Demons
When I was young, no older than eight or nine, I would covertly enter my stepfather’s basement workshop to marvel at the miniature kingdom he had built. The display was set up over the pool table my real father had used, now little more than a platform to support stream-fed caverns and mountain chambers, the subterranean strongholds within. Gothic towers linked by arched bridges rose up and stretched under the domes of hollowed rock, which may have been plaster or papier-mâché, but had been expertly painted to look like natural stone. My stepfather was a talented hobbyist, there is no…
