The green demon

The Green Demon

Alfred should have known better, things like that didn’t happen out of the blue. To be fair it wasn’t his fault. Just because the Green Demon had decided to rudely visit him, out of all souls in England, didn’t make him deliberately the spawn of Satan.

He had been playing with his trains that day, enjoying the rare sunshine, when quite unexpectedly with a pop and a cloud of brimstone smelling smoke, the Green Demon was suddenly lounging on the oppressive wooden fence that Alfred’s Grandfather had erected to keep the neighbors from looking into the garden.

It viewed Alfred with a mixture of contempt and dislike, its reptilian tongue flicking out tasting the air. Then lifting one stubby claw it yawned and spoke to the bewildered Alfred. “Well, this is a disappointment,” it said in the frank clear voice of a bank clerk.

Alfred stared at the Demon aghast, mouth half open, quite unable to define what he was meant to do in this bizarre situation.

“Well,” Continued the Green Demon hopping off the fence and landing with the agility of a cat onto the prize roses. The flowers seemed to wither from it’s touch. “ You will have to do. Sometimes I think his highness Lucifer is losing his skill,” commented the Demon strolling forwards toward the shell shocked Alfred.

“Excuse me,” Alfred stammered, he had only heard the word Lucifer at Sunday school and as he had been half asleep at the time he couldn’t remember what it meant. The sunlight seemed to wane and a rumble of thunder could be heard in the distance.

The Demon sighed, “ I have proposition for you, through I don’t really expect you to understand it.”

A fierce blaze of pride flared in Alfred’s chest, no matter how illogical the situation was he wasn’t going to be insulted. “ How do you know unless you ask me?” he questioned trying to look the Demon in the eye.

The Demon looked straight back at him unfazed, Alfred’s pitiful attempt to intimate him obliviously had no affect. “Okay then,” said the Demon dryly, clicking its fingers. In a flash of sparks, a clipboard appeared and the Demon settled itself against one of Alfred’s favorite trains. There was a sharp hiss as the metal began to melt. “ Your name is Alfred, yes?” the Demon said, conducting the whole thing like a medical examination.

“Erm…yes,” Alfred replied. He hadn’t expected that. The Green Demon began scribbling in what looked to be red fountain pen. While Alfred bucked up his courage to ask a question. “You’re not how I thought you would be…” began Alfred.

“Well then in disappointment we are perfectly matched,” interrupted the Demon. “ You are eleven years of age, twelve in December…”.

This time Alfred cut in outraged, his date of birth had always been something of an embarrassment to him. Being the youngest in class and slightly below the average height, it was sensitive subject. “I’m almost twelve,” he snapped, “If you’re going to tell me something get on with it, my grandmother is going to call me in for dinner in a moment!”

The Demon raised an eyebrow,“ Everything seems to be in order,” it said clicking its tongue in satisfaction. “So I’m here to ask whether you would consider selling your soul to the Devil”.

“What!” Alfred spluttered. “ No…NO, you can’t have my soul, no one can!” He shouted clenching his fists, an angry scarlet flush had covered his ears.

“No need to get upset,” the Demon hissed mildly amused, “Or are you scared?”.

Alfred chest suddenly filled with a blaze of pride, all foreboding forgotten he rose up to full height and crossed his arms, in the exact manner his grandfather used when giving Alfred a harsh talking too.

“No,” he said loudly, partly to make himself seem more grown up than he actually felt and also to quell the sudden uneasiness building in the pit of his stomach.

The Demon smiled thinly, “ I see”, it muttered, “Well as you seem so educated on the subject, I’ll just come back at midnight and we’ll do the deal”. The hellish creature then turned on its clawed heal as if to go. “But,” it ventured to add,“ are you quite sure of what you’re getting into?”

Alfred’s resolve wavered slightly remembering the crow-like pastor leaning over him in Sunday worship blotting out the milky haze of the overhead lights, slowly uttering with relish the terrible things likely to befall Alfred if he didn’t say his prayers. In his darkest nightmares he could recall the lake of fire and the rotting corpses lurching through torment crying out in vain for salvation.

“What is going to happen…?” Alfred questioned, now fearful. “Will I go to Hell?” he murmured the last word in a whisper.

The demon turned, “Not so learned, as I thought,” it said. For a flicker of a second Alfred thought he could spy hunger in the creatures eyes. “Are you familiar with Dante?” it shot the question at Alfred quite out of the blue.

“No,” Alfred answered trying to recall whether he had heard about ‘Dante’ on the radio.

“Well, Dante paints a very vivid picture of what humans in your rapturous wisdom consider to be eternal damnation. In fact the truth is very different,” the demon paused for consideration of what to say next then opened both scaly talons. “You see?” it questioned looking Alfred in the eye, but again Alfred had to look away something in creature’s gaze was empty and this filled him with a terrible fear. The demon clicked its fingers and a rough brown pebble appeared in its right hand, it then clicked again and a smooth grey pebble appeared in its left. “As you humans seem to enjoy visual simulation,” it muttered morosely, “this is good,” it said pointing to the brown pebble, “and this is evil” it licked its lips at the words. The grey pebble lay innocently in the green palm.

