by Dan Dillard
Chapter 13
“Summoning a flesh and blood demon is frowned upon, even among hard core believers.
There are many schools of thought regarding demon summoning. One claims it means nothing more than focusing one’s mind in preparation for a difficult task. It’s not about calling Beelzebub to your living room.
Even if you could summon an actual horns-n-tail demon, it isn’t recommended without experience. How do you get experience? Work your way up?
I would start at the bottom, although that seems backwards. I should say, ‘Start shallow and dig down to Hell, working your way toward the big guy’.
-Ethan Jacobs, Electronic Journal entry #44
..ooOOoo..
Morning swooped in, courtesy of Ethan's alarm clock. He was certain that engineers designed them deliberately to make the most irritating noises in the world. Round two of the morning routine had to do with the dog dragging his tongue across Ethan's face in random, happy slurps. Three slurps were usually enough to wake him thoroughly and cover his whole face in saliva.
“I’ll take you out, buddy, just wait a sec.”
In his excitement, the dog bounced from one side of the bed to the other, making it that much more difficult for Ethan to get up.
Finally casting his legs over the side of the mattress, he clobbered his knee on the drawer of the night stand. He shouted, startling Slobber, then clicked on the lamp. Just to be sure, Ethan took mental inventory of the drawer’s contents: pad, crayon pack (minus green, which would be showing up outside sometime later), various other odds and ends—nope; the only thing out of the ordinary was the fact that the drawer was open.
It wasn’t slightly open like he hadn’t quite pushed it all the way closed, and nothing was wedged in there holding it open; it was wide open. He supposed he had been sleepier than he had originally thought, and went on about his business.
He checked the recorder. Power was still on, but it was no longer recording. After his routine, he double checked his pants for wallet and keys. He stuffed the voice recorder and ear buds in his shirt pocket. Before he left the bedroom, he shut the drawer, making a mental note of the action so he would be sure later.
As he climbed into the car, he dialed Emily and propped the phone between his ear and shoulder, pulling out of his parking space.
“Hey, boy. You never called me back last night,” she said.
“I figured you were sleeping and I was heavy into the internet.” He confessed his sins and waited for what he hoped was a favorable response.
“I’ve been replaced by a Halloween prop and some doctored ghost photos.”
She faked tears for his benefit and he shifted gears.
“Never! Ghosts don’t do the same wonderful things for me that you do,” Ethan said. An easy smile spread across his face.
“Nope, and you remember that, in case you decide to neglect me, because I’ll stop doing those wonderful things.”
“Okay, I’m sorry. I did make some interesting notes last night.”
There was boyish excitement in his voice, like he was calling to tell her what he had just gotten for his birthday.
“Well, we’ll have to talk about that later. I get the feeling that you’re going to be very hungry for some Mexican food around 5:30,” she said.
“Oh, I will?” He liked her game.
“Yes. Yes, I'm certain that you will. We’ll talk about it then.”
With that, she hung up, turning the power off so he couldn’t get the last word. Then she placed the phone in her purse.
As he pulled into the parking lot at his office, he punched a reminder for their date into his phone and locked the car with the remote. Then he sighed as he began the long trek to his desk. Around the corner to the right and the fifth cubicle on the left, number B13.
Ethan surveyed stacks of papers, the flashing light on his phone, and the empty water bottles that lined the back of his desk. He had meant to recycle them. Then he looked at his calendar, finding that there weren’t any meetings that day, nor was anything pressing due. Finally, reality clawed its way from the depths of his brain and he logged onto his machine to start the day.
Because he had recorded eight hours of audio, he thought it would keep him occupied and make the work day fly by. He rocked out to the previous night’s recordings. The delicate sounds of static interlaced with snores from both his own throat and from the pooch filled his day. Listening was mindless, with an abstract, soothing quality, and he found it funny that they never got in synch, just random snorts without any discernable pattern. This continued for roughly forty-five minutes into the audio, when there was a quiet scraping sound, and then the recording stopped.
He checked the battery.
Three quarters full. Hmm. Should be less if it was on all night.
Audio file is only 45 minutes?
He distinctly remembered turning the power off that morning. It should have shut off on its own if the recording stopped.
Had something stopped it?
It was in the same location on the night stand this morning where he remembered leaving it the previous night. The experiment would have to be run again to see if this was the result of his tired mind or if something had come into his bedroom and rearranged for him. It just didn’t make any sense.
