He took his breakfast and coffee and mumbled something to his wife as she scurried around getting ready to go off to work. He put his dishes in the sink. Her car was con as he walked out to the driveway, only a tiny puddle in its space. He wondered briefly if it was oil, anti-freeze or water.
He got into his car and drove about two miles to work. He nodded at his employees, his subordinates, his secretary, picking up a sheaf of pink phone messages that he would have to deal with, barely hearing the murmur of people working until he closed the door to his office and stood in the quiet.
There, in his office, raising up from pools of shadows, silent and black as tar, demons rose, their shadowy fingers like claws. He fought them, dodged their talons, punched at them, wrestled with them, his teeth clenched with determination as they howled and screamed like banshees. He landed a solid blow on one and it vanished like a puff of smoke only to be replaced by two more.
He was overwhelmed, backed into a corner, as fear was reflected in their shiny coal black eyes.
In desperation, he drew his gun.
Hearing the noise his workers stormed his office, but it was too late.
He was dead.