The Devil's Demeanor

by Hart, Jerry

  Don bit his lip.

  “So, why am I just now hearing about the boy?” she asked. “What’s his name?”

  “It’s Conner, and....” How to proceed? “I just found out about him myself,” he lied.

  * * *

  “Goddammit, Don!” Monica yelled. “You want me to lie to your aunt?”

  They sat in the kitchen while the kids played in Jordan’s room. Don had told his wife about the conversation he’d just had on the way home.

  “You’ve been lying to her for years already,” he said, though he knew that would only make things worse.

  “I never lied to her,” she countered. “I just never told her about Conner. She never asked. If she had, I would have told her.”

  “Even though I asked you not to?”

  Monica stared at her husband for a moment, and then said, “Why did you want to keep him a secret from your family in the first place?”

  “It’s complicated.”

  Monica shook her head. “Always that same excuse,” she muttered. “Don, I love you, but I don’t like to know you’re keeping secrets from me. I don’t like it at all.”

  He looked out the kitchen window, to the backs of neighboring houses. “Ethan kept his other life private, even from me. I wanted to respect that.” That was mostly true, so he didn’t mind saying it to his wife.

  She nodded, seeming to accept it. “And now Aunt Cynthia wants to meet Conner?” she asked.

  “Yep. Should be fun.” He couldn’t have been more sarcastic if he tried.

  * * *

  Aunt Cynthia lived twenty minutes away, in a nice, hilly neighborhood near the army base. Don always loved riding through as a kid, and doing so now made him feel ten years old again.

  Monica sat in the passenger seat of the SUV, with the kids riding in the back. Don couldn’t believe how well the boys were getting along. It was as if they’d discovered some kind of bond. Don wasn’t sure how to feel about that.

  He parked in front of his aunt’s two-story house, and the family marched up a large brick staircase that led to the front door. Don rang the doorbell and was greeted with a loud “Come in!” He opened the door, where he met two sets of carpeted stairs, one leading down and the other leading up. He chose up, which could be considered the ground floor, even though it looked like the second.

  This house was one of the most unusual he had ever seen. The kitchen and living room were up here, along with two bedrooms—the master and another room. “Downstairs,” there were another bedroom and a den.

  Aunt Cynthia moved into this house when Don was around five years old. He actually remembered the day, and it was one of the few pleasant childhood memories he had.

  When he got to the top of the steps, he saw Aunt Cynthia pop out of the kitchen with a large wooden spoon in one hand. “Hey!” she called in her strong, loud voice. She looked from Don to the kids and back. To Don, she said, “Boy, look at you, all grown.”

  Don grinned; she said that every time she saw him. She gushed over how big Jordan was getting as well before setting a wary sight on Conner.

  “He looks just like Ethan,” she said to no one in particular. To Don she said, “My babies, havin’ babies.”

  “Aunt Cynthia, I’m thirty-one.”

  “Good Lord, you’re that old?” She laughed as she quickly checked on whatever she was cooking and invited them to have a seat on her white floral couch.

  The living room was beautifully decorated, with paintings and plants and tiny angel-baby porcelain baubles. Aunt Cynthia joined them on the couch moments later. Don guessed she was cooking some kind of soup or stew; it smelled delicious.

  “If you’re thirty-one,” Aunt Cynthia continued, “then I don’t even want to know how old I am.”

  Don and Monica laughed. Cynthia didn’t look bad for her age; her once-black hair, now mostly gray, was pulled back in a slight ponytail. Don didn’t know how old she was, and didn’t dare venture a guess out loud.

  Cynthia stared at Conner, who stared back. He was leaning against Monica’s legs, partly standing and sitting at the same time. “Ethan was always such a strange boy,” Cynthia mused. “But he was still my baby. You both were.” She looked at Don again.

  “Conner’s a lot like his daddy,” said Don, “even though he never met him.”

  Cynthia nodded knowingly, causing Don to wonder if they were having some kind of secret conversation. Did she know about the curse?

