The Devil's Demeanor

by Hart, Jerry

  “Nothing can make up for all the years we’ve lost,” Stephen said quietly. “I’m hoping to do right with the time we have left.”

  Don stopped chewing. “Are you dying?”

  “Slowly but surely. I’m an old man, you know.”

  Don laughed and took another bite.

  “Your boys will be okay, Donovan. I promise.”

  Don truly wanted to believe that. But he couldn’t.

  * * *

  Stephen arrived around noon on Thanksgiving Day. Jordan and Conner entertained him with videogames and stories while Don and Monica worked on the food. Don was amazed by how well the boys had taken to their mysterious grandfather and wished he could follow suit. Don was starting to like the man but still didn’t trust him completely.

  Everyone had to make their own plate in the kitchen, and Jordan—as always—stocked up on extra stuffing and gravy. There was also collard greens, mashed potatoes, macaroni and cheese, sweet potato pie, and, of course, the turkey. Monica always bought cranberry sauce in a can, and it would come pouring out in its cylinder shape. Don loved to cut off a few cold slices to compliment his meal.

  Once everyone was seated at the dining table, each said what they were thankful for. Don called it a “new tradition” since they had never done it before.

  Don and Monica were thankful for a healthy family.

  Jordan was thankful for the turkey.

  Conner was thankful for Grandpa.

  And Grandpa was thankful for the chance to reunite with his son and finally meet his beautiful grandchildren.

  After dinner, Don and Stephen stood on the front porch and stared at the sky. It was only midday and very blue. Jordan and Conner were inside, watching the Game (between who and who, Don didn’t know; he never cared for sports). Stephen had been watching it with them but had come looking for his son. Don didn’t know how to feel about that as they stood together now.

  “Is it sports in general you don’t like?” he asked Don.

  Without looking at him, Don replied, “I like playing sports but not watching them.”

  “You played a little baseball and did a little karate. I remember now.”

  Don looked at him then.

  “I told you,” said Stephen, “just because you didn’t see me doesn’t mean I wasn’t there.”

  “My guardian angel,” Don said sarcastically.

  “I tried to be.” Stephen sounded annoyed now, and that gulled Don. “I can see from that look on your face that my positive energy isn’t working on you the way it does with others.”

  “Not for a lack of trying,” Don said. “You do have a sparkling personality.”

  Stephen laughed. “I don’t mean that. I’m talking about literal energy radiating off of me right now.”

  That caught Don’s attention. “You radiate energy too?”

  “It comes from your personality, sorry to say. You were always an angry person, deep down. The ‘curse’ just manifests what’s inside us. I don’t make the rules.”

  Don shook his head. “Whoever made the rules is stupid. And you’re, what, a naturally positive person?”

  “To the core,” Stephen admitted proudly.

  Don laughed. He was starting to loosen up, though whether that was because of his father’s “positive energy” he wasn’t sure.

  * * *

  Stephen said his goodbyes later that night and headed home. The kids did the dishes while Monica laid down; she complained of a migraine, one that she’d suffered on and off for a few months.

  Don went to his office and tidied up for a bit. As he straightened his desk, he saw a bundle of papers he didn’t recognize. He picked it up and realized they were manuscript pages. He sat down and started reading. He stopped halfway through the fifty-plus pages.

  He’d written the truth of what had happened to him and Ethan.

  Horrified, he dropped the pages. He didn’t remember writing any of it. It read like an autobiography, very detailed and mercilessly accurate. If anyone read this....

  He stood and threw the manuscript into his file cabinet. He should destroy it, but he didn’t. Something told him to keep it. He had written an account of his tragic life for a reason. The fact that he had written it subconsciously added extra meaning to the document.

  He had to keep it.

  Chapter 11

  Jordan loved art class. It was easier than any of his other classes, and way more fun. He hadn’t realized how creative he could be until he sketched his first drawing: a collection of random objects on a stool. Even the teacher was impressed.

  Erin, who was sitting next to him, glanced at his work and sighed. “Mine looks like a bunch of raccoons fighting over a monkey.”

  Jordan laughed. “That doesn’t make any sense.”

  She showed him her sketch.

  “Wow, you weren’t exaggerating. How did you manage that?”

  Erin laughed, but then grew serious a moment later. “Everything okay with you and your family?”

  Jordan looked across the room to where Conner and Travis sat, talking. “Better, yeah,” he replied. “I don’t know what Grandpa did to Conner, but it seems to have worked.”

  “And he didn’t do anything to you?”

  “No. I guess I didn’t need it. Conner was the only one with the problem. I’m fly.”

  Erin laughed. “You’re what?”

  “Fly. Cool, okay, super.”

  “Oh my god, Jordan. You’re stuck in the nineties, and I don’t even think people said that in the nineties.”

  “I’m bringin’ it back, yo.”

  They laughed together for a while, receiving annoyed glances from Mr. Wong as he circled the room, surveying everyone’s work. Once the two teens settled down, Jordan asked Erin, “Would you still like me, if I was weird? You know, the way Conner was?”

