The devil eats here ort.., p.1
The Devil Eats Here (Multi-Author Short Story Collection), page 1
THE DEVIL EATS HERE - An Infernal Anthology - Stories of Hellish Punishment and Wicked Temptation
Copyright: ©2012 Rayne Hall
The individual stories are © the authors.
Cover Design: Tara Maya
Scimitar Press
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. It may not be re-sold or given away to other people.
Please respect the copyright and do not publish or distribute any of these stories without permission from their authors.
All characters are fictional and exist only in the authors' imagination. Any resemblance to people living or dead is coincidence.
CONTENTS
Introduction
1. The Sacrifice by April Grey
Be careful what you pray for.
2. The Angel and the Jungle God by Siewleng Torossian
Ali's special day has arrived.
3. The Best of all Possible Worlds by Tara Maya
Personal Paradise Inc. caters for a special clientele.
4. Round and Round the Garden by Jonathan Broughton
Children will listen.
5. Mean Dick Skyler by John Blackport
Is this deal as sweet as it first appears?
6. The Devil, You Say by Alice Gaines
Was he the devil, or an angel in disguise?
7. Devil Take It by Douglas Kolacki
Being blind and getting jerked around by the bus lines was bad enough. But now...
8. Rejection Letter by John Hoddy
An editor gets some of his own.
9. The Devil Eats Here by Rayne Hall
Join the prince of hell for lunch at your local diner.
About the Contributors
INTRODUCTION
Most cultures know a devil, although his appearance and strategy varies. Stories of how individuals face temptation and either resist or succumb and get punished are probably as old as humankind.
Each of the nine authors in this book presents a different approach to storytelling, a different writing style, and a different interpretation of the theme. Some of the stories are very short, others are long. In some tales, the devil is a literal figure, in others a metaphorical one, and in several he is something else altogether.
To preserve each author's individual voice, I've kept their spelling and punctuation, so you'll find some stories in British English and some in American. Most of these stories have been previously published in magazines, e-zines and anthologies.
Enjoy the yarns, choose your favourite, and think about whether you would recognise the devil if he entered your life.
Rayne Hall
THE SACRIFICE
by April Grey
Through the gray, endless night of her despair, Dot clung to life. Not a religious person, anguish had taught her prayer. One evening after supper, her prayer was answered.
An angel appeared to Dot. Her childhood Sunday School teacher had been right after all. The angel's wings easily spanned seven feet and he looked strong. Dot wondered if he would pick her up and fly her to Heaven.
A fierce blue light engulfed him as if he stood in flame. The brightness hurt Dot’s eyes, but it was impossible to look away. His face was stern and serene. Trembling, she fell to her knees right there by the dish-laden sink. A bright red flower spread in her palm where a shard of glass had impaled itself as it shattered. She felt no pain from the wound; awe won out over depression.
Now she understood where Joan had found the courage to lead the armies of France. Such an entity could never be denied. In that moment, Dot's life changed, totally and forever.
Quaking, she nodded dumbly as he told her of the sacrifice needed to please God who saw her and had heard her prayers, what she had to do to prove her heart was pure. Then the Angel was gone.
She waited until near dawn to carry out the will of God. Getting out of bed, she went downstairs to the kitchen to pray. Then she silently treaded up to her son’s room, holding the blade against her breast.
Standing by his crib, she watched him sleep cherub like. She pulled the soft blanket up to better cover him and stroked his soft curls. Her birthing him drew a pall over her life. He suckled all joy from her along with her milk. Sorrow eventually numbed her to all feeling, purifying her. But no more. Her breath ragged in her breast, she gulped air and tasted tears. Wiping them away, the salty tears stung where it eased under the bandage on her hand.
The razor keen knife glinted while suspended in time. She expected the angel to reappear and stop her just as she had learned in her Sunday school. However, he didn’t and her stroke was quick and clean. Her "Isaac" died without a whimper. Still the angel did not reappear.
She bent down and kissed her son’s brow; his splattered blood transferring to her lips. Suddenly dry, she licked her lips and tasted copper mixed with her tears. Doubt grated at her sanity. Where was the angel? He'd promised that it would be as in the Bible, but now it was all wrong.
No. Faith--she had to keep to her faith, and continue to do as she was told.
Her husband gently snored. She hesitated, her resolve wavering. She nudged him and he turned over. The snoring stopped. Still no angel appeared. This time her hand shook, but she prayed for strength to follow God’s will and her shaking abated.
It took all her strength to sever his throat; she cut deep, almost to the spine. So much blood, but now his peace would be secure.
The angel reappeared. This time, instead of a flowing white gown, he wore a black leather cape that flared wing-like around him. Ruby red were his top hat, tailcoat and sequin studded cane. He picked her up, and smiled, seemingly unconcerned that her bloodied nightgown would ruin his own fine eveningwear. Then her crimson soaked garment transformed into a red crepe-de-chine evening gown, matching the Angel’s attire. He carried her down the stairs.
Her doctor had called it post-partum depression, but he was wrong. Dot knew this as the despair lifted for the first time since she’d delivered the baby. She felt alive again, and ready to dance.
