The Crooked Snake

Nick held Alicia’s tattered stuffed dog to his chest.

“I don’t want the money.” She said. Her tone sent frost crystals through the receiver.

“Then I’m done.” Nick retorted.

He hung up. Another ally alienated. The isolation felt like freedom and decay at the same time. His old English teacher had supported his journey, through failures and successes, while he was on it. Now he was nowhere, waiting to die. He threw the doll across the couch and collapsed his face into his hands. He had honestly believed she was going to take the money. Signing away the royalties was his way of giving himself permission to disappear.

A crimson-skinned horned thing sat next to him.

Not great. It thought at him.

Nick stood up. He brushed his shaggy hair from his forehead. Nicholas Greene turned and faced the creature. He considered it wholly before responding; sharp massive toenails, like some sort of beast. No hair anywhere. Nothing present between its legs but a mound of muscle. No belly button. No nipples. Its face was the most distressing part, it was difficult to look at.

The uncanny valley reached into the depths of his brain and roiled in genetic horrors from times too ancient to fathom. As he tried to stare directly at its face, he saw a distorted visage of himself. There was no apparent shifting or morphing that took place. It seemed to always have looked that way. Something deep inside him assumed it was always there. Invisibly stroking his cheek as a baby. Softly whispering to grab bugs and knives as a toddler. Maybe it wasn’t there at all. Nick held his hands over his eyes.

When he removed them, they were standing eye to eye. The iris was rippling black water. Broken stems inside its color were glowing orange, dying embers. It spoke from his chapped red lips.

“There’s no rush. Master.” It isolated the last word, to engage its full throat. The consequence was a threat. Nick looked away from the thing. His dread beaded in sweat across his body.

Something had come to him in a dream, two nights ago. It had been worse than what was in front of him. Not worse, more. More radiant. More pure. Pure light, Nick recounted.

It had been a dream, too disorienting, too implausible to fully recount.

The Dream

“Inheritor, I claim you, as you shall claim my spirit.”

“What?” Nick asked in the ambling tone of a dream stupor. Focus was impossible, too many elements haunted the scene. A glorious crest made of light was embedded into its chest. A deep and terrible storm roared in the distance behind it. The face was beautiful, but difficult to see. Even in a dream, Nick’s eyes burned in the attempt.

“My soul craves the sins of your flesh. My spirit conspires to grant you grace. The marriage of these, is potency. In tier beneath the creator, only. From your perspective, I am infinite and cover the world.” Its wavy locks moved like undersea kelp, ascending slowly along invisible waves, falling in graceful pause. The symbol lit upon its chest started to resolve for Nick. It was familiar, sobering. Thin threads, like a heart, soaring above a bold “V”. It was known in pagan practices as the seal of Lucifer.

Then there were the wings. Six gargantuan feather-laden limbs, stretched out to the size of skyscrapers. Gold rings, scratched and chipped, adorned their humerus as far as Nick could see. The wingtips were far off, dimly glowing accoutrements hinted at their glory.

“Are you…the Devil?”

“An absurdity. An affront.” Through burning perception, Nick noticed a slight smile cross its lips. “Naivety so profound, scrolls burn in ire of the claim.” He turned his elegant face up. His hair perfectly coiled around his features. It wasn’t brunette or blond but rather a flame of the two colors constantly burning between them in temperature.

“Who are you?” Nick asked meekly.

He held his hands to his chest. The angel before him only smiled in response. His eyebrows seemed to naturally curve, like a predator on the cusp of pouncing. Nick could feel a direct energetic connection between the terror in his heart and this entity. It felt as though the angelic creature was greedily devouring it, an invisible worm, gnashing through his chest. Nick wasn’t sure it would stop with his fear. The sense of predation encompassed him physically and energetically. It was a challenge. Something whispered, “Cast it all away.” through his bones, with no sound.

“I think I should decline.” Nick responded after hesitation. There was no immediate sound, but rather the distinct energy of maniacal laughter. The angel turned his features back toward Nick.

“It is fate.” The angel responded. An image as tall as a castle appeared behind the entity. Upon it was displayed Nick’s astrological birth chart. As a practicing pagan, Nick was familiar enough with it. This chart was everything he was familiar with, except bright red lines were drawn between placements, highlighting a sigil, identical to the angel’s crest.

