by Sam Hooker
“I’m sorry, I ... what? I’m, I’m, I’m—no, that’s not it—you see, when it comes down to ... oh, dear—”
Myrtle sighed aloud. Her arms crossed in front of her, and she looked at him with a combination of annoyance, pity, and affection that was generally reserved for adorable wittle puppy-wuppies who’d just savaged an expensive shoe. He was making the eyes and everything.
“Your adorable befuddlement won’t get you out of it this time,” said Myrtle, her expression twisting to remain as mad at him as she could. “Every time I turn around, you’re gone! Where have you been disappearing to?”
Sloot groaned. It bought him enough time to fight the urge to correct her grammar. Whether she knew the rule about ending sentences with prepositions or not, now wasn’t the time to bring it up. Sure, it might make for a welcome distraction, but in the end it would just make her angrier.
“Roman’s got my head,” said Sloot, reaching for the easy truth to get him going.
“I know about that,” said Myrtle, “but there’s more, isn’t there?”
Sloot nodded.
“Don’t think,” said Myrtle, “just blurt it out. What’s the worst of it? What are you afraid to tell me?”
Sloot whimpered.
“You’re thinking! What did I tell you? Just blurt, you fool!”
“I’m working for Uncle!” Sloot cried, his eyes shut as though he were preparing for a run through a haunted house at a carnival. It was braver than it sounded, given that the one time that very thing had happened before, a nine-year-old Sloot had run into a wall and knocked himself out.
“You’re joking.” Myrtle’s eyes went wide.
“When have I ever?”
Myrtle gasped. “You’re working for Uncle!”
“Keep your voice down!”
“You would say that. How long have you been living a double life?”
To Sloot’s great detriment, he paused. By itself, that might have gone unnoticed; however, never having been one to quit while he was ahead, Sloot also broke eye contact with Myrtle and looked at the floor.
“Wait a minute,” said Myrtle, who didn’t have to be a prescient demon to have seen that Sloot had more to confess. “Sloot?”
“Er, hello,” said Sloot.
“There’s more?”
“Winking Bob,” said Sloot. He’d never told her about the paper he’d had to sign for her, the one that got the Carpathian expedition rolling. It had been far more trouble than it had been worth, especially in hindsight.
“Ironic, that,” said Myrtle, after Sloot had finished explaining.
“How’s that?”
“I orchestrated the burgling of Whitewood to get out from under Winking Bob’s thumb. If I hadn’t, you’d never have needed to bargain with her, and you wouldn’t be under her thumb now.”
Sloot said nothing. He’d gotten special permission to skip literature classes and take more mathematics, so he was entirely unqualified to judge what was irony and what wasn’t.
“I’m sorry about that,” she said.
“No, I am,” said Sloot, whose prowess with accepting apologies was non-existent. He had one of those faces that could take the apology right out of your mouth, turn it into an argument, and lose to it in seconds.
“It doesn’t matter now. We’ve got to find a way to get you free of some of your fetters.”
“Fetters?”
“If I’m all caught up,” said Myrtle, “you’re an intelligence agent on both sides of the cold war between the Old Country and Carpathia. You’re being drawn into competing plots by Uncle, Winking Bob, Mrs. Knife, and Roman to kidnap the Domnitor, long may he reign, to whom you’re still loyal thanks to a lifetime of propaganda. Your girlfriend is a demon, your employer is an uncontrollable vessel of dark magic, and if you’re unable to control his power—having no means of doing so, of course—you’ll be thrown into the Well of the Void to be tortured for an eternity. And to top it all off, you’re grinning like an idiot! How can you be so amused by all of this?”
“So … you are my girlfriend?” Ghosts do not blush, but that didn’t stop Sloot’s cheeks from becoming a more pronounced shade of translucent grey. He grinned from ear to ear, which was exhausting, unfamiliar as he was with the maneuver.
