago, a young mum was slaughtered in her house on this street, in front of her two young kids, by a crazy crack head.

But it wasn't the murder that gave it its legendary status. No, it was old man.

Old man lived at 30 Petal Road before the young couple and their kids moved in, he was evil. They say he carried out animal (some say even human), sacrifices, to conjure up evil spirits that would possess people, who'd carry out his murderous commands, for his entertainment.

Entertainment's that some say were responsible for high profile murders. Deaths that were dismissed, as accidents were in fact, the work of old man.

Of course, mum says it's all crap. She said the young woman's husband went mad with grief and started claiming all kinds of weird stuff.

Stuff was found in the house though, weird stuff. Like old man hoarded newspapers, all with headlines reporting gruesome murders and tragedy.

Tragedy was, the two young kids not only lost their mum, they lost their dad as well, as he ended up in a secure mental hospital for murdering an old man. The little ones were put in a kid's home.

"Home." I remember I said that word out loud, last Halloween, when I stopped outside 30 Petal Road.

It popped into my head, halting me.

The sun was on its last legs, but its dying embers shed enough light on the house to allow me look it over. The windows were sealed with heavy metal plates; the most determined squatters wouldn't be able to penetrate these bad boys.

What was once a tiny front garden, was now a rubbish pit, strewn with bottles and beer cans, and a jar?

Ajar!

I noticed the front door was ajar.

The slightest hint of a slit between the door and its hinge told me 30 Petal Road was now penetrable.

And I wanted in.

Was I crazy? No. Curious.

Curiously crazy, perhaps.

Whatever, I looked up and down Petal Road, saw the coast was clear and pushed the gate.

At the door, the sun finally died, shrouding me in darkness.

Darkness didn't frighten me. It allowed me hide my misdemeanor, my trespass. I was grateful for it as I pushed the door and it gave way with barely a sound.

At this point, you may notice my lack of: racing heart, heavy breaths, and cold sweat (don't worry, they come later.)

The truth was, at that point, I felt fine, not fear.

Fear eluded me. Once inside, I even closed the door behind me, slamming it until I heard the lock engage.

'Engage your brain and body, Benita.' I told myself, just in case I had to use both. I wasn't going to be discovered dead, in a derelict house, not if I could help it.

It was pitch black and smelly. Not bad smelly, like kind of old deodorant granny smell, if that makes sense.

I flicked on my phone, for light.

Light showed up nothing alarming: an empty room, bare walls, bare floorboards. I recall thinking how clean it seemed, which was odd, given it hadn't been lived in for years.

Stepping back into the hallway, I had my first freak out moment. The light of my phone focused on a series of dark brown splatters on the walls.

Walls that still bore the bloodstains of the young mum who was slaughtered in this house.

Mum told me that as the blood spewed from her open throat, she pushed her kids into the room, to save them from the crazy crack head.

Heading down the hallway, I thought of her, she was a hero.

I felt less freaked as I stepped away from her bloodstains, and into the kitchen.

The kitchen didn't interest me, but the door to the left of it did.

A flutter of fear played with me as I eyed the door. I spoke to myself, out loud, "Come on Benita, you're a tough chick, check out the cellar."

The Cellar. This was the door to the basement wherein old man practiced his dark arts, or so legend has it.

It may be an Urban Legend. I told myself that's all it was. One of those spooky stories that do the rounds on the net, like Slender Man.

Slender Man isn't real. Nor is old man, I reassured myself as my hand reached for the old fashioned latch.

I edged backwards as the door swung open, outwards.

Outwardly I was calm; given that what I saw, should've bothered me. But it didn't.

Narrow, concrete steps, led down, to a light.

A light, someone was down there.

I coughed, loudly, to see if I'd get a reaction, a clue to who or what was down there.

There came back, a cough.

Not an echo of my cough, no, a male cough.

A compulsion compelled me, and I took the first step.

Then continued stepping downwards, into the cellar of 30 Petal Road.

