Demon at My Door (3 page)

As my eyes focus, I note that I’m still in my backyard with the demon standing over me. 

He’s dropped his finger away from my forehead and now stares up at the tree house where I left Stew. I hear the tree house creak. 

Stew coming down the ladder has distracted him. 

The boy turns to me and in a rush says, “Your human life is nearly over. Tie up your loose ends. You’ll want a clean break.”

“But, I—” Before I can ask what the vision he just showed me meant, he’s gone just as quickly as he appeared. I stare blankly out into the dark yard. He’s never done anything like that before, and it scares me. What did it mean, and why did he show me that?  Whatever it was, I get the distinct feeling he isn’t quite done with me yet. 

My hands shake as I rub my face. I need to kill him so my promise won’t matter anymore, and I can be free. Everything I’ve tried so far has lead to a marathon of failures. I need to get my soul back. 

I don’t realize I’ve clenched my hands until I open them up and see the imprints of nails in my palms. My brow furrows as I notice something strange. The life line on my hands glows like hot coals straight from a fire, and I know this isn’t a good thing. I’ve got to find a way to get out of this deal and fast. Something tells me shit’s about to get real.  

Chapter Three

Life lines. Most people don’t think much about them. Me? I’m obsessed with them. Mine started fading last night. And there’s only one thing, or person rather, I blame it on. 

That sadistic, five-year-old soul-stealing bastard.  

This is the fourth therapist I’ve been to this year—I wouldn’t even do it if Mom and Dad make it a stipulation in paying for college. Each doctor causes me to question my sanity a little more, so there’s no way I’ll spill my guts about my newly discovered countdown clock of death. My chart’s filled with enough crazy.

This particular doctor approached Mom at the country club yesterday when she brought me lunch and offered to treat me after she spotted me in the lobby. My daily look of dark clothes and hair must scream mental patient, along with I bet a shell shocked appearance of seeing a man just murdered before my eyes earlier in the day. The last doctor I saw kicked me out of his practice for not “trying” enough, so Mom was grateful when Dr. Fletcher eagerly offered to squeeze me in today. 

I gaze around the office. The space feels tight since there are no windows and only one way in or out. The fluorescent light buzzes overhead and feels very institutional. I notice Dr. Fletcher’s family photos positioned for display on the coffee table in front of me. It looks like she’s married. One picture is of who I assume is her daughter and right next to it is one of a guy—looks like she has a son about my age, too. 

He’s tall with dark hair and gray or blue eyes. It’s kind of hard to tell because it’s not a close up of his face, but still, he looks pretty cute. And oddly familiar. 

Her family is all smiling, and it occurs to me that people always seem to smile in photos. It’s like they’re always perpetually happy. Like they’re in some fairy tale waving good-bye and ready to live happily ever after. Yeah, right. No family is that happy.
Ever
. Well, at least mine never is. But I’m sure Dr. Fletcher will cure me and make me the perfect, preppy robot Mom wants me to be. Whatever.

After eleven years of therapy, they decided to label me as a paranoid Schizophrenic. If I were actually crazy, like they say, that’d explain why I’m on constant look out for the boy demon. But I know I’m not mental, even if no one else does.

The door creaks open. A petite, brunette doctor in a white lab coat, wearing black stilettos, sashays into the room. Dr. Lilim Fletcher sits stiffly in her high-back leather chair across from me and crosses her panty-hosed legs. Her hair is in the tightest bun known to mankind and she’s got a weird look on her face. Determination, maybe? 

Great. 

Instantly, my body stiffens and the defense mechanisms go up, as my brain morphs into uber-bitch mode. This one has to be kept at a distance. She seems dangerous, because of the mission mode vibe she’s giving off. I hate shrinks that make it their goal in life to fix you, like they’ll be the ones who will finally cure you with their overly huge brain and skills.

“Hello, Natalie. I ask that all my patients call me Lilim to keep it casual.” She smiles at me. “Shall we begin?”

