by Nikki Sex
My mother was always so inept—the poor woman never did anything right. I’m fairly certain my demon was a newborn when he came to me.
My inner friend has no experience of the demonic realm, thank God. If he did, I doubt I could stop him from being as vicious and monstrous as the rest of his kind.
In a sense, he and I have grown up together.
I’m trying to instill in him the best of human characteristics: compassion, understanding, moderation—you get the idea.
He’s trying to teach me murder, irresponsible lust, bloodthirsty violence, and the joys of total mayhem.
So far, I’m winning, but only because we’re friends. Technically, I’m older, wiser, and I understand this world better than he does. No one knows what age a demon can live to, but I think my demon is a toddler in demon years.
It scares me to think of what he may be capable of when full grown.
Until now, he mostly lets me be in charge. I’ve made a deal with him that if we ever have a chance to visit the demon world, he can call the shots. I wonder if demons possessed by humans are considered unsafe and are immediately killed over there?
My demon is so alien in every way—I don’t even know if he’s male or female. It’s possible the sexes don’t even exist in his world, but I treat him as male. I’ve tried to name him, but any attempt only makes him angry.
At first I thought he was simply insulted by my suggestions of “Max,” “Ted,” or “John-boy.” To amuse myself, I even tried “Zippy,” “Fido,” and “Spot.” Unfortunately, he has no sense of humor. I proposed calling him “My lord,” “Your highness,” and even “Captain Fantastic,” which only built his fury.
Conceivably, he was born with his own unique name. Using the wrong designation is probably a major faux pas. Fine by me. If he comes up with a way to tell me what to call him, I’ll certainly do so.
The thing is we have a communication problem. I don’t think he can read my mind, unless we’re in the middle of absorbing power. He speaks by giving me violent sensations, strong impulses, images, and an occasional impression that could be considered a thought.
However, he’s more than capable of making his wishes clear. A few times, long ago, he possessed my body for short intervals. It’s why I avoid conflict. When threatened or excited, my demon tries to take me over.
I shut my eyes as strong sensory memories assault my senses. The scent of fresh blood, pain, torn flesh. Spine-chilling screams. The taste of death. Feeding and reveling in the utter destruction of our enemies. Delighting in their terror.
As though policemen pound forcefully on the door where a guilty suspect resides, my heart thuds. I fear being caught.
Triumph. Pleasure. Horror.
A whisper of the past makes me despise myself, and my inner friend. Oh, yeah, I don’t want to go there again.
Demon-possessed.
I’m petrified someday my demon will take me over. Then where would I be? He’d use my body to wreak unparalleled chaos and death. Helplessly watching, I’d be an unwillingly participant as he joyfully destroys the world.
I draw a deep breath, pushing visions of the past away.
But not today, I remind myself.
Lousy dream or not, I survive by taking life one day at a time.
Curious and fascinated with everything, my inner friend is fiercely driven to travel and learn. We’ve roamed the continents and sailed the seven seas. Over nearly two centuries, he’s pressed me to study virtually every subject known to man.
My demon is attracted to humans, yet he’s particularly drawn to creatures with a paranormal energy signature. He tries to hide his fascination, but he doesn’t fool me. I feel what he feels.
A large part of his interest is due to his rarely sated appetite. Demons are consumers and connoisseurs of fine energy. Right now, he’s living on the equivalent of veggie burgers, while he craves steak. Not only to eat steak, but first to terrify the cow, rip it to shreds, drink its hot blood, and devour it raw.
Sadly, this is a poor comparison. My inner demon has no desire to consume a cow. What he really longs to feast on are people.
To a demon, humans taste delicious, while supernaturals are a delicacy to savor. I allow him sex with human psychics—the ones who have no idea what they are. But necromancers, shapeshifters, wereanimals, vampires, sorcerers, clairvoyants, witches—I keep away from them at all times, no exceptions.
