Devil's Night Chapter One It was a dark and stormy night, the wind was howling around the house... With a harumph, the page was torn from the typewriter, slammed into a ball, and tossed at the trash can. "Fucking hell, crap, it's all crap!" Carl came out of the chair and began pacing back and forth, his pencil hanging from his lips like cigarettes used to. Running his hands through his hair, pulling it as each hand came to the end of each strand, he wondered when his hair got so long. He was always one to keep a neat appearance. He hated the idea of looking the part of the starving artist. His train of thought was interrupted by the old rotary phone on his desk ringing. He loved having a set phone for his agent, editor, or other people connected with his writing. This helped him keep things separate: work and home. Not that home was anything to brag about lately, not since Cheryl left him. The phone continued blaring, blocking out the image of his ex-wife. "Yes." Carl snarled. "Carl, it's Miranda, checking in. How's the story going? Will it be done in the next week? The publishers want it out while you're still hot." Miranda was his agent; for the most part, Carl liked her. Right now, he hated her. She was there pointing out that he was a failure. His first three books soared to the top of the best sellers list, creating an expectation of perfection. The reality was he wasn't sure he had any more books in him. He had poured his heart and soul into the pages of the first three. They were his baby, his legacy. Now, he just felt empty. Nothing was being written, nothing was being created, nothing was being done. "Hey Miranda, I'm not sure I will have it done by then. You know, life's been a bit hard lately with Cheryl leaving and all." "Carl, Carl, Carl, I know it was hard, but the show must go on. Your fans don't care about all that. They just want the next book. Do you hear me? Get it done. I don't care how, just get it done." Carl heard the click of the hang up before he could even think of a response. "Fuck!" the word echoed through his study as he slammed the phone back on its cradle. Carl had no idea how he would get an entire book written before the deadline. Of course, it didn't have to be good; that's what editors were for; it just had to be done. He sighed, turned off his desk light, and headed to his empty bedroom to crawl in his cold bed and dream of the life he had before he had become a bestselling author. *** Chapter Two Sleep was not Carls's friend; it hadn't been for a long time, but tonight, he could hear whooping and hollering in the street. He sighed as he tossed his leg over the side of the bed. He threw the curtains back to see what all the fuss was about this time of night, only to see teenagers toilet-papering trees, soaping car windows, and putting shaving cream under door handles. Devils night. The night before Halloween. Some parts of the country called it mischief night, but Carl always preferred Devil's Night; it had a much more sinister ring. Carl headed to the kitchen, knowing he wouldn't sleep anymore tonight; coffee at two in the morning was becoming a regular thing; if he were lucky, he would catch an hour or two of sleep in the afternoon before the trick-or-treaters came around. He headed into the living room with his cup and sat on the couch. The house was quiet, peaceful some might say, but Carl missed his wife's snoring. He wasn't sure when things had gone sour; his first book had just hit best-seller status, and he had headed out for a book tour. Cheryl didn't want to leave her job, so she stayed home. The book tour was everything he dreamt it would be, hundreds if not thousands of people standing in line to meet him! The nights were long and lonely, and the meals were hurried, but he loved every minute of it. He would call home every morning and every night. Most of the time, Cheryl would answer; sometimes, in the evening, she would be out with friends. This was nothing new; even when he was home, she often went out while he stayed in and wrote. One day, the store he was supposed to sign at had a fire, postponing the rest of the tour, so he decided to surprise Cheryl and head home. That was when he found them. Cheryl and her best friend Anne, in bed. Carl shook his head to shatter the memory. He glanced around the room, trying to find something that would clear that image from his mind. His eyes settled on the stack of board games on the shelf; Cheryl and Anne had always said they were getting together for game night, but now he wondered what kind of games they meant. He slid off the couch and crawled over to the games to see what "games" they had been playing. Monopoly, Chess, Trivial Pursuit, and Ouija. Carl was intrigued by the Ouija board; he pulled it out. He had never been one to believe, he thought Cheryl had felt the same, so he was surprised to see it there. Of course, he had thought a lot of things about Cheryl that turned out not to be true. He opened the box. It seemed like the type of board that was a dime a dozen in the toy stores, which he thought was weird. A child couldn't get their ears pierced, but they could summon demons at the age of five. He chuckled as he set up the board on the coffee table. He sat cross-legged on the floor with the board in front of him at chest level on the table. "Let's