A Friend of the Devil

by David Beers

  Emi drank until she simply laid down on the floor.

  She went to sleep, thinking that it was nice she didn’t hear the voice. The floor wasn’t so bad, if it meant she wouldn’t hear anything calling her name.

  She slept for an hour before standing up. Her eyes were open, but Emi didn’t know what she was doing. Otherwise, why would she have walked to her back bedroom?

  Chapter Ten

  Emi’s eyes opened and she found herself staring up at the ceiling. She was lying on her back, her hands at her sides, and there were no blankets covering her body. She was still in her clothes, and as she looked down, she saw that the blankets had been strewn completely to the floor as if she’d been tossing all night long.

  She looked to the alarm clock on her right, expecting to see a time plastered across in red digital numbers.

  Instead, she saw words.

  PHONE.

  The word flashed away, replaced with, PICK.

  Flashed away.

  Replaced with, UP.

  PHONE.

  PICK.

  UP.

  PHONE.

  The words appeared and disappeared, and as Emi stared at the clock—not comprehending how such a thing was possible—the changing words were increasing their speed.

  PICK. UP. PHONE.

  PICK.UP.PHONE

  PICKUPPHONE, until there was almost no beats between them.

  Emi looked across the room, her heart thudding in her chest and filling her ears with its massive drumming.

  Her cell phone was across the room, next to the television, though Emi couldn’t remember anything. Not setting her phone down. Not coming into this room. The TV was on, the sound muted with an infomercial playing across it.

  A man was holding a spray bottle, squirting its contents out onto a dirty carpet. Large words flashed across the screen.

  PICK UP THE FUCKING PHONE.

  They started small and then grew massive, filling up most of the TV, before bouncing back to a small font again. They continued vacillating between huge and tiny, but the words remained the same.

  PICK UP THE FUCKING PHONE.

  Emi looked to the right. PICKUPPHONE flashed repeatedly on the alarm clock, so quickly it was hard to actually read the message.

  Emi swallowed, her hands sweaty and a sick feeling in her stomach. None of this should be happening. It wasn’t even possible. She slowly sat up, her movement on the bed the only sound in the silent room.

  The man on the television turned to the camera, his smile wide and his eyes manic.

  He was nodding—up and down, up and down—as the words grew and shrunk.

  PICK UP THE FUCKING PHONE.

  Emi looked at the phone again. It was quiet, no buzzing, no lighting up.

  The phone on her nightstand rang—shrill and terrifying. Emi jumped a foot backward on the bed, moving away from the shocking sound as if it were a snake striking.

  It rang again.

  And again.

  Emi remained where she was, unable to move.

  Her cell started vibrating; her eyes darted to it, quickly catching on to the concert the two phones were playing. The landline phone rang, and then in its silence, the cell would vibrate.

  The room was full of sound, and all of it assaulting Emi’s senses like a swarm of bees—she couldn’t see her way out of them, couldn’t focus on anything but them.

  Crazily, the shrill ring and the dull vibrating started to make words in her ears. As if some mechanical creation was speaking through them, the way people can make guitars talk.

  PICK—ring.

  UP—vibrate.

  THE—ring.

  PHONE—vibrate.

  Just wanting it all to stop, everything around her, she dashed forward, scrambling for the ringing phone and put it to her ear.

  “WHAT? WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU WANT!” she screamed into it.

  The ringing and the vibration both stopped. Emi could hear her breath panting from her mouth.

  A drop of sweat dripped down the back of her neck, trailing toward her spine despite the room’s chill.

  “Hello?” she said into the phone, whispering now.

  Her breath came out in a white plume of fog, and the sweat on her body felt like ice. The room’s temperature had dropped precipitously in only moments.

  The phone crackled, but she heard nothing else on the other end.

  “Who’s there?” Emi asked.

  “LET ME IN!”

  The voice screamed through the phone, its words like mountains being crammed into Emi’s brain.

