The Good Demon Read online

  “Roy, what we did wasn’t wrong. We did it because we love each other.”

  “He was so mad, Clarabella. My dad kept screaming and screaming. He said that I didn’t understand what I had done, how bad it was.”

  Roy’s voice broke, he was weeping so hard his breaths came in gasps. I was crying too, trying to hold myself together, trying to stop this conversation before it ruined everything forever. This wasn’t Roy’s fault, it was his goddamned father’s. It was that asshole reverend bullying people, beating shame into his son. And I had almost come around to liking him. I had almost been fooled.

  “Please calm down,” I said. “Roy, please listen to me.”

  “You’re a slut, Clarabella. You made me sin against God. He explained the whole thing to me. You’re like Eve, you talked me into it. It’s all your fault.”

  My heart went cold. It was like someone stole the breath from me, like the way cats do in ghost stories, sucking the air out of a baby’s lungs. This wasn’t right. He had no right to call me that. No one did. It was his dad’s fault. Roy would never say that about me. He loved me. He told me so himself.

  “But Roy,” I said. “You love me, right?”

  “My dad is going to call your stepdad. I just wanted to warn you.”

  He hung up.

  I felt the world go crooked, everything at sharp right angles, my room stretched for miles, the ceiling warped into a black hole. Dark lines like spiders crawled under my eyelids. I stumbled over to the garbage can by my dresser and vomited. My whole body ached, like a tornado had wrecked through my room and slung my body against the walls. Even the blood in me hurt, the big gaping emptiness in my belly roared open and wide.

  A few minutes later the downstairs phone rang. I knew good and well what that meant. I closed my eyes tight as I could until they swirled with colors, until I held a sunset under my eyelids. Soon I heard Larry huff up the stairs, stomping them two at a time. When he busted into my room he nearly yanked the door off the hinges.

  “What in the hell have you been doing?” he said.

  I just stared at him.

  “Fucking the reverend’s kid? Are you out of your goddamn mind?” Larry paced around my room tugging at what was left of his hair. “Do you understand what this does to me, professionally? In the church? Because the church is business, it’s where my business is made. You have to be psychotic. We thought you were possessed. But it’s all you. It’s always been just you.”

  Mom peeked her head into my room.

  “Let her alone,” whispered Mom, like she was scared.

  “Stay the fuck out of it,” said Larry.

  “Don’t you talk to her like that,” I said.

  Larry slapped me. He slapped me so hard it knocked me off my feet. My lip was busted and I spit blood.

  “Please,” said Mom, but Larry turned a scowl on her so fierce she wilted.

  “Get downstairs,” he said, and I heard Mom scurry off. Larry looked back at me. “You better not set foot outside this room until I come up here and drag you out myself.” He snatched my cell phone off the bed. “And you’ll be fucking forty before you ever see one of these again.”

  Larry slammed the door shut. After a second I could hear him and Mom screaming at each other. I heard the words “institution,” “mental home,” and “straighten her out for good.”

  But they wouldn’t do that to me, would they? Yeah, Larry definitely would. He would lock me up forever. And Mom would let him, because she was broken and afraid, because she didn’t know what else to do.

  I lay on my bed. I didn’t cry, and I didn’t move. I just lay there and hugged myself. Never had I felt so alone in my whole life.

  Except for one other time. It was long ago, real long ago, when I was just a girl. The day my dad died.

  I remembered it so perfectly—that day had happened so many times in my mind. I was eight years old and standing in the kitchen, staring at my dad sprawled out on the chair.

  “Daddy?” I said.

  I climbed up onto his lap and leaned back against him. I put my ear on his chest, same as I had a hundred times before when he was passed out, when I was scared and wanted to make sure. I would lay my head against his chest and feel his heart knock against my ear like it wanted me to open up and let it in.

  But this time his heart was silent.

  I touched his face, the skin cool, his lips already blue. I saw the needle on the table. My daddy was dead.

  I sat there in his lap. I couldn’t move, like it was me who had died. My breaths came in stabs, quick and shallow. Black gashes crowded my eyes. My world had died, life had died, everything was ruined and nothing would ever be good for me again.

