This is day 11 of 
Find out more about the challenge (you can join the fun anytime!) here https://steemit.com/365daysofwriting/@mydivathings/day-11-365-days-of-writing-challenge
This story is part of a new series. You can read the first part here
If you don't want to read the previous post here is a quick summary:
Kizzle is a demon. Usually he "welcomes" souls as they descend into Hell. But the supply has dried up. There has been a shift : Earth now has more evil in it than Hell. Evil souls are attracted to the place with the biggest concentration of evil (just think of it a bit like osmosis - soulmosis?) Hell's gates are like a semi-permeable membrane. There are no more evil souls coming down. But the ones that were down there...
well looks like they are coming back up.
Needless to say Satan is not happy. Things have definitely been worse.
And Satan wants Kizzle to make sure they're worse again.
HELL on Earth (Part 3) : Gramps
Billy loved his bike. He loved the freedom. But most of all he loved riding fast. Crouched low on the frame, head down, with the wind rushing past his ears, he peddled like a demon.
He liked it better without his helmet on, but his mum told him that if she caught him without it one more time she’d take his bike off him for good.
Up ahead, walking towards the park gates, he could see Frankie and Rob. Frankie was on his skateboard, Rob had a football under his arm, like he always did. Instead of calling to them Billy peddled faster and then executed a perfect skid right across their path. Frankie yelled and came of his board, and Billy thought Rob looked like had shat his pants. Again.
Billy laughed himself silly until Frankie punched him hard in the arm and told he was a fucking arsehole. Rob was busy chasing his ball across the road (miraculously surviving three near misses with the wheels of passing cars).
“What’s wrong with you?” Frankie said to Billy, as they waited for Rob to weave his way back across the road. “You look like shite,” he got closer, peering right into his face. “You look... old!”
Billy shrugged.
“I didn’t get much sleep,” he said.
“Erica have her boyfriend in again?” Frankie said, his eyes widening. Billy shook his head. He really wished he had kept his mouth shut, and not told Frankie about the sounds that came from his sister’s bedroom the last time Kev was round.
Billy really didn’t want to think about it.
“Nope,” he said. “Just a bad dream.”
He regretted saying it before it had left his mouth but it was too late.
“Ohhh, did baby have a scary dream?” Frankie said, his voice imitating that of a toddler.
Billy shrugged it off. He had had that dream again. It was the third time this week. He was walking through a desert. Looking for someone, his lantern held high. He searched and searched, but all he could see for what looked like miles was sand. In his dream he felt older. Much older. And different too. Like he wasn’t Billy. And, when he had that thought in the dream, he stopped walking. Stopped dead in his tracks, sand trickling over his sandaled feet. He raised his lantern and peered into the darkness.
“Billy?” he had called. “Is that you?”
And then he had woken. He was hot and soaking wet. For an awful moment he thought he had pissed himself. But it was just sweat. He had gotten out of bed and washed himself down with a damp cloth, in the bathroom. Back in his room, he put his pyjamas on the radiator to dry. He didn’t want his mum asking awkward questions.
“Billy?” Frankie was looking at him. He looked genuinely concerned. “You looked really funny there, for a moment. Are you alright?”
Billy nodded. Luckily Rob was back, and he didn’t miss the opportunity for deflection.
“You shit yourself, again, Rob?”
Frankie laughed and Rob coloured up, shaking his head.
“Fuck off, Billy,” he said. “You coming for a kickabout?”
“Nah,” Billy said. “Got to go and visit Gramps. In the home,” he looked down at his feet, to try to hide the tears he could feel welling up. “He’s probably gonna die soon.”
Frankie and Rob knew the code, and looked away. None of them liked seeing tears. Unless someone was crying from a good kick in the balls. That was always funny.
Unless it was happening to you.
“Yeah, I heard,” Frankie said. “Sorry, mate.”
They chatted for a couple of minutes, but Billy could see they were itching to get into the park. And he had to get to the Home before the end of visiting hours.
It was another ten minutes vigorous cycling before Billy swerved into the long tree-lined drive. He locked up his bike and took a couple of minutes to get his breath back before he rang the bell beside the large oak door.
It was Gordon who opened the door, and today he was smiling. Billy liked Gordon. Dad said he must be gay because caring for old folk ain’t no job for a real man. His mum had laughed at that. What do you know about a real man’s job? she had asked, putting the glass she was washing onto the draining board, and drying her hands with a cloth. Sitting on your arse all day, watching shite on the telly. Caring for people is hard work, so that would disqualify you straight away. That had started an argument, and Billy had left. It was times like that he really missed his Gramps.
He hadn’t really had much to do with Gramps until he moved down to the Home, a couple of years ago. They’d made the annual pilgrimage to see him in Glasgow, every year in the Easter holidays, but Gramps had never been to visit them. In all of his seventy eight years he had never left Scotland. And he hated southerners: particularly Londoners. Which is why he hated Dad. Well, that wasn’t the only reason, Billy guessed. But it was part of it. After being forced to admit he could no longer cope alone, that he would have to leave the home he had been born in, he had reluctantly agreed to move to a Home near his daughter. In England. Billy laughed every time his Gramps spoke the word. It came out of his mouth like vomit. Billy had taken to visit Gramps three times a week after school. Partly to piss his Dad off, but mostly to get to know him better.
Billy liked him. He was funny. And he didn’t judge Billy.
“We have some good news!” Gordon said, as he showed Billy through. “Your Grandad has perked up. In fact,” he said. “He has started talking again.” His smile widened at the same time as Billy’s eyes. Gramps had stopped talking about a month before Gordon had started work at the home and that was at the beginnings of the summer holiday so that was about - Billy did the maths - four months ago.
“It’s really rare - unheard of really - for someone with dementia to recover their speech. We have a specialist coming down from London to meet him. It’s all very exciting!” Gordon seemed to check himself, seeing the expression on Billy’s face. “At least, it’s really good news for you. Now,” he said, pausing in front of the door that had a picture of Gramps’ wife (It had been taken at their wedding. Nana had been dead for ten years - Billy was too young to really remember her - but the nurses said it helped Gramps know which room was his).
“Now, you may find that he is different from the Granddad you remember. Dementia can change people’s personality,” Gordon smiled. “But you know that. Come on, come and say hello.”
Gordon knocked at the door and, without waiting for a response, pushed it open.
Billy stared at Gramps. The last time he had seen the old man, he had been lying in his bed, frail looking, with saliva drooling from his mouth. Not this time. Sitting on the edge of the bed, smiling broadly, Gramps looked full of life and ten years younger.
“Look who’s come to see you, William,” Gordon said, his hand a reassuring weight on Billy’s shoulder. “It’s your grandson, Billy.”
Gramps’ smile widened and his dentures shifted in his mouth.
“Billy me old mucker,” he said, in a broad cockney accent. “Get yer arse over here, mate and give your old Grandpa a hug!”
Billy pushed past Gordon and ran out the door. Gordon followed, a questioning look on his face.
“What’s the matter, Billy?” he said, his hand on Billy’s arm.
“Whoever - or whatever - that is,” Billy said, pointing a shaking finger back at the room, his face ashen white. “It’s not my Gramps.”