Submitted by Thalia Wallace-Bennet on March 12th, 2018.
I think I met the Devil recently. Whether I mean that in a literal, fallen angel sense or more of a “we all have the devil inside of us” way depends on the day. Either way, I’m not entirely sure how I feel about the Adversary I met.
I work at a very fancy restaurant in Chicago. I’m not comfortable saying which, and I’m not even entirely sure I would be allowed to, but suffice it to say it is incredibly fancy. Like, triple digit reservation costs fancy. I don’t mind it, it pays pretty well, and it can be fun to watch the rich people, listen to what they complain about. As you can imagine, only a certain number of people can afford to eat there consistently. There are always occasional one offs, someone trying to impress a date or celebrate an anniversary. But mostly it’s the regulars. Again, I don’t mind them. There are times when I hate them so much, despise that they can live how they do and still complain. Not to mention some of them are far from polite. But mostly I enjoy taking their money. I don’t mind if they give me a tip because it makes them look good in front of their rich friends, either way I get to treat myself a little. I know most of their names, as they love to hear themselves say it for their reservations or in general stories. But I never knew his. And I hated serving him.
I called him “John Hat” to my friends. I did so not because it was his name, but because he was about as generically rich American as they came, and he always wore a hat. Quite a few people who ate there wore hats of various kinds, but they would generally take it off as they sat, or at least to eat. But John never took his off. It wasn’t even anything special, just a battered old brown thing that only occasionally matched his suits. I don’t know why the hat thing stood out to me so much, it was far from the weirdest thing about his meals. The weirdest thing, at least before the night he too met the Adversary, was that he always ate alone. He would set his reservations far in advance, and he would always pay for every seat at every table. Usually he would bring a few people, friends or business partners, and they would discuss various things for a few hours. I never understood what they would talk about, they used a lot of jargon that isn’t from any job I know of. Still, they would wait between one and three hours, and then John would gesture me over. Normally I would greet customers by name, as it fed their ego to be recognized, and that often got me a larger tip, but of course I could not greet him as such. I called him “sir” the first time, assuming he would not want me to ask a name as he had placed his reservation anonymously. He corrected me, firmly, but not rudely. “Doctor.” I never got it wrong again.
Still, he would call me over, I would smile and say “What can I get you Doctor?” and he would place his order. Then, once his meal was done, he would simply stop speaking to his associates. They could be in the middle of a spirited discussion, laughing or debating, and yet he would stop dead. Of course, he had no need to speak. I imagine that they were somehow briefed, as were we on the instructions under the reservation. First, his associates would leave. Then, the cooks would finish up in the kitchen, and they would leave. Then, and only then, when only him and myself remained, would he begin eating. I was told to stay, to silently sit at the front until he was done and he left. Then I would take his dishes and clean them, a job that was not mine to cover, but still. I always felt unsafe alone with that man, but that was not what I hated. What I hated was that last instruction.
I would be compensated heartily for staying behind and doing this work. The tip he would give me would be more than I got most weeks entirely. And to earn I had only to do one thing. I could not look at him while he ate. A simple request, and honestly not a difficult one given that I would be seated facing away from him. But I hated it. That I would be treated not only in a way where I was expected to do duties outside my job, but also that I would be deemed unworthy to look at him felt like an insult that I could not forgive. It may seem petty, but it made my blood boil. And yet I obeyed, and sure enough he paid well for it.
Things only changed a few months before the night. Most of John’s routine went unchanged, but suddenly, every time he came to dine, he would be flanked by five people of rigid composure. I knew right away they had to be some sort of bodyguards, he was not the first to have one or two stand by him while he was there. Whether the guests who hired them actually expected to be attacked or just wanted to look like they did was always unclear to me. Either way, five felt excessive to me. But that wasn’t what surprised me, eccentric as this man had always been. What surprised me is that the guards were allowed to stay while he ate. Similar to me, they seemed to not be allowed to look at him. A few times I saw one of them sneak a glance, and while John made no scene at the time, that same guard would never return with him. Even then, I never expected to see the guards have to do their work while I was there. I just assumed he had some sort of paranoid delusions. I was wrong.