  But then I felt Her near me, just a whisper in my ear.

  I can make it all better, She said. I can make it quiet for you. I can make it safe here, all pretty and warm.

  “Please,” I said. “Help me.”

  Oh, I want to, Clare, I want to help you so bad. But you have to let me. Can I come in?

  I nodded.

  Say it.

  “Yes,” I said. “Please come in me and live.”

  I felt a rush in my body, the sound of wings beating the air, a harvest of insects. The world dimmed, the colors softened, everything seemed warm and alive and moving. She was inside me, soothing me, whispering quiet into my blood, caressing my bones, healing the hurt places in my soul.

  And for the first time, I found myself in the Hidden Place. The great wide grassy hill, the cliff down to the waters. The sun bright and warm, the breeze tickling my hair.

  “Where are we?” I’d asked.

  Home, She said.

  She knew me so well, She knew me all through my bones, yes She did. There, there, little Clare, I’m here for you, always I will be here for you, never you fear, never fear again. I’m with you now. I’m never leaving you, not ever.

  I felt so calm, so lovely and loved, like the world was made of only the softest things—the edges were blurred, everything existed to hold me and to love me. I was so happy I fell right asleep, just like that, safe with Her in the Hidden Place.

  Until Mom woke me up screaming.

  I was still in the kitchen. I had fallen asleep right there in my dead daddy’s lap. Mom yanked me off him, she threw Dad on the floor, started banging at his chest with her fists. Mom screamed and cried and begged for me to call 911. But it was all like it was happening in another room, miles and miles away. I felt safe and happy, because She was there. Because She had draped a blanket over my face, a gauze over my eyes, She had swallowed me up in a warm haze where nothing could hurt me, where nothing could touch me again.

  I missed Her so, so bad.

  It was stupid to trust Roy. He was just some boy, a kid, nothing like Her. If She had lied, then She had a purpose for it. She never wanted to hurt me, She always only wanted what was best for us. I was so stupid to think I could ever trust anyone except for Her.

  I needed Her here now. I needed Her with me. I needed that feeling, that safety and escape. I needed Her to save me now, I needed Her to come and make everything better for me. I needed Her to carry me out of all this pain. Why had She let Reverend Sanders take Her? Why hadn’t She fought?

  Why had She left me here all alone?

  The room darkened, my bed began to shake. Static hissed out of my stereo, and my lamp lightbulb exploded. The door to my closet eked open, spilling shadows across the floor. My bedroom filled with despair, tangible, thick as smoke. The Wish House spirit had never left me. It was here now, just as it always had been, waiting just out of sight, biding its time.

  I knew exactly what I had to do.

  “Yes,” I said to the demon. “You can have him. I’ll bring him there tonight.”

  And the darkness smiled.

  Years ago, we were at the Hidden Place, just me and Her, gazing at the stars above the black of the water, the dazzling millions of them bright and white as ancient tiny suns. I was writing on paper and a fierce wind came and
blew it out of my hands, swooping it like a crane out above the sea. She smiled at me.

  It’s like a wish, She said, a prayer cast over the waters.

  “But You don’t know what I wrote,” I said.

  I don’t have to know, She said. All writing is dreams. Writing is a prayer for something better, or for the best things to last. Even when it claims it isn’t. Even when it pretends to be something else.

  “You’re awful smart for an eight-year-old.”

  For a fourteen-year-old, you could stand to be a little wiser.

  That hurt my feelings, but I didn’t want to show it. But She knew. She knew right away.

  Did I hurt my Clare? Did I make her feelings smart?

  “Shut up,” I said.

  I did. She giggled. I made dear Clare mad.

  “What are you going to do about it?”

  Watch.

  I put my hands over my face.

  She pulled them away, staring deep in my eyes. My bones felt fluttery and hollow, my tongue tasted honey, my insides were all aglow with warmth and light.

  A wind swept up from the ocean water, the salt spray stinging my eyes, even all the way up here, all the way up on our cliff. The birds cried out and the clouds gathered like wolves above us, grey and circling. I heard the far-off grumble of thunder.

  “What are you doing?” I said.

  Watch.