  Sounds of laughter and play came from the den downstairs. Despite the fact that there was a liquor bar down there, the kids tended to play in that room often. Thankfully, the liquor was under lock and key.

  “So,” Cynthia said, “you now have two kids. Are you prepared for that?”

  Don looked to his wife, who nodded, and then said to his aunt, “Absolutely.”

  “If you ever need me to watch them both, I won’t charge you extra for it.”

  “Thanks, Aunt Cynthia.”

  The thought of Conner around other children worried Don, but there was nothing he could do about it. If he was going to help the boy, he needed to give him as normal a life as possible. Stability was the key.

  “Who all’s here?” Monica asked, indicating the ruckus downstairs.

  “Oh, Robert, Shannon, Teresa and a few new faces. They must’ve just woken up from their naps.”

  “Let’s go meet some kids,” Monica said to Jordan and Conner. They nodded.

  Everyone went downstairs, passing a washer and dryer located in a nook under the stairs. Don always felt like he was going underground when he came down here.

  The den was at the end of the hall, across from the laundry nook. Six kids, all about the age of six, ran around the room like they were high on sugar. Half of them were African American, the other Caucasian.

  Don had spent all of his childhood surrounded by black people that he almost felt like one himself. He often joked to Monica that he was only attracted to black women.

  Conner and Jordan joined the other kids. Don looked out through the curtained back-porch door to get a view of the beautiful backyard, which sloped downhill to a dense wooded area. He remembered all the times he and his aunt played badminton in that yard. Sometimes her own children, both older than Don, would join in. Ethan had even played....

  “Honey,” said Monica. “You okay?”

  Don wiped his eyes quickly as he turned to face her. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

  He wasn’t fine, though. His chest hurt. The pain and guilt over his brother’s death was more than he could bare. He knew that his wife could see it on his face. He was so lucky to have Monica; he would die without her.

  But he would lose her someday, if he kept secrets. Yet, he may lose her if she found out the truth. Damned if he did, damned if he didn’t.

  When Cynthia walked them to the door moments later, Don looked across the street. “I still can’t believe you live across from a graveyard.”

  “It’s just a little one,” she replied. “Seven graves or so.”

  “When I was a kid, I used to have nightmares that zombies would rise up and cross over here to get me.”

  “Just you?” Monica laughed.

  “Yep. In a large house full of people, they would only want me.” He grew serious. “I would look down at them from one of those windows.” He pointed to the living-room windows above. “It was terrifying.”

  “Well,” said Cynthia, “for as long as I’ve lived here, there haven’t been many zombies.”

  Don smiled. “That’s reassuring.”

  * * *

  He had nightmares that night, the kind that froze you with complete terror. In the dream, he was a kid, no more than ten years old. He was looking out from Cynthia’s windows to see zombies shambling across the street and up the brick steps to her front door.

  Ethan was among them.

  The sight was horrible on that moonlit night, and though Don tried to keep an eye on his dead brother, he kept losing sight of him. At one point, Don ran to the ki
tchen window and saw Ethan standing on the deck in the backyard, looking up at him.

  And then Ethan disappeared when Don blinked. But when he turned around in the narrow kitchen, he saw Ethan standing in the adjoining dining room, in the dark. Just standing there, making no sound.

  Somehow, Don willed himself awake and found that he was covered in cold sweat. Monica lay sound asleep next to him. His heart raced and he couldn’t imagine going back to sleep just yet, so he booted up the computer across the room and silently added to his manuscript. He wrote about the nightmare while it was still fresh in his mind.

  After he was done, he saved and closed the file. He never bothered to lock his computer; truthfully, he hoped Monica would read the rough draft and figure out his secrets. He had trouble initiating that particular conversation with her, but once the floodgates opened....

  The family had breakfast together that Sunday morning, Don cooking his well-regarded sausages, eggs, biscuits and grits—just the way his father used to. It was hard to believe it had only been less than two days since the incident. Jordan and Conner sat with their heads close together, whispering to each other.

