by Chris Smith
***
‘James, demons are not as frightening to look at as many people would have you believe. In fact, they really are almost likeable looking creatures. Really, I’ve seen worse things kept as pets,’ the old man began. He sat back in his favourite armchair. James saw him glance towards the kitchen to see if mum was listening, before he continued. ‘It’s what they do that makes them demons. They don’t have fangs…or horns…or beady eyes of burning red as many would tell you. They sort of resemble dwarfs more than the angels of hell, but don’t be deceived; heed my words, angels of hell they are. The ones I saw,’ he lowered his voice to an almost inaudible level, ‘were sort of similar to very old shrivelled up people, about the size of toddlers, grey and without colour. Mind you, they did have pointy ears and the nose of a witch, that is true. However, if you are unlucky enough to encounter one, you will most likely feel pity or consider them harmless. But, as I said, don’t let that fool you James, for each has his own particularly nasty taste for causing suffering.’ Grandpa then went on to elaborate further, particularly about their leaders. ‘There are seven super demons; they are the worst. They carry spears, which contain the power of a lightning bolt. Keep them as far away as possible; they are mean — vicious — deadly things.’
‘Grandpa, that’s crazy. They sound like the seven dwarfs from Snow White.’
‘I suppose they do.’ The old man rose from his chair. He got down on his knees and started walking on them while singing, ‘Hi ho, hi ho, it’s off to work we go, breaking bones, and tormenting souls, hi ho, hi ho, hi ho, hi ho.’
‘Stop it Grandpa. Have you gone crazy? Mum will go mental if she sees.’
His grandfather died a few days later; he had suffered a heart attack.