  Lightning lashed the sky. It burned in purples and whites and blues, the sea erupted in light everywhere the lightning struck. The rain fell, a grey mist over the world, thick as smoke in the far-off places. I was getting scared, my hair was wet, the rain stung against my skin.

  “Please, stop it,” I said. “It’s scary.”

  No, it isn’t. Calm is scary. Calm is boring. But a storm. A storm is beautiful.

  Then rose the water spouts, dark and twisty as octopus tentacles. They danced over the water, binding sea and sky, bending and swaying around our cliff, an elegant destroying monster bellowing up from the deep. I covered my eyes, terrified.

  “Make it stop!” I screamed. “Make it stop!”

  Shhh, Clare, She whispered over the roar. I don’t know how, but I could hear Her, I could hear Her inside me. Open your eyes. Don’t be afraid. You have to trust me. You have to trust.

  I felt Her take my hand, pull me up to my feet. I didn’t want to open my eyes. I didn’t want to look. The wind screamed in my ears, the thunder burst the sky, it was too loud, I didn’t want to. But onward She pulled me, the wet grass stinging my knees, my dress sopping wet, stuck to my body. We walked and I covered my eyes, I wouldn’t watch, but still She drug me onward. Until finally we stopped. The rain pelted my skin, the wind yanked my hair back from my head.

  Okay, She said. Look.

  “No. I don’t want to.”

  Clare, She cooed. Dear, dear Clare. Be brave now. You must look.

  “Please.”

  Clare. I have you, silly. There’s nothing to fear.

  I opened my eyes. The waves rose high as battleships and dashed themselves against each other. The cliff shook with the power of the endless waters. The rain flung itself sideways, and the water spouts curled around each other, rushing tornadoes of water. A bright red rip of lightning seared the clouds, and I could somehow see the eyes of stars winking white through the chaos.

  Do you see now, Clare? Do you see?

  “Yes,” I said.

  I saw it all, I felt it all, the roar and holler of the entire world, the wild fury of life flung down from the heavens, the fathomless waters of the deep in their fiercest maelstrom, I felt it all in my heart. And I learned something that day, something I never will forget.

  “The storm,” I said. “It’s beautiful.”

  I waited until Mom and Larry went to sleep. It didn’t take too long. I always marveled at Mom’s ability to pass out no matter what the crisis. Larry probably just used sleeping pills. I put on my white dress, the one She picked out for our funeral, for the day Roy’s daddy took Her from me. I also grabbed my backpack, stuffed it with the rest of Miss Mathis’s thousand dollars and Kevin’s notebook. Thunder growled outside, and lightning licked the far-off sky. Larry had hid all the spare car keys, and I didn’t dare sneak into their bedroom, not tonight. I walked right out the front door, just because I could. Eyeball wandered up to me, eyes big and black in the nighttime.

  “Are you mad at me?” I asked him.

  The dog whimpered and licked my fingers. Thunder boomed and he scampered away, to the back porch, to the doggy door that let him in and out of the house. Above me the clouds drifted thick and strange and swirly, all blacks and greys like a spellcaster’s smoke. Of course, Larry hadn’t done a thing about my bike. It was right there, leaned against the side of the house, same as always. But if I was going to get to the Wish House, I’d need a car. Good thing I knew exactly where to find one.

  I dropped my bike in Miss Mathis’s driveway. The sign on her door said MADAM IS INDISPOSED, but I knocked once and went in anyway.

  “Miss Mathis?” I hollered, so she wouldn’t think I was a robber. “You there, Miss Mathis?”

  Miss Mathis sat in her easy chair. Designing Women played on the TV. Prissy yipped at me from the floor.

  “Who in the hell?” she said. “Christ, Clare, you scared me.”

  Miss Mathis tried to stand up, but she toppled right back down in the chair. Her coffee mug sloshed onto her sweatshirt, a big purple stain.

  “I’ll get you a towel,” I said.

  “Don’t bother. This is my boozing shirt,” she said, smiling a little, sunglasses teetering on her nose. “What can I do you for?”

  “I need to borrow your car,” I said.

  “That so?”

  “It’s pretty important.”

