Day 2 of writing a story a day. The below was out of my comfort zone and doesn’t quite come together, but I’m pleased I still managed something.
Wallace hadn’t always been a recluse. Before his wife had died he had at least greeted his neighbours, and when his darling Greta was at his side he had travelled the world. They had been high school sweethearts and after marrying young they even ended up working at the same bank together. On some level they both knew their level of devotion to each other was perhaps a little too much but their life together was so comfortable and peaceful that friendships with other people seemed like far too much effort.
Then their life together ended. A sudden cardiac arrest hit her aged 66 while she was out mowing the lawn. She was dead by the time the ambulance brought her to hospital. Wallace understood the concept of death - both of his parents had passed away a decade before, and he had watched friends succumb to cancer. But Greta’s death… Greta couldn’t die, he thought. At least, she couldn’t possibly die before he did. She was healthier than most thirty year olds. It just couldn’t happen.
For months he drifted through life, barely eating or leaving the house. When he finally went to his GP for help she referred him to a CBT therapist, and while the young lady who talked to him was very lovely, the six sessions did nothing to alleviate his grief. At his lowest moments he tried calling through to crisis hotlines, but they rarely picked up. When he finally got through, and explained he had spent the last three days searching for the most effective suicide method, the man on the end of the phone told him to take a long relaxing bath. Wallace couldn’t bring himself to explain that that had already formed part of his suicide plan.
The next day he went to the library to dutifully return the books he had checked out before he checked out of life. When he arrived there was nobody at the front desk, so he pottered about down the aisles on the off-chance some book would jump out at him that would give his life meaning.
One book did stand out. It wasn’t on the shelf, but jutted out underneath on the floor. A leather-bound hardback called 72 Demons and How To Summon Them.
Once he got back home he read the book from cover to cover, even the description of a ritual involving a disgusting mix of every single bodily fluid. He noticed that for every entry in the book, the author had described why someone might want to summon each particular demon - for protection, power, wealth, seduction. Nowhere did it explain what would happen if you summoned a demon for a bit of a natter.
Wallace decided to find out.
He cleared out his living room, dumping all his furniture in his front garden with a sign for any passer-by to take it for free. Then he ripped up the carpet, exposing the floorboards beneath. In chalk he etched the various sigils the book instructed him to in order to summon the most basic-sounding demon: Gaap. All it offered was invisibility in exchange for eternal damnation. Wallace already felt invisible to those around him, so he doubted the silver-tongued demon could tempt him.
Next up was the sacrifice: Burnt offerings smeared in human blood. He fried some bacon until a pan was utterly ruined, and scraped off the remains. He had bought a scalpel off the internet the previous week, and now used this to cut the crook of his arm. The blood dripped into the flower-patterned porcelain bowl his mother-in-law had bought him and Greta for their 20th wedding anniversary.
With everything else in place, Wallace began the ritual chant.
It took almost half an hour of chanting until something began to appear. Just as Wallace’s voice began to get hoarse, wisps of smoke appeared in the chalk circle. The wisps began to lengthen and solidify, then flicker through various colours until standing before him was a tall, spiky, blood red demon.
Gaap looked surprisingly human. Wallace was a little disappointed - he had almost hoped the shock of seeing a demonic figure might kill him. It was only a little taller than a human, with frail blunted wings and a slithering tail.
Wallace began to talk.
He spoke about Greta, about the cruise they took the year before she died. Despite being on the sea many times before with no trouble, that time Wallace had been constantly sea-sick. Foregoing all the dancing and entertainment, Greta stayed at his side and made up stories about princesses riding dragons to keep his mind occupied. Despite mostly staying in their cabin it had ended up being one of their most memorable cruises, and when they returned they started designing comic strips for each other of all the characters she had invented.
Gaap was, understandable, confused. It asked Wallace if he wanted to rob a cruise ship - it could ensure all the crew and passengers would turn a blind eye. Wallace ignored him and spoke more about the characters, about how the princesses had been based on their childhood friends who had since passed away. Gaap listened.
Other humans had always seemed like messy, complicated things, Wallace explained. Greta had been the one person who he had known inside and out. Even his parents and siblings had seemed like mysteries to him. As he got older he had become even more reliant on her, as everyone else seemed to only tolerate him. It seemed too difficult to pierce the wall between acquaintanceship and friendship.
After an hour, Gaap poofed out of earthly existence. Wallace decided to live another day.
The next night Wallace redrew the sigils, pierced his skin with the scalpel once more, and offered up some semen as well. It was a particularly unappetising combination, but it would allow him to summon a more powerful demon: Zepar.