At the bottom, it finally happened, the clichés kicked in: my heart raced, my head thumped, my body became instantly clammy, and my throat dried up.

I spun round and leaped back up the cold concrete steps, "Don't go," he said.

At the top, I turned back and tried to compose myself. But I couldn't, my heart was thumping, my head pounding.

It was him.

"Please come back," he said, his voice, deep and gravely.

I spoke to myself again, this time in silence, "Woman up Benita, you're sixteen. Now, get down there and confront him."

So, I went back down and stared at him, my green eyes blazing.

His face lit up, "You're the girl from the library," he smiled.

"You're the boy from the library."

He laughed, "That's me."

I didn't know what to say, so just said, "You weren't there, tonight."

"I'm happy you noticed."

"What you doing here?" I asked

"That's my question. I live here, you don't." He said.

I felt myself flush, my face burnt up as I groveled, "I'm so sorry. I saw the door open and curiosity got me. I'll leave right now."

"No, stay, I could do with the company, it's Halloween."

"It's my birthday," I smiled.

I relaxed and looked around the basement. The relatively small space was packed with wall mounted Apple Macs and digital devices of every kind. My library crush sat in the middle of them all.

"What're you doing down here?" I asked.

"Monitoring."

"Monitoring what?"

"Stuff. What's your name?"

"Benita. What's yours?"

"Dylan."

A familiarity accompanied his name, "Was it the legend that made you curious?" He asked.

"Yes."

"You know the truth, though, don't you?" He asked.

"Yes. A young mum, murdered in this house by a crack head, in front of her two kids."

Immediately I regretted saying that, because sadness smothered his voice, "You're right, she was my mum, my hero. She saved my sister and I."

"Dylan, I'm so, so sorry."

"No need to be, you've said nothing wrong. That's what happened." He turned his back on me and stared at a Mac, "But it's not the truth."

"Your mum was murdered, wasn't she?"

He swiveled his chair back to face me, "Yes, she was. But not by a crack head."

"By who?"

"By the Devil."

Yes, that sounds insane and I should've run, but I didn't. Because there was something about Dylan that made me stay. His calm, peaceful demeanor appealed to me. I felt like he was giving me a precious gift: friendship.

So instead, I took control, "Get real Dylan, the Devil's a made up evil; crack head's are real, and your poor mum succumbed to one," I said. That sounds harsh when you read it, but I said it soft, kindly, with rationale.

Dylan stood up, looked at one of his Mac's, turned to me and said, "Stay with me tonight, Benita, and I'll show you the truth, if you can handle it."

Only then did I look around him, at what was displayed on every single digital device: News sites, all carrying stories of murder, suicides and tragedy.

My blood ran cold.

But I didn't run, I asked him straight, "Dylan, you're looking at the same sick stuff old man hoarded. My mum told me this cellar was full of old newspapers reporting the stuff you're searching online. Are you conjuring these deaths, somehow making them happen, like old man?"

"Old man," he smiled: a warm and engaging smile. "So does this mean you believe in old man?" He asked.

"I need to know more details, before I make that decision," I said.

Dylan talked, and talked.

Talked the truth, I was beginning to think.

Think? I thought it might be the truth, but I didn't entirely believe his talk, not yet.

Would you believe a sixteen year old boy who tells you the Devil and his Demonic Army exists?

Exists to possess innocent souls to carry out his evil deeds.

Deeds disguised as human atrocities.

Would you believe a sixteen year old boy, who tells you that his mother wasn't murdered by a crazy crack head, but by a demonically possessed young man, whose possession was facilitated by old man, via his black arts performed in a suburban cellar?

Cellar's, like the one's in every regular street, in every regular town and city in the world.

Would you believe this talk, from a sixteen-year-old boy?

I don't blame you for dismissing this story as crazy crap. I almost did.

Until Dylan said, "Tonight's the big one, Benita."

"The big one, meaning?"

"Halloween. The big boss himself possesses an innocent soul tonight."