  “LET ME IN! LET ME IN!” The words came from the phone’s receiver, but also from across the room. The television was booming now, its volume turned all the way up and the manic man filling up the entire camera. No phrase, no spray bottle, nothing but him staring. His grin was gone, but terrible teeth filled the screen. Yellow things that chomped up and down while red veins crisscrossed his huge eyes.

  “LET ME IN! LET ME IN! LET ME IN!”

  The chanting didn’t slow, but increased in intensity, filling the room with the crazy words and making Emi’s very teeth rattle in her skull.

  She screamed, feeling her sanity dissipating with each word shouted at her.

  And then, only the phone was yelling, because the television man’s mouth was opening wide. Wider and wider, like a snake preparing for a meal, and as Emi stared at his impossible stretching flesh, black fluid shot from his mouth like venom.

  It hit the camera, splattering across the television screen.

  Wider and wider.

  “LET ME IN! LET ME IN!” the phone shouted from her hand.

  Fluid spat again from his mouth, but this time, it hit no camera. It crossed the room and landed right on Emi’s cheek.

  “LET ME IN! LET ME IN!”

  Emi reached up to her face, slowly, the scream in her own mouth dying even as the room around her boomed.

  She touched the black liquid, and as she pulled it away, she stared at her fingers.

  Red, bloody flesh hung from them. Her cheek, mixed with dripping ink.

  Emi started screaming again, but this time she didn’t stop.

  “EMI!” Brett yelled at the locked door.

  He could hear his partner shrieking from inside. He’d heard it down the hall when he first got off the elevator, and then flat out ran to her apartment.

  “EMI!” he shouted once more, though her screams didn’t abate.

  He took a step back, looked both ways down the hall, and saw someone looking at him.

  “F.B.I.!” he yelled, then turned to the door again. Emi was shrieking over and over with hardly a breath in between. He couldn’t wait.

  He launched his leg at the door, connecting with the deadbolt on the side. The doorframe split beneath his strength, the sound of ripping wood nearly lost in Emi’s screams. The door flung open and Brett rushed forward, unholstering and raising his weapon to eye level in a single smooth motion. The screams filled the small apartment, but they sounded like they were coming from the master bedroom.

  Brett moved, long strides bringing him down the hallway. He checked the bathroom, but only briefly, because there wasn’t any doubt where Emi was now.

  He ducked a bit lower, gun still out, and stepped into the bedroom.

  Emi was kneeling on the bed. Her hands pulled at her face as if clearing something off it; tears poured down her cheeks, and though her eyes were open, she looked at nothing besides her hands. Her eyes were wide and a horrifying scream flowed from her mouth, filling the entire room. Ear piercing.

  Brett checked the room briefly, then holstered his weapon, his feet carrying him to her.

  “Emi, shhh,” he said. “Shhhhh.”

  He sat down on the bed, his words barely breaking through the shrieks that were painfully vibrating his eardrums. Emi didn’t turn to him at all, just kept rubbing her hands across her face and then staring at them—over and over.

  Brett didn’t know what to do, but he couldn’t let her
keep on.

  He looked at her for a second, staring hard. Her mouth was wide, her voice growing hoarse. Her eyes stared out at the world around her, but Brett—

  No, he thought. No that’s simply not possible.

  It was only for a second, and the room was dark, so of course it hadn’t happened—but for a moment, Brett thought Emi’s eyes were black. Completely so. No white’s, just all pupil. Black and full of ink, and if he were to stick a pin in them, it wouldn’t be blood that came out, but the same black liquid flowing across their surface.

  It’s not possible, he thought with odd calm as he reached forward, taking control of her arms. Emi didn’t struggle, but simply let Brett take her.

  She turned her head toward him, and in those few seconds, Brett saw that her eyes were black. Later, he would convince himself that it’d been the lack of light playing tricks on him. Later, he would make excuses for what he saw, because it simply hadn’t been possible. Yet, at night, as the years grew longer and he thought back, he would wonder—did it happen? Did I see what I thought I saw?

  Her eyes were black. Endless things that stared forever and in them lay … hell.