Now, I don’t believe I’ve mentioned, but John dined every other Sunday, like clockwork. After a few months of it, the restaurant took to just listing themselves as closed on those nights, to minimize confusion and guests showing up expecting to be seated. Still, occasionally people would show up. That was a large part of my job, whether or not I was the only staff member there. Politely but firmly turning away people when the seats were full, the restaurant was closing, or they simply didn’t meet the standards of the establishment. Or, of course, if it was John Hat night. As such, I was not surprised to see someone approaching the door, especially given it was New Years. It had been many hours since the year had turned, but still some liked to celebrate. What first surprised me was that when this man reached for the handle on the door, the door swung open before him. I always locked that door behind the cooks when they left. I was sure I had done so that night. But in the man strode. I panicked, I sort of just rushed forward, pushing the man back outside. It was rude, to be sure, but the idea of him having said anything, or worse yet, looking at John, made me feel a deep dread. He did not resist, though when I felt the shape of his arm through his jacket sleeve, I had no doubt he could have pushed through me with ease. When we were outside, that was the first time I really looked at him.
He was beautiful. I don’t mean in any regard that I was attracted to him, I mean it in the way I would say it when looking at a marble statue. While he wore a fairly unremarkable outfit, rather ragged if anything, he himself was pristine as if the result of the labor of countless tireless sculptors. What stood out to me though were his eyes. They were relatively normal, a simple hazel that was far from uncommon, yet they had a depth to them like I had never seen. They seemed to look directly at me, and while so many of my customers looked directly past me, these eyes saw me. Not in a way that felt threatening or calculated, but in the way of a close friend who truly listens. There was a sadness to them too, the kind that made me want to hug him and tell him it would be alright.
He pulled an earbud from his ear, only now drawing my attention to the wires that had led to both ears. He pulled out an old portable Walkman, wrapping the cord around the device while keeping the other earbud in. “I’m very sorry for barging in,” he said, “I hope I didn’t get you in any trouble.”
I told him of course that we were closed, that someone had bought out all the seats and so unfortunately I could not offer him a seat. He smiled a genuine smile, looking almost apologetic despite me being the one turning him away. “It’s quite alright. Do you mind if I tell you one thing?” I nodded, confused.
There are certain things I’ve never told anyway. There are deep shames that I barely am able to confess to myself. Because even if I told someone, and even if they told me it was ok, or that it wasn’t my fault, it would feel like an insult, a sort of false reassurance. But when he told me that he forgave me for those things, when he spoke of those things he never could know about and told me it truly, genuinely wasn’t my fault, that I was “undeserving of my own self inflicted punishments,” I believed him. I believed him in ways that years of counseling had failed to make me believe. I cried then, and he helped me get to the ground without falling, though he was sure to not touch me any longer or more than was necessary to guide me safely in my fall.
I don’t know how much time passed. I don’t know why the guards hadn’t come to check what had happened to me, for it must have been several minutes. But when I began to calm, he said to me “I wish you no harm, Thalia. I need to step inside for a moment, I hope that’s alright.” I nodded, for what else could I do? He smiled gently, reaching out a hand. “My name is Perry, it was good to see you.” Then he switched out the tape in his device for a new one, putting his earbud back in his ear. I did not hear the music he played. He approached the doors, and his steps took on a sort of dancelike quality. It reminded me of something I had seen at a wedding once, though I am hardly a dancer myself. I heard confused shouts from inside, and yet still he danced. 1-2-3, 1-2-3, he turned a corner to where I could no longer see him from my place on the pavement. But I wanted to see that dance. I crawled carefully inside, where I could hear motion and sounds of a struggle from around that corner. Peeking out from behind, I saw him fighting with the guards. They shot at him a few times, I even saw one hit his leg with a splatter of blood. Still, he danced. I had never seen someone die, and yet the tenderness with which he put them down was not anything like what I could have imagined. His movement was so fast that they must have died before they even realized the full extent of their danger.
Eventually it was just him and the Doctor. The Doctor was terrified, you could see it. I could not see Perry’s face, and I wonder often how he looked at the man sprawled on the ground before him, the overturned table that had protected him tossed to the side. What I did see was him reaching down slowly towards the hat that had flown to the side. If anything, the Doctor’s terror seemed to intensify in that moment. Perry reached into the hat, and drew out a slender, sort of copperish knife. It was straight, adorned with designs I couldn’t make out at the distance I stood away. And yet as Perry took it in his hand I saw flame engulf it. I expected Perry to cry out in pain, but he simply lifted the dagger in the air before his face, letting the heat leap onto his skin. When the fire dissolved, the blade was different. It had taken on a sick curve, like the talon of a bird. Before he could truly process anything, Perry drove the blade into the Doctor’s chest. He died instantly, I’m sure of that. While a great amount of blood flowed from the wound, he felt none of it. And when the flames overtook his body, he felt none of their burn.