Why? Supernaturals are magical creatures. If given half a chance, my demon would horrify, maim, slaughter, and absorb them completely. If one of them discovers my secret, my inner friend and I are both dead.
Every day I work hard to prevent my demon from doing what comes naturally. I do this while hiding him, so no one kills me.
To be killed, or to murder an innocent? Not much of a choice.
I’m not sure which outcome would be worse.
Chapter 3. Hey, Baby
Did I mention I once worked with Carl Jung in early 1900? Great guy. I assisted him on his book at the time, On the Psychology and Pathology of So-Called Occult Phenomena. You can appreciate my interest, of course.
I learned tons from Jung, specifically how to listen, engage, evaluate, and understand others.
For my mental health apprenticeship, I worked as barber, bartender, nurse, and hair stylist at different times in my life. Professionals in those positions are worthy of honorary psychology degrees. Those guys have heard everything at least twice.
Understanding what motivates people, avoiding conflict, and being persuasive are vital survival skills for someone in my position. Seriously. I’ve learned how to get perfect strangers to confide in me and to do as I ask. When it comes to manipulation, I’m the reigning queen.
Even Machiavelli would be impressed.
Thus, when the older couple stand up to get off the bus, I follow them and their hapless baby ghost. Luckily, it’s only a few blocks before my intended stop.
The sidewalk is awash with pedestrian traffic, but I easily catch up to them. “Pardon me,” I call out, using my most practiced innocent voice.
The pair stop, turn around. They regard me with uncertain frowns behind their glasses. Evidently, they don’t approve of strangers accosting them on the street.
For the first time, the toddler notices me. Ghosts don’t normally pay attention to others unless they have a good reason to do so. In a moment of clarity, it strikes me that the baby is their grandchild.
No surprise there.
White haired, Grandpa has a flushed complexion. The physician in me recognizes the signs in less than a blink.
Congestive heart failure.
It’s in the developing stages. His breathing is irregular, yet his chest is clear. This is almost certainly an undiagnosed heart condition. High blood pressure—perhaps valve damage.
I’m looking at a dead man walking unless he does something about his health. Still, he’s probably good for a few more weeks. He’s well enough for my purposes, at any rate.
After completing four medical degrees over the last two centuries and serving as a physician on the battlefield, as well as various hospitals, I should know.
Did I tell you how talented I am with make-up and disguises? No? Well, I’ve had to be. For most of my life, I passed myself off as a man. You would have, too. True, in the past men had short life expectancy—but they were also the only ones who were allowed to have any fun.
“I beg your pardon?” There’s a blank look on Grandpa’s face.
Hearing loss. Why is it men take so ridiculously long to avail themselves of hearing aids?
I raise my voice, “I said pardon me. May I talk to you for a moment?”
“We don’t give donations,” his gray-haired wife responds.
Clearly, she has no hearing difficulties. I like the caring, grandmotherly air about her. She’s trying to be firm, but the woman is about as tough as Jell-O. She’s the type who would be sympathetic to any hard luck story, despite the sharp intellect behind her piercing hazel ey
es.
I give her my most endearing smile. “Can we speak privately for a moment? Perhaps get coffee? I’ll buy.”
The woman shakes her head, but I interrupt her before she says anything more. “Look. I’m here because of your grandson. I don’t know precisely how long ago he died, but you have to let him go.”
Surprise, shock, contempt, anger—their expressions are priceless and exactly what I expect.
I do this kind of thing all the time. I’ve gauged these people well. At first they’re distraught, thinking it’s a cruel scam. Yet it’s all part of my cunning strategy. No one can look more saccharine sweet than I do when I’m on a roll.
As expected, they give me the benefit of the doubt.
The traffic on this busy city street is too loud to chat. I convince them to move to a nearby coffee shop where we can talk.
The baby likes this idea; it makes him hopeful. He brushes against my arm causing an icy rush of goosebumps to rise on my skin.