see, oh great and powerful Ouija board, tell me the future!" He placed his hands on the planchet and closed his eyes. Nothing happened. "Maybe that was too open of a question, oh great and powerful spirit of the Ouija board, tell me if I will ever sleep." The planchet moved to yes. Carl dropped his hands from it as if it were on fire. "Alright, that was just my subconscious with some wishful thinking. Let's try again; oh great and powerful spirit of the Ouija board, will I ever be able to write again." Carl placed his hands back on the planchard and closed his eyes. He had never wanted anything more. He hoped with all his might that the answer would be yes. "Eventually, maybe tomorrow." The deep voice echoed through the living room. Carl caught his breath but didn't want to open his eyes. His heart was racing, and he was struggling to get enough air into his lungs. "Breathe, buddy. We can work on the rest tomorrow." *** Chapter Three The sunlight streaming through the living room window woke Carl. He sat up from the floor where he had spent the night and wiped sleep from his eyes. The Ouija board was still on the table with the planchard on the word YES. "Stupid game. I must have been more tired than I thought. I need coffee." Leaving the board where it was he stumbled to the kitchen to make a pot of coffee. It was late morning, the sun was streaming through the house, and the birds were chirping from the trees outside. The coffee was a cheap Colombian blend, but Carl liked it. He took his cup and headed to his office to get a few words in before it got too late. He set his coffee down, pulled in his chair, and took the phone off its cradle so no one could bother him as he tried to write. He placed the paper into the typewriter and just stared at it. Nothing came to him. He sighed and took a sip of coffee, then continued to stare. "You can't start with 'It was a dark and stormy night' unless you are writing a parody." Carl shot out of his chair, knocking his coffee to the floor. There behind him was what carl could only describe as a demon. "wha..wha..are you?" "Why, Carl, you called me last night. You needed help, and here I am. Together, we can write the greatest horror novel ever known!" The beast was covered in black skin, his head was devoid of hair, and two large horns spouted from right above his ears. His eyes were a cold white blue, not what Carl had thought the eyes of a demon would be. He stood in the doorway in a loin cloth of sorts; he was well-muscled with long fingers and toes. Carl cocked his head at the demon's feet. "I thought demons had cloven hooves?' With an exasperated sigh, the demon replied, "That is a myth. Some do, don't get me wrong, but the majority of us walk on feet. The bullshit that is spread about us could fill a book, I'm telling you. But enough of that. Let's get to it." Carl did not move; he just stared at the demon. "Um, what? I mean, how does this work." "Oh, excellent. I thought you would be opposed to it. It's quite simple: we work out a payment plan, and then I help you write the greatest horror novel ever. It will be horror; I can't stand romance. Did that once, never again." A smile split the dark skin, and when he finished speaking, Carl noticed that just a few of his teeth were pointy. "What kind of payment?" The question came out more like a squeak, forcing Carl to clear his throat when he was done. "Like my soul or something?' "Oh goodness no! That's not my thing. Souls can get so tedious, then wail and groan, it's really just awful. I was thinking more along the lines of letting me lead the way, you know, make sure we get the research in for this to be the greatest book ever! Oh, and a few pairs of sweatpants and t-shirts thrown in. It gets rather drafty in just a loin cloth." Carl thought about it for a moment—the chance to hit best-seller again, maybe even get Cheryl back. Miranda would get off his back. He might be able to relive the joy of the book tour again. This seemed as though it were a no lose situation. How bad could it be to let someone else lead the research? It would be a huge load off to just get to write, to have ideas thrown at him, and to do what he loved. "How do we make a deal? Shake on it?" Carl reached his hand out, and the demon whipped out a blade and sliced the palm of Carl's hand before reaching out his own to shake on the deal. The blood was sucked into the demon's hand, leaving Carl's tingling. He felt lightheaded and tried to retract his hand from the massive one that held it, but the demon held firm, sucking every bit of blood into himself. "Ahhh, that's good stuff right there. Not a drinker, eh, Carl? That's nice." The demon looked almost high from the blood. He finally let go of Carl, and they both slid to the floor, one in ecstasy, one from lack of blood. They sat and contemplated each other for a good five minutes before either spoke. "What should I call you? I can't yell 'hey you, demon' if we're out in public." The demon chuckled before answering, "Names have power. I cannot give you mine, but we can come up with something that will work. How about Chris, like Chris Hemsworth? I like Thor; I could get into that name. Or just Thor." Carl looked at him, "Chris, it is." Then he got up and headed to get dressed before grabbing his keys. "Where are you going? I