Perry turned to me then. He did not seem surprised to see me. In retrospect, I believe I might have screamed at some point, though I can’t be sure. He walked towards me, the dance gone from his movements. He had taken out his tape, switching it once again back to the original he had tucked away. He removed his one earbud, and he reached into his jacket pocket. I felt fear like I’ve never felt in that moment. I don’t know what manner of tool I expected him to withdraw and use to bring my end, but it was not what happened. Instead, he withdrew a white rose. It wasn’t particularly eye-catching, simple as it was, but it was a wonder it hadn’t been crushed in his jacket. He handed it to me. “The blood is done now. I have one last request of you.” I could tell he was sincere immediately. This would be a request, not an order or a threat. Just simply a favor asked. “I would like five minutes before you call the police. Would that be alright?” This time when I nodded, I did so much more consciously. It felt that I owed him this. Of course I could give him so little, if only to push away the grief in those eyes a bit.
I stood then, preparing to leave him for that time. But he said I could stay. He said I could watch, if I liked. And I did. I know not if the tears he shed then were for the lives he had taken, or for something much deeper, but I watched as he wept tears of a deep, genuine grief. I did this, and only this for exactly four minutes. In this time the Doctor’s body had burnt to nothing, not even bone or ash remaining. The fire had not spread beyond him, and it disappeared from sight along with the last of Perry’s tears.
I told the cops about the Doctor, and that a man had come in, killed his guards, and taken him. They seemed to believe me, I almost believed myself. I clutched my rose the entire time. If they noticed it, they never asked. I often wonder why I would lie for someone who would do such an evil thing. I wonder if perhaps I was compelled in some way, made to act against my own will. But underneath it all, in my calmer moments, I know the truth. That I would do it all again.
Addendum
Reports like this always cause us to dive back into debates of the relation between myth, legend, and our work. So often do we read about works of the Devil that it makes it hard to take seriously. My mentor is quick to cite the Lancaster Proposal. I am prone to agree with her. Of course, we are unable to travel beyond conjecture. I do wonder how Dr. Lancaster would feel, having his theories applied to his own murder. I would like to think he would be honored, but honestly I doubt he would feel much beyond his disdain for having died.
Regarding this case in more practical terms, █ █████ ████ ███ ███ ████ ████ ███ ████ ███████████ █████ ██████ ██████ █████ █ ██████████ ███████ ████ █████ ██ ███ █ ██████ ██ ████ ████ ██ █ ███████ █████ ████ █ ████ ██████ ██ ███ ████ ████████ ██ ██ █████ █████ ████ ████████ ███ ██████ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ██ ███ ██ ██████████ ███ █████████ █████ ███ ████████ ████ █████████ ██ ██████ ██ ███████ ███ █████ █ █████ ████ ███ ███████ ████████████ ███ ████████ ███████ █████ ██ ██ █ █████ ██████████ ██ ███ █████ ████ █████ █ ██████ ██ ████████ ██████ █████ ███████████████ ████ █████ ███ ████████ ██ ██ ████ ██████ ████ ███ ████████ ███ ████ ███ ████ ████ ██ █████████ ██ ██████ ██ █ ███ ████ ██ ████ ███████ ██ ██ ███████████ █ ████ ████ ████ ███ ██████ █ ████████
P███████ █████,
Junior Analyst
Re: Addendum
I would like to retract my previous statements and apologize for the harm they have caused. I have been made aware of the error in my thinking. I hope I can be forgiven.
P███████ █████,
Junior Analyst.
Mod Discussion
Madeline_Brante: This is a strange one. It feels much more human than some of the reports I’ve read so far. On top of that, the extra burns seem to hide a great deal this time. I of course made the connection between these redacting flames and those flames in the story, but I don’t think there is a connection. Whatever that thing I saw was, it was no man, and it certainly didn’t strike me as one to grieve its victims.