The Devil Does His Best Work in the Dark

by L. Jordan James

Part 1 appears in this issue.

conclusion

“I do not know why! He passed me in one of the fields one day. That’s all it took. I saw him committing the sin of ‘the beast with two backs’ with the daughter of the blacksmith. I do not think she is of age. If she is, it cannot be by much.”

“Why a lock of hair?”

“I know he dreams of this young girl frequently. He runs his hands through her raven hair both in his dreams and as he commits his sins. I knew as soon as he saw the note nailed to his door he would think about her hair. He would question himself: Someone knows about her and me. How has it come to pass that someone has seen us together?”

“And again, I ask you why did you do it?”

“I guess because chaos is my constant companion,” he replies.

“Chaos?”

“Chaos,” he says with certainty.

“Aye, but chaos is necessary. Chaos, death, and disorder are part of nature just as life and order,” she says. “Under every layer of order is a layer of chaos waiting. And below the chaos is more order. The sun rises every morning and sets every eve. We live under that order. But we also live with chaos. Without the knowledge of death — the ultimate agent of chaos — knocking ’pon my door one day, my life wouldn’t be worth living. There would just be more being and still yet more being without end. Life has to have death to distinguish itself as does light and dark as does chaos and order.”

“Chaos and order,” the young man whispers and leans back in his chair, his brow knitted.

“What was the outcome?” she asks.

“Outcome?”

“At what conclusion did the cleric arrive?”

“He killed a farmer, thinking it was he who knew,” he says offhandedly.

“How does committing these acts of mischief make you feel?” she asks.

“Feel?”

“Aye, how did sowing discord make you feel? Be truthful.”

Several moments of quiet pass. Again, the young man shudders. “Well, it felt... wonderful.” A smile slowly unfurls on his face. “Aye, it did feel good. I am the one who poisoned the old farmer’s hogs.” His smile grows to maniacal proportions. A dangerous light rises in his eyes. His hand tightens around his hidden knife so completely he feels the wooden hilt and his hand are one. But then his hand loosens and becomes a lover’s caress.

“I am the one who put dung in the seamstress’ milk. I am the one who dug up the farmer’s fields. I am the one who put a hex on the pastor to make him gag whenever he mentioned God. I am the one who burned down the church. I am the one...”

But she doesn’t recoil in disgust or fear. The young man sees the old woman rocking back and forth in her chair toothlessly laughing with wild glee and clapping her hands together. Tears run down her face. When the laughter subsides, she sniffles, wipes her nose, and her eyes come to rest on the young man.

“Young man, you are not the only one who has a talent.” The fire casting shadows on the wall’s flares, briefly spill flames outside the confines of the fireplace, and grow to new heights. Startled, the young man cringes back into his chair.

“I am going to tell you a story now.” An unfamiliar rancid, spoiled-meat smell pervades the small space. But it doesn’t have a limited stench of a single animal but of many dead. The young man gags and coughs. He covers his nose and looks around trying to find the source but fails.

“This was the form I took when I met a young woman.” The old woman’s body hazes over, her definite lines blur before she turns into a handsome, shirtless, reclining man. Water drips from his body but from whence it comes is a mystery. Flies hover about the reclining man.

The register of his voice changes and drops from the raspy old woman’s. “Do you recognize me? No, you wouldn’t be able to. But I spark something, do I not?”

The young man sits back, brow pulled down, staring.

“Once upon a time,” the reclining man said, “I was tramping about these lands, having a gleeful time when I spied a beautiful woman, a woman so lovely the sun seemed to stop in deference and the moon turned its back in jealousy. I decided to have her, but she was taken, and she rebuffed all my advances. Her rejection only fueled my desire.

“A black plan came to me. From behind a tree, I spied her husband. He was a strapping young fellow, and envy rose in me. I followed him to a swimming hole where he stripped off his clothing. I changed into a fish and dove into the water just before him. From my vantage point, I watched him moving through the water with ease. Once again, jealousy rose in me like vomit, choking me, stifling me until I could no longer resist.

“I turned back into a man, reached up and grabbed his leg from below and pulled him down into the murky water. Oh, how he fought! But I held him close until his struggles lessened, and his eyes rolled back into his head. When the last bubble of air escaped from his mouth, he became still and serene. His body moved with the gentle eddies of the pool. I let him go, and he floated away, his eyes open and his body limp as a child’s doll.

