The Devil Eats Here (Multi-Author Short Story Collection) (12 page)

Damn Laurie and that scrumptious little body he could never get enough of. Damn her that she always had to be thinking. Damn those insufferable writers clawing for a piece of him. Damn his miserable life. Damn the lot to hell!

Ahead and across the street, a neon sign with a flickering "M" shone like a beacon guiding storm-tossed travelers to harbor. Williams lowered his head to the rain and stepped between parked cars. Damn. Damn, damn, damn, damn, damn—

Brakes screamed amidst sudden headlights.

DAMN!

*

He couldn’t remember coming to. Nor could he remember anything else. Odd that he should be at a desk instead of in a hospital bed.

And the room was hot; dry heat, like that night in Phoenix when the air conditioner crapped out. Thermostat must be stuck. He looked for it and saw nothing, just bare walls, indistinct in a pale light that came from everywhere; walls, his chair, an austere desk, and a door without a knob. He ruminated on the kind of place where doors didn't open from the inside and pulled himself back from the thinking.

Austere? He sneered at the furnishings. Damned Bauhaus to the extreme; all glass and chrome, not a breath of life in it. A single envelope occupied the center of the glassy desktop. Addressed to him. He frowned. Maybe it would explain his situation and surroundings. He tore open the envelope and unfolded the two pages of content:

“Dear Mr. Williams:

We regret to inform you that your body of work does not meet the requirements of—”

His jaw dropped. A rejection letter? To him? A form letter at that? How dare they! And he could show these fools a thing or two about rejections. But when had he ever queried anybody? He skimmed over stock text to the end:

“As the decision of this office is final and irrevocable, please do not trouble us with further queries, now or throughout all eternity.
[That bit wasn't bad.]

In accordance with your expressed wishes, alternate accommodations have been arranged. A recent example of your work used in this determination is attached.

Sincerely,
Peter Van Sant
Director of Admissions”

Williams' mouth went dry. He thumbed to the attachment.

“Dear Ms. Rayne:

If I weren't right in the middle of a reading and evaluation period with a deadline looming...”

Leathery footfalls padded to a halt outside the doorway. Metal ground against metal as the latch began to turn. The room grew much hotter.

THE DEVIL EATS HERE

by Rayne Hall

A sign in the diner's dust-grimed window, handwritten on thick cardboard, halted Manda in her stride.  'The Devil Eats Here.'

She checked her watch: just after twelve, almost time for lunch. The door jingled as she pushed it open.

Men in stained khaki shirts sat slouched, with elbows on the tables, their noses scanning yesterday's
Sun
. Henna-haired girls hid their faces behind big mugs. On chequered plastic tablecloths stood plastic bottles of brown sauce, and pink plastic flowers in plastic vases. The air was thick with the smells of ketchup and frying grease.

The Devil, if he really dined here, had very common tastes.

The woman behind the counter had the shape of a good-sized garbage can, greasy tied-back hair, short fingernails, and a dozen clunky rings on each hand. The name-tag on her ample chest said ‘Barbie’.

Manda studied the chalk-scribbled menu on the blackboard. “I’ll have scrambled egg on toast – wholemeal if you have it - and a large coffee. So the Devil eats here?” She waited for a flat joke.

Barbie stirred instant granules into hot water. “Yes, love, he comes here for lunch. That’s him, by the wall, just under the clock.”

“The gentleman in the Arsenal sweatshirt?”

“Yes, love. He likes to sit there and watch folks. Always has his ham & pickle sarnie, and a black coffee.”

Middle-aged with a receding hairline, the alleged devil looked disappointingly normal.

“Here’s your coffee, love,” Barbie said. “I’ll bring the egg later. Why don’t you go and sit with the Devil? He quite likes company.”

Picking up a spoon and a sugar sachet, Manda crossed the room. Her knees quaked a little, but her curiosity won. “Mind if I join you?”

“Not at all, Miss.”

Manda dropped into the blue plastic chair opposite him, poured sugar into her coffee and sipped. It tasted like sweetened dishwater. Since her table companion made no effort to launch a conversation, she took a deep breath and started. “My husband and I moved to this area only two months ago. We live at the other end of the town.”

