by Jeff DePew
He followed the sound past a large plastic tree covered with white clumps of powdered plastic. Beside the tree was a table on which sat several small boxes. One of them was open, and a tiny figure spun slowly as the music played. Pitch was enthralled. He moved closer. The delicate figure slowed and stopped and the music died. Before he could react, an older human woman stepped up and picked up the box. She held it in one hand and twisted some type of key in the back of it. Pitch could clearly hear the gears turning. She smiled down at him. Her hair was white, but she didn’t have a beard. At least not one that he could see.
“Do you like it?”
Pitch nodded. The less he spoke, the better, it seemed.
“It’s a music box. Do you recognize that song?”
Pitch shook his head.
“It’s called ‘I’m a Little Teapot.’ She held it out to him. “Just open it and it plays.”
Pitch held his hands out and gazed at the music box reverently. It was white and had two small drawers. The inside was a deep red cloth of some kind, and when opened, the lid had a mirror that reflected the tiny dancing figure. The woman picked up another one.
“Now this one plays ‘Jingle Bells’ and has a little snowman inside. Is this for your mommy or your sister?”
Pitch shook his head, his eyes never leaving the delicate twirling figure. Just slowly turning. So small. So beautiful. He snapped it shut and opened it again.
“Do, uh, you have any other ones?” He gestured to the boxes on the table. “Besides these?” He looked up hopefully.
“Oh yes, we have several more right over here.” She turned and began walking toward a wall display. When she turned back to Pitch, he was gone.
***
Pitch made it back to the portal without any problems. There was a wait as several other demons stood outside the stall. One of them was holding a large grandfather clock and looking nervously at the door. Another was wearing a fluffy fur coat that dragged on the floor. A large demon in the guise of an elderly human female sat in one of the sinks, happily relieving herself.
When it was Pitch’s turn, he cradled the music box to his chest, took a deep breath, and stepped into the stall. Once again the familiar feeling of being crushed into a tiny ball, the dizziness, and he slammed to the ground in the portal cavern. He looked down at the music box and turned it around. He opened it and the music began playing. Perfect.
Pitch hurried back to his hovel, carefully keeping the music box hidden.
***
For the next few work cycles, Pitch kept a low profile. He showed up for his shift, worked diligently, ate in the canteen, and returned to his hovel. The gift exchange was fast approaching, and Pitch wasn’t sure how he felt. The music box, he was sure, was the only one of its kind in Hell. But was it enough?
***
The Secret Santa gift exchange had arrived. Pitch joined the legions of demons outside the gates of Satan’s primary palace. Pandemonium was greater than he ever could have imagined: tall, ebony walls that seemed to go on forever. It was more of a city than a palace. There were guard towers that overlooked the main entrance. Harpies flew high above the battlements. The main gate was massive, and the demons could easily walk through the main entrance twenty abreast. Pitch glanced up at the heavy portcullis, which had been raised for this special occasion. Several rotted bodies were stuck to the spikes at the bottom. Nice touch.
The great hall was immense. It seemed to go on as far as he could see, immense black columns holding up a ceiling, which he could barely see. At the end of the long hall was the throne. He saw Vlad in the crowd, holding a gift wrapped in human flesh. But Pitch didn’t wave to him. He was so nervous he didn’t think he could talk without screaming. The other demons were in a jubilant mood, laughing and chattering. Pitch seemed to be the only one not talking.
Satan, as usual, was surrounded by his retinue. Imps, demons, other fallen angels surrounded his throne, vying for his attention and approval, laughing at his jokes, looking properly solemn, and nodding their heads sagely at his opinions. He was talking animatedly to a gorgon who rested a scaly hand intimately on his forearm.
The gift exchange went on for hours. Satan would call out a name and a demon would approach. Then the one who had selected that demon’s name would come forward and present the gift. Over and over and over. Many of the Demonkind grew restless, and Pitch heard muttering, sensed their impatience but knew none would dare leave early. He wished some would. Then he could sneak out with them and forget about this whole horrible experience. But there was no way. If Satan didn’t get his gift, he would turn Hell upside down until he found out who had let him down.
Pitch was too nervous to pay close attention. He was terrified out of his mind, his heart pounding so loudly in his chest he was surprised that the demons around him didn't hear. He vaguely heard shrill screams at one point, followed by a burst of fire and an explosion of laughter and applause. All in all, though, it seemed to be a relatively mundane gift exchange. But then the mood changed. The whispers became more excited, urgent.
“And who picked my name?” his Infernal Majesty’s voice boomed through the immense chamber. Necks swiveled, heads turned (some completely around) as all looked to see who would step forward.
Pitch gulped and squeezed his way forward and stepped out onto the crimson carpet that led up to the throne. He heard some giggles, which were quickly hushed. All eyes and eye stalks were on him. He walked toward the throne. It seemed to take forever. He got to the base of the throne and paused before the steps that led up. Satan leaned forward, regarding him curiously, arching a well-manicured eyebrow. A large, officious spider holding a clipboard and wearing eight-lensed reading glasses whispered into his ear.