“Well, yes,” said Myrtle. She clasped her hands in front of her. Her head shrank down into her shoulders, and she stared at the floor where her foot was idly drawing a shape. It’s worth noting that said shape, when drawn in blood on the flank of a bovine sacrifice to the Arch-Demon of the Hell of Ritual Boredom—whose name consisted entirely of consonants, and qualified as a swear word in every language—would cause everyone who looked upon it to descend into a cackling madness from which there was no return. Those sorts of things come naturally to demons, who are no more capable of performing any truly random act than they are of drinking holy water and not spending the following century with a hangover.
“I just didn’t know if you still wanted me to be,” Myrtle continued. “You know, since I’m a demon now and all.”
“I’m a ghost,” said Sloot. “I didn’t know ghosts got to have girlfriends. I thought maybe that was just for the living.”
“Of course you do! At least, I think so. Being in a couple isn’t a government appointment or anything. No forms to fill out.”
“Oh, dear,” said Sloot.
“What is it?”
“Uncle! They know about you! They know you’re a demon!”
“I wouldn’t worry about that,” said Myrtle. “I can do a lot more to the living than they can do to me! Er, not that I would, of course. I’m not an evil demon. I don’t think.”
“Is there another kind?”
Myrtle’s brow furrowed into a very hurt expression. “You think I’m evil?”
“No! Er, probably not. Right?”
“Is that why you’re avoiding the question?”
“Sorry, what question?”
“Do you want me to be your girlfriend or not?”
“I thought that went without saying,” said Sloot.
“Well, it doesn’t!”
“Oh. Well, then. Yes, please. I want you to be my girlfriend.”
It may have been the scariest thing he’d ever said in his life, or whatever. Sloot wasn’t one for taking risks, and although he had every reason to believe that it would go well, he still harbored more than a reasonable measure of apprehension. Fortunately, she started grinning as well, and threw her arms around him. They floated there, hugging and grinning like a couple of teenagers, one of whom was dead, and the other a demon. It was still very nice.
“Thanks for that,” said Sloot. “While we were talking about our relationship, I’d forgotten that dark shadows loom over me from every direction, and that I’m an inch away from utter calamity and ruin every which way I turn.”
“Ever the romantic,” said Myrtle, rolling her eyes in a way that was only annoyed in the way that kittens feign annoyance for bits of string being dragged across the floor.
“Sorry,” said Sloot, predictably. “Hopefully it’ll be a while before I’m remanded to the Well of the Void for an eternity of anguish.”
“Not much better.”
“Sorry.”
“It’s fine,” said Myrtle. “You do have a lot on your mind.”
“There has to be a way out of it. Hasn’t there?”
“Oh, yes,” said Myrtle with surprising assurance. She looked more surprised than he did, her eyes going wide after she’d said it.
“Myrtle?”
“Amazing,” said Myrtle, breathlessly.
“What is it?”
“I can tell you how to fix it!”
Sloot had never stared directly at optimism before, but this time he was sorely tempted. “Which part?”
“All of it,” said Myrtle, who seemed as incredulous as Sloot. “I think I get it now.”
“At least one of us does.” Sloot had yet to completely wrap his head around the concept of death, and had not ent
irely given up on the hope that it could all be cleared up by a good night’s sleep.
“I’m a causality demon,” said Myrtle. “I can see multiple possible futures hanging off the ends of things that happen. Even something that seems insignificant now can lead to something big later on.”
“I think I understand,” said Sloot. “So what did you see? Did I turn to the left in a way that will ultimately restore the Domnitor to the throne, long may he reign?” Sloot didn’t need logic to know that everything would be all right as soon as the Domnitor was in charge of everything again. Long may he reign.
“Not exactly,” said Myrtle. She went quiet, her eyes scanning the room as though she were reading billboards that weren’t there. “Oh, dear.”
“What is it? Is the Domnitor in danger, long may he reign?”
“Forget about the Domnitor for a minute,” said Myrtle. She may as well have asked him to stop breathing, which was a poor metaphor, given the circumstances. “This goes beyond my regular powers. It’s a bigger one.”