The angel put her down and the front door swung open, revealing a stage from the Great White Way. It sparkled with all the stars of the night sky, spelling out “Dot” in a galactic marquee. Celestial choirs sang. Her husband and son watched her from the front row, waiting for the show to begin.
Hand in hand, the angel and Dot tapped as one. As they finished their duet, a stairway opened up just below their feet and they danced their way down into the flames.
THE ANGEL AND THE RAINFOREST GOD
by Siewleng Torassian
The parang shone, for Ali, and no-one else.That sharp blade...on his bare skin. His special day had arrived. He didn't care being the last one, even when the other children laughed at him. Coconut trees and palm trees dripped leftover rain. Yellow bananas and red mangoes sweetened the air. He loved sweets. Like Mother’s sticky rice cooked with coconut and sugar. He tucked the Angel’s wish into a crevice inside the village God, and stepped away from the rocks.
If only he could touch the Angel's yellow hair. He sneaked glances at her long legs and dirty shoes. His best friend had knelt in this same spot. The Angel then was a man who wore a city suit.
A streak of light flashed.
The Sender was swinging his ceremonial parang.
Ali’s heart raced. He shut his eyes, tight.
Whoop!
His neck stung with immense pain, and then the pain was gone.
*
Drop on his head, drop, drop! But the swirling blades continued to drone like Chuck’s voice. If he reminded Effie one more time he signed her paycheck… she wanted to leave Los Angeles, she wanted more.
She stood before the desk, baring a stiff smile. Maybe her next assignment would involve a cruise ship, or a movie star. At her feet, a carpet stain dried like a pressed flower. Depressing. Old furniture, cracked walls, greasy food. She might as well be home on her lumpy couch.
“...and I don’t want to hear another word from you after this. You’re pushy and you’re a nag, and that may just work with these villagers. Get them to talk, get to the juicy details, who’s doing voodoo, who’s brewing magic at midnight. There’s something here. Every now and then, this village pops up like a seasonal fruit. Get their god to give you a story! Remember, we entertain the damned public, but whatever you do, keep to the budget— what?”
Effie looked at her watch. “I need to pack.”
“And find that good-for-nothing Paul Livering. Probably hiding under a coconut tree with a bunch of naked women. He goes there and then! Not a word. He owes me plane tickets, expenses, he owes me a story! You're always complaining you never go anywhere. Now you've got it, an exotic assignment!”
Before she let the door slam, Effie forced one last look at her boss, at all three of him, owner, editor, miser. The fat man grabbed a doughnut from the box. Effie rolled her eyes with disgust. Malaysia was not exotic.
On her way out, she stopped at the clerk’s desk.
“Anything new in archives?” She said, although she knew the answer. If she had to rifle through those stock photographs and over-used files one more time!
Back in the studio apartment, she grabbed the overnight bag from her closet. Definitely not her one and only good suit. Horr
Two days later, she wished she was back at Kuala Lumpur Airport. The ride into the rainforest tossed rougher than a carnival ride. She stepped down from the jeep. Her matted hair stuck to her scalp like a dirty sponge. She wanted to rip off her sticky shirt. Mosquitoes, huge as eyeballs with legs, torpedoed and sucked on her bare arms. She swiped the pests but they returned hungrier than greedy buffet patrons. A gazillion trees and bushes surrounded her. Everything was sloppy wet, like a dirty bathroom. Sure, Chuck, exotic!
“I’m Mahmood.” A dark-skinned man with greasy slicked back hair stepped before her. Bits of leaves clung to his white shirt and pants. He wiped sweat from his faced with a white handkerchief.
“Oh! You-y-yes, I’m Effie.”
Mahmood was studying her like a forest specimen. His eyes and teeth flashed white as the clouds in the bright blue sky.
“The village is over there.” He led the way.
When she leaned on a tree to catch her breath, she called out, “Are we walking in circles?”
Mahmood looked over his shoulder, but he didn’t wait for her. Plants scratched her feet. Critters screeched past her ears. Rainbow-colored fruit dangled like booby traps in her face.
The jungle parted. She frowned. Another fortress of trees and bushes circled a blackened clearing.
“Must have been a fun barbecue.” She mumbled.
Sarong-clad natives, fifty, sixty of them, were chanting, as if they shared one low humming voice. Great, a mess of blood sucking bugs and a half naked tone-challenged choir.
Mahmood stepped up and gave her brief instructions.
“Me? Of course I’ll participate.” She stared at the natives. What happened to their necks? Some kind of third world epidemic? Mahmood’s neck was smooth and oily.
“I must help them prepare.” Mahmood left her again.
On a large flat rock, heaped a stack of small rocks, mostly white, some black. This was their God? Effie bit her lip, to keep from laughing out loud. The native’s monasticchanting breathed through the trees. She swayed her hips...she relaxed…the forest was singing to her…
“They are ready for you.” Mahmood’s voice jarred her.
Effie blinked. “Oh, yes, of course.”
On her left, stood a skinny boy, eight or ten years old. The lucky boy had escaped the dreadful disease. His neck was smooth like Mahmood’s.