“Ah. You are... Pitch? You serve me in the Outer Regions?”
“Yes, my Lord.” Pitch knelt, bowed his head.
“Rise, my faithful servant, and present your Lord and Master with his gift.” Pitch didn’t have to look around to see that the crowd was inching forward.
He was taking his first step up the stairs to the throne when he heard the first whisper.
“He doesn’t have a present.”
“Where's his gift?”
Pitch didn’t stop. He walked up the steps. The silence was deafening. The only sound was the pad of his feet on the steps. One step. Then another. The steps were higher than he was accustomed to, and he had to use his arms to pull himself up the last one. He could hear the muffled giggles.
Pitch didn’t stop when he got to the top step. He was resolute and would see this through, whatever the consequences. He pulled himself up onto Satan’s knee, reached around him, and gave him a big hug.
The watching demons gasped as one. He heard several weapons clatter to the floor from numb, stunned hands. Pitch felt Satan stiffen and he kept his eyes tightly closed. Whatever was going to happen, he didn’t want to see it. It was too late now.
He decided he had held on long enough and was getting ready to let go and subject himself to whatever humiliation and punishment was heading his way when he felt a powerful arm lay across his back. The arm radiated heat, but there was no mistaking whose it was.
***
The demons tumbled out of the portal in a raucous heap of arms, legs, tails, and wings. The shift leader, Agamoth, tall, broad-shouldered, his face creased with scars, stood up first and reached down to pull Pitch to his feet.
“You did good, kid! Congratulations on your first successful Soul Collection. Welcome aboard!”
Pitch beamed. Like all the others, he was wearing a black vest with a red badge emblazoned with the initials S.C.S. over his left breast.
The rest of the squad, having disentangled themselves from each other, circled Pitch, congratulating him, playfully shoving his head, slapping him on the back, shaking his claw.
Behind them, a male Shade sat on the ground, dazed from his trip through a portal.
“Where am I? This is all a mistake, I can assure you,” he whimpered mo
st unassuredly.
Pitch walked over and grabbed him by the collar of his and yanked him to his feet. “Welcome to Hell! Get used to it!” The other members of the SCS hooted and screeched their approval.
***
It had been very tense after he had hugged Satan, and the crowd was expecting (and hoping for) blood. Satan had pulled back and looked down at Pitch. A single tear glistened in one eye. A tear! And he mouthed the words, “Thank you,” so that only Pitch could see.
After that, events had taken a turn for the surreal. Pitch had been shuffled out of the main chamber and into a small anteroom. The only light came from a fire blazing in the hearth. Pitch was too afraid to touch anything, so he stood in the center of the room. Paintings of warring angels hung from the walls, and he tried to see if could recognize Satan in any of them. He heard muffled screams and chanting from the main hall and began looking for an exit when the spider sidled up beside him. Pitch nearly jumped up out of his loincloth.
“My master expresses his regrets that he is not able to speak with you himself, but...” He made an elaborate gesture with several of his legs. “...duty calls. He has asked me to offer his gratitude for your... uh, gift, and wishes to offer you a boon. What is it you most desire?”
Pitch stared at him. He swiveled his torso, looked around. Was this guy talking to him? Nobody else here.
“Umm, what I most desire?”
“What you most desire. Anything.” He tapped his clipboard impatiently.
“Me?”
“Yes. You.” The spider sighed, rolling seven of his eight eyes.
***
When Pitch got home, he hung his SCS vest on a root that stuck out from the wall. He smoothed it out and rubbed a bit of blood off the badge. It was hard to believe he was now in the Soul Collection Squad. Him! Pitch had never really thought about what he most desired because he never dreamed he would get it. He did live in Hell, after all. He knelt down beside his sleeping mat and pulled a rock to one side, exposing a hollow. He reached in and lifted out an object wrapped in rags. He replaced the rock.
Life was good, Pitch thought, lying back on his mat. He reverently peeled back the rags and uncovered the music box. He wound it, opened it, and watched the ballerina twirl. Yes indeed, life was good.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Jeff DePew has been writing stories and screenplays for over twenty years. He is a regular contributor to the “Never Fear” horror anthologies published by Invoke Books. His work tends to be dark, although he does occasionally blend horror and comedy.
Jeff currently lives in Henderson, Nevada, with his wife and children.
jdepewauthor.com
surtrbooks.com
About the Author
ABOUT THE AUTHORJeff DePew has been writing stories and screenplays for over twenty years. He is a regular contributor to the “Never Fear” horror anthologies published by Invoke Books. His work tends to be dark, although he does occasionally blend horror and comedy.Jeff currently lives in Henderson, Nevada, with his wife and children.jdepewauthor.comsurtrbooks.com
Read more at Jeff DePew’s site.