Alfred was about to say something when the demon held up a talon to silence him.

“But I must warn you, neither is what it seems” .

Alfred stared at the stones perplexed “Shouldn’t they be more…well, different from each other?” he asked looking at the grey pebble in particular.

“You expected a burning a coal red hot with malice and an angelic jewel glowing with the white light of heaven ?” returned the demon smiling calmly.

Alfred looked at the demon sheepishly, that was exactly what he had imagined.

“Okay then, that’s my point. You humans are so dreadfully melodramatic,” the Demon sighed shaking its wizened head from side to side. Again flaring annoyance in Alfred. But before he could protest the demon continued with its speech “ Now you seem under the illusion that Hell is a physical place. It isn’t, well not really anyway…” the demon trailed off “To put it simply there is no Hell for humans; at least other than the one they make for themselves on earth. If you make the deal an equal amount of good and evil will occur”

Alfred was now very confused. “ Where do you come from then? And why do you want my soul? Where does God come in to any of this?” this hail of questions assaulted the demon.

It stood momentarily silent considering them, then finally it spoke “I come from a place to deep for you fathom. I don’t want your soul personally. I said Hell doesn’t exist for humans that excludes his highness Lucifer and God…” the Demon paused on this. “Well its not really my subject of interest but I don’t believe anyone truly knows, even the dark prince himself may sit in his chambers in wait for a confrontation that will never come…God is perplexing wholly and undoubtedly.”

Thunder cut through the debate. While Alfred and the demon had been talking a dark cloud had rolled in, its body heavy with rain.

The Green Demon looked up suddenly fearful “So are you going to make the pledge or not?,” Alfred looked up at sky and then down at the demon uncertainly.

“So nothing bad will happen to me, but what will get in return?” Alfred hastened to ask.

The demon smirked “ Well, nothing bad will happen to you and you’ll have anything your heart desires but beware…”

Alfred cut the demon off mid sentence his eyes bright with sudden greed. “ Anything…?” he asked.

“Anything,” the demon repeated.

Alfred mind whirled into action, anything he wanted? his thoughts turned to money. A glittering pile of gold bars appearing as if by magic in the stuffy interior of his grandparents living room. They could go anywhere, do anything. Surely his grandmother wouldn’t be so tired anymore or his grandfather so stern.

“What do I have to do?” He asked forsaking any ties he still had with hopes of gaining entry to Heaven.

The Green Demon merely raised an eyebrow and held out its clipboard. Tapping one gnarled talon against a small white box outlined in black ink. “Sign here,” it murmured with thinly veiled malice. But Alfred’s senses were too dulled with greed to notice. Reaching out a thin pale hand he gasped the Demons writing utensil. The small fountain pen seemed suddenly to become unbelievably heavy in Alfred hands, he could hardly lift it onto the page. But still with an intake of breath while the first drops of rain fell onto his back he wrote his initials.

All was silent. Then a second passed. Then another. Nothing out of ordinary happened and Alfred was left with only his shallow breathing and the patter of raindrops sounding in his ears. When he looked up the Green Demon was gone, leaving only two pebbles lying innocently on the grass. Alfred stood up and dimly heard his grandmother calling him in for dinner. His mouth was set, his eyes glazed and a thin trail of blood trickled unnoticed down the palm of his right hand. Any passerby would at that moment observed what they thought to be an aura of acceptance come over the face of the small boy, standing alone in the garden but for the forlorn howling of the wind.

---

That night Alfred was consumed with fear, he tossed and turned as the night closed in around him. He had tried to console himself many times that the demon couldn’t have been real, a silly figment of his overactive imagination, but still the two pebbles glittered on the bedside table. Alfred had been to afraid to pray, the demon said no one would answer anyway hadn’t it? His throat over the past hours of feverish movement had become unbearably dry, his lips were cracked, but sweat poured down his brow in rivets. Alfred’s common sense finally took charge and ordered him downstairs for a glass of water.

By the time Alfred had worked up the courage to creep outside the safe seclusion of his bedroom, the landing had filled with dark shadows and discontenting things. The small boy peered around the banister and was met with a fleeting flash of red and a faint chuckle which made his blood run cold. Taking this as sign of something sinister Alfred quickly hurried down the landing and preceded to shuffle down the stairs as quickly as it was physically possible.

The kitchen was half lit by the lingering orange glaze of the street lamps outside. Alfred crept in feet stinging from the surprising cold of the floorboards, he licked his lips nervously and edged toward the sink.

“Alfred,” whispered a voice.

