Demon at My Door

by Michelle A. Valentine

  I wish we hadn’t listened to his dad back then and been friends anyway. We lost so much time we could’ve spent together. It took until our second year of college to actually speak again.

  I think I fell in love the first time Stew smiled at me. It was like I was drawn to him, and the older I got, the more I liked him. I wasn’t sure if he even remembered my name though, because he stopped talking to me just like everyone else back in high school. But I still harbored a secret crush.

  Things changed this summer though. When I discovered the reason he pulled my ponytail back then was because he felt drawn to me, too.

  I bite my bottom lip and nod.

  His gray eyes sparkle against his tan complexion and hair, and a grin stretches across his face, putting his dimples on full display. “Good,” he whispers, before his lips crush into mine. “God, you’re beautiful,” he murmurs between kisses.

  Every inch of my skin aches, longing to be touched by Stew when he pulls me against his hard body. My hands run up and down the length of his back, tracing the outline of muscle underneath his blue t-shirt. Tonight is definitely not going to be a talking event. He’s a little more aggressive, almost hungry. He kisses me deeply and intertwines his fingers in my black hair. There’s no other guy that I’d rather spend what little bit of time I have left on this earth with. I’ve struggled with the thought that I shouldn’t start a relationship with him because my twenty-first birthday is just a few days away, and I know that little demon bastard will be back to collect on my promise and ruin everything. But, I figured I should live a little before I die. The thought of dying a virgin is mortifying.

  He leaves me breathless—my lips swollen—and pulls away. His hands, calloused from a summer of football practice with the college squad, cup my face and he stares into my green eyes. “Do you like me?”

  Oh my God! My heart beats wildly in my chest and my stomach flips. All summer I’ve imagined this moment, the one where Stew says he wants more with me. This is what I wished for since the first night he pulled me into his chest and wrapped his arms around me.

  “Yes,” I whisper, unable to hide my huge grin.

  His smile reaches his eyes. I knew he has feelings for me, too. “Do you want to keep meeting me?”

  Of course I do. What kind of question is that?

  Without a second of hesitation, I answer, “Yes.”

  His fingers trail along my cheek, leaving a line of fire on my skin from his touch. “Good. I was worried with fall classes starting…you might want to stop.”

  He leans in for another kiss, but I shove him back a little. The smile now erased from my face. “What?” Now, he’s got my full attention and my guard, which is usually down around him, springs into action. Why would we stop meeting if we finally admit we have feelings for each other? That’s insane.

  He sighs and shrugs. “I figured you wouldn’t be cool with all the secrecy.”

  That makes no sense. “What does keeping our relationship secret from your dad have anything to do with school? We can be together at school without him finding out.”

  He lets go of my face and sits down on the blanket, not looking at me.

  Nausea rolls through my belly. “Stew?”

  “Natalie, I’m being unbelievably selfish. I’d be pissed and never want to see me again, if I were you.”

  My lip twitches as I fight back the emotion that threatens to expose how uneasy I feel. “You aren’t making any sense, Stew.”

  His gray eyes appear deep in thought. “Not secret just from my dad,” his whisper barely audible.

  I gasp. “What?” My pulse pounds in my ears. I can’t believe what I’m hearing. Do I mean nothing to him? He’s the one person I thought I could trust and spent most of the summer opening up to.

  He reaches for me, but I shy away. “I do have feelings for you, Nat. I want to keep seeing you—” My arms cross instinctively and uber-bitch mode goes into effect. Alarms continue to sound in my head.

  How could I be so stupid? He’s only with me because I’m next door and convenient for the summer while we were both home from college. Practicing with the team for a school as big as Capital doesn’t exactly leave a ton a free time to find girls. I was just accessible and seemed overly eager. What a jerk. “But you don’t want anyone else to know.” I lift my hand to cut him off, finally understanding he never wants to be seen with me.

  He faces away from me, like he can’t bear to see me as I call him out. “I’ve told you—people expect things from me. My dad doesn’t want me to see you.”

