Clad only in her shift, she yawned, yawned as she sat on her cot, as the mattress sank, as she pulled the pins from her hair. The day—and her long, heavy curls—crashed down around her shoulders.
Her thoughts had begun to slur.
With great reluctance she blew out the candle, pulled her legs against her chest, and fell over like a poorly weighted insect. The illogic of her phobia was consistent only in perplexing her, for when she was abed and her eyes closed, Alizeh imagined she could more easily conquer the dark, and even as she trembled with a familiar chill, she succumbed quickly to sleep. She reached for her soft quilt and drew it up over her shoulders, trying not to think about how cold she was, trying not to think at all. In fact she shivered so violently she hardly noticed when he sat down, his weight depressing the mattress at the foot of her bed.
Alizeh bit back a scream.
Her eyes flew open, tired pupils fighting to widen their aperture. Frantically, Alizeh patted down her quilt, her pillow, her threadbare mattress. There was no body on her bed. No one in her room.
Had she been hallucinating? She fumbled for her candle and dropped it, her hands shaking.
Surely, she’d been dreaming.
The mattress groaned—the weight shifting—and Alizeh experienced a fear so violent she saw sparks. She pushed backward, knocking her head against the wall, and some how the pain focused her panic.
A sharp snap and a flame caught between his barely there fingers, illuminated the contours of his face.
Alizeh dared not breathe.
Even in silhouette she couldn’t see him, not properly, but then—it was not his face, but his voice, that had made the devil notorious.
Alizeh knew this better than most.
Seldom did the devil present himself in some approximation of flesh; rare were his clear and memorable communications. Indeed, the creature was not as powerful as his legacy insisted, for he’d been denied the right to speak as another might, doomed forever to hold forth in riddles, and allowed permission only to persuade a person to ruin, never to command.
It was not usual, then, for one to claim an acquaintance with the devil, nor was it with any conviction that a person might speak of his methods, for the presence of such evil was experienced most often only through a provoking of sensation.
Alizeh did not like to be the exception.
Indeed it was with some pain that she acknowledged the circumstances of her birth: that it had been the devil to first offer congratulations at her cradle, his unwelcome ciphers as inescapable as the wet of rain. Alizeh’s parents had tried, desperately, to banish such a beast from their home, but he had returned again and again, forever embroidering the tapestry of her life with ominous forebodings, in what seemed a promise of destruction she could not outmaneuver.
Even now she felt the devil’s voice, felt it like a breath loosed inside her body, an exhale against her bones.
There once was a man, he whispered.
“No,” she nearly shouted, panicking. “Not another riddle—please—”
There once was a man, he whispered, who bore a snake on each shoulder.
Alizeh clapped both hands over her ears and shook her head; she’d never wanted so badly to cry.
“Please,” she said, “please don’t—”
Again:
There once was a man
who bore a snake on each shoulder.
If the snakes were well-fed
their master ceased growing older.
Alizeh squeezed her eyes shut, pulled her knees to her chest. He wouldn’t stop. She couldn’t shut him out.
What they ate no one knew, even as the children—
“Please,” she said, begging now. “Please, I don’t want to know—”
What they ate no one knew,
even as the children were found
with brains shucked from their skulls,
bodies splayed on the ground.
She inhaled sharply and he was gone, gone, the devil’s voice torn free from her bones. The room suddenly shuddered around her, shadows lifting and stretching—and in the warped light a strange, hazy face peered back at her. Alizeh bit her lip so hard she tasted blood.
It was a young man staring at her now, one she did not recognize.
That he was human, Alizeh had no doubt—but something about him seemed different from the others. In the dim light the young man seemed carved not from clay, but marble, his face trapped in hard lines, centered by a soft mouth. The longer she stared at him the harder her heart raced. Was this the man with the snakes? Why did it even matter? Why would she ever believe a single word spoken by the devil?
Ah, but she already knew the answer to the latter.