should go with you." Chris stumbled down the stairs, trying to head out the front door with Carl. "Nope, not yet. I'm gonna get you the sweats and t-shirts. I'm already not sure how we will keep people from staring. The last thing we need is you in a loin cloth. Is black okay to get?" "Blue, if they have it, I'll wait here." *** Chapter Four Chris was all gussied up in his new electric blue sweats and white t-shirt. Carl thought the contrast between the pitch-black skin and electric blue was a bit shocking, but it seemed like the demon was thrilled with the new outfit. "Okay, so the first thing we need to do is figure out a plot. I think it should be a paranormal horror. One where the demon hunts down the victims. I could chase a few people so you can get the full descriptions. What do you think?" Carl thought momentarily before replying, "There needs to be a reason for the hunting. It's stupid if all it is is blood and gore. We need a plot point." Chris sat back on the recliner to think. "Revenge? Maybe I... I mean, the demon was called up by a man who needed revenge on someone?" "Okay, good, but it needs to be like Halloween or something so the demon doesn't stand out as much. Otherwise, it's just cheesy." Chris thought for a moment, "Oh, that's good. We can go out tonight, you know. It is Halloween so people might think I have a righteous costume on." "Oh, that's good. We should definitely go tonight. So, revenge. I can get behind that. I can start with a back story right now, and we can head out when it gets dark, but I don't generally write horror; I write fantasy. You know, dragons, knights, that kind of stuff. How should I start?" "Pull from your real life; that's always best." The smile that crossed Chris's face was sinister. Carl swallowed hard but headed to his office and typewriter. He didn't think he'd be able to write a single word, especially with the demon standing right behind him. He sighed, placed a fresh sheet of paper in the machine, and placed his fingers on the keys. *** Chapter Five Carl didn't remember writing a single word, or the sun setting. All he knew for sure was his stomach was growling, and he had to pee. He slid the chair away from the desk; as he stood, he heard each bone crack. Chris was leaning on the wall, smiling. "That was amazing, Carl, you really are talented!" "What do you mean, nothing got done. I think I fell asleep, actually." "Look at your desk." There, sitting on his desk was a stack of neatly typed pages. At least one hundred pages looked ready to go. Carl stared in disbelief. "How?" "A little push was all you needed. Now, let's get to the real research!' Carl limped out of the room, his bones stiff from sitting too long, used the restroom, and headed to the kitchen where Chris was pacing. Carl took out some bread and cheese and started to make a sandwich. "We don't have time for that. Let's go!' Carl continued to make the sandwich, simply saying, "If I don't eat, I won't be able to stand, let alone research." A deep growl came from the area where Chris was. The hair on the back of Carl's neck stood up. For just a second, he had forgotten what he was dealing with. He grabbed the sandwich and headed out the door, making sure the passenger door was unlocked for his guest. "Now, where should we start? I think we should head over to your ex's house. You know, so that we can research those feelings for the descriptions." Carl was not thrilled with this idea; he wanted nothing to do with Cheryl and her new wife. "Didn't she leave you for a woman? Hmm, bet that stings." The demon smiled as Carl's face contorted with agony. "I don't think we should go there. I don't want to disturb them." "Oh, come on, Carl, what better place to analyze those feelings than at her house? Hmm?" Reluctantly Carl turned the car and headed to his ex-wife's house. The curtains were wide open; every light was on at Cheryl's house. Carl and Chris could see into every room. They watched as the two women went about their daily lives, cooking and snuggling on the couch together. Carl thought his heart was breaking into a million pieces. He had been the one to cook with her just a year ago. They would snuggle on the couch and watch her crime shows; even though he hated them, he knew how much she enjoyed them. "Wow, look how cozy they are. Bet that bites a bit." Carl side-eyed the demon in the passenger seat, "Are we done yet? I think I can get this story written." "Sure, let's head back to the house, and you can write a bit, but if you want to feel what it's really like to stalk and break-in, this is probably the best place. I mean, she knows you, so at least she should just send you away and not get the police all involved." Carl sighed; he didn't know how to break into a house or how to stalk. Not really. He had done a little bit of stalking when Cheryl left; that's how he knew where she lived, but he wasn't familiar enough with it to write it well. So, he sat there, with a demon at his shoulder, on Halloween night, waiting for the lights to go out. "Okay, let's go." The demon opened the door, gently closed it, and waited for Carl to do the same. "I'm not sure this is such a great idea. Maybe we should just get a book or something on breaking in." He was speaking to the demon's back. The two slunk around the back of the house, where they