With a full mouth, he nodded. He chewed for a long time, swallowed, and finally said, “Nice town.”

“Ah, yes. I’m glad you say so. I find it rather devoid of cultured entertainment and nightlife. I miss the big city, but my husband…” She sighed. “Have you lived here long?”

“I don’t live here. I only come for lunch.”

Playing with her scratched stainless-steel spoon, she pondered about the protocol for asking a man if he was indeed the Devil.

At last, she decided to introduce herself. “I’m Manda.”

His thin lips formed into a pleasant smile. “Nice to meet you, Manda. I’m the Devil.”

“The Prince of Hell?” She let a note of scepticism swing in her voice.

“Do you want to see proof?” At a snap of his fingers, his pupils glowed red like light bulbs on a Christmas tree. Another snap, and his forehead contorted. Two dainty horns sprouted from his receding hairline, red with black scaly stripes.

Manda gulped and stared, transfixed. Her heart beat with the speed of a blender on ‘high’. Taking courage, she asked, “Forgive my curiosity, but what brings you here?”

“Barbie’s ham sarnies. They’re the best in town. Real thick ham, straight from the butcher’s.” He stroked his chin. “I also come to tempt people. Ladies especially. Do you want to be tempted?”

Laughing, she waved her wedding ring at him. “Not a chance, Mr Devil. I’m a happily married woman. But I’m pleased to make your acquaintance. There’s so much I want to ask you about life, death and all that, I just don’t know where to start.”

“You could ask me why your husband wanted to move here.”

“Oh, I know that. We’ve come because of his job.” She blinked. “How do you know that it was Greg who wanted to move?”

“I know these things, Manda. You might care to ask where your husband goes in the evenings.”

“He’s going to the King's Arms, and to the Working Men’s Club, to get to know people in the area, and make friends.”

“Are you sure, Manda?”

“Of course I’m sure,” she said, slightly annoyed. “That’s what he told me, and that’s what I believe.”

Barbie arrived with a scrambled egg on toast for Manda, and a refill of black coffee for the Devil.

When Barbie had left, Manda felt she had to strengthen her statement. “And why shouldn’t my husband go out on his own?” She gave a little laugh. “We trust each other, Greg and I.”

The Devil took another big bite from his ham sandwich and studied her. “He is a lucky man, your husband, to have such a trusting wife.”

“Yes, he is,” Manda acknowledged, then jerked. “What are you saying?”

“Eat your egg. It’s getting cold.”

“Are you saying that my husband is unfaithful? That he wanted to move to this town because he..” She swallowed. “Because he wants to be near someone? That he’s meeting … her… on the nights when he says he’s at the Working Men’s Club?”

The Devil sipped his coffee.

Manda sliced the rubbery egg and the sodden bread, and lifted a forkful to her mouth. It was indeed cold. “Even if I were considering the possibility – which I’m not – how would I know that it’s true?”

Chuckling, he patted her hand. The cold touch made her skin crawl and she pulled away.

“I don't expect you to take my word for it, Manda. But if you were to look in his coat pockets…”

“I’m not snooping in my husband’s pockets!”

“Of course not,” he soothed. His horns retreated, and his eyes returned to bland blue-grey. “You’re not the type of woman who spies on her man. After all, you said that you totally trust each other. You wouldn’t look into his desk drawer either, which he knows, of course. I’m just saying that if your husband was unfaithful, and if you wanted evidence, that’s where you would find it.”

“Well, I know my husband is faithful, and I don’t need evidence for that.”

She finished the cold-rubber egg, gulped down the sugared brown water, and paid Barbie.

On her way home, anger bubbled in her stomach. How dare the Devil make such suggestions! She and Greg had a perfectly happy marriage, with no need to spy on each other. She trusted him absolutely.

So what if he had been acting a little strange recently? So what if he hadn’t wanted her to come to the King's Arms with him last night? So what if he had looked embarrassed when she’d entered his home office without knocking? There were perfectly natural explanations for that, she was certain.

Other women might snoop, but she would not.

And even if she were to check his coat pockets, or his desk drawer, she wouldn’t find anything suspicious.

If Greg had been reticent recently, then it was because he was tired from the move and the demands of the new job. And if he had something to hide, it was a surprise he planned for her forthcoming birthday.

