Horror - Flash

This story is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are fictitious and any similarities to actual persons, locations, or events is coincidental. This work cannot be used to train artificial intelligence programs.  No AI tools were used in the writing of this story.

All rights reserved. She-Demon Copyright © Eddie Generous 2026

SHE-DEMON

There is a creaky hinge swinging somewhere far, far from view, though sounding as if within arm’s length thanks to the to-and-fro of microphones and speakers. Within view, there’s a barking dog tied to a post by the ancient barn. Rain pounds the gravel.

A body: naked, a man, his penis flopping, his chest hair matted with blood, flies through the air from the upper haymow window of the ancient barn. Tanned to a dark brown, the blood glistens beneath the yard light bulb, stark and reflective, even as the rain thins the sticky fluids.

Beyond sight of the camera, the body lands on a thick blue mat.

A dry director/producer seated a few feet past the rain machine calls, “Cut! Great, that might be the one. Lunch truck, forty-five minutes.”

The crew are like rats sensing safety and an easy meal. These men and women stream from the cracks of the set. Some wear blood and gore, but the majority are in everyday work clothes. Jeans. T-shirts. Sneakers.

“Great job,” Samantha Combs says. Samantha is a bloody mess, there’s an arrow on her shoulder, made to look as if passing through meat and bone. It’s early in production, and her character’s destiny concludes off-screen, but there is word of this film becoming a series and folks love finished business. “I mean, you’re really feeling it today.”

This comment reaches the ears of the She-Demon. A latex suit over a muscular effeminate body of a man named Zif.

The director strides over. He grabs a snack, reaching around Samantha, pressing his crotch against her ass for one, two, three, four seconds, reminding them both of what she did to get the part. It makes her cry at night. The lack of punishment encourages him to do it more often. Year after year. Even as his cock makes contact with Samantha’s pants, he’s thinking of making the young actor who’d come to see him that morning about a different film get on his knees.

“Great job, Zif. You’re on it today, full of fury. People will bitch about the casting, but there are some jobs a woman just can’t do.”

People had already begun to bitch. SCREAM Magazine was all over him about casting a man to play a woman’s role. He’d argued that a woman didn’t have the muscle, the range, the capabilities to do any justice to the transformed half of the She-Devil part

“You know, Zif, I have another film, looking for a guy to go through some windows. I’ll dial your agent. This, today, really has me certain you’re going places.”

Bi-treacherous, bi-cretinous, bi-monstrous, this director/producer has his tastes and Zif is a pockmarked dud on a wiry frame, not even blowjob material. He can get an industry pass on straight up on-screen capabilities.

The She-Demon does not react to this. Simply stares ahead. Across the chatty studio, a howl and a scream silence the talkers.

“My God! My God! It’s Mike!”

The director rushes. Samantha rushes. The grips, the assistants, the risen dead cast, everyone rushes. Even the She-Demon rushes, after two heartbeats.

Mike, the most recently dead thrown from the haymow, is into the part too far, that blood is too real. The gash in his throat leaked more blood than is typically used in any singular kill scene. It’s an intense amount, more than the director would imagine or demand leaked from a wound.

“What the fuck is this?” the director shouts, spinning to address the crowd until he sets eyes on the She-Demon rubber. It’s a feminine face, twisted and distorted, a cheek stretched and torn, revealing sharp teeth. The scalp, half-bald, faux burned, is hideous. The straggling strings of hair ride down to Zif’s shoulders, to where it connects with the rubber torso, to where the smallish tits made to match the woman’s natural tits from pre-transformation, pre-witch’s resurrection. “What the fuck happened, Zif?” he demands, thinking that the rubber chest looks awfully real.

The She-Demon lifts the machete and slides it along the side of the mask. It makes quick work of the rubber. That expensive rubber falls away. This is not Zif.

“What the fuck?” the director moans.

Beneath the She-Demon aura is Rebecca Jones. She’d trained for this, believed she’d had the part months before shooting, refused to meet the director a second time in his room, didn’t care to give or receive a back rub, a cock in her, anywhere in her. She then got the call that the director put on his producer pants and made an executive decision. He wanted to have a stuntman play the role.

“She-Demon was always me,” Rebecca says and stomps forward. She’s built like a TV wrestler, lacking the sex appeal, but having all the muscles and sculpture and skills.

“No, wait,” the director creep says and sprints toward his trailer.

He has to call security. He has to call his brother. He has to call someone…he’s untouchable. Godammit! This is impossible. He charges the three steps, swings open the door, and slams it closed. It’s dim inside, but he sees enough. He screams, shrill and musically.

“My God!”

There’s blood on everything. Zif is a gaping mound. The director sees his brother, the brother’s chest yawns, his heart gone. The security officers who’ve always kept a secret are in a pile. The director’s senior talent scout and PR agent start and finish in locations undiscernible, cellphones jammed down throats.

The door opens behind the director. He spins and a hand yanks him out and he lands on the clean cement floor with a boney thunk.

“No. No,” he pleads. “I can get you any job!”

Rebecca stands over this chunky heap of skin rash and hairy moles, his thinning hair and twelve-thousand-dollar suit, his Rolex, his Gucci loafers, the seeping blood creeping slowly from the side of his head.

“Help me!” the director screams.

The cast, the extras, the crew, they stare at the man. All know what he’s done, all said nothing for fear of missing the ship to their dreams, missing bill payments.

“She’s a killer, can’t you see that?”

“I see nothing. I say nothing,” Samantha says and turns back to the lunch truck. The others follow her away, all but Rebecca with the machete.

“You’re through in this business!” the director/producer whines, befittingly.

The machete slashes. Blood spurts and flows. Rebecca leaves him to bleed out. She calls to her would-be coworkers, “Grab what’s valuable and go.”

The gasoline splashes and Rebecca works side-by-side with two women and a girl of fifteen. Rebecca had refused the physical advances, but the other three hadn’t. The teenager is the angriest of the bunch and though she hadn’t planned on killing her boss, she’d dreamed of it, almost as much as she dreamed the assaults her mother had encouraged her to withstand for big screen dreams.

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