had seen a kitchen door through the open curtains, and stepped up the two stairs. "Check the doorknob; see if it's open." "Why can't you, I thought your whole deal was that you wanted to do the research." Carl hissed. "Because it's your book!" "Fine." He reached for the knob, not expecting much so when the door swung open silently, Carl stood there stunned for a moment. "Excellent. Let's go." Chris stepped into the dark house without hesitation. He glanced back and waved carl in. With a sigh, Carl stepped into his ex-wife's house. Chapter Six They walked around the house's first level, checking out all the nooks and crannies as quietly as possible. It all seemed so easy, if this was what it was like to stalk and break into a house, no wonder people did it. Really, what would happen? No one heard them; there was no dog to alert, and as long as they didn't knock anything over, it seemed like they had free reign. Chris was pilfering the hall closet when he popped his head out, "You should go upstairs. Feel what it's like to sneak up on them. That will give you real insight to help write that scene. It will be so well written. I bet no one's stalking scene will be better than yours. I mean, really, how many writers go through this much research." Carl didn't even hesitate this time. Getting in and rummaging downstairs had been so easy. He felt confident in his ability to stay silent and not wake them. He silently walked up the steps, no creaks or groans in the staircase. Carl thought it would have been ironic had he been discovered due to a squeaky step. Of course, that was so cliche; he was grateful it didn't happen. He would have felt compelled to include that in the book. He tried to make his fiction as truthful as possible, and just that one part would have put him in a category of writers who use buzzwords for reads. The second-story landing was dark; it seemed darker than the downstairs, even though there was a night light at the end of the hall. The shadows seemed to weigh down on him as he crept to the second door on the right. It was the only door that was open. He stood in front of the door, just breathing for a moment. He was afraid to push it open; what if the movement woke them up? "It won't." Carl jumped. Somehow, the giant demon had manifested next to him. He leaned down and whispered in Carl's ear, "You should see if you can get in. If you wake them up, well, there are a few things we could do." "I think I can run faster than them, and we left the back door open so easy escape.' "Totally what I was thinking, too." Carl couldn't be sure, but he thought he had detected a hint of sarcasm from the demon. Carl slowly pushed the door the rest of the way open, he could hear the women breathing. Something touched his leg, and before he could scream, the demon's claw slammed into his mouth, making sure no sound came out. "Cat" As he whispered the word into Carl's ear, the demon's breath smelled of rotten eggs. Carl nodded in understanding, hoping Chris would let him go and step away, taking the smell with him. The demon gently pushed Carl toward the open door, encouraging him to enter the room. He walked in on the plush carpet, not making a sound. He stood over his ex-wife and her lover, staring at them. "Imagine what it would feel like to plunge a knife into each of their throats. So much release from that! So much healing.' Carl froze, picturing it in his mind. Of course there was no way he would do that, but it would feel so good to finally let all this anger out. He ran his hand over his face, turned, and left the room. He walked down the stairs and out the door. Carl didn't remember the drive home; his next memory was the sun blazing through his office window. He looked down at a finished manuscript. As soon as he typed "The end," Carl crawled onto the couch in the office, pulled the old blanket over his head to block out the sun, and fell into a deep sleep. Chapter Seven The phone's incessant ringing woke Carl up; he stumbled over to the desk. "Hello?" "Carl, how's the manuscript coming? The publishers want at least a rough draft by the end of the week." "It's done. I'll get it in the mail today. I just need to grab some coffee and a shower." "Skip the shower, grab the coffee to go. You need this one to get there ASAP." The phone clicked in his ear as Miranda hung up on him. He would drop her as his agent if she weren't so good at negotiating top pay for him. He grabbed the pages and gently slid them into an already addressed envelope; he always addressed the envelopes as a way to motivate himself to get the book done. Carl then dragged himself down to the kitchen, got a cup of coffee in a to-go cup, and headed out to the post office. He wasn't sure what was in it; he couldn't remember actually writing it, but it said The End, so he knew at least this draft was done, and all they asked for was a draft. The walk to the post office was lovely; the air was crisp, and the Halloween decorations still dotted the yards. Remnants of candy handed out last night blew down the street in the breeze. Carl's steps were light as he entered the building. The transaction was quick; no one was in front of him in line. He signed the paper stating a signature was required and made sure he had all the tracking information; there were no other copies of this