When I shrug without a word, she cuts the small talk. Guilt fills me for being such a pain. Really, who wouldn’t feel a little snippy if they had to spend all their free time stuck in therapy? It sucks. Big time. Just one whole happy hour of
major
suckatude. 

“Okay, since your mother gave me an introduction on your history, are you ready to talk a little more about why you are seeing me?” she asks and then places her glasses on her perfect heart-shaped face.

It’s then, I realize, she’s just like the rest of them, already diagnosed me as crazy before I’ve opened my mouth to speak. Is that something they teach in shrink school? I mean, I know it’s possible for a soul to be stolen, so why doesn’t anyone else? Have they never seen
The Exorcist
or
The Omen
? Sheesh. Since no one ever seems to believe me, I’ve learned to keep things bottled up. 

“Um, you have my previous records.” I point to the thick chart in her hand. “I’m sure you’ve read it by now. We can save the small talk. I’ve been through all this before. Why do you think I’m here?”

I wrap my arms tightly around my body. My gaze shifts toward her when she readjusts in her chair and she lifts her eyebrows. 

“Hmmm.” She clicks her pen and writes some notes in my file. “Well, according to your last physician’s notes, you’re having issues dealing with what you perceive as threats against your life from a” —she clears her throat but continues to look at her notes— “five-year-old boy no one else has ever seen. It says here that you often carry weapons for what you claim is personal protection.”

Here we go again. I roll my eyes. After a moment, I force myself to unclench my teeth. I really, really hate it when people size me up for a strait jacket.

“I’m not crazy,” I say with a sigh. “He
is
real.” 

She looks me in the eye. “Can you tell me where he lives?”

I shrug. “He’s the spawn of Satan, okay? It’s not like he lives down the street. He just sort of appears.”

Again with the notes? Just once I’d like to see what they write about me.

“Natalie, if this boy first appeared at your door when you were five-years-old and he’s never aged through the years, could it be possible that maybe the whole incident regarding this boy could be a bad dream? Have you ever thought about how this relates to your diagnosis?”

“Right. I made it all up. So never mind that I’m disturbed enough by it to dream about him every single night when I close my eyes.” I shudder. The thought of his touch on my hand to seal the pact for my soul is enough to make my skin feel like a million fire ant stings simultaneously.

She flips through my file. “Do you ever dream of anything other than the day the boy came to your house to save your mother?”

I shake my head. “Nope. Same dream, every night.” 

It’s amazing how the questions are always the same. I bet if I try really hard, I could give them all the answers they need before they even ask. 

“Then it’s possible it could be a dream, albeit a recurring one, but
just
a dream nonetheless?”

I shrug again because I don’t want to get into this with her. How many times do I have to say I don’t believe the stupid dream theory?

“According to Dr. Prior’s notes, your mother says she doesn’t recall seeing a boy matching your description in your neighborhood.”

“If you read my file a little closer, you would’ve noticed that per my recount of the
incident
my mother took her last breath when the boy came into my house and stopped time to make the stupid deal for my soul.” I still remember my mother choking – on a hot dog no less – and then everything stopped with the knock on the door, changing my life forever. 

Lilim gets her pen out and makes extra notes. I’ve never figured out if standing my ground and telling the truth helps clear my mental diagnosis or not, but they’ve already documented my story. There’s not much I can do to avoid the subject anymore. I just wish I’d found out earlier to keep my mouth shut. My life would’ve been a lot less complicated if I could’ve avoided therapy and meds altogether.   

“Hmm,” Dr. Fletcher mumbles. “Okay, let’s say what you’re saying is true”—whoa, wait a minute. Does she actually believe me? Wow, this is a first—“when do
you
suppose he’s coming back to collect?”

I stare blankly at her. The world screeches to a halt, and for once, and I do mean once, I’m totally and completely speechless. No one has
ever
asked me that before, and it throws me off a little. Oh, she’s good. Acting like she’s on my side so she can poke around in my head, but I’m not telling her anymore than what she already knows from that file. 

Collection day is always on my mind, especially now that my freaking life line started fading. I drop my head into my right hand and sigh.

“So you’ve never thought of it before?” she questions, after a moment of silence passes between us.