"Who's the big boss?"

"The Devil himself, AKA: Lucifer, Satan, or whatever you want to call him."

I couldn't help it, I laughed when he said that.

"It's not funny, Benita."

"No, I laughed from nerves, I'm getting spooked, if I'm honest."

"Honest, Benita. His human disciples will be doing their thing, their dark arts right now, in readiness for 3.A.M."

"3.A.M. what's the relevance of that time?"

"That's the time when we're most vulnerable to possession from demons. And 3. A.M on Halloween, the dead of the night is when the big boss himself pounces. Pounces into an innocent soul who's unfortunate enough to be awake at that time."

I checked my phone, and saw the time, "It's almost 2.30," I said.

Dylan stood up, "Exactly Benita, and we're young and awake, therefore vulnerable."

"I won't lie, you're proper scaring me now, Dylan," I said.

"Good. The truth is scary. If you believe in the truth, you can protect yourself, face the fear and fight it."

Dylan fetched a fold out chair and opened it, "Sit next to me," he said.

I did. He smelled good, shower fresh. "Can I hold your hand?" He asked.

"Yes."

He took my hand in his, "I don't do this in a boyfriend way. It's just that young souls are what they prize most. When we connect like this, our energy will be doubled and they're more likely to find us. And if they do, you'll see the truth."

I felt calm, because I now believed in Dylan. I felt safe with him, that he wasn't some kind of psycho kid. "Use your phone Benita, go onto your social network platforms: Snapchat, whatever, go onto them all, post pictures, post all kinds of crap," he said.

"Why?"

"They need to see you're online, see you're active, that you're awake."

He took out his phone and started thumbing it with his free hand.

I took out my phone and clocked the time: 2.54. A.M.

I logged onto twitter, "Is the Devil on twitter?" I asked.

"He's on everything that can give him and his demons access to us," said Dylan. I felt his hand tighten round mine.

It was weird being on twitter at this time of night. I tweeted: HAPPY HALLOWEEN! Not very creative, I know.

It was now 2.58. A.M. and all was quiet. It's deathly quiet at that time of the night.

2.59. A.M. and something happened.

All the Macs and devices went crazy. My phone started to heat up and vibrate violently. "Don't let go of your phone!" Shouted Dylan.

"It's burning my hand!"

"Grip it tight!"

"I can't, it's on fire!"

"Hold on, bare the pain for a few seconds more!"

I was about to throw my phone when I saw the digits switch to: 3.01.A.M.

And the heat left my phone, I checked my hand, it was ok, not burnt.

"Benita," said Dylan.

"What?"

He looked at me, "Don't freak out, but look over your left shoulder, he's here."

I turned, and saw him: The Devil.

He doesn't look like he does in the movies. No, he looks like a regular man. Middle aged, greying hair, wearing a suit and tie, like a business boss.

He looked at me with regular eyes, not burning red, or yellow, "I'll get you, one day!" He said, with a regular smile.

I shook my head and spoke instinctively, "No, you won't. Because I know the truth and I'll fight you every day of my life."

His laugh was dismissive, "You're talking to Lucifer, girl. The Devil doesn't give up. Next time, sweetheart."

In that moment, doubt hit me. I thought this might be a trick, an elaborate prank, and that he was just a man, an actor.

But when he began to melt into the concrete floor, until he was gone, leaving just a black feather where he'd stood, I knew then, that the Devil exists.

And that's the truth.

That night was my calling; it gave a purpose to my life.

Now, Dylan and I are a team; we're here for you, for humanity.

I suppose you could call us modern day Demon Hunters. Together we have the experience and tools to fight the Devil and his disciples.

And those tools aren't: Crucifixes, Bibles or Prayers. No, such weaponry only exists in the Movies.

We live in the real world.

If you do wake before 3.A.M on Halloween, please switch of all your devices.

And be assured, that Dylan and I will be at Petal Road, doing all we can to protect you, from him.