“I rebuke thee.” Nick said in an apologetic tone. His dream self became garbed like a pope. Staff in hand, he immediately dropped it like it was burning and held his hands up toward the angel, “No offense.” The entity didn’t move. It stood stoically, even-tempered and watchful. There was a great tense moment before it finally broke character and smiled at him again. It was not a pleasant smile to receive.

The memory was interrupted. His attention was drawn back to the crimson devil in front of him. It pulled at his mind with indescribable thought-talons. “Ask me your questions, Nicholas.” Its voice was deep and far, as if the sound had to travel over the long planes of hell to escape its throat.

“Who are you?” He asked, unable to breathe properly.

“Friend.” It said, making a bow.

“What do you want?” Nick asked.

“A mystery.” It spoke in a stilted rhythm, as if he were answered by two insipid lizards, fortified in its belly.

“Am I on drugs?” Nick asked sincerely. He tested his temperature with a palm against his forehead.

“Yes.” It responded. Nick considered this for a moment.

“Is this a hallucination?” He followed up.

“No.”

“What do you want?” He asked again, desperate.

“A mystery.” The creature’s jaw went slack and the voices were carried out of its throat on a breeze of sulfur and wood ash.

Nick turned and ran to his bedroom. He sprinted to his nightstand, pulling the drawer from it in his frantic pace. Its contents scattered, half hopped to the floor. He grabbed a pendant from the chaos. It was obsidian and selenite, wrapped in a spiraling black thread. He affixed the silver chain of the necklace around his neck.

Nick turned around to see the creature standing in the doorway. It looked down at his necklace with a sneer. The parts of its body that had passed the doorway began to be speckled with white. Small particles started to fall from in a whole body dandruff. The strong smell of salt assaulted Nick’s nose. The creature took a quick step backwards. Its features darkened. Its face was turned down and twisted into a scowl. The hallway light suddenly blinked out. The light flickered back on, there was nothing standing in the hallway where it had been. The smell of salt remained, though fainter.

Nick gathered his courage and ventured half a step forward, toward the door. He examined the floor where it had stood. The cheap vinyl of the hallway met the bedroom’s carpeting. Sprinkled throughout were bits of what appeared to be salt. One small packet could have been carelessly tossed to excuse its volume. Nick sidled up to his bed and sat down, heavy with shock and grief. He let out an agonized groan and dropped his face into cupped hands.

What am I on? He begged himself to remember.

Deep down, he knew the truth. Mushrooms in college. Once. That had been fifteen years ago. He reeled at the notion, then tossed it away. I could have been drugged. At the gas station? He scoffed out loud at the notion. It was the only place he’d been today. Didn’t people put acid on public telephones in the eighties or something? Propaganda. Fear mongering. An angry foreign voice lamented inside Nick’s mind.

his eyes locked in terror, the idea of sleeping terrified him. The idea of doing anything but looking directly at that empty spot felt dangerous. The act of doing so also inspired great fear in him. Maybe I should salt everything. He immediately got up. Nick took a step toward the door and his courage faltered. What if I just can’t see it? Cold sweat wet his armpits.

“I was drugged at the gas station.” He said aloud. “I have hallucinated. I may hallucinate more. I am going to salt my house, to placate myself. Then, I am going to sleep the high off.” He chanted.

He poured salt everywhere nonsensically, from his largest container. He dripped it in a heavy flow in every corner, until it was empty. He paced around the house to calm his nerves once the task was done, but only succeeded in ruminating. Nick did another tour of salt with his small shaker, this time at the doorways and into a circle where it had stood.

“Everything is fine. I can wait until the sun comes up to sleep.” He told himself, over hours as he sat upright in bed, staring at the salt circle in the hallway. Every light in the house was on. “I’ll just watch TV.” He put on mindless content. Nick looked over at his bedside alarm clock. He waved his hand over his phone so the time would appear. 3:32am. His stomach sank and capsized. Not a great time to look at the clock.

A moment later, salt, as if from a shotgun, burst through the bedroom doorway. It was fired across the room, shattering the window at the opposite wall. Pits appeared in the wall and curtains around it. Nick looked back in horror from the window to the empty hallway for the rest of the dark hours. Once the sun rose, he left the house.