  Expect things? That’s the crap answer I get after a whole summer together? I should’ve listened to my sister, Alicia. She’s the men expert, not me. Guys really do only care about one thing. “I only had one expectation of you, and that’s not to be an asshole. Guess what? Epic fail, Stewart.”

  He picks at a loose string at the seam of the blanket and doesn’t attempt to look at me. I wait for a couple seconds, hoping he’ll redeem himself. When he doesn’t answer, I shake my head in disgust. “Don’t worry. You don’t have to keep your dirty little secret anymore.”

  I fling my leg over the opening in the tree house and place my foot on the ladder.

  “Please, Nat,” he whispers and grabs my arm. “Don’t go. We can work this out. I need you.”

  My hand balls into a fist and it takes all my willpower not to punch him in his stupid face. “Stew,” —I jerk free of his hold—“when you decide you can talk to me in public, let me know. Until then, stay away from me,” I huff, and then climb down the ladder without looking back. My feet pound the damp grass as I run away from the only man I’ve ever been close enough to develop feelings for. And now that I’m out of his sight, I allow the tears to roll down my cheeks.

  “Who’s the guy?” The voice stops me dead in my tracks in the darkness as I fly past a tree.

  Quickly, I wipe my face before I turn around and attempt to slap all emotion from my face. “What guy?”

  I might be ticked at Stew right now, but there’s no way I’ll serve up info to evil boy about him.

  The boy demon steps from behind the shadows of the trees and nods toward the tree house behind me. “The one in there. You’re not dating him, are you?”

  I’m so not in the mood to deal with this little, demonic twerp. “Look, you may own my soul, but you don’t own me. Not yet, at least. So I can do what I want with my life.” My voice sounds a little hoarse.

  He shakes his head and looks down at the ground. “I knew I should’ve checked in more as you got older.” It’s almost like he’s talking to himself for a second before his eyes snap up to meet mine. “You know you can’t date. You know the rules. You’re taken.”

  “Taken?” I let out an exasperated sigh. “My soul may be taken, but I’m not.” This isn’t a good time for another argument over my eternal soul. My mission has always been to try and stay on his good side. If I piss him off now, I may never get my soul back. “If you aren’t taking me to hell anytime soon, please leave me alone.” I try to step around him, but he blocks my path.

  He moves closer and glares up at me. “You are going to be with me, just like you promised. Like it or not, so you might as well forget about Romeo up there.”

  I step back. “There’s no way I’m going to let you tell me what to do. Besides, I never agreed to being tied to you forever. You get my soul, as promised. That’s it. You can stuff it in your vial or whatever, but you don’t get to keep me as your side-kick for eternity. That wasn’t part of the deal.”

  “You don’t have a choice in this matter. Your soul is you, and I own it. You’ll do whatever I say. This is how it is going to be.” He reaches out and grabs my hand so quickly I’m not even ready to try and jerk away.

  An electric shock jolts me. I drop down to my knees and groan as mind-numbing pain tears through my flesh. I open my mouth to scream out, but hold back when I think about Stew hearing me and getting involved in this situation. The intense jolt is gone within seconds, but
my legs weigh a million pounds and are close to giving out on me. Winded, I plop down on my butt, unable to run away, and cradle my burning hands to my chest.

  My eyes sting as fear overwhelms me. A single tear drips onto my palm. The solitary drop evaporates on contact, like my hand is a recently put out fire. I stare up at the boy demon, ready to scream at him for being so evil. His eyes narrow, like he dares me to say more.

  Anger flows through me and I wish I had some demonic strength of my own to kick his little five-year-old butt. “You’re an asshole!” Is all I can manage to mumble under my breath.

  His lips draw down into a pout that would be cute on a normal five year old, so I know he heard me. “You hate me now, I know, but you didn’t always. There’s something you need to know.”

  Before I have a chance to come up with a snarky comment about not needing to know anything else about him, he touches my forehead with his index finger, and my breath catches.

  At first, everything is pitch black, but I can hear a voice—my voice—in the distance. As I try to make out what I am yelling, a picture pops up in the darkness. It’s far away, so I can’t make it out. The blackness surrounds the image and it appears to be at the end of a long tunnel.