Zepar looked a little less human. It wore what looked like a full suit of armour, but on closer inspection Wallace realised the armour was hardened flesh, painted red. Some of it was Zepar’s own flesh, protruding out of its hips and shoulders, but the helmet was stitched together from the flesh of others.
Zepar promised him the adoration of other women - any women he wanted. Young, twenty-somethings who currently wouldn’t give him a second glance would throw themselves at his feet, let him take them any way he wanted.
Wallace talked about his other crushes in life. Greta had been his first love, but there had been a colleague in his late thirties, a Canadian called Emilie, who he couldn’t stop thinking about at the time. Unable to keep any secrets, he discussed it with Greta, and they had a long conversation about the possibility of polyamory. In the end, nothing happened: once he and Emilie had begun having flirtatious conversations a lot of things about her began to grate on him. The way she spoke, her constant smoking, her political views.
Zepar claimed it could find Emilie and fill her mind with love for him, force her to contact him.
Wallace explained that he had only liked the idea of Emilie, not the actuality. The same with the women he had met or talked to online since Greta had died. They all had flaws he decided he couldn’t stand. He had high standards, perhaps, and Greta had been the shining jewel in a sea of twinkling glass.
Day after day, Wallace summoned demons and talked about his past. Some even started opening up about their schemes in hell - about how Baal had lured a legion off Eligos and how they couldn’t decide which ally to betray next. There was a simplicity to their communication. Wallace felt like he didn’t have to second-guess their motives - they undeniably wanted his immortal soul, and that made things easier than with humans.
Then he started stepping into the chalk circle.
The circle ensured the demons did not bring their demonic powers with them, although they were still physical beings and thus a danger to Wallace. But word had apparently got around hell that a lonely old man would summon demons for a chat, and some of them enjoyed the brief interlude from infernal wars and the torture of damned souls. Demon summoning didn’t happen as much these days, one of them explained, and it was nice to visit the earthly plane sometimes, even if it was just the empty living room of an end of terrace house in Kent.
One day Wallace brought Greta’s old makeup box with him into the circle. He had summoned Balam, who had three heads: that of a bull, a ram, and a man. Balam had always been a delight to talk to, trading jokes and acting like a ventriloquist with its other heads. It had tried to lure him into asking questions about his future, but Wallace politely refused. It was its stunning eyes that made Wallace summon it time and time again: flickering orange eyes, as if he was staring at a crackling bonfire. It had explained it was a king in hell, and Wallace began to wonder if he could make it even more regal with a dash of eyeliner.
Balam sat cross-legged on the floor, rested its other heads, then allowed itself to be pampered.
Wallace had spent years putting on Greta’s makeup for her. It had been a beautiful moment of intimacy every time they were going out, and he quickly became better at makeup than Greta herself. They switched roles on occasion, with Greta dusting brilliant blue eyeshadow on him, and trying her hand at contouring his round face.
He had forsaken all human contact now, so why not beautify the only beings who paid him any attention?
When he was finished, Balam was admittedly less fearsome, but definitely more alluring to any other summoners that might demand it’s time.
Day by day, Wallace began to feel like there were things worth living for. He often wondered what Greta would say if she saw him now. He imagined she would prefer his demonic liaisons to the alternative he had previously planned.
One day he summoned Barbatos, who presented as an old man with a beard that trailed down to the ground. Wallace dared to present it with a selection of beard glitter he had bought online, and it was gracious enough to accept a mix of gold and pink. Wallace talked more about Greta as he brushed the demon’s beard, recalling all the times Greta had spoken of pain and fatigue in the months leading up to her death. He still felt guilty at not pushing her to see a doctor more, at not simply overriding her protestations and making the appointment for her.
Then he sneezed. And sneezed again. He realised he had rubbed his nose while he still had glitter on his fingers, and got up shakily to get a tissue. He faltered. His leg slipped out from underneath him and erased some of the chalk.
He had broken the circle. Barbatos was no longer constrained by the sigils, and could unleash his full infernal power.
He stared at the circle, then up at Barbatos. The demon shrugged its wide shoulders.
“You would be surprised at the impact you have had on the politics of hell.” Barbatos said in a scratchy voice. “Many of my brethren have offered me boons to name drop them in our conversation in the hopes you will summon them next. Smiting you would leave me at a disadvantage.”
Wallace nodded, pretending he understood. He pulled himself back upright, grabbed his chalk, and remade the circle.
“I expect beard beads next time,” the demon added, and nothing more was said.
Haha, really heart warming and I could relate to the mental health aspects of the story. I'd define the genre for this one as cozy horror :D.
That was surprisingly cute!!! I like how it was written in plain-spoken terms, which at first seemed to juxtapose with but ultimately suited the material.