It was a cold morning in the wild town of Devil's Perfect. The wind screamed through the streets, slipping between houses like a ghostly whisper. An alarm clock buzzed furiously, jolting a lonely old man awake. With a grunt, he slammed his fist down on it. BANG! The clock broke.

  Groaning, he pushed himself up, his body still half-asleep. “Move, you damn leg!” he barked as he shuffled slowly toward the bathroom. The wind howled through cracks in his cold, empty house, sending chills over his skin. He exhaled sharply, his breath cutting through the icy air like steam.

  At the sink, he splashed water on his face. “Fuck—that’s cold!” he shouted, flinching. He stared at his tired reflection for a moment before turning away and trudging toward the fireplace. A faint smile broke through his usual scowl as he knelt down to light it—only to find it empty.

  “Damn it!” he growled, slamming the flint down. He stormed into his bedroom and dropped to the floor, pulling out an old coffee can from under his bed. He pried off the lid, counting out the crumpled bills inside.

  “Only ten dollars?” He sighed bitterly. “Oh well, it’ll do.”

  The old man clambered into his rusted-out truck. The engine reeked of disuse, and the cold made it groan. He turned the key, whispering, “Come on, baby, work for daddy one more time.” The truck coughed, sputtered—and then, miraculously, roared to life.

  He yanked it into gear, pulling out of the driveway with a screech and nearly running over a kid in the street. “Get the fuck out of the way, you dumb kid!” he bellowed through the window.

  As he drove through the empty streets, the truck wailed and clanked, a sound as old and tired as the man himself. A woman peeked through her curtains and muttered, “It’s that crazy old man again. I thought he was dead.”

  Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.

  The truck eventually screeched to a stop outside an old wood store. The faded sign overhead hung by a single nail and read: “Wood That Burns Like Hell.” The truck rocked as the old man slammed on the brakes, barely missing a trash can.

  He climbed out, clutching his ten dollars tightly. The bell above the door jingled as he stormed in.

  BANG! He slapped the counter hard. “What can you get me for ten dollars?”

  The shopkeeper, an older man with sly eyes, leaned back in his chair. “Ten dollars? Not much.”

  “I don’t care. As long as I sleep warm tonight, any wood is good.”

  “Any wood, you say?” The shopkeeper’s face twisted into a strange smile. “Well, I got just the thing for you. Wait here.”

  The shopkeeper began to hum a tune—a slow, eerie melody—as he disappeared deeper into the store. The old man watched impatiently as the shopkeeper passed stacks of neatly priced firewood, most of them under ten dollars.

  Finally, the shopkeeper stopped at a large piece of wood covered in a ragged cloth. A tattered sign hung loosely off of it: “WARNING: THE DEVIL'S WOOD.”

  The shopkeeper grinned, ripping off the warning. “Finally,” he muttered, “I’m getting you out of my store. Been here too damn long.” He grabbed the heavy log and walked back, still humming.

  BANG! The wood hit the counter. “Here you go—best wood you’ll get for the price. You’ll sleep real warm tonight… REAL warm.”

  The old man scowled and snatched the wood. “Give me that shit, tsk!” He turned to leave, muttering, “Goodbye, and have a fucking trash day.”

  The shopkeeper’s smile widened as the door slammed shut behind the old man.

  The old man’s truck roared back to life as he sped home, weaving through the streets recklessly, narrowly missing pedestrians and parked cars. His driveway came into view, and he slammed on the brakes—too late. CRUNCH! The truck lurched forward, bumping into the wall.

  “Damn you, stupid truck!” he cursed, climbing out.

  He stomped into his house, slamming the door behind him. BANG! The cold wind whispered through cracks in the walls, chilling him to the bone. His breath fogged up the air as he dragged the heavy log to the fireplace.

  “Time for a good, warm sleep,” he muttered, throwing the wood in. He struck a match. The flames roared to life instantly, consuming the wood with an unsettling whoosh.

  The warmth spread quickly, filling the house with an almost motherly heat. The old man dropped onto the couch, a satisfied groan escaping his lips. “Mmm… yes, that’s the stuff.”

  The warmth lulled him to sleep.

  Later that night, a loud crack shattered the silence. The old man jolted awake, coughing violently. Sweat poured down his face.

  The air was dry. His throat ached, his chest heaving as he tried to breathe. A red light bled through the room, casting an unnatural glow across the walls.

  His eyes darted toward the fireplace. The flames were no longer orange—they were blinding, brilliant red, as if the fire itself had turned into molten lava.

  Panicking, he stumbled to the kitchen sink. He turned the faucet, but nothing came out. “Damn it! I can’t… breathe!”

  The air grew hotter. The walls burned his fingertips as he tried to steady himself. Even the air seemed to sear his lungs, like inhaling fire itself.

  He ran for the front door, coughing uncontrollably. Grabbing the handle, he screamed—the metal seared his palm.

  Smoke began pouring out of his mouth and skin, thick and black, as though his very soul was burning. His body convulsed as darkness overtook him. The red light swelled to a blinding peak as he collapsed to the floor.

  The house trembled. The walls groaned as thick, choking smoke billowed out of every crack and crevice.

  Outside, the house sat still—silent—but black smoke poured from its windows, rising into the night sky like a funeral pyre. It twisted and swirled, growing larger, darker, until it began to take shape.

  Back at the wood store, the shopkeeper stood by the window, watching the rising smoke. He grinned, his eyes gleaming.

  “That’s the Devil’s Wood, alright.”

  The camera pans up to the night sky, where the smoke finally solidifies into a monstrous figure. A devil, born from darkness, looms over the town—its horns piercing the stars, its ember-red eyes staring down with malevolent glee.

  The town falls silent beneath its gaze.