Section 130
By Katrinka Mannelly
SECTION 130
By Katrinka Mannelly
Cover design by Vincent Rospond This edition published in 2019
Zmok Books, is an imprint of
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Copyright © Katrinka Mannelly
ISBN 978-1-950423-04-0
Bibliographical References and Index
1. Fiction. 2. Horror. 3. Dark Fantasy
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Section 130
by Katrinka Mannelly
Snap
The knock startled Eleanor. Nobody knocked on the door of a third-floor walkup. ‘I probably shouldn’t answer’ flashed through her mind as she opened it.
A lanky teenage girl looked at Eleanor, sighed, and brushed past her into the apartment. She smelled like a wood-burning stove.
“Excuse me. You can’t just walk in here. Who are you?”
“I don’t excuse you. I just did. And I’m Jezebeth.” With that, the scruffy teen plopped down on the couch.
“Do I know you?” “Nope.”
“Are you here for Viv or Denise? Because they’re not here.”
“No. I guess I should have said, ‘you don’t
know me yet.’ I’m here for you, E. I chose a time I knew your roommates would be away for a while.” “My name is Eleanor, not E, and nobody calls
me that anyway. How do you know about my room- mates? Don’t sit on my couch. You smell weird. Either tell me who you are, or get out.”
“I told you. I’m Jezebeth, and I’m calling you E from here on.”
“Are you on drugs?”
“No. Do you have any? ‘Cuz, E, that would be awesome.”
“I don’t take drugs.”
“I didn’t think so. I’m a demon from hell. You sent for me, E.”
“Excuse me?”
“I already told you, I don’t excuse you, so stop asking.”
“I didn’t send for any demon from hell. You need to get out now, or I’ll call the police.”
“Go ahead and call. It’ll just delay things, and I’m in no hurry. Plus, I have lots of tricks. You will get all frustrated and flustered when they get here, and I’ll enjoy it quite a bit. I believe the number is 911?”
This tall, tanned, dark-haired teen in frayed black clothes looked more like an undernourished punk rocker wannabe than a demon.
“Okay, I’m guessing this is a prank. It’s not working.”
“You don’t have any friends who would prank you. Actually, you don’t really have that many friends at all, do you, E?”
That hit a nerve. It was one of many sore subjects for Eleanor, who unconsciously crossed her arms and tightened her jaw, “Okay, tell me this, Demon Girl, when exactly did I send for you?”
“You exactly sent for me, E, when you were at the club Avenue C with people from work – who aren’t really your friends, FYI – Jason the temp went to the bathroom and you said, ‘I’d let the devil do his worst for one night with that temp.’”
Eleanor blushed all over her small, pale body. Bombed out of her mind on Riesling and daiquiris, she had said that, and she regretted it.
“Do you know Jason? Are you his under-aged girlfriend or something? Because it was barely even a one-night stand, and it was almost a month ago.” “Oh, I know. And no, I don’t know Jason except what I read about him in your file. I told you, I’m a demon, and by the way, I’m older than I look. About the timing, I have a huge caseload and things are always backed up in Hell.”
“I have a file in Hell?”
“Yep. You started it when you proffered the deal. The phrase we really like to hear is ‘I’d sell my soul for…,’ but you went with the softball, ‘I’d let the devil do his worst for…’ and I’m his worst, which actually means I’m the best at what I do, and I’m here to torment you per your deal.”
“You are here to torment me?”
“Yep. When it comes to me, that’s what ‘his worst’ means.”
“So how are you going to do it?”
“We’ll see.” With that Jezebeth picked up one of Viv’s People magazines and started flipping through the pages with the quick rhythm of a metronome, obviously uninterested.
“Are you doing that to annoy me?” “Does it annoy you?”
“No,” Eleanor snapped, even though it did, a lot. She sat across from Jezebeth in an over-stuffed chair feeling uncomfortably out of control and trying to figure out her next move. The room went silent except for the steady sound of page flipping.
“Prove you’re a demon.” “Why?”
“You’ve given me no reason to believe you’re a demon, so prove it.”
“Ask nicely.” “What?” “Ask nicely.”
Eleanor did not want to ask nicely, but she didn’t want to back down either. Through gritted teeth, Eleanor said, “Please prove it” in the most sarcastic tone she could muster.
Jezebeth pulled off her shabby knit beanie and parted her hair so two small horns showed through. They were short, about two inches, blood red, and looked like bone.
“Wanna see my tail too?”
Eleanor tried to hide her shock. Jezebeth slid her beanie back on and gloated. She leaned back, laced her hands behind her head, and crossed her feet on the coffee table.
“Denise is very particular about that table.
Get your boots off it.”
Eleanor yanked the table about six inches in her direction, leaving Jezebeth’s feet unsupported. They stuck out suspended for a minute until Jezebeth lowered them. Then she leaned forward, stared Eleanor in the eyes, placed the tips of all ten fingernails on the table, and slowly scraped her hands back. A painful screech filled Eleanor’s ears, and the stink of burnt lacquer assaulted her nose as ten long scratches materialized on the table.