  If there is a devil, he’s in there, Brett thought. The idea as calm as his previous one, as if nothing abnormal was happening.

  Emi stopped screaming and closed her mouth. She was calm, her hands in his.

  Brett looked down at them … and saw what her hands had been pulling at … herself. Emi’s face lay in her hands, long red strings of dripping meat falling from between her fingers to his, and then to the bed. Blood soaked her hands, up past her wrists, where some of the meat that hung there took on the deep red hue of muscle.

  Brett jerked back, unable to help himself, and rose off the bed.

  He blinked once and everything he’d seen was gone.

  Her eyes were brown, her hands dry and clean.

  She sat on the bed, unmoving. She stared forward as if she didn’t see him, though remaining quiet.

  “Atlanta Police!” someone shouted from the shattered front door. “Is there anyone in here!”

  “Master bedroom! FBI Agent Brett Lichen. I’m armed, but placing my weapon on the floor. I will kneel on the floor with hands behind my head until you ascertain my identity!” He shouted down the hall, growing calm again as he stared at his partner. She didn’t move at all—seemed to hear none of what was happening. “There’s a woman in here with me. Her name is FBI Agent Emi Laurens! She appears to be ….” He paused, not knowing how to finish the sentence. “Comatose!”

  In that moment, Brett could think of no other word to describe her.

  “DO NOT OPEN FIRE! SHE IS UNARMED AND CANNOT HARM YOU!” Brett shouted stridently, his vocal chords stinging when he finished.

  He placed his weapon on the floor and then shoved it across the carpet. He knelt, bringing his hands behind his head.

  “I’m in position!”

  He listened to the police move down the hallway, his eyes never leaving his partner.

  Brett heard them enter the room, and still Emi didn’t move at all. She kept staring at the bed.

  Her eyes are brown, he thought. They’re brown and you see that clearly.

  “The piece is to your right, on the floor. My badge is going to be in my back pocket.”

  Brett didn’t turn around as one officer grabbed his hands, holding them in place, the other reaching into his back pocket and pulled out his wallet. He saw a flashlight turn on, allowing them to read the badge in the room’s darkness. Finally, the officer released his hands.

  “Thanks, Agent Lichen. You made that easy for us,” the officer with the wallet said as Brett stood. “What’s going on here?”

  Brett turned and took his wallet first, looking at the two officers. The one who had held his hands in position was a woman, the one who’d taken his wallet a man. Both holstered their weapons and looked at the bed.

  “What happened?” the male officer said.

  “Ma’am?” the female asked, moving closer to the bed. “Ma’am, can you hear me?”

  Emi didn’t move.

  “Call an ambulance,” Brett said. “Right now.”

  He listened as the man unclipped his radio and started talking into it.

  Brett didn’t move forward at all; he didn’t go a step closer to Emi, because even as he stared at her brown eyes, he remembered that they’d looked black moments before. He remembered glossy ink flowing over them and blood dripping from her hands. Flesh dripping from her hands.

  He didn’t leave, though. Even as the EMT’s put her on a stretcher and pulled her from the room, Brett followed. He climbed into the ambulance and rode with Emi, yet he still didn’t touch her. He wouldn’t leave, but he wasn’t going to put his hands on her again.

  As the ambulance rolled down the highway, he looked at his fingers.

  There’d been blood on them. For a second, but he remembered it vividly. Emi’s blood. It’d been there, and then it hadn’t.

  Vince didn’t go to work the next day. The governor had let the entire staff take a personal day … at Vince’s urging. It hadn’t taken much convincing.

  “Of course, Vince. I’m going to stop in the day after and I’d like everyone to be there. I think it would be good for us all to talk, and then you and I will speak alone for a little while after.”

  Vince agreed, not caring in the slightest what the governor said to the staff or to him.

  He didn’t care about the personal day, either, at least not in the same way those he worked with did. Vince was beyond any of that now—far beyond it. Two things motivated him: survival and the voice.

  The two things seemed to be at odds with each other most of the time, but the voice continually made it seem as if everything would work out.

