The Devil You Say
by P.D. Cacek

The knock echoed hollowly along the darkened porch; the sound ricocheting off the smoky Jack O'Lantern next to the front door before it was joined by the skittering of dead leaves rushing through the darkness.

He liked the sound.

Raising one taloned paw, he was about to indulge his ears again when a warm yellow light washed over him.

"I'm sorry," the woman who opened the door said, "but we're all out of candy. It's past eleven, you know."

Azazel blinked all three sets of eyes.

"I've come for John Brighton's soul," he growled as menacingly as he could.

The woman stared down at him and blinked the only pair of eyes she had.

"Oh, how cute!"

Grabbing his left rudimentary wing, she pulled him inside and slammed the door behind them both. Azazel felt something close to nausea as he surveyed the scene before him. The room was filled with softness . . . not a rock or acid pit in sight. And the only fire was a small one imprisoned behind wrought iron chains.

Disgusting!

The woman was still tugging on him when he snatched his wing away and glared up at her. Why did the living have to be so tall?

"I HAVE COME FOR JOHN BRIGHTON'S SOUL!"

"Yes, yes, dear, I know." Stooping, she chucked him under the hollow of his chin and pinched his cheek. "And I think that's just wonderful. John! Come here a second. You've got a little visitor."

"Who is it, hon?" A man's voice called from somewhere deeper in the house. "Kind of late for visitors, don't you think?"

"Oh, but you've got to see this one." The woman stood up chuckling. "And bring the kids."

Something slammed. Hard.

"Who the hell is it?" The male voice had taken on a surly tone. The woman looked down at Azazel, still smiling, and pinched his cheek again. She does that one more time, he promised himself, and I bite off a few fingers.

"And who are you supposed to be, dear?" she asked.

"Azazel," Azazel answered, imitating the surly masculine tone, "and I've come for John . . . "

"Yes, yes, dear." Bending over, she put a finger to her lips and shushed him. Azazel was shocked. So much so, that he momentarily let himself be shushed. "He says he's Azazel, hon . . . and that he's come for your soul."

"Well, tell him I sent it out to the cleaners and it hasn't come back yet!"

The man . . . John Brighton . . . walked into the room and stopped dead in his tracks, his mouth falling open as he stared into Azazel's gaze. Pulling himself up to his full 4'7" height, Azazel snapped his leathery wings against the bony ridge of his spine and snarled.

"John Brighton, I have come for your soul."

The man's mouth stopped opening and tipped upward.

"What a great costume!"

"Hey, Mom . . .Wow!" A pale vampire swirled into the room and stared at Azazel, the blood-red mouth mimicking the man's. "That's rad, dude. How do you make the tail twitch like that?"

"Oh, gross!" A small skeleton with the face of a child walked into the room, holding its blackened nose between bony fingers. "You smell like rotten eggs. Barf-O!"

"Janet," the woman said, patting Azazel's horns, "devils are supposed to smell like that."

"Demon," Azazel corrected. "I'm a demon . . . not a devil, and I've come for John Brighton's s--"

"Hey," the man, John Brighton, said, snapping his fingers, "I bet it's Lou's kid, you know, what's his name. Danny. That's it, I bet Lou got his kid decked out like this to get me back for beating him in poker last week."

Closing the distance between them, the man cuffed Azazel lightly on the side of his head and nodded.

"Great costume, Danny."

"Azazel."

"Yeah, whatever." Turning back to the woman, the man jerked his head back at Azazel and winked. "Kid's gonna win an Oscar when he grows up, take my word for it."

Azazel could feel the ice-water in his veins begin to boil. What the HELL was wrong with these people? Did Messengers from the Stygian Creek come knocking on their door every day? Jesus H, Chr--oops. "Look," Azazel said, closing four of his six eyes, "just hand over your soul and I'll be on my way. Fair enough?"

Everyone in the room clapped.

"Oh, this is just too precious. Janet, run and get me the camera, I've just got to get a picture for the album. John, see if we've got any candy left."

Above the captive fire, a clock began to chime and Azazel's blood turned back to ice.

. . . six . . . seven . . . eight . . .

Hobbling around the woman, Azazel clawed at the leg of man's trousers.

"Please,"  Forgive me, Master.  "John Brighton, you must relinquish your soul in accordance with the contract you made with my Master before the Hour of Souls has passed."

The applause was deafening.

. . . nine . . . ten . . . eleven . . .

"That's great, Danny, just great," the man chortled. "Oh, Janet . . .fantastic, the camera. Okay, kids, scrunch in together, that's right. Okay, now everybody say cheese!"

. . . twelve.

"CHEEEEEEEEEEEEESSSSSSSSSSE!"

The Master was not pleased.

"Well?" He growled, examining the roasted apple and two melting Snickers bars in His hand. "What exactly do you have to say for yourself?"

Azazel dug a cloven hoof into the asbestos carpeting of the ante-chamber and pulled the grape Toosey-Pop from his mouth. "Trick-or-Treat?"

P. D. Cacek has won the Bram Stoker Award for Short Story (1996) and the World Fantasy Award for Best Short Fiction (1998). Her books include Leavings, a short story collection; Night Prayers; and Canyons.