I smell a trace of baby powder as I smile up at him,
It’s OK kiddo. I got your back, I think toward the child.
Ghosts can hear me when I mentally speak to them, unlike my demon who I must address out loud.
Drooling from teeth that have not erupted (and now never will), the toddler gives me a chubby-cheeked smile. Looking down upon me, he reminds me of a benevolent statue of Buddha.
I’ve definitely made his day.
Chapter 4. Pain is Inevitable. Suffering is Optional.
The smell of freshly ground coffee assaults my senses as we walk into the cafe. I grab a table in the corner, as private and as far from the street noise as possible.
A friendly waitress takes my order for three coffees and three servings of carrot cake—although I’m not in the least bit hungry. I hand her two twenty dollar bills, tell her to keep the change.
Surprised by this unexpected largess, she thanks me and offers a generous smile. It’s an auspicious beginning for her as we are among her first customers of the day. The grandparents protest—they don’t want food, and they don’t want me to pay.
“My treat,” I order firmly.
My no-nonsense tone is so stern and determined that they give in with good grace. I know what I’m doing. Sugary carbs are what I want.
These people are about to engage in a challenging mental battle. As any good general knows, there’s no point in going to war on an empty stomach.
While they eat, I talk about ghosts crossing over, and how rare it is for them to hang around. I tell them a little about their grandson, and how he followed them onto the bus. I show them my goosebumps from his touch. They want to know more, but I refuse until I hear their story of what happened.
I refuse to go further until the stage is set.
“Who wants to start?” I ask, sipping my coffee once their plates are empty.
I’m not surprised when the woman begins to speak. Interested and understanding, I listen. By constantly murmuring small encouragements they both communicate their story.
The most terrible events in a person’s life are difficult, if not impossible to talk about. This is true for everyone—unless they’re sociopaths, I suppose—yet probably even sociopaths have things they can’t discuss.
Life is good, but tragedy is everywhere.
Everyone on earth has a hard time—every person has a heart-breaking story. These two are no exception.
What’s really interesting is once you manage to get folks talking about their own particular horror, the flood gates—held back for so long—open wide, letting every drop of anguish out.
It’s healthy for this couple to have the opportunity to get things off their chest, to safely lay bare the issues they’re struggling with.
Their tale is sad, but not particularly unusual. They’d been babysitting their eleven-month-old grandson, the only child of their daughter Melissa. Sammy had been smart, sneaky, and fast. Apparently, the baby would’ve taken first place as an Olympic speed crawler.
The problem was, Sammy learned how to open and shut sliding doors. When Grandma took her eyes off him for an instant, the toddler slipped away, slid an internal door open, and crawled into the garage.
It could have happened to anyone, right?
Unfortunately, at the same time, Grandpa had been reversing his four-wheel-drive truck.
Sammy had died instantly.
As a doctor who’s worked in an emergency department, I can’t tell you how many children are severely injured while in the family garage.
Their only child, the daughter they dearly love, hasn’t spoken to either of them since the tragedy. One terrible accident, a moment of inattention, and they lost their daughter and their first grandchild in one fell blow.
“Thank you so much for telling me.” I take the woman’s hand to offer her comfort.
The man wipes his eyes. “I don’t know why we did. We never speak of it. Who are you, anyway?”
“I’m no one,” I reply. When their brows shoot up, I add, “Well, actually, I’m your grandson’s messenger.”
I explain Sammy asked me here—a little stretch of the truth, but not precisely a lie. He’s here now, right beside them. I effusively describe the child and his various childish mannerisms.
They lean forward eagerly, demanding every detail.
Frowning, I come to the point. “Look, he wants to move on, but he can’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because you two won’t let him.”
This involves a larger discussion. It is human nature to unintentionally hang on to personal tragedies. People keep subconscious images imprinted in their minds in technicolor detail. Thus, every catastrophic event remains right there with them—the past in the present at all times.
Who can say why people do this?