manuscript, so he wanted to make sure it got there safely. Carl took the long way home, just enjoying the freedom of having mailed the first draft of the manuscript in. He knew in a few weeks, it would be sent back with more red marks on it than he ever wanted to see, but for right this moment, he was free of it. Turning the corner to his house, he noticed a strange car in his driveway. Where most people would have hustled to see what was going on, Carl decided to continue to take his time; whoever it was could either wait or leave. A tall Hispanic man stood leaning on his front porch, looking at his phone as if he didn't have a care in the world. Carl was halfway up the steps before this man turned and looked at him "Carl Witherspoon?" "Yes, who's asking?" "I'm Detective Rousche. Do you mind if I ask you a few questions.?' Carl flashed back to breaking into his ex-wife's house. He thought he had gotten out of there unseen, but maybe they had a camera somewhere. "How can I help you, detective?" "I have some bad news, Mr. Witherspoon. Your ex-wife has been killed." Carl was stunned. He had just seen her last night, but he didn't want to say that. He didn't want them to think he had killed her. He sat down hard on the rocking chair. "How? When? Do you know who might have done this? Oh god." "That's why we're here, sir. We were hoping you might know who did this?" "No, no, I have no idea. I mean, everybody loved Cheryl." "Even you, Mr. Witherspoon?" Carl looked at the detective; he looked around the street; other officers were waiting by unmarked cars. It hit him; they were here to arrest him! "I think I need my lawyer." "I think you might. Carl Witherspoon, you are under arrest for the murder of your ex-wife." Chapter Eight At the police station, his lawyer advised Carl not to say anything, so he didn't. It all seemed to be going pretty well until they showed him the video. There he was, standing in the kitchen holding a bloody knife, a sadistic grin on his face. Of course, the footage of him leaving was not there; no matter how hard he argued that he had left, the video proved him wrong. As he looked at the camera and smiled, Carl could see the crystal blue eyes of the demon he had made a pact with. The trial had been a speedy one. It took less than a year for Carl to be convicted of two counts of first-degree murder. With the cameras in the house, the jury saw everything he had done, but there was no Chris the demon in sight. The thing was, when the footage was shown in court Carl could see clearly it was Chris standing there with the bloody knife. Carl had left. The demon had killed his ex-wife in such a way as to place the blame on Carl and there was nothing he could do about it. Once the book manuscript had been read, the description of the murder was so vivid and so exact that there was no way even the best defense attorney was getting Carl out. His lawyer had advised him to plead guilty and take the lesser time, but Carl knew he wasn't guilty; he had faith in the system. Of course, the system would only see what was there; no one saw the demon at his back, no one but Carl, that is. The court deemed him insane. It wasn't a not guilty, but it did get him out of doing time in the prison system. Carl spent his days alone in a small, locked room. They made sure he spoke to a doctor every day, and every day, they asked him who killed the women. Carl stuck to the truth; it was a demon named Chris, every day they wrote on their clipboard that he was still not sane enough for prison. Two years passed, and Devil's Night was upon them once again. The moon was full and the patients were restless, all except Carl. He sat quietly in his room staring at the wall, waiting and wishing for the demon to appear. Chris vaporized in front of Carl, wearing electric blue sweats and a white t-shirt. Carl stared at the demon. "You called me here. What time do you need it, Carl?" "I just have one question. You promised I would write the best horror story ever. Then you framed me for murder. Doesn't that go back on your promise? I mean, we had a blood pact." Chris let out a deep chuckle before answering, "Well, you see, Carl. For one, I am a demon, so I lie. And secondly, you did write the greatest horror story ever. I never promised you it would be published. Just written." Terry Hooker is a freelance writer and editor, a Jersey girl from the shore turned Florida farm girl soon to be a Virginia farm girl. She has a BA in anthropology, an AAS in Culinary Arts, and an MA in Library science. She has worked as a congressional archivist, historian, teacher, and professional chef and has presented her research on the history and iconography of southern cemeteries throughout the Southeast United States. She has edited several children's books, full length novels, dissertations, and academic papers; Terry, herself, has published scholarly papers, magazine articles, fictional stories, and books. She lives with her husband, two kids, and a plethora of critters.
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About the Author:S. K. Gregory is an author, editor and blogger. She currently resides in Northern Ireland. “Description begins in the writer’s imagination, but should finish in the reader’s.” Archives
December 2024
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