“That was unprofessional. In fact, you’re fired. Get out.”
Jezebeth laughed. “You can’t fire me, E.” “Why not? I’m your client, and I am unhappy with your service. That’s how it works. You’re fired.”
“You are not my client. You’re my victim, my assignment, my case. You don’t get to call the shots.”
“Then I want to speak to your boss.” “You want to speak to Satan?”
“Yes. I’d like to register a complaint. You said you are the best at this, and clearly you’re not.”
“You want to complain to Satan that I’m not good enough at tormenting you?”
“He should be aware that his so called ‘best demon’ sucks at her job.”
“
How so, E?”
“For one thing, my name’s not E. In addition, you haven’t explained anything to me. I don't know the schedule. When do you intend to start or stop? What kind of torment you will be employing? You seem to have no process. I personally live by Blain Gold’s Three P’s of Management. Surely, you’ve heard of it? I mean, do you even have a plan? Procedures you follow or anything? All you’ve done so far is pretend to read a magazine and destroy my roommate’s property.”
“Wow. You’re a piece of work. Your file says you're a tight-ass, but you take the cake, E.”
“My file does not say I’m a tight-ass. I’m not a tight-ass.”
“You are and it does, E.”
“I am an organized, confident, competent woman. Unlike you, I am good at my job.”
“You are an uptight, bossy, pain-in-the-ass, and I guess that makes you an adequate event planner at the Family Fun-Time Inn, but that’s not much to write home about, E. The truth is, they tolerate you at the office because you are so con- trolling you do all the work, and everyone else gets to slide by. It’s all in your file.”
Another direct hit and it stung, but Eleanor was not one to concede. “I think what you mean is, I’m smart. Being indispensable at work is smart.”
“So you’re a smart cookie, E? You, who trad- ed torment for a night with Jason the temp? Tell me E, how’d that work out for you?”
Horrible. Jason had given new meaning the to term ‘selfish lover.’ Eleanor woke up the next morning alone under a comforter crusted in puke, completely unsatisfied, with thirty bucks missing off her dresser. But instead of going into any of that, Eleanor changed the subject. “Do you intend to inflict pain? I have a high tolerance, but my teeth are off limits. My parents paid a lot for orthodontia. I’m thinking we should get started soon. I have a big day tomorrow. I have very large family re- union group coming in to tour the space, so I’d re- ally like to get this over with.”
“Hey, E? I don’t tell you how to do your stupid job, so don’t tell me how to do mine.” Jezebeth picked up another of Viv’s endless supply of People magazines and went back to disinterested flip- ping.
Eleanor couldn't stand it. “You suck. I’m going to bed.”
After about ninety minutes Eleanor came back into the living room in a matching pajama and robe set. “I can’t sleep. I keep thinking you’re going to spring into my bedroom with an air horn or a bucket of cold water or something.”
Jezebeth did not look up from her latest magazine. “That’s an insult, E. An air horn? I’m no amateur.”
“Well, you’re no pro either. Do you realize you’ve been here for hours and you’ve done nothing? The waiting is maddening, so could you please get on with it all ready? Do you remember that I mentioned Blain Gold’s Three P’s of Management? Blain teaches that planning, productivity, and process equal progress.”
“Isn’t that four Ps?”
“That’s a common misunderstanding of those who have not actually attended the seminars; the three Ps of management result in the ultimate P, success. It is a great system and Blain’s a genius. I consider him a mentor really. Even though we’ve only met in person for a few minutes during a Q and A session, we connect he and I. I can bring you a few of his books if you want to take a look.”
Jezebeth continued flipping.
Eleanor tried another tack, “Jezebeth, I’m not sure if you’re inept – perhaps due to lack of training, or lazy, or uninspired, but nothing is happening here, so I was thinking, maybe you have an evaluation of some sort? Like a Survey Mon- key? I could fill it out and say you did a great job tormenting me, even though you haven’t. I could swear you were here all night torturing away while really you could go anywhere and do anything you want. Find somebody with drugs, since you’re into that. It could be a win-win. You get a free night out, and I get to put this whole thing behind me and get some sleep. What do you think?”
“Nice try, E, but no.”
Exasperated, Eleanor looked around and noticed something she hadn’t before on the table. “Is that Donny’s water? Did you get that from my fridge? Did you drink it?”
“Yeah. I got thirsty and found this bottle. Oh, I also ate the leftover spaghetti and a box of Thin Mints I found in the freezer. What’s the big deal, E?”
“I can’t believe it. You drank Donny’s water. That is a bottle that Donny Osmond drank from. Do you not see how it says ‘Donny’s water’ in big, black, sharpie letters? Jeez! I snatched it at a book signing he did. I’ve had that for six years. It is one of my most prized possessions, and you drank it. That’s it. That. Is. It. We’re done here. You are the worst demon ever. You drank Donny’s water. And you ate my lunch for tomorrow and Viv planned for those cookies to last her a year – that’s why they were in the freezer. Get out.”
