Leave the Light On

“You have a visitor.”

The facilitator stood in front of two heavy velvet curtains that gathered in bunches on the floor. He was almost as tall as the curtains were high, and he stood with such stillness that it appeared to the mystic that this man could have simply evaporated into the deep red abyss that hung behind him. His suit was Italian and tailored to his body with precision; something to be expected by the governing forces of this establishment. While the room these two briefly shared was intimately-sized—not uncommon in this profession—the mystic could never clearly make out the face of her facilitator. Either the lights were too low, or he was too corrupted. Probably the latter, she figured. She was never able to read the facilitators. Good enough for them.

Mere moments of silence passed before the facilitator slipped out of the room and was replaced with the client. A man, no more than thirty, emerged from the void. The light from the candles revealed a face that was worn, making him appear even older. Dark circles pulled from his lower lids. His hair, disheveled and thinning at the top, wisped around his head like a crown of thorns. The mystic wondered if it was windy outside.

His feet carried across the floor with equal parts skepticism and fear—they always did. Every step left a hollowed thud that vibrated somewhere on the back of the mystic’s skull. She could smell his fear on him before he entered the room—and now that he stood before her, she could see it permeating his flesh. She could hear his pulse. His appearance sickened her, but she couldn’t turn him away, no. She never did; She had to keep herself fed somehow.

By now, the businessman—or at least that's what the mystic called him in her head—hovered over the table opposite to her. Spread between them were three candles, a tarot deck, a small ornate brass bowl, and two tumblers—one empty, one half-filled with some kind of liquor.

“Sit.” The mystic’s voice was dark and made the man shudder. She directed him with her eyes to the low chair next to him. He obeyed. She slid the empty tumbler across the table. “Drink?”

“Oh, oh no I—” He nervously waved his hands.

“It lowers the inhibitions.” Her nonchalance disarmed the man. He lowered his hands to his sides and watched as the mystic pulled a decanter out from under the table. She poured.

Once he finished his drink—slugged back with one go—she picked up the cards and shuffled. “Tell me of these fears.”

“Fears? I’m not afraid.” He watched her hands as she slipped the cards in and out of each other. She watched his face.

“Okay, then tell me what you want to know.” The mystic placed the deck of cards onto the table and split it in three. She swept her hand over the piles, palm up, and indicated to the businessman that it was his turn to pull. “One of each,” she said.

He reached forward and pulled from the middle. Two figures in filthy shrouds walk past the stained glass window outside of a church. Snow on the ground. One figure is on crutches. The glass window has five pentacles.

“Physical loss. At the center of your mind. Money perhaps? A loved one?” She already knew, and his silence was confirmation. “You fear lack. You fear what it could be like to not have material possessions. To lose it all. You have lost it all.”

“I was swindled,” the businessman replied. “In more ways than one.” He glanced sideways at the empty tumbler. The mystic poured him another drink. The businessman threw it back in a desperate, greedy gulp. He slammed the glass back down, shaking the candles in the middle of the table. The low lights that came from the bulb at the entrance of the mystic’s room, coupled with the glow between them, showed this man in his entirety.

“And how do you take everything from someone who can buy anything?” The businessman reached for the card to his right. Undeniable—the Baphomet sits on a perch, flanked by the figures of a naked man and woman in chains. In its left hand and pointed down is a flaming torch. In the right, and pointing up, merely an open hand. An upside-down pentagram sits like a crown between its horns. As above, so below. “You sought out revenge that money cannot buy. But perhaps the price was of more value than you anticipated.”

The businessman released a cry that caused shock even to the mystic. He wept into cupped hands. The mystic leaned forward and pulled the final card. A figure is face-down in the dirt, a heavy red cloth partially covers them. Lodged into their back are ten swords. “Whose soul paid the price?”

“I didn’t know!” The businessman wailed. “She was so young.” He wept into his hands. The mystic did not react. She knew the subject of his guilt. She knew why he was there before he sat down. She poured him a third drink.

“She wasn’t enough.” The businessman paused. He looked across the table with wild, wet eyes. “Would you like to see your daughter again?” His face was downturned in disbelief, but eyes were the window to the soul, and in them the mystic saw hope. Permission.

The businessman nodded, mouth agape. “How?” The mystic silently replaced the tarot cards and slid the deck near the edge at her side of the table, out of the way. “How!” The businessman slammed his fist on the table.

The mystic, unaffected, stood. He gazed up at her confused, willing, fearful, angry. Anger was good, delicious. The mystic reached for the belt that held her robes together and untied the knot. The cloth fell to the floor around her and revealed a beautiful, naked body. The businessman’s confusion only grew; She felt his heartbeat quicken. Her mouth salivated.

“You have many, many sins,” she said. The mystic inhaled deeply, and exhaled with a low, frightening, predatory growl. “She wasn’t enough. He wants more.” Her bones cracked with such force that the business man shoved his chair backwards. The mystic’s knees shot backwards in on themselves. He tried to stand but fell onto the cold, cave-like floor, drunk from the liquor and incapacitated from the belladonna that lined his tumbler. Not enough to kill him, but just enough. “You must pay your dues.”

She stepped forward with a heavy foot. As the mystic moved, her body continued to change. Her lower jaw lurched forward and down, and she opened her mouth like a snake, unhinging her giant maw until her chin sat between her breasts. Saliva oozed from sharp, gnarled teeth. Her hands, outstretched, twisted and contorted to accommodate the extra bones, doubling in size. Skin shredded as talons erupted from the tips. The business man screamed and crawled for the velvet curtains. This did not worry the mystic; the fear added a rich depth to their flavor—and the liquor made them sweeter. A recipe she’d perfected over the centuries as a liaison to Him. Eating sins, devouring fear, ripping souls from flesh to satisfy unpaid bargains—a position she had spent millennia trying to attain. The facilitators always led the weary to her, and she was paid handsomely in return. She merely had to deliver the souls.

The businessman grabbed the curtain and ripped it from the rod. He collapsed face-down, blanketed in the heavy blood-red curtains. He rolled over, panting, only to see the exit blocked by a heavy metal door. The mystic reached her final form—a demon—and stood near his overturned chair. His futility made her shiver with excitement.

In a final burst of desperation, the businessman reached above him in search of a handle, a call button—anything. He placed a weak open hand over the light switch and pulled. Now he lay, panting, whining, in the near pitch-blackness of the demon’s lair, with only the glow of three candles remaining.

The demon approached, slow and hungry. “No,” she said. He looked up at her shadowy figure through blurred tears. She flicked the switch and loomed over the businessman, one cloven foot on either side of his head. “I’d very much prefer you to leave the light on.”