  “If you were weird, sure. If you were evil.... I don’t know.”

  “Conner wasn’t evil.”

  “He did something to Jack and Leo that made them kill themselves. What do you call that?”

  Jordan sighed and said, “Evil.”

  “Even if he isn’t like that anymore, I don’t know if I can ever look at him the same way again.”

  “Am I guilty by association?”

  She grinned at him. “You don’t talk like a fifteen-year-old is supposed to.”

  “Neither do the kids on all those teen shows. I learned from them.”

  “I like the way you talk. It’s sexy.”

  They stared at each other in silence after that. Jordan’s heart pounded. Was Erin coming on to him? Was she already completely over Travis? Jordan looked at her ex-boyfriend again, saw him laughing at something Conner said to him. Those two looked happy together, peaceful. One wouldn’t have believed peace could surround this group of kids after all that had happened.

  “I like when you do that?” Erin said from far away.

  Jordan came back to himself and said, “When I do what?”

  “Scrunch up your eyebrows in the middle.” She touched him there. “What are you thinking about?”

  “I’m...just happy that you wouldn’t think differently of me. That’s what makes you a great person.”

  She gave him a curious grin. “Thanks.”

  * * *

  Don stood in front of Mr. Leper’s house later that night, unable to turn away. He hadn’t been able to stop thinking about the man since he died, and he knew to trust his instincts. There was something about this man, and Don had to find out what that was.

  He walked around to the back door and broke out his lock pick. He’d used this very pick to break into Ivy’s house the night he killed Ethan. He didn’t need that running through his head, though, so he kept his mind on the task at hand.

  A dog barked somewhere in the neighborhood, startling Don, but he kept picking the lock. Finally, it gave way, and he entered the house. He was standing in the dining room, the house completely dark. There were a few spots of moonlight that managed to make it thr
ough the windows, but it wasn’t enough to really see by. He pulled a flashlight from his jacket pocket and turned it on.

  He then found himself standing in front of the back door with nowhere to go. He had no idea what he was even looking for, but he knew there was something. He figured the best place to start was Leper’s bedroom.

  The house smelled musty and old. Leper had no family, so there was no one to mess with his belongings. Don couldn’t imagine living alone in a big house like this. It was one story, though very spacious. He headed down a hall to the left and found three bedrooms, all the doors wide open.

  Each room was filled with crap.

  Leper must have been a hoarder. There were records, toys, books, and many boxes filled with items Don couldn’t determine. He felt even more daunted; he didn’t know what he was looking for, but whatever it was would be harder to find.

  He stepped into what he figured was the master bedroom. The king-size bed was covered in even more junk than the previous room. Where did the old man sleep if his bed was inaccessible? Don made his way to the closet, navigating the junk maze that cluttered the room.

  Everyone always hid stuff in the closet.

  Don managed to pull the door open and shine his light inside. There were clothes on hangers and on the floor. He shuffled through the junk, looking through the boxes that were piled in the closet’s corner. Something smelled awful, dead, and Don didn’t doubt there was some kind of rotting creature inside. A rat or cat, perhaps.

  As he moved boxes around, he realized the floor gave a little under his weight. It was all hardwood. Don had seen enough movies to know people liked to hide things under their floors. He stepped on every inch of floor he could reach and found a loose board in the corner.

  He lifted the board away and shined the beam down. There was another box. He lifted it out, thankful for the gloves he was wearing.

  The rotting smell was definitely coming from this box.

  Don steeled himself for a moment, and then he opened the box.

  He screamed and dropped it. He tried backing out of the closet but managed only to hit the door frame and fall forward. Onto the box. Onto the items inside the box. He screamed again and crawled out of the closet. He rested his back against the bed, breathing heavily.

  Don couldn’t believe what he had just found. He hadn’t been prepared for it. His instincts had done him a service, however, for now he knew that Mr. Leper had, in fact, been the Texas Devil.

  On his way back home, he noticed the dark sky becoming light with frost. It was going to start snowing soon. The temperature had also dropped a few degrees, so much so his breath frosted in front of him.

  When Don got to his house, he sat in his study and...did nothing. He didn’t call the police or tell anyone what he had found. The last thing he wanted was another reason for the cops and that nosy reporter coming around again. Don had left the box out; if someone found it, then so be it.

  He had found what he needed to be at peace.

  He now knew neither he nor his kids had killed those people in the woods over the past decade. It had been Leper. Don remembered the bodies being found with their genitalia missing. Well, Don found those missing pieces.

  Leper killed those people, and Conner killed Leper. Justice.

  Don slept fairly easily that night, though he woke a few times to find Monica gone. At one point, he thought he was being watched by someone at the door but when he looked, there was no one there. When he woke that morning, Monica was sound asleep by his side. He kissed her and she awoke as well.

  “How did you sleep?” he asked her.

  “Not well.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  After Don showered, he called Stephen’s house and didn’t get an answer. He was warming up to the old man, despite his flaws, and wanted to invite him to one last dinner in the old house before the big move.