“Okay, I can see getting upset about the lunch and the cookies, but six-year-old backwash from a B-lister is just sad. And gross. I can’t believe I drank it. Yuck.”
“You stole from me. Get. Out.”
“I’m a demon, E. We steal stuff all the time so…sorry, not sorry. And like I keep telling you, I’ll decide when we’re done here.”
Eleanor fumed, marched back to her bed- room, and hollered, “I hate you. You owe me a celebrity water, and lunch, and cookies, and a new table too.” She slammed the door behind her.
Jezebeth kept flipping.
Around 6 a.m. a beaten, exhausted version of Eleanor reappeared. Jezebeth understood the look well. She knew Eleanor had imagined a thou- sand different horrors that night. Knew she had lamented at least a hundred ways that her life was less meaningful and special without her precious Donny water. And knew she had turned over and over in her mind everything Jezebeth was doing wrong. Eleanor’s eyes looked glazed over and her whole faced was puffed from lack of sleep and cry- ing. Her shoulders slumped in defeat. “Um, I wrote that complaint memo, to your boss that we talked about.” Eleanor weakly held up a note.
Jezebeth stood and took it from her. “Damn E, you didn’t just ruminate, you wrote it down and addressed it to Satan himself. The tight-asses should make you their queen.”
On Hello Kitty stationary in neat penman- ship it said:
MEMO
TO: Satan, Lucifer (Morning Star), Beelzebub, Devil, Prince of Power, et al.
RE: Jezebeth Satan,
As you know, on the evening of Thursday, March 14, 2017, one demon Jezebeth was dispatched from Hell to torment one Eleanor Rose Hitchcock (me). I regret to inform you she has not fulfilled her duties, and her services have been poor, if not extremely un- professional. See the bullets below:
• If she had done her research she would know that it is well established that I am afraid of: clowns, earwigs, ankle fat, The Blair Witch Project, and the dark. Jezebeth does not seem to know this, has not so much as mentioned any of these, nor has she even at- tempted to turn off the lights (such a simple, obvious tactic).
• There has been no physical injury, or even threat of injury to my person.
• She did irreparable damage to one of my roommate’s tables and ate an entire box of my other roommate’s Thin Mint cookies. As neither of these women were her assigned client, I expect you or she will make restitution for these items. Note: the table was a gift purchased in Thailand and the cookies, sold by the Girl Scouts of America, are only available for a limited time, so your procurement department should get to work on replacing these items A.S.A.P. (as soon as possible).
• No attempt whatsoever has been made to ex- plain any plan of action for torment. I have no idea what to expect and no vision of what she intends. Nor has a timetable been discussed.
• She also called me a “tight-ass” which is extremely inappropriate and untrue. I am a smart, organized, confident, competent woman. There is a big difference between the two.
• Overall, I rate Jezebeth’s performance as exceedingly unsatisfactory.
In conclusion, I am surprised that an authority such as yourself would not utilize a quality ma
nagement system. I strongly recommend Blain Gold’s Three P’s of Management. Your demon, Jezebeth, would most certainly benefit from Blain’s proven system and training. Please contact me by cell phone at 286.444.9021 with questions or to discuss any of this in greater detail.
Jezebeth examined messy, tired, broken Eleanor. “Wow, E. I kind of admire you. You have tenacity, and that’s something I really believe in. But you are also coo-coo for coco puffs.” Jezebeth ripped up the memo.
Eleanor didn’t have much left. She sort of flopped her head around, spread out her hands, and whined, “What’s wrong with you? Why are you dragging this out? What did you even do all night?”
Jezebeth dropped back down on the couch. “You know. This.”
Snap.
Jezebeth didn’t hear it. She felt it. It rever- berated through the room and made her bones hum.
“This? Well, I can’t stand this! This sucks and you suck! Please just torment me! Do it now! Get it over with! This is torture! You are the worst! I hate this and I hate you! Torment me all ready, you jerk!”
Ah, the true breaking point, sweet, sweet music to Jezebeth’s ears. Less than twenty-four hours, too. She grinned. I’ve still got it. “Told you,
E. I’m his worst, which means I’m the best, the best at what I do.”
Makes Perfect Sense
With great anticipation, Tam prepared to meet her spirit animal.
In her trance-like meditative state she saw herself, in her mind’s eye, walking across a small wooden bridge toward her imagined safe and sacred space. For Tam, this meant a sunny meadow filled with yellow and white wildflowers that swayed together in the breeze. As directed by Coco, the facilitator, Tam looked down toward her feet.
Then Coco prompted Tam and the rest of the group to look up slowly. Tam inhaled, excited and eager. She gazed out at…what the hell? Tam shook her head side to side. No. No, no, no, no!
Section 130 Page 1