Alfred turned, his heart in his throat. There was nothing behind or in front of him. He let out a startled sigh of relief, then he turned back the sink less fearful than before. A faint hiss sounded behind him and this time when he turned. What met his gaze he recognized faintly at the back of his mind as unbelievable. A small blue flame had erupted almost silently from the old gas stove which squatted in the far corner hissing quietly but building in loudness and pitch. With his mouth open Alfred observed this phenomenon with the neutral stance of a spectator safely sitting thousands of miles away. The small blue flame suddenly burst into roaring red one, filling the entire room with a binding flash of light. Alfred’s reaction was to put both arms up around his face and fall back in terror, the fiery monster rose above him shrieking wildly. Dark shapes and shadows seemed to surround Alfred screaming and jeering him to his knees.

“Oh God,” he cried in terror. He couldn’t breathe. The room was swiftly being consumed in fire but still he was drowning, gasping out for air, clawing the ground with animalistic frustration.

He had to get out. He just had to get out. He would face dishonor and death, hatred and scorn just for one last breath of sweet pure air. He wildly threw himself out of the room. The fire leaped and danced around him, but strangely did not touch him. But still his fought onward, forgetting any physical discomfort apart from the lack of oxygen. Bursting out of the kitchen into the front hallway choking and coughing, ripping at the front door tears streaming down his face, he wrenched it open and leapt out into cold black night and the rain.

Alfred lay in the gutter as he watched the house be eaten by flames. Dirt and rain water coated his face and hair. He sprawled across the ground lengthways sucking in as much air as his lungs would take. But as he witnessed the destruction of everything he had loved his mouth filled with bile and he laughed. Dear God, how he roared with mad laughter, rolling in the filth of the neighborhood heart sickened with terror, but he could not stop.

By the time the sun had risen, the authorities, who as usual appeared upon the scene just a little too late but with a brilliant excuse, were stationed next to charred remains of 43 Magdalene Terrace. The neighbors weighted down in all their regretful sympathy were standing about in bathrobes whispering with each other.

‘Such a nice old couple’ Mrs. Fox from across the street commented to a friend, ‘such a shame, that poor boy.’

Alfred sat alone on the pavement. The ambulance men had decided, after checking that he was devoid of physical injury, to leave him alone, as he wouldn’t say a word to them anyway. He face was stark white and his eyes glazed. The only problem the medical staff could diagnose was a severe case of shock.

The verdict on the cause of the fire had been the faulty gas stove, which the firemen and the police had pinned the blame on because frankly they couldn’t find any other reason why a fire could have begun so quickly and so violently. They also couldn’t believe Alfred was unharmed or that the flames had combusted everything down the very foundations. The element that was especially perplexing was the front door, it was also completely untouched apart from being slightly charred.

A builder who lived a few houses away and had worked on the building project for Magdalene Terrace fourteen years ago, had proclaimed that there no way in Hell that fire had been an accident. “ Right to the bloody foundation,” he swore. “It burned through the piping and the boiler and the double gazing I fitted but left the front door, its not natural I tell you.” Eventually his embarrassed wife, still clad in a flowery nightgown and slippers, led him back in to the house apologizing profusely.

In all the chaos police wandered around questioned anyone they could get their hands on. Firemen took it in turns to walk around the remains several times always returning with bewildered expressions. There was a hum of meaningless chat from the neighbors. No one noticed a dark haired man with a postman’s cap pulled firmly over his eyes ride straight through the crowd on a bicycle, a bag of mail hanging on one arm. He dismounted and pulled a letter from the bag and pushed it through the letterbox of 43 Magdalene Terrace, then rode away. Alfred rose from his position on the pavement, the ambulance staff too busy exchanging views with the policemen to notice their patient had gone.

Alfred neared the door, passing through the crowd like a phantom. He opened the door and went inside what was left of his home. He turned and bent down to clasp the letter, his mouth dry and hands shaking. It was a letter from the bank, he recognized the beetle black script. Alfred’s shaking fingered carefully opened the envelope and drew out the last letter his grandparents would ever receive.

It read:

Dear Mr. and Mrs. Wilson

Your accounts have been imbersed by an unknown benefactor by the name of Mr. Green. He has left a cheque for 50,000 pounds in my keeping and I wish to book an appointment with you as soon as possible.

His only condition is that in the event of your deaths all the money will go to your Grandson, Alfred Wilson.

I would much like to discuss these unexpected events with you.

Yours sincerely

Alan Moses

Alfred stared at the letter and suddenly the events of yesterday afternoon flooded back into his mind. One phrase above all others rang clear ‘To put it simply there is no Hell for humans, at least, other than the one they make for themselves on earth‘.

Alfred stood still his face as grey as iron, as behind him the sun rose and filled the ruins with a warm soft glow, alighting two pebbles half hidden in the ashes as distant church bells rang out signaling the beginning of a new day.

THE END