  Colors swirl in a mixed up pattern. The greens and browns blur together, so I strain harder without much success to figure out what I’m seeing. Then I hear it—my voice clear as day screaming, “Run, Sarah! Hide!”

  A gasp of air fills my lungs, and I am no longer in the dark vision. I clutch my chest trying to get my bearings as I try to recover from the sheer panic that I just heard in my voice and try to figure out who in the hell Sarah is.

  As my eyes focus, I note that I’m still in my backyard with the demon standing over me.

  He’s dropped his finger away from my forehead and now stares up at the tree house where I left Stew. I hear the tree house creak.

  Stew coming down the ladder has distracted him.

  The boy turns to me and in a rush says, “Your human life is nearly over. Tie up your loose ends. You’ll want a clean break.”

  “But, I—” Before I can ask what the vision he just showed me meant, he’s gone just as quickly as he appeared. I stare blankly out into the dark yard. He’s never done anything like that before, and it scares me. What did it mean, and why did he show me that? Whatever it was, I get the distinct feeling he isn’t quite done with me yet.

  My hands shake as I rub my face. I need to kill him so my promise won’t matter anymore, and I can be free. Everything I’ve tried so far has lead to a marathon of failures. I need to get my soul back.

  I don’t realize I’ve clenched my hands until I open them up and see the imprints of nails in my palms. My brow furrows as I notice something strange. The life line on my hands glows like hot coals straight from a fire, and I know this isn’t a good thing. I’ve got to find a way to get out of this deal and fast. Something tells me shit’s about to get real.

  Chapter Three

  Life lines. Most people don’t think much about them. Me? I’m obsessed with them. Mine started fading last night. And there’s only one thing, or person rather, I blame it on.

  That sadistic, five-year-old soul-stealing bastard.

  This is the fourth therapist I’ve been to this year—I wouldn’t even do it if Mom and Dad make it a stipulation in paying for college. Each doctor causes me to question my sanity a little more, so there’s no way I’ll spill my guts about my newly discovered countdown clock of death. My chart’s filled with enough crazy.

  This particular doctor approached Mom at the country club yesterday when she brought me lunch and offered to treat me after she spotted me in the lobby. My daily look of dark clothes and hair must scream mental patient, along with I bet a shell shocked appearance of seeing a man just murdered before my eyes earlier in the day. The last doctor I saw kicked me out of his practice for not “trying” enough, so Mom was grateful when Dr. Fletcher eagerly offered to squeeze me in today.

  I gaze around the office. The space feels tight since there are no windows and only one way in or out. The fluorescent light buzzes overhead and feels very institutional. I notice Dr. Fletcher’s family photos positioned for display on the coffee table in front of me. It looks like she’s married. One picture is of who I assume is her daughter and right next to it is one of a guy—looks like she has a son about my age, too.

  He’s tall with dark hair and gray or blue eyes. It’s kind of hard to tell because it’s not a close up of his face, but still, he looks pretty cute. And oddly familiar.

  Her family is all smiling, and it occurs to me that people always seem to smile in photos. It’s like they’re always perpetually happy. Like they’re in some fairy tale waving good-bye and ready to live happily ever after. Yeah, right. No family is that happy. Ever. Well, at least mine never is. But I’m sure Dr. Fletcher will cure me and make me the perfect, preppy robot Mom wants me to be. Whatever.

  After eleven years of therapy, they decided to label me as a paranoid Schizophrenic. If I were actually crazy, like they say, that’d explain why I’m on constant look out for the boy demon. But I know I’m not mental, even if no one else does.

  The door creaks open. A petite, brunette doctor in a white lab coat, wearing black stilettos, sashays into the room. Dr. Lilim Fletcher sits stiffly in her high-back leather chair across from me and crosses her panty-hosed legs. Her hair is in the tightest bun known to mankind and she’s got a weird look on her face. Determination, maybe?

  Great.