I shake my head slowly. Numbness fills my body. I swallow down the large lump in my throat and fight back the tears that threaten to expose my fear. Am I ready to die? There are so many people I’d miss: my sister, Mom, Dad, and even Stew. I’d hoped we can get past the fight we had last night and he’d come to his senses, but maybe he shouldn’t. Maybe it’s best to end things now. Demon boy did order me to tell everyone goodbye. 

She removes her glasses and carefully folds them. “Well, Natalie, I can say, personally, death isn’t something I like to think about too much. And I know you believe you’re damned because you made this deal sixteen years ago, but I don’t think you are. We are the masters of our own destinies. You have to live for today and not dwell so much on death. You’re twenty-years-old. Worry about clothes and finding the right guy, not the Grim Reaper. You still have time to make choices about who collects your eternal soul.” Her eyes narrow, and she stares at me with hardness in her eyes. There’s a quick flash of sliver in her brown eyes, like a wave of mercury shimmering in the sun. The only other time I’ve seen anything like that is when the little, evil freak is about to turn on his demonic powers. 

My mouth goes dry, and my pulse pounds like I’m running for my life. Her eyes won’t let me go. It feels like she’s peering into me, taking inventory of my insides. My breath catches, and before I completely pass out, she looks away. The rhythm of my heart slows the moment her eyes leave me, and I grip the arms of the chair to steady myself. 

A moment later she glances back at me, one eyebrow raised in question. There’s no trace of anything odd in her eyes.  

I shake my head. What the hell was that? Maybe I am going crazy. 

She slides her glasses back on, wearing a satisfied smile. “I think if you take a step back, you’ll see there’s more to life than
just
death. Maybe start small, like wear something other than black for a change.”

Not wear black? The whole campus knows me as Natalie Sugarman, the Crazy Goth Girl. Why would I ever want to mess up that stunning reputation? Before I can stop myself, I snap, “Sure, I look great in pink.” 

Lilim ignores my reply. “Good. You see, progress already. We are going to be great friends, Natalie.” She smiles and glances down at her watch. “Well, it appears that our time is about up. We’ll talk again next week.” She holds out her hand and waits for me to shake it. 

I start to reach for her, but instead I bolt from the couch. I don’t do handshakes anymore. They can cause your life to be hell. Literally. 

Chapter Four

Today is the first day of the fall semester, and I haven’t talked to Stew since the night in the tree house a week ago. I’ve wanted to call, but my pride won’t let me. Besides, he owes me an apology, not the other way around.

The steering wheel glides with ease under my hands as I turn onto the street campus is on. I’ve been extra careful with my driving – I don’t want to wreck the car a week after getting it - so I look both ways at the stop sign. I don’t see anything coming, so I cautiously accelerate. Out of nowhere a black, sports coupe zooms into the intersection. I slam on the brakes. My hair flies in my face, the sound of screeching tires echoing in my ears. When my car grinds to a stop, my neck whips back a little. 

I watch the black car streak past me, missing me by inches. I punch the horn and curse under my breath. The driver is concealed behind black-tinted glass, and for a second, I entertain the idea of chasing down the driver and beating the crap out of them. 

I run my fingers through my hair, an attempt to calm my nerves. Reality sets in and my anger turns to rationality. It’s probably not wise to track down a stranger and scream at them for nearly killing you. It could be a three hundred pound raging crack-head with a gun. God knows I don’t want to start my eternity any sooner than I have to.  

I whip my custom, bright green Focus into the empty parking lot and put the near crash out of my mind. A tingle trickles down my spine as I eye the practice field for our school’s football team. Passing Stew and pretending I don’t still have feelings for him will be hell. My insides quiver, and if I’d let myself, I could cry all day over him. Instead, I decided it’s better to just ignore him.

My teeth grind together. Next time I get involved with a guy I’ll make sure he likes me for me. If there is a next time, that is.  

With a sigh, I throw my satchel over my shoulder and trudge through the parking lot. Not much has changed over the summer. Capital University’s campus still looks exactly the same as it did the last time I was here, this past spring.