“This village god has a name?” she asked Mahmood.
“Tuhan is our word for god, and we have so many, god of this, god of that, new names, old names, you can give our god whatever name you wish!” Mahmood grinned. “But you! You have a name. The people call you Angel, for helping them!”
The man seemed anxious to please her.
“That’s what reporters do, we get involved.” She didn’t like the way Mahmood’s jewel-bright eyes seemed to be sneering at her. She half closed her eyes, to remember what Charlie said. “Every few years, this village pops up like a seasonal fruit. It’s one of the world’s oldest villages, and yet, people can’t find you.”
“We are a small village.”
“Tell me about Paul.” Effie said.
Mahmood smiled. “The man in the nice suit?”
“I guess.” Effie took out her notebook. “Paul liked to look nice, even though he couldn’t remember the time of day. Maybe you have a motel name or some woman’s phone number, that’s all I need.”
“He disappeared.” Mahmood said, simple as saying Paul went for a walk.
Effie waved her notebook. “Paul has a way of doing that when there’s work to be done, but he comes up for air.”
Mahmood shook his head. “He disappeared.”
“Good enough for me.” Effie shoved her notebook into her pocket. “As long as I get the story. What about the wish? You said anything?” She made a mental list - a new boss, a good man -
“Anything!”Mahmood’s white teeth sparkled.
He seemed very confident.
“Look, I need a good story, a juicy tale, witchcraft, magic, something to grab the readers.” She winked. “Hey, this wish thing? What do I give up, my firstborn, my soul? And the kid, some kind of boy bride?”
Mahmood’s eyes opened large as black and white marbles. “It’s all part of the ceremony.”
Effie mopped sweat from her face and neck with her sleeve. “Hey, no offense, but I want a solid piece to report. Interviews and photographs, gossip. So, sign me up for whatever ceremony. I'll do anything, work, kick or punch, I want my story.”
“Ahhh—” Mahmood’s head bobbed like a happy-faced nodding toy.
“Good, we’re on the same page. What about you? Did you make a wish?”
“This!” He spread out his arms. “Doing this!”
Effie shooed another mosquito away without success. “What’s with their…some kind of infectious disease?”
“No-no—it’s a tribal…”
“Tribal tattoo, that's right! I could do a lot with that. Let’s get this over with.”
Yet, as she stood and waited, it was not the baking sun that sapped her energy. She found herself relaxing again…she jerked awake.
The serpentine dancing of the natives and their mumbo-jumbo song might tease the budget traveler to snap a been-there-done-that memory, but not her. Later, she would interview everyone, especially the tall man, the one called the Sender. He was standing stiff as a bronzed statue next to the boy. Mahmood had told her the curved blade in his hand was a parang, a local knife, the standard accompaniment to local ceremonies. Sure. Another cheap gimmick.
In the distance, Mahmood was talking and laughing with the villagers. Children tugged at his shirt, dug into his pockets, and he let them. One big happy family. Boring news, but that could be fixed easily.
Effie stared at the blank piece of paper in her hand. Right now, she wanted a cold shower. Oh well, why not? She wrote, “new life”, and folded the paper.
The boy walked over and took the paper from her. What a face. Large eyes, white smile. That face and the big man with the knife on the front page - “Boy sacrifices to save village!” The boy tucked her wish into a gap between the stones.
Light sparked. The tall man was approaching the boy. In his hand, the moving blade caught the sun like a flying shard of glass. So the freak show was about to begin. Maybe she could stop at a waterfall on the way out. The man swung the blade. Effie opened her mouth, but all she could do was move her lips. The boy’s tiny head detached, dropped, wobbled… Effie passed out.
*
Chuck grabbed the last bit of his triple chocolate doughnut. He screamed into the telephone.
“What do you mean disappeared?”
“She’s gone, poof!” The other man said.
“Mahman, oh, what...Mahmood, right? Mahmood, people don’t just disappear. Are you guys having a good time on my dime? I should have known, that girl’s a troublemaker. Hallo? Hey-hallo?” Chuck bit into his doughnut. “Ge-me-get me Malaysia again! No, no, forget it, get me another dozen of doughnuts!”
Digging into those messy cabinets for a backup story required backup food. He shoved the doughnut into his mouth.
*
The first time the parang swung over Mahmood's best friend's neck, he almost passed out too. But it was all over now. He slipped the telephone into his pocket. The villagers laughed and chatted as they departed from the clearing. Now they could live in peace, forever, in the rainforest, the only place they knew. If not for the devil, where would the villagers go? A foreigner for a villager...Hantu granted all wishes...maybe not in this lifetime, maybe later...
Mahmood stood in the middle of the clearing.
Rain was falling again, like endless strings of crystals. Wind shuffled canopies into a slow dance.
Right here, as the sun set, women used to gather in circles, their tongues wagging the latest gossip, their hands braiding leaves into wraps. Men squatted under the trees, chewing tobacco, sharpening tools. Children played tagged and chased the chickens. As the sun smiled one last time over the tree, the youngest one always called out to him.Mahmood, Mahmood.That last dinner. It was his turn, when the others returned to their shacks, to check the embers.