“I left the water and began to walk to the village — your village. Each step I took I started to take his form complete with water dripping from my body. When I reached his home, it was dark. I opened the door and walked in as though I owned the small house.

“When his wife saw me, she greeted me. And why wouldn’t she? She believed me to be her husband. She knelt and began to towel me off. But I took her forearm and raised her up, so we looked into each other’s eyes. I silently conjured a wind that made the candles extinguish themselves leaving us in the dark. We kissed long and hard. Her body arched to me, and I ripped the clothes from her body. I took her. I took her savagely and with wanton desire. And she reciprocated thrust for thrust.”

The young man stares at the reclining man and sees his eyes are lit with hunger and desire as his prurient memories resurface. A deep and frightening smile crosses his face.

“Afterward,” he continues, “she fell asleep. As I lay there next to her, I heard her neighbor’s footsteps coming through the village. They came closer, ever closer to the young widow’s door. Before they arrived, I turned into a fly and flew out into the night through an open window. I turned back into a man behind a tree not too far away.

“From my vantage point, I saw them arrive at her home. It was a group of five. One knocked on the door while two held a litter. The others stood back, not wanting to stay but neither wanting to leave.

“When they told her of what had happened to her husband, I heard her argue with the men, doubt only creeping into her voice when they refused to leave. Her husband lay beside her, she said. When she turned about and walked into her bedroom and encountered an empty space, she screamed. I heard even more cries of disbelief when they told her they found him during the daylight hours. And when the three at the door stepped aside and showed her the cold, blue body she fainted.

“I laughed and danced a jig.”

A shock of realization shoots through the young man. He recognizes him. On his mother’s mantle always sat a drawing, a wedding picture. It is a simple thing all families have. He recognizes the man sitting in front of him telling his tale as his father.

He gains his feet, his knife coming from the folds of his clothes. The young man’s body is tense with anger. “Show me your true countenance!”

“My true countenance?” The reclining man smiles, languidly stands, and steps close to the young man. Many flies suddenly inhabit the small house. “Have you ever wondered why you sow discontent wherever you go? Or why you can see the worst in every man and woman?”

The young man’s eyes widen with fear. He steps back.

The formerly relcining man’s legs snap backward with a stomach-turning crunch. Now the lower portion of his body resembles an animal.

The once old woman’s, the once reclining man’s skin stretches and stretches until crevices are created where blood flows. Meeting its limit, his skin splits, and sprays blood. The young man shrinks away. He raises his hands to protect himself, but the blood still covers him.

The young man lowers his hands. His eyes are wide. Past the flesh, past the running blood, the young man sees red scales. Now the pink skin folds and falls away.

Flies land on the thing and on the false flesh lying in a crumpled heap at the reclining man’s feet. A blanket of insects covers both, and they drink the blood greedily.

The young man stares in horror and disbelief when he sees a forked tongue slips past the animal’s lips.

The skin on its face sloughs off and makes a wet noise when it hits the ground. Its false countenance joins the mass of flesh already on the floor. The sound breaks the hypnotic spell.

Now the young man sees its true face and it is a blood-stained skull.

And yet it still grows. The roof of the small house seems to accommodate the thing’s height because now the ceiling is higher than the young man remembers. The thing is easily twice his height now.

Then he understands. The roof does not rise. The floor is sinking. They are moving down into the bowels of the earth.

It reaches out, grabs the young man, and lifts him up. The young man’s body goes limp, and the knife falls from his hand, making a hollow, useless sound as it strikes the floor.

“Come, my son,” the thing said. Its voice is rough and deep like ancient boulders chafing against one another. “Now you have a destination and a home. You will help me reign.”

It turns silent, looking at the young man. Its hand moves up. Gone are its fingernails, replaced by sharp talons. Its forefinger reaches out to the young man’s chin and moves his head to the left and right, examining him. A bead of blood runs down the young man’s chin where he has been touched. “Your mother was right: I do my best work in the dark,” the Devil said.

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[Author’s note] This short story is dedicated to my sister, Bonnie Glover, who passed away in September 2021. She lit up the world. She was a flare in the dark, a beacon for others to follow and emulate.

May she rest in peace.