“How many powers do you get?”
Myrtle thought for a moment. “Eight hundred and nineteen, but this is bigger than almost all of them. It’s more than reading causality from passing events. I can see into the future! More than that, I can give you the answers you need. I can tell you how to fix all of this. It’s guaranteed!”
Optimism shook the foundations of the house. The floors positively thrummed with hope and relief. Sloot didn’t see any reason why he shouldn’t—
“But there’s a price.”
All right, now he saw it.
“There always is,” said Sloot. Dread loomed at his heels, but he still wasn’t ready to give up on optimism yet.
“You’ll have to give me your soul.”
Sloot’s optimism made a weak pop before it fizzled. He could briefly feel the warmth that it had left, but it dissipated quickly. It was colder now than it ever had been before.
“What?”
“That’s it, just your soul.”
“I’m your boyfriend! Aren’t I? I thought that you being my girlfriend implied that, though perhaps I’m wrong about that.”
“No, no, you’re definitely my boyfriend,” said Myrtle, with a hint of a smile that would have been adorable outside the present context. “It’s just ... there are rules.”
“Demon rules?”
Myrtle nodded. “I can’t use my really big power for free. The rules are pretty clear on this, actually.”
“But this is my life we’re talking about! Well, existence, I mean.”
“Shh!”
“Are you doing existentialism in here?” asked Arthur, his head poking in from around the corner.
“No!” shouted Sloot and Myrtle in unison.
“Are you sure? It really seemed like there was about to be a conversation about the ephemeral nature of existence in here.”
“Only insofar as it pertains to the role of manual labor in industrialized society,” said Sloot.
“Oh,” said Arthur, wrinkling his nose. “Carry on.” He floated away, as far from talk of manual labor as his disembodied spirit would take him.
“That was good thinking,” said Myrtle.
“Thanks,” said Sloot, who was hoping he’d have one more moment of inspiration in him. With his continued existence on the line, he hated to think he’d spent his one on getting out of a conversation with Arthur. That was just the sort of thing over which he’d agonize in the Well of the Void for the better portion of eternity.
“Talk to me,” said Myrtle.
“What?”
“Talk to me, I said.”
“I know what you said, but about what?”
“I don’t know,” said Myrtle. She fidgeted. “You’re my boyfriend now. That just seems like the sort of thing I’m supposed to say to you.”
“Oh,” said Sloot. It did nothing to abate his bewilderment at the concept.
“Are you upset?” she asked.
“Er, probably,” said Sloot. “I usually am.”
“I mean, particularly. Just now.”
“Do I seem upset? Particularly?”
“A bit more than usual, yes.”
“Oh, well I can’t imagine why,” said Sloot in a tone so sarcastic it hurt his own feelings. “I’m sorry, I guess I really am upset.”
“What for?”
“You’re demanding my soul in exchange for the answers to my problems! I thought that since you were my girlfriend, you might just help me out. I’d certainly do your taxes without charging you.”
“I told you, the rules are clear on this sort of thing,” said Myrtle. “I have to trade for your soul.”
Sloot gave Myrtle and imploring look. He searched the deep, grey pools of her eyes for pity, or compassion, or even some hint that she was playing a cruel joke, and would laugh at any moment and say she’d only been kidding. But nothing like that was in there. Not one iota of humor about it, only the steadfast sort of determination that Sloot applied to the practice of accounting. No room for frivolity there.
“Oh,” said Sloot. If the word had been a handshake, it could have cost him an unopposed election.
“Talk to me,” she said again. That was when he saw it.
“You really don’t know why that’s upsetting, do you?”
“Why what’s upsetting?”
“You’re demanding my soul!”
“I’m not demanding anything,” said Myrtle. “It’s just the rules, that’s all. A full causality workup costs one soul.”
Sloot sighed. He chalked it up to demonic nature. Some sort of wall in the mind that kept their hearts out of their business acumen.
“All right, then.”
“I’m sorry?”