  Instantly, my body stiffens and the defense mechanisms go up, as my brain morphs into uber-bitch mode. This one has to be kept at a distance. She seems dangerous, because of the mission mode vibe she’s giving off. I hate shrinks that make it their goal in life to fix you, like they’ll be the ones who will finally cure you with their overly huge brain and skills.

  “Hello, Natalie. I ask that all my patients call me Lilim to keep it casual.” She smiles at me. “Shall we begin?”

  When I shrug without a word, she cuts the small talk. Guilt fills me for being such a pain. Really, who wouldn’t feel a little snippy if they had to spend all their free time stuck in therapy? It sucks. Big time. Just one whole happy hour of major suckatude.

  “Okay, since your mother gave me an introduction on your history, are you ready to talk a little more about why you are seeing me?” she asks and then places her glasses on her perfect heart-shaped face.

  It’s then, I realize, she’s just like the rest of them, already diagnosed me as crazy before I’ve opened my mouth to speak. Is that something they teach in shrink school? I mean, I know it’s possible for a soul to be stolen, so why doesn’t anyone else? Have they never seen The Exorcist or The Omen? Sheesh. Since no one ever seems to believe me, I’ve learned to keep things bottled up.

  “Um, you have my previous records.” I point to the thick chart in her hand. “I’m sure you’ve read it by now. We can save the small talk. I’ve been through all this before. Why do you think I’m here?”

  I wrap my arms tightly around my body. My gaze shifts toward her when she readjusts in her chair and she lifts her eyebrows.

  “Hmmm.” She clicks her pen and writes some notes in my file. “Well, according to your last physician’s notes, you’re having issues dealing with what you perceive as threats against your life from a” —she clears her throat but continues to look at her notes— “five-year-old boy no one else has ever seen. It says here that you often carry weapons for what you claim is personal protection.”

  Here we go again. I roll my eyes. After a moment, I force myself to unclench my teeth. I really, really hate it when people size me up for a strait jacket.

  “I’m not crazy,” I say with a sigh. “He is real.”

  She looks me in the eye. “Can you tell me where he lives?”

  I shrug. “He’s the spawn of Satan, okay? It’s not like he lives down the street. He just sort of appears.”

  Again with the notes? Just once I’d like to see
what they write about me.

  “Natalie, if this boy first appeared at your door when you were five-years-old and he’s never aged through the years, could it be possible that maybe the whole incident regarding this boy could be a bad dream? Have you ever thought about how this relates to your diagnosis?”

  “Right. I made it all up. So never mind that I’m disturbed enough by it to dream about him every single night when I close my eyes.” I shudder. The thought of his touch on my hand to seal the pact for my soul is enough to make my skin feel like a million fire ant stings simultaneously.

  She flips through my file. “Do you ever dream of anything other than the day the boy came to your house to save your mother?”

  I shake my head. “Nope. Same dream, every night.”

  It’s amazing how the questions are always the same. I bet if I try really hard, I could give them all the answers they need before they even ask.

  “Then it’s possible it could be a dream, albeit a recurring one, but just a dream nonetheless?”

  I shrug again because I don’t want to get into this with her. How many times do I have to say I don’t believe the stupid dream theory?

  “According to Dr. Prior’s notes, your mother says she doesn’t recall seeing a boy matching your description in your neighborhood.”

  “If you read my file a little closer, you would’ve noticed that per my recount of the incident my mother took her last breath when the boy came into my house and stopped time to make the stupid deal for my soul.” I still remember my mother choking – on a hot dog no less – and then everything stopped with the knock on the door, changing my life forever.

  Lilim gets her pen out and makes extra notes. I’ve never figured out if standing my ground and telling the truth helps clear my mental diagnosis or not, but they’ve already documented my story. There’s not much I can do to avoid the subject anymore. I just wish I’d found out earlier to keep my mouth shut. My life would’ve been a lot less complicated if I could’ve avoided therapy and meds altogether.

  “Hmm,” Dr. Fletcher mumbles. “Okay, let’s say what you’re saying is true”—whoa, wait a minute. Does she actually believe me? Wow, this is a first—“when do you suppose he’s coming back to collect?”