For my part, I believe it’s an unconscious mechanism to remind them never to make the same mistake again.
I tell them Sammy’s alive, simply no longer inhabiting a human form. I explain their unhappiness is a burden to him. The toddler doesn’t blame them.
“It upsets Sammy to know his grandparents have an unhealed rift with his mother,” I say. “The poor kid doesn’t like to see his mom cry.”
Their own pain is forgotten; their attention focuses on Sammy and his mother. After further conversation, their eyes widen with surprise and understanding.
Sammy starts to laugh.
“He’s laughing,” I say with a smile. “I think you’re starting to ease up and let him go. He’s raising his hand. Is that a high-five?” I laugh and raise my own hand up to meet his. “Who taught him to high-five?”
“Our son-in-law,” the grandfather says gruffly, tears falling from red-rimmed eyes. “He was always holding his chubby little palm out for a high five.”
Above us, an invisible bright light opens like a door. I say invisible because most people can’t see it. (My demon friend and I see it just fine).
A gentle wind blows through the gateway as soft as a lover’s kiss. It whispers over my skin carrying magical energy, sweet music, and familiar scents. I shut my eyes, curbing my impulse to writhe with pleasure.
My demon hums and vibrates within me, rolling the taste of magic on his metaphysical tongue. This is why he likes me helping ghosts.
I hear the baby giggling, hysterical with happiness. When I open my eyes, I see him crawling into the light without once looking back.
Wow. That kid does have a super-fast crawl.
As Sammy crosses over, a stronger blast of power and magic erupts. I was right after all—the baby chose to stay. He did it for them.
Set free, the ghost has no more ties to this world. The child’s innocence and joy works like a potent spell. Elated, his grandparents grin broadly, with no idea why they suddenly feel so happy.
Once he’s gone, the door to the other realm closes. The world seems to pause, while my demon and I bask in a sense of rightness.
I shut my eyes. There isn’t a vast amount of energy that spil
ls from the heavens as a result of a ghost crossing over, yet what there is feels amazing.
Intensely satisfied, I sigh.
Inside, my demon sighs, too. For once he’s content. He isn’t burning with non-stop hunger for strong emotion, blood, flesh, or sensation.
To me, energy shows itself as a vibe or an aura—but not all power is the same. It can have gross, coarse, and jagged wavelengths, or it can be beyond minuscule—almost too fine to measure.
The delicate power from Sammy’s passing is otherworldly and beautiful.
When I briefly explain to his grandparents what happened, they immediately appear ten years younger. Their burden of guilt has been heavy. Carrying around so much self-blame and shame drains the soul.
We talk some more—well, mostly I listen. Eventually, I apologize because I have to get to work. They ask to see me again, but I refuse.
“I hide my identity because of my gift,” I explain to them. “Will you both keep my secret?”
“Of course, child.” They nod in complete understanding.
“Oh, one more thing.” I look toward the grandfather. “Sammy wants you to make an appointment to see your doctor. He says you have a heart condition. He’s afraid you’ll die before your time if you don’t.”
Grandpa’s eyes widen from this bombshell. Grandma’s breath catches.
OK, I lied, but hey. It would be ridiculous for Sammy’s grandfather to finally sort out this crap, only to wake up dead in less than a week. Anyway, my whole life is an invention.
I lie all the time. That’s why I’m so good at it.
My revelation generates a flurry of interest and questions. Luckily for me, I don’t have to answer because their phone rings. The chiming sound captures their attention. When Grandpa looks at the display, his face flares with astonishment, shock, and joy.
Caller ID shows Melissa, is calling. They’re both stunned as their daughter hasn’t spoken to either of them since grandpa accidentally ran over her son.
“Hello?” His voice is hoarse and ragged as he answers.
It seems impossible she’s calling them exactly at this point, but an immediate response isn’t unusual. Like a stream winding through trees and rocks, finding its own course through a valley, such is the natural way of magic.