  “This year’s family reunion is going to be interesting,” said Monica, tilting her head toward Conner.

  “I’m already dreading the onslaught of questions my aunts and uncles are going to ask,” Don joked as he suddenly grew nervous. The reunion was only two weeks away, and he honestly feared his family’s reaction to Ethan’s love child.

  Don had to prepare for a lot of things now that he had a second child. He hadn’t even planned to have one kid. He and Ethan had ended up in the same boat five months apart, but Don didn’t regret the turn his life had taken. He looked upon his wonderful wife and son and considered himself much luckier than he deserved to be.

  Chapter 2

  During the first week of June, the Scotts piled into the family SUV and drove to Destin, Florida. Monica drove first, with Don taking over once they reached the halfway point. He sat in the passenger seat, looking out the window and letting the sun warm the right side of his face while the air conditioner cooled the left. He grinned as he thought about how great it would be to see his cousins again. The last reunion had been two years ago and had felt all too brief.

  Don looked at the kids in the backseat; they were fast asleep, their heads together. They had bonded surprisingly fast. Don often found one in the other’s room in the mornings. It was as if they had become inseparable. Monica pulled into a rest stop at the halfway mark, and once everyone was refreshed, Don took over.

  He was always relieved when he saw the familiar hotels that surrounded his uncle Nate’s house because, no matter how many times he’d driven there, he always felt like he was going to get lost.

  He turned left into a neighborhood filled with large pine trees and found the house he was looking for. There were a dozen cars in the driveway and on the lawn. It was midday, and plenty of relatives were milling about the house, among the cars, with beers in his and her hands. Don didn’t know where to park, so he made a U-turn at an intersection and parked as close to the house as possible—two houses down.

  He could hear the laughter and music the moment he stepped out of the vehicle. He smiled at Monica the way he always did when he was surrounded by family.

  The first person to greet Don was not Uncle Nate. Nor was it any of his uncles. It was a tall, white-haired old man in a suit whose name Don couldn’t remember.

  “Say, young fella,” the man called, “spare me some of that money you got hidin’ there.”

  “I don’t have any money,” Don replied, putting on a false smile as the man tossed an arm around his shoulders. Every time Don saw him, the man “jokingly” asked for a hand-out. It bugged Don to high heaven and made him very uncomfortable.

  He carefully maneuvered his family past the possibly drunk gentleman and stepped into the house. He was greeted by the smell of fried fish. There weren’t as many people inside as there were out, which was fortunate since the house wasn’t very large. Don spotted Uncle Nate in the kitchen directly to the right of the front door. Aunt Mimi was next to Nate, playing with her trademark pearl necklace.

  “Donovan Scott!” She raced over and hugged him. She then looked down at the boys. “Last time, you only had one.” She smirked.

  Don didn’t know what to say, and it was too noisy to really get into it. “I’ll explain later, Aunt Mimi,” he said into her ear.

  She nodded and waved him into the kitchen.

  * * *

  It only took five minutes for Don to explain the situation to his immediate family. They were huddled in a lounge just beside the kitchen. Uncle Nate sat in a recliner, with Aunts Mimi and Lydia on the couch. Uncle James, Lydia’s husband, stood with his arms crossed. The kids were in the kitchen with Monica, eating dinner.

  “Poor Ethan,” said Aunt Mimi, clutching her pearls. “First he gets kidnapped, and then just when he’s getting his life back together, someone shoots him.”

  Don pinched his lips tightly together, saying nothing.

  “How did you find out about Conner?” Aunt Lydia asked. She was one of the youngest of the six sisters and the most inquisitive.

  “I hired a private investigator,” Don said truthfully. “I didn’t find out about Ethan’s girlfriend and baby until after he was killed, though.”

  “You don’t think the P.I. killed him, do you?” Uncle Nate asked.

  “No,” said Don. “He was back in Texas when it happened. I think it was a random burglary.”

  “Why did Ethan keep his other life a secret?” Nate wondered aloud.