  Like today. A personal day in which people should be mourning, but were most likely catching up on chores or errands. Vince should be talking to a lawyer. He should be ensuring that he had legal defense for when the FBI got its shit together and came after him again. Yesterday he’d gotten lucky, the woman had flipped out in the middle of the interview and ran. Of course, Vince remembered very little of the interview (or the entire day, for that matter). The voice had been in control—the unnamed, all knowing voice.

  The FBI would be back, though, and Vince had nothing to defend himself with; he should be using every waking moment to find a way out of this, and yet …

  No, Vince. We don’t need to do that. We need to go see her. Who? Emi Laurens, of course. We need to go check in on her and see how she’s doing. Where? The hospital, Vince. She’s at the hospital and we’re going to go take a look at her, okay? Does that work? Yes, of course it does. It works fine, because you and I, we’re going to be fine. You, me, her, we’re all going to be just golden.

  The words started turning into babble, a constant humming that brought equanimity to Vince despite the horrible things they were suggesting.

  Because Vince had the hospital name: Piedmont.

  That’s where this woman was supposedly being housed, and yes, Vince did want to go. Now. He didn’t want to call a lawyer or work on any kind of defense. He only wanted to listen to the voice and go there and look at her and stare at her and touch her and …

  Vince was on the highway heading there by 10:00 in the morning. He had absolutely no idea how he knew the FBI Agent was at the hospital, nor did he have a plan of what to do once he arrived, but—

  It’s okay, Vince. It’s all going to be okay. I’ll take care of it, just like I’ve taken care of everything. Just go to the hospital.

  Vince drove, his face calm and collected, one hand on the steering wheel, the other resting in his lap.

  It took about a half hour to arrive at Piedmont. He parked in the visitor’s lot and walked to the emergency entrance.

  Yes, yes, the voice whispered. This is where she is. We’re close now, Vince. We’re very, very close.

  He went to the nurse’s station.

  “Hi,” he said when the nurse l
ooked up at him. “I believe my friend was checked in last night. Would it be possible to see her?”

  “Name?” the nurse asked, sounding as if she was coming off a 12 hour shift and wanted nothing to do with Vince.

  “Emi Laurens.”

  She typed in a few words and then looked up at him. “I’ll need some identification, and then you’ll need to sign in on this.” She handed him a clipboard.

  Vince’s heart rate spiked. He looked at the clipboard.

  Name. Patient. Time. Date. Nurse’s signature.

  He couldn’t lie, couldn’t hand her his ID and then sign in as someone else.

  Vince, just listen to me. Give the old bitch your ID. I’ll take care of it all. I promise. I promise, Vince, just do this for me and I’m going to make sure we both have everything we want. Give her the ID, Vince. Give it to her. Give it—

  Vince pulled the ID from his back pocket and handed it to the nurse, then picked up a pen and started filling out the form. It was all over in a few seconds.

  “Is anyone else with her?” Vince asked.

  “Not sure,” the nurse said, looking immediately back to her computer. “She’s on the first floor. You’re going to go right down this hallway, take your second left, and she’ll be the third door. It’s room 1046.”

  The woman didn’t look back up and Vince was actually glad for her rudeness. The less she looked at him, the less she might remember.

  Shh, Vince. Shh. Stop stressing yourself. Let’s just go on down these few hallways and then everything will be okay.

  Vince turned away from the desk and started falling into the voice’s seductive embrace once again. Down the hall, following directions he didn’t even remember, his consciousness moving further and further into the back.

  Vince slowed as he reached Emi Laurens’s hall. The voice was quiet, but only because there was no longer any need for it to talk. It had no one to convince of anything.

  Room 1046 was ahead on the left and Vince saw no one sitting outside of it. No police. No FBI. No doctors or nurses. No protection at all. He moved to the opposite side of the hallway and walked slowly toward the room, peering in through the slight crack in the door. Someone was lying in a bed, a curtain half drawn around them … but that was all. No one else.