When The Devil Comes

When the devil comes, he whistles a somber tune. His approach is categorized by fallen

snow that coats earth in a heavy layer of pristine, angelic white so he can dance with the dead

branches as he melts towards you. And, when he is near, he will whistle. The song is crisp and

clear. It can cut through the dark and heavy silence of a winter night like a sharp blade. He

always takes the form of whatever you fear most: a man, a beast, a woman, yourself, in some

cases. He can be as tall as the very same white pine trees he hides amongst. He can be small as a

mouse. He has no lips nor mouth to speak of, but you hear his song all the same. His whispers

calling your name. Only his eyes shine against the shadows: a white-hot glow that sucks up the

stars. He does it for you. Only for you.

When his whistle’s melody charges into your ear it cracks open your skull; the opening

notes of his song sending shivers up your spine. You know this familiar tune. Your muscles tense

and your skin feels like it’s burning. You’ve heard his sharp notes many times and know what the

call entails. Despite the blood in your veins turning into blocks of ice, you force yourself to peer

out the cabin’s window, sewing needles in hand, just to be safe.

Though you don’t see him you know he’s there. You’re a good dog. You know when your

master arrives. You love it. You hate it. He whispers your name and a sharp pain stabs you from

behind the eye. You gasp out in pain and squeeze your eyes tight. All light, all sound, becomes

so unbearably painful that you stop breathing. You collapse to the floor, the needles clattering

against the wood beside you. Your children rush to your side. Their round, sweet faces betray no

knowledge of his song.

“Mother?” One of them, the youngest one, asks. “What’s wrong? Are you hurt?”

You hesitate, and feel a warm liquid flow from your nostril and dribble onto the floor.

You wipe your nose and inspect the blood on your hand under the dim lamp light. Your hands

begin to shake and you quickly gather your belongings, not caring about the smear of crimson

against your nightgown. You rush to the fireplace and quickly put it out, avoiding the children

and their onslaught of questions. Holding your lantern you usher the children to their rooms as

the hiss of steam from a freshly put out flame sounds eerily like a whistle.

“Come! Come now! It’s time for bed, my loves. Come, come. Quickly.”

“But mother-” The older one attempts to argue. You shush him and brush the hair out of

his face with bloodied fingers. You guide them to their beds and bury them under their covers till

they complain that the old wool blankets are scratching their skin wide open. You only stop when

another sharp note cuts through the folds of your brain. You gasp as a ripple of pain overtakes

you and a wet hot trail of sanguine flows out of your nose. A river of sweat is running down your

back.

“Mother?”

“Quiet now,” you shout in the still silence, “quiet! You must-you will...you have to sleep

now, my loves. Yes, you must...you must rest. Tomorrow will be the start of a new day.

Hush....Hush now.” Your voice decrescendos as you lean in close and kiss each of their

foreheads, not caring as the vermillion fluid trickles and stains their faces. They’re tucked in

tight, and you look at them with sweetness you’ve long since carved into yourself and earned

amidst great strife.

You’d rather they die in their sleep. So, you allow the blood to cascade out of you and

you sing to them; louder than the devil can whistle. Louder than he can summon you. The lullaby

is sweet and soft, and the message dances on the border between truth and fiction. The song tells

of brighter days ahead, but how can that be true when for them it will be as dark as night. Yet

you sing. You do it because it will carry them into a deep slumber. You do it because you’re a

good mother and his call is getting louder ( Is he louder because he wants to make sure you heard

him? Is he still far enough that you can escape? Is he right outside your door? Behind you?).

When you hear the soft snoring of children having fallen asleep, your song grinds to a halt.

You leave the lit oil lamp on their nightstand between their beds and fall to your knees.

Fingers interlocking now, you begin to pray to the god that has not yet forgiven you. Tears spill

out silently and you recite the prayer you’ve known your entire life. The prayer begs and pleads

that what will come to pass will at least be merciful. You know it is futile, yet the words spill out

regardless.

Though they can no longer hear you, you tell them “I love you” and a smile splinters and

fractures your features.

“I love you,” you tell them again and you turn your back towards them.

“I loved you,” and you think you mean it.

Slamming the door shut you leave them in the cool darkness. You press your back against

the door and weep softly into your hands. You only have yourself to blame. You knew this day

would come. It was only inevitable, and yet you still have the nerve to feel sorry for yourself.

You’re a pathetic worm. You’re less than a dog.

The tears only stop when you look up from your red-stained hands and a floating sheep

skull is peering at you from beyond the pine. He tilts his head to the side inquisitively. A smile

tugs at your lips and slices your cheeks open in faux joy. A large, skeletal hand beckons you with

It burns and you feel a tug in your chest propelling you forward. As your body moves on its own

you squeeze your eyes tight. Your one act of bodily autonomy you have left. Suddenly, a burst of

cold wind envelops you in your entirety. The winter air is chilled and all-consuming. When your

feet are dragged into the freezing snow it forces your eyes to snap open.