  I didn’t say it was an emergency because people ask questions when you say a word like that. I hoped Miss Mathis was so drunk she’d just hand the keys over to get me out of there so she could get back to doing whatever it was she was doing. Besides, if Miss Mathis found out where I was going, there’s no way she would give me her car.

  “It’s a bit late for cruising around, ain’t it? With that little boyfriend of yours, I wager.” She giggled and coughed. “I remember raising hell. I remember staying out late.”

  “Please, Miss Mathis, where are the keys?”

  “In the kitchen, I believe,” she slurred. “Hanging there on a little hook.”

  I ran to the kitchen. It smelled awful. There were half-dirty dishes piled all over the place, cigarette butts, candy bar wrappers. But I couldn’t find any little hook and I saw no keys.

  “Oh, Clare,” Miss Mathis hollered. “They’re right here.”

  I went back in the living room. She was sitting in her chair, dangling the keys from her pinched fingers like a mouse by the tail.

  “Silly me. Had them in my pocket the whole time.”

  “Toss them to me,” I said.

  “Not too good with the aim, Clare. Don’t be rude, now. Come over here and I’ll put them right in your little hand.”

  I walked over to her and stuck my hand out. Prissy looked up at me and wagged her tail.

  “Little closer,” said Miss Mathis.

  I bent down toward her. I could smell her rancid breath, see the purple stains on her teeth.

  “Please, Miss Mathis,” I said. “Can I have the keys now?”

  Her hand sprung out quick as a snakebite and grabbed me by the back of my neck. Her grip was strong, her nails dug in and it hurt. She pulled my face close to hers, like she was going to kiss me. I tried to yank my head backward but I couldn’t move, and for the first time I realized that Miss Mathis was stronger than me.

  “You got something on you,” she said. “A mark. Let me see. I was too damn self-pitying to see it earlier, and I’m too drunk to miss it now.”

  Miss Mathis dropped the keys from her other hand and yanked the sunglasses off her face. One of her eyes was dead, no color to it, white as an egg. A burn scar snaked across the lid,
and one brow was gone, the skin around it all mottled and warped. It was like her eye had been poisoned, like she had seen something she wasn’t supposed to and it left its mark on her forever. She held my face close to it.

  It was like looking into the moon.

  Miss Mathis placed her palm on my forehead and shoved me backward. I stumbled. The dog yipped at me.

  “What have you got in that backpack?” she said. “What have you been hiding from me?”

  Miss Mathis stood up onto her feet and this time did not topple.

  “I found this in Cléa’s room,” I said.

  I held the notebook out to her. Miss Mathis snatched it from my hands. She flipped through the pages once and stopped, squinting at the drawings.

  “You little bitch,” she said. “You had this the whole time, didn’t you?”

  “I’m sorry,” I said.

  “These drawings are the key, you know that?” She held up the hermit page, where Kevin had drawn all those weird symbols in the shadows. “In the margins of the drawings, the goddamn Rosetta Stone to Gaspar’s magic. I could have translated that flap of skin weeks ago.”

  “But I had to see it first,” I said. “I had to see Gaspar and the Wish House for myself.”

  “Folks should know better,” said Miss Mathis. “Some places just shouldn’t exist. A field lies fallow for a reason, Clare.” She tossed the notebook onto her coffee table. “I know, Clare. I gave it my pleasure. I touched that evil. Folks should know better.”

  Her hands outstretched toward me, fingers long and clawed, my blood under her nails.

  “Don’t go back there. He’ll eat you, little Clare. He’ll gobble you right up.”

  I saw the keys where Miss Mathis had dropped them on the floor. I bent down and scooped them up, scrambling for the door. Miss Mathis was still drunk, she was old, she couldn’t catch me.

  “Don’t you go back to that house,” she screamed. “Don’t you let that man near you. Don’t you let him touch you. Hear me, Clare? Don’t you go back to that house!”

  But I was already out the door, already to her driveway. The Cadillac started up on the second try, and there was gas in the tank. I pulled out of the driveway and into the pouring rain, the storm having just decided to rip the clouds open and explode. The last thing I saw in the rearview was Miss Mathis, waving her arms at me. “Please, Clare, don’t you go.”