The scratching from under his bedsit floor awoke Max from his nap. The world bathed in orange from the streetlight outside.
Fuck they’re back!
Max moved swiftly, shoving the bed against the wall, barricading the door with the bookcase. He grabbed the glass jar. Splashing chicken blood over the threadbare carpet, drawing a circle in crimson.
The last drops, Max lit the candles, muttering incantations of protection as he worked.
The scratching was gathering intensity; they’d be through any moment.
Max settled in the circle, a whiskey and cigarette, mentally preparing himself.
It was time to save the world again.