“My soul. You can have it.”
“Brilliant! I’ll pop over to the Narrative and get it all sorted out. I’ll come and find you when I’m ready. Bye, darling!”
She gave him a peck on the cheek and disappeared in a gout of flame. Sloot put a lot of work into ignoring all of the thoughts that probably should have been running through his head at the moment, electing to wonder instead whether he did gouts of flame or puffs of smoke when he disappeared from places.
No. It was no good. Sloot was a worrier at heart, and he’d just pledged his immortal soul to his demonic girlfriend in exchange for a chance at evading the annihilation that stalked him from the gathering shadows. “Do I look cool when I disappear?” simply wouldn’t be sufficient to stave off the ponderance that his real problems demanded.
He floated off in search of a bed. He hadn’t slept since he died, but he didn’t imagine that the Hereafter would be so intentionally cruel as to deny him a good lie down.
Eternal Boredom
The dead do not sleep, exceptions being made for ancient horrors dwelling in blackened voids beyond the stars. But the ultimate destruction of the universe and all who dwell within it is a subject for another time. Suffice it to say that neither Sloot nor any of his contemporaries in the Hereafter needed sleep. Nevertheless, there were beds in the Hereafter. The house was silly with them, in fact.
The problem was that none of them seemed to belong to Sloot.
One might suppose that he could have simply lied down in any of them, but keep in mind that this was Sloot Gefahr Peril. The concept of ownership was very important to Sloot, and abiding by it was the best defense in the war on awkwardness. Imagine if someone were to walk in on him and say “hey, what are you doing in my bed?” While there were undoubtedly people in the world who could simply explain that it was a misunderstanding and have a good laugh about it, none of them were Sloot Peril.
He might’ve been able to have a conversation about it when they’d all just arrived, but that was a long time ago now. Probably. Though he didn’t know precisely how long it had been, it had certainly been long enough that he was now afraid to ask.
In lieu of a lie-down, Sloot opted instead to go for a nice walk. He was nearly dissuaded by an inner voice that said “
but what if somebody needs me here?”
Nice try, Sloot thought in retort. At this point, he was acquainted with as many people who could summon him at will as not, so his presence or absence was neither here nor there, no pun intended. Sloot was always eager to avoid inner monologue, as he could never say for sure with whom he was speaking. His own conscience, presumably, but his girlfriend had been possessed for most of her life, hadn’t she? What if he was too, and his possessor was just more subtle about it?
Not worth the risk, he thought. He’d nearly made it to the front door before he was distracted by a pitiful moaning from the other end of the house. He shook his head and resolved to ignore it, or at least thought that he had. After a brief interlude, during which his memory went all fuzzy, he found himself standing inches from the circle and staring into Willie’s eyes.
“That’s it,” said Willie, “just a bit closer.”
“Oh, no you don’t!” Nan grabbed Sloot by the ear, gave it a firm twist, and walked him back half a dozen paces.
“Ow!” he said. It hadn’t actually hurt, but he instinctively went along with the Agreement.
“You can play with Willie if you want,” said Nan, madly waggling a finger at Sloot, “but you need to keep an arm’s length from the circle. My wittle Willikins has been a very naughty boy.”
“Have not,” said Willie. His serpentine eyes glowed and pulsed. All six of them.
“Don’t you start!” said Nan, rounding on Willie so quickly that the waggle she’d started with Sloot moved on to him without missing a beat. “You tried to eat Mr. Bartleby!”
“No, I didn’t.”
“He vasn’t going to manage it,” said Bartleby. He and Nicoleta were in the adjoining room, playing with little wisps of darkness. They chased each other across the floor, pausing occasionally to lurch into the shapes of strange sigils that Sloot wasn’t able to read. Nevertheless, he got the feeling that they were saying hurtful things about him.
“Oh, yeah?” said Willie. He puffed up his chest and his eyes burst into flame. “I could devour you any time I want, foolish mortal! You weren’t supposed to jump out of the way.”