  “I guess we’ll never know,” said Don. “Ivy is a lovely woman.”

  “And a bloodthirsty killer,” Mimi added under her breath.

  Don had told the popular version of that incident rather than share his theory about Conner. It bothered him, hearing others speak about Ivy that way, especially since she was actually innocent. Things would be so much better had she actually committed the murder, though. Then Don wouldn’t have to worry about his family being killed in their sleep.

  Surprisingly, however, Conner had been behaving himself over the weeks. He’d cut back on his weird, off-putting behavior, anyway. Don remembered Ethan doing the same when he’d been around that age. That only meant that the evil inside of him realized it was drawing attention to itself. Nothing more.

  But the creature—the originator of the curse—was gone. Without something to influence the afflicted, where did that leave the victim? Would he or she simply outgrow the taint that corrupted their souls? Don almost laughed at the question; you couldn’t outgrow pure evil.

  “What are you grinnin’ at?” Mimi asked, wearing a grin of her own.

  “I’m just happy that Jordan has someone to play with,” he lied.

  * * *

  Don said hello to his cousins, who were grilling in the backyard, and stayed close to Monica and the kids. Everyone had a good time, and as far as Don could tell, there were at least fifty relatives in and around the house. Uncle Nate joked that the Scotts were related to everyone in Destin.

  People began leaving as it grew later. The ones who didn’t live nearby stayed in any one of the many hotels in the area. Don had made a reservation at the hotel where his cousins were staying.

  Uncles Nate and Johnny were still talking well past eleven when Don decided it was time to leave. He held a sleeping Jordan in his arms. Conner sat with Monica on the living-room couch, his head on her shoulder. Even though his eyes were closed, Don felt the boy watching him.

  Don looked instead to Johnny, who still bore a grisly scar on his neck from when Don’s mother attacked him fifteen years ago. That was the night he and Dad had tried to take Don and Ethan away from her. As far as Don could tell, the curse wasn’t transferable from human to human—only straight from the source. To an extent, anyway.

  Ethan and Conner had both been born with the curse. Perhaps Jordan, as well. It had been a part of the Scott family fo
r so long that it almost seemed normal.

  Don thanked his aunts and uncles for dinner and told them he’d see them tomorrow. The hotel was so ridiculously close that they could’ve walked there. When they parked in the lot, Monica grabbed Jordan, leaving Don to carry Conner. During the trek to the third floor, he thought he heard the boy whispering, but wasn’t sure. Don looked at Jordan in Monica’s arms and saw his lips moving slightly as well.

  Were they talking to each other?

  Monica opened the door to their room and set Jordan on the closest bed before running to the bathroom. Don slowly laid Conner down next to his son. Both of their lips were moving, and there was a quiet hiss of words coming from the two of them. Don leaned as close as he could to his son, trying to make out what he was saying.

  Jordan suddenly screamed.

  Don jumped back in alarm as Jordan sat up, continuing to scream bloody murder. Monica came running out of the bathroom a moment later.

  “What the hell is happening?” she asked.

  At that moment, Jordan ceased screaming and just sat there, breathing heavily. He looked down at Conner, who was still asleep beside him, and then to his parents.

  “What’s wrong, son?” Don asked him.

  “I had a bad dream.”

  “About what?”

  Jordan took a deep breath before saying, “A mean dog.”

  * * *

  After calming Jordan down, Don got his son to go back to sleep. He and Monica settled down on the other bed. Don simply stared at the dark ceiling, watching the occasional car headlight flash across it. How could he sleep, after what his son told him?

  The mean dog.

  It could’ve meant anything. Jordan hadn’t really been raised around many dogs besides Pepper (who was being watched by a kind neighbor), but the boy wasn’t afraid of animals. Liz, Don’s half-sister, was terrified—she hadn’t grown up with any pets.

  But Don knew what dog his son was referring to. It had been the shape the cursed creature had taken to roam the earth. But it was dead; Don had killed it himself, not too far from where he was now. How was Jordan dreaming about it?