  Throughout the day, he continued trying to call his father but still got nothing. Finally, he drove over to the house. Three inches of snow had fallen overnight. When he got to the house, he knocked on the door and rang the bell. No one responded. Don tried the doorknob, finding it unlocked. He stepped inside.

  He found pieces of Stephen all over the living room, lying in their own pools of blood.

  * * *

  Don didn’t know what to think as he stood there, staring at his father’s dismembered body. There was an arm here, a leg there. The torso was in the middle of the living room. And the head...was elsewhere. Don felt revulsion and fear. But he did not feel sorrow.

  His father was dead, and he felt no sorrow. Only disgust at the sight, as if he was looking at the dead body of a stranger.

  The paralysis vanished and Don finally took a step forward. Was this his father in front of him? It was hard to tell without the head. A part of Don realized he wasn’t responding to this situation the way a normal person would. A normal person would go running from the house, screaming. A relative would probably pass out or start crying. Don did neither.

  The curse must have damaged something inside of him. He was no longer human.

  He walked up to the torso, noting the beer belly covered by a white T-shirt smeared with blood. That looked like Stephen’s torso. Don was closer to the kitchen on the right. There, he was able to see the kitchen island where his father had made him a peach smoothie not long ago.

  The head was now sitting on the island.

  It was Stephen’s head.

  The mouth was slightly open, the eyes glazed. The white hair on his head was sticking straight up, as if it had been grabbed. The attacker must have picked up the head by that hair.

  Don’s stomach started to turn and bile rose to his throat. He was starting to feel something, some emotion that had burst free and was now flooding his body violently. His father had been murdered, and Don was seeing it, feeling it.

  He screamed.

  * * *

  An hour went by as Don stood there in the living room, trying to decide what to do. He knew he should call the police, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it. He was already linked to more murders than he liked, and there was no way he would be able to talk his way out of this one.

  His mind was rushing with ideas now that the shock had worn off. Stephen was dead, and there was nothing he could do about it. By whom, there was no telling yet. Stephen had said himself that no one knew he was alive except for Aunt Cynthia and Don, as well as Don’s family. Stephen may have had enemies Don knew nothing about, but he doubted this was some kind of hit.

  This reeked of the curse.

  Someone close to Don had killed Stephen. He knew that in his gut.

  But why kill him?

  Don grabbed a few trash bags from under the sink as well as some yellow rubber cleaning gloves and began to gather the body parts. He couldn’t believe he was doing this, but there was no helping it now. He couldn’t call the police, and no one save a select few had even known the old man was alive. If Don got rid of the body, no one would find out he’d been murdered.

  He had been technically dead to begin with.

  Don put all the parts into one bag, and then double- and triple-bagged it. He still couldn’t believe his father was dead, and that he barely felt any emotion at the man’s passing. But Stephen had abandoned his family, and Don barely knew him. It was hard to cry over a stranger’s death. Stephen had been a familiar stranger.

  The kids would be devastated if they found out, so Don decided not to tell them.

  Unless one or both already knew.

  What if they had killed their grandfather?

  Don could count all the cursed people he knew on one hand. The demon had said it was possessing someone Don knew (he assumed it meant Conner), and it must have used Conner to find out that Stephen had still lived. It hadn’t taken kindly to losing track of the man decades ago when Stephen passed his curse on to his own father. Perhaps it wanted revenge and used Conner to get it.

  Don grabbed a shovel from the garage and
began digging a hole in the backyard, by one of the peach trees. The ground was cold and hard due to the snow, but after a while the digging got easier. He then dragged the bag out of the house and buried it.

  He was burying his father.

  Don still couldn’t bring himself to mourn the way he should have. He felt little attachment to the remains in the hole. His initial scream earlier had been more a release of horror and revulsion than anything else, and once he’d done that, he felt hollow. It was a curious feeling.

  As he filled the hole with snow-covered dirt, he wondered if it had been he who’d killed the old man. After finding the evidence of Mr. Leper’s murderous pastime, a weight had been lifted from Don’s shoulders. He’d found out that he hadn’t killed all those people in the woods and just forgotten about it. But what if he’d killed Stephen while under some strange trance? Did the demon still have some kind of hold on him?

  After finishing this grisly task, Don cleaned up the blood in the house, thankful for the linoleum floors, and then drove home to his family.

  When he returned home, he went straight to his study, locked the door, and closed the fireplace partition so no one could see him from the living room. He felt completely lost at the moment, scared for himself and his family. He had no idea what was going on, but at the same time, he did know. Conner had to be behind everything. The demon was using him to do its bidding, but for what reason? It clearly wasn’t dead, but it was trapped in whatever hell it spawned from.

  And it was using its one link to this world.

  Don had to destroy that link. He knew only one way to do that, but he couldn’t.

  Later that night, he stood outside Conner’s bedroom, his head against the closed door. He had a knife in his hand.

  * * *

  The next morning, the family had breakfast together. Conner was there, unharmed and completely oblivious to what his uncle had planned to do the night before. Don hated himself for even thinking about it, and he hated himself even more for not going through with it.

  * * *