Before tonight, each time he arrived under the cover of a darkness so pitch black your

own shadow was an enemy, he had brought you flowers. Roses, white lilies, chrysanthemums,

and carnations to adorn your heavy head. The crown would be laid at your feet, presented by a

swirling, shifting shape that would vaguely resemble love. By the time you would look up to

thank him for the beautiful crown, he would be gone: his job completed. The flowers would

wither within a few moons’ time.

Tonight, he came with nothing. He stood just out of reach, his form a twisting and

writhing black mass of shadow. As soon as you begin to understand his form it shifts once more.

The only thing that stays stationary long enough that you can focus your gaze upon is the sheep

skull, floating high above you and gazing just past you. Against the vacant sky and the twisting

dead branches, his ivory skull stands brilliant and regal. He is the only source of light as the

moon has all but disappeared; lost in his body that sucked up the night sky.

“Is there...truly nothing I can do?” You whisper. Your voice is small and you shiver

before his presence; the cold seeping deep into your bones and light, icy winds carry specs of ice

and stick them to your hair and sweaty skin.

He does not speak, only slowly lowers his form so he can stare directly into your eyes.

You wonder if beyond his shadowy form he hides the flowers. Or the victims of your past

transgressions.

“I can,” he begins, and his voices are full of slime, “stop it.”

You hold a breath.

“But it will come,” his voices pour out like molasses and coats you in a thick, suffocating

layer, “at a cost...”

“Do I get to keep what I have?”

“No.”

You look down at your hands and inspect them carefully. Soft, supple skin smeared with

carmine. Calluses have begun to form. A thin scar runs down the length of your left palm and

you trace it down your forearm. Had another known had been the one to inspect you, they would

be able to miss it.

“Well?”

You purse your lips and extend your arm towards him.

“Do it.”

The words feel like poison. A twisting of the knife in your throat.

“Very...well.”

A hand reaches out to you from within his dark form. You’re a foolish beast, and you’ve

forgotten that this part always hurts. The skeletal hand, one the length of half your body, grasps

your wrist so tight you can feel it pop. You cry out with an agonized yelp and he hushes you.

“Still,” he oozes, “Hold still...”

Another hand floats from the warping abyss: this one made of rotted meat. The skin falls

off like wood chips. They fall into the snow and melt into the piles with a sharp hiss. The rotten

hand curls in on itself, with its index finger whose yellowed nail has been sharpened to a fine,

sharp point, cuts across your scar. It opens. Blood seeps out as you gasp and moan as the pain

sends tidal waves through your body. It feels as though your bones have shattered and you slump

into the snow; sporadic, pathetic cries escaping your mouth.

“A sacrifice.” Your master reminds you. You suck in a breath through your teeth and nod,

watching the crimson leak onto the snow. You’ve ruined it. What was once an angelic, pure

white will never be the same. How much more will you destroy before you’re satisfied? Why do

you allow the pain? Will the cost ever be too great? Does a dog even deserve the chance to

change?

He whistles once more, snapping you out of your disassociation and directly into agony.

The sound is sharp as a knife and as heavy as metal. You squeeze your eyes shut once more as

pain overtakes you. Your wound stings in response to the frozen air. Your head throbs. You

cannot help the screams. You know there is no one for miles from your isolated cabin, yet you

scream for help regardless. No one comes to save you. Even if they came- would they be able to

help at all?

“Oh, God!” You cry, but only the devil hears you.

Soon enough the notes finish searring themselves into your brain with a red-hot branding

iron, the skull falls unceremoniously to the ground before you. He is gone. Your own pain has

ceased with it. You bend over and pick up the skull with tender care. The moonlight returns all at

once, shining brilliantly in glimmering splendor. The eyes of the sky, the stars, turn to face you

with rapt attention.

You turn from their gaze. You peer back at your log cabin home. The lantern light still

glows warm. You can see it through the window peering into the room where your children lay

to rest. How many people have you abandoned to satisfy your needs? How many people have

you sacrificed for your own benefit? How many people have walked into your home and never

left? How many times have you lied to yourself and said it was all for the best? How many times

before it’s enough for you? You bite down on your own tongue till it draws blood. You lick your

lips with the ruby liquid like paint; the coppery taste almost as sweet as milk and honey.

“Very well.” You repeat after your master.

You turn your gaze back to the window. The lantern has gone out, and you know it has

been done. It’s eerily silent. You check your arm: the wound has been closed up once more. The

only indicator it had even opened at all is the scarlet that has pooled into the ruined snow.

Your eyes narrow and fixate on the skull in your hands. You sigh and kiss it softly; leaving behind a sanguine stain.

“Thank you. I love you,” you tell him, and you know you mean it.

“I love you,” and you know you’ll live to see another snowy night like this.

“I love you,” and you whistle a somber tune.