Mr. Walters Catches a Demon

A slender tendril of steam rose from the mug he drew toward his puckered lips.

Ah, the simple pleasures in life, he thought as he took a sip of coffee, but never taking his eyes off the unconscious form tied to the chair across from him.

Demons plagued him for years. They stalked in broad daylight disguised as postal workers, or perhaps a businessman with a briefcase in one hand and a cell phone in the other, pretending to talk to someone on the other end. They were everywhere, mingling and blending in with everyday, normal people. Yet, Mr. Walters could see them for what they were. They may have fooled everyone else, but not Mr. Walters, no siree!

The girl moaned.

Mr. Walters set the steaming cup onto the doily his wife made years, perhaps more than a decade now that he thinks about it, ago. She would get onto him something terrible for leaving a stain ring on the end tables. She passed some time ago, but the habit was in him now. He smiled at the ring-stained doily, fondly remembering Mrs. Walters.

The girl moaned again. Blood covered one side of her face. Mr. Walters was amazed at how quickly this one was taken down. Granted, it had chosen this particular form, but a demon was a demon. You've never known a tussle until you get a hold of one of these things. Mr. Walters was an amateur wrestler back in his day, a not too shabby one at that. It usually took every ounce of strength to bring a demon down, especially at his advanced age, but one good blow was enough to drop this particular fiend.

"Well, well," said Mr. Walters, "What do you have to say for yourself"?

Tears leaked from large brown eyes. Her soft cry quickly turned into uncontrollable sobs. Confusion painted her face. She tugged at the ropes weakly. Sobs turned to panic. She swiveled her head, trying to make sense of her surroundings.

Mr. Walters watched with uncompassionate eyes.

"Wh-wher-wher-where's m-m-my m-m-m-mom," it asked, its chest hitching with sobs.

"You demons are a clever bunch," he said, absently twirling the end of his bushy, white mustache, "I'd almost think you were a little girl if I didn't know better."

Terror seized the girl. She kicked wildly, sending a shoe flying across the living room where it bounced harmlessly off the wall. Mr. Walters watched, taking another sip of coffee, never shifting his gaze from the child.

He waited, sipped, repeated. The shrieks pierced his old ears. He turned the volume down on his hearing aid and continued his pattern. The thing kicked again, flinging the other shoe off in his direction. Its pasty, pudgy legs were a blur of motion below the hem of its flower patterned dress. Vainly, it thrashed against the restraints that bound it to the wooden chair. It begged to be let go. It begged to see its mother. Mr. Walters had seen all of this before, well, maybe not exactly like this as the other demons were bigger, but they also begged, and asked for their wives, husbands, boyfriend, girlfriends, siblings, and such. They offered money. They offered sexual acts. They offered almost anything. But in the end, they broke and in the end, he dealt with them the same way. As he thought about this, he glanced at the sledgehammer propped against the wall in the corner next to the door.

Finally, after several minutes, the girl became calm. Resignation showed on her plump face. Dried blood caked in her blonde hair and on her pale cheeks. Snot soaked her upper lip. She refused eye contact. Mr. Walters turned his hearing aid up.

"That's better."

Leaning forward in his chair, he thought about getting another cup of coffee but instead set the empty mug back on the table.

"What's your name?"

The girl did not answer.

He reached out with gnarled fingers. He grasped her chin; she jerked her head away. He grabbed her again. Yellowed fingernails pressed into her soft skin. He forced her head forward, locking her eyes with his own steel-blue gaze.

"What is your name?"

Tears sprang forth once again as she pulled away from his clutch. Mr. Walters balled up a fist and smashed it into the girl's face. Her left eye swelled immediately. The girl gawked at him, her mouth forming a nearly perfect "O." Incredulity read plainly across her face. She erupted into another bout of thrashing and wailing. He raised his fist again and she shied away in fear.

"What's your name!" he yelled.

"I WANT MY MOM!"

"Tell me your name!"

"I WANT TO GO HOME! I WANT MY MOM!"

This was getting him nowhere. Demons were notorious liars as one would imagine. They played mind games. They boasted and bragged about how clever they were...once you got past the begging and pleading. After that, they sang like canaries. But something was different about this one. Mr. Walters returned to his chair. The demon writhed in pain, trying to reach for her damaged face. His mind traced the events back to that morning when he first saw it.

He looked out the kitchen window into his backyard while washing the dishes from yesterday's supper. A cat sat on the lowest limb of a poplar tree; the girl stood at the base trying to coax it down. Their eyes locked for a brief moment but that was all the time he needed to know what she really was. He had a knack for knowing these sort of things. But now he began to wonder if his mind was growing feeble after several decades of life.

The girl began muttering, a nearly inaudible chant, "I want my mom, I want my mom...", over and over.

Dear God, did I make a mistake?

Mr. Walters' heart pounded in his chest hard enough he thought he could hear it. He had captured lots of demons. It was always the same, they denied their nature, they begged for release, they promised wealth and reward, but they always, ALWAYS, finally admitted what they were. But this one did not act like the others. This one...What have I done?

I've got to get my wits.

He returned to his chair, leaning forward to better study the girl. She squirmed under his scrutiny, trying to twist away from his gaze. He watched and thought. His mind replayed previous captures. They all followed the same pattern, but this one...this one was different. A tear formed in the corner of his eye and ran down his wrinkled cheek.

"Little girl," he said in a pained voice, "I'm so sorry. I think I've made a dreadful mistake."

"I want to go home," she replied with a whisper.

"I know, I know."

"Please, I-I w-w-w-want to g-go."

"It's okay now," he said in a soothing voice, "you are not what I thought you were."

"Are y-y--you gonna hurt me some m-m-m-more?"

With a dismissive shake of his head, he sat back in his chair and stared into space.

What do I do?, he asked himself.

For a long time, he sat, trying to figure out this puzzle, this conundrum. After a few minutes that felt like an eternity, the old man stood, walked to the corner and hefted the heavy sledge. He was too far gone to turn back now. He knew if he let her go the cops would come. He would be arrested, and his house searched. They would find the bodies in the basement. They wouldn't believe they were demons. His work had to continue at all cost. It was too important not too. He had to continue his work until the Good Lord decided it was time to come home, and not before then.

He crept up behind the girl, grateful she never told him her name. He raised the mighty hammer over his head, God forgive me, and brought it down with a mighty swing. The hammer smashed the girl's skull, but where he was expecting blood and gray-matter, a burst of hellish flame shot out nearly blinding the old man. The hammer fell from his grip and banged loudly off the wooden floor. Mr. Walters' jaw dropped in surprise. He breathed a massive sigh of relief clutching his chest to still his thumping heart. He slumped into his chair, nearly mimicking the pose of the lifeless body across from him, wanting a drink of something harder than black coffee. Talking to the bound form he muttered.

"You crafty sonofabitch, you were a demon after all."