Back at home, she hung her jacket on the hook, next to the coat Greg had worn last night.

Just to prove to herself how ridiculous the Devil’s suggestion was, she slid her hand into one of the pockets, and found nothing but a crumpled handkerchief. With a sigh of relief, she was about to stuff the hanky back, when something struck her as odd.

The white square was too small to be a man’s.

How did a woman’s hanky get into her husband’s pocket?

Manda sank into a chair by the cold fireplace and stared at the offending article in her hand. Surely there was a plausible explanation. Greg had worn the coat many times, including to the office. Perhaps he had been sneezing, and didn’t have his own handkerchief at hand, and a co-worker offered him hers. Or perhaps he’d found one lying in the street and picked it up.

Still, she needed to know. Confronting him would be the open, honest course of action. But that meant admitting that she had indeed snooped in his pockets. No, she needed to get more evidence for Greg’s innocence or guilt. From now on, she would watch him discreetly. If there was any hanky-panky going on, she’d soon find out.

First, a quick look into his desk drawers…

*

Meanwhile, in Barbie’s Café, the Devil paid his bill, leaving, as usual, a large tip.

“Did you enjoy the company?” Barbie asked.

“Very much,” the Devil said. “I’ve destroyed one perfectly good marriage.”

This story has been previously published in
NocturnalOoze.

ABOUT THE CONTRIBUTORS

JOHN BLACKPORT
is an American author who writes fantasy fiction. His short stories have been published in
Driftwood
and
Cutlass: Ten Tales of Pirates.
His historical military fantasy novels
Raingun, Resolution
and
Balislanka
are available as e-books.

JONATHAN BROUGHTON
lives on the south coast of England. He has published four books:
Roadkill: Four Nasty Stories, Gifts: Four Poignant Stories, Twisted: Four Paranormal Stories,
and a
Victorian thriller, The Russian White.
His short stories have also been featured in
Driftwood, Shivers, Haunted: Ten Tales of Ghosts, Bites: Ten Tales of Vampires, Scared: Ten Tales of Horror
and
Cutlass: Ten Tales of Pirates.
His author page at Amazon:
http://www.amazon.co.uk/-/e/B006SFLK8W
or follow him on
Twitter @jb121jonathan

ALICE GAINES
writes erotica and romance for Avon Impulse, Harlequin Spice Briefs, Changeling Press, and Red Sage Publishing. She lives in Oakland, California in a fixer-upper she never got around to fixing up. You can visit her website/blog at
http://www.alicegaines.blogspot.com

APRIL GREY'S
urban fantasy novel, Chasing The Trickster, is published by Eternal Press. Her short stories have been published in such print anthologies as
Demonmind's Halloween 2010, The Best of Everyday Fiction 2, Northern Haunts, Ephemera, Haunted: Ten Tales of Ghosts, Bites: Ten Tales of Vampires and Terrible Beauty, Fearful Symmetry.
Many of these stories can be found in her collection,
The Fairy Cake Bake Shoppe
available through Amazon.

RAYNE HALL
writes subtle horror and quirky fantasy fiction. She lives in a dilapidated English seaside town of former Regency grandeur where she writes subtle horror and outrageous fantasy fiction. Her short stories have been published in many magazines, e-zines and anthologies, including
NocturnalOoze, The Deepening, Byzarium, Fate&Fortune, AlienSkin, True Story, Fiction Feast, Read by Dawn Vol 1, Six Scary Tales Vol 1, 2
and
3.
She has had more than 20 books published in several genres under several pen names. The latest is the dark epic fantasy novel
Storm Dancer
. Her editing experience in the publishing industry spans three decades. She is also the editor of the
Ten Tales
series of multi-author anthologies:
Bites: Ten Tales of Vampires, Haunted: Ten Tales of Ghosts, Scared: Ten Tales of Horror, Cutlass: Ten Tales of Pirates
and more. She teaches online classes for writers:
https://sites.google.com/site/writingworkshopswithraynehall/
You can follow her on Twitter:
http://twitter.com/RayneHall
  or check her author page at
Amazon.com: http://www.amazon.com/Rayne-Hall/e/B006BSJ5BK/ref=ntt_athr_dp_pel_1