The Demon Version Read online

  The Demon Version

  A Short Story

  by C. Casey

  This is a work of fiction.

  Copyright © C. Casey, 2011

  All rights reserved.

  Cover designed and created by the author using a variety of programs.

  Original cover image “Voodoo witch” © Arman Zhenikeyev | Dreamstime.com

  Cover image purchased from Dreamstime.com and used in accordance with the website’s Terms of Use & Conditions. Image has been modified.

  Original title page “the scuff” image © C. Casey, modified by the author using a variety of programs.

  Visit C. Casey’s Facebook author page:

  http://www.facebook.com/pages/C-Casey/260391567356340

  Table of Contents

  I. A New House

  II. Bar Fun

  III. Possessed

  IV. Syrup

  V. Sunglasses

  I. A New House

  “I think this room is haunted.”

  The three girls are standing in the open doorway, looking in. Through the only window, past a skeletal, ice-covered tree outside, the full moon looks like it’s only a few feet away. A black scuff on the white wall looks vaguely like a disembodied face.

  Emily Foster, the tall one, looks bored. “I’m sure it is,” she says, adjusting her thick-rimmed rectangular eyeglasses, “but the bar closes in a few hours and I don’t want to be sober all night.”

  Arica Kobayashi, the short one, adds to her initial objection. “It’s freezing in here, too.”

  Emily: “An unfortunate side effect of December.”

  “What’s with the weird mark on the wall?” Arica points at the scuff, pulling the flaps of her white ski jacket close to her thin frame. “It looks like a face.”

  Kira settles the argument. “It’s the biggest bedroom. If neither of you want it, I’ll take it.”

  “I couldn’t care less.” Emily walks away to check out one of the other rooms.

  Arica shivers, frowning. “It’s all yours.”

  Emily is driving. It’s snowing, a galaxy of ivory flakes shining like stars in the Jeep’s headlights. Kira is smoking a cigarette; she lowers the window an inch and flicks ash through the opening. Arica is sitting in back, trying to even out her hat – the black one covered with pink hearts, white skull-and-crossbones patch on the front. She’s pulling one earflap, then the other, struggling to get it straight.

  “Need some help back there, Kobi?” Emily asks, glancing into the rearview mirror.

  Arica makes one last adjustment and holds her hands up. “All good.”

  “I like our new house,” Kira says, blowing a stream of smoke out of the crack in the window. She pushes away a stray lock of curly blonde hair, tucking it behind her ear.

  Emily: “Yeah, getting kicked out of the dorm was the smartest move ever. Should have done it a long time ago.”

  Kira frowns, exaggerating it. “Sarcasm is so out of style, Emma.”

  Emily: “Never.”

  II. Bar Fun

  At the bar – The Hops House – the three girls are standing at a small, round table. Emily’s holding up a Corona, admiring the clear bottle’s amber contents. A lime wedge is lodged in the bottle’s neck. Emily, using one of her long, slender fingers, pushes the piece of fruit down into the liquid, where it floats, fizzing lightly. She licks the lime juice from her finger, pursing her lips over it like a kiss. Emily’s ebony lipstick is the same color as her long hair.

  A group of people is eating greasy hamburgers and fried seafood at a nearby table. On the other side of the room several college guys are watching a football game on the widescreen television, waving bottles of beer around and cheering. The bartender, a freckled young blonde wearing a low-cut “Hops House” T-shirt, is trying to distribute drinks to several customers from behind the bar. The air is heavy with the odor of grease; the place is noisy with the sounds of a dozen conversations.

  Kira pulls the toothpick out of her martini and bites down on one of the green olives, sliding it off. Chewing it, she raises her glass and offers a toast. “To our new house.”

  They tap their beverages together and drink in unison.

  There’s a commotion at the bar; one of the girls in a group of four or five is stumbling, laughing, shouting. Emily stares off into space, looking bored. Kira and Arica turn their attention toward the source of the noise.

  “Oh god, it’s Fe-lush-a,” Kira says.

  “Who?” Arica asks, pulling off her winter hat. Locks of jet black hair cling to it, static crackling.

  “Felicia Banks. Raging alcoholic.” Kira eats another olive. “She hates me.”

  “Why?” Arica asks.

  “She thinks I fucked her boyfriend.”

  “Did you?”

  “What’s the difference? She’s convinced that I did.”

  Arica stirs her rum and cola with a straw and takes a sip. “In other words, yes.”

  Emily, still staring off in no particular direction, cuts in: “You fucked my boyfriend freshman year and I didn’t get all bent out shape about it. Tell her to get over it.”

  Arica puts a hand to her mouth to keep from spitting out her drink; she swallows, coughs, laughs.

  Kira looks up at Emily, a crooked, mischievous smile on her lips, playfully pointing the toothpick at her. “That’s just because you’re a raging lesbo, Emma.”

  Emily turns her gaze toward Kira, offering a weary, skeptical expression. “He was a rusted junker of a car sitting on my front lawn, four flat tires, resting on cinder blocks, windows smashed. You did me a favor by towing him out of my yard.”

  Before Kira can reply, Arica interrupts, nudging an elbow against her shoulder. “Your friend is coming over.”

  Felicia Banks has hair the color of coffee and a dark complexion; she’s swaying a little, carrying a half full mug of foamy beer. A few of her friends are floating behind her.

  “It’s Kira, the biggest whore on the second floor,” Felicia says. “Congratulations on getting kicked out of school, Kira. I’ll really miss you.”

  Giggles from Felicia’s posse.

  “Getting sloppy drunk every night is so out of style,” Kira says.

  “Sleeping with other people’s boyfriends, is that in style?” Felicia says.

  “Leave us alone,” Arica tells her.

  “Don’t talk to me, skank,” Felicia says. She sticks her fingers into her mug and flicks droplets of beer at Arica.

  Emily, who’s been standing still as a statue throughout the short conversation, bursts into action; she shoves Felicia, extending her long arms, sending the smaller girl flying. Felicia lands on the floor, beer from her mug splashing onto her face and shirt. Felicia and the members of her posse are staring up at Emily, eyes wide, mouths open in disbelief. The expressions of shock quickly morph into angry frowns. Soon, they’re shouting threats in unison, but none moves toward the tall girl. Felicia struggles to her feet.

  “I’ll fight you right here, right now, you wannabe goth bitch!”

  Emily: “Do I look worried? I’m big and unstoppable, and you’re you.”

  The bouncer, a burly bald man with a big gut, is talking to the bartender, who’s pointing at the scuffle. Felicia yells at the bouncer and the place erupts into chaos. The bouncer and both groups end up outside on the snowy sidewalk, breath visible as the girls verbally stab each other. Eventually, they get into their cars and drive off, leaving the feud behind for the night.

  “Emily, you are officially my hero,” Arica says from the backseat.

  Emily is driving them home. It’s no longer snowing, but the roads are covered with a cold ivory blanket.

  “I thoroughly enjoyed that.”

  “I’m glad to be out of the dorms,�
�� Kira says, repeatedly flicking the top of her Zippo lighter open and shut, holding an unlit cigarette between two fingers. “Get away from people like that.”

  “I think the joke’s on you,” Arica says.

  “How’s that?”

  “Your room’s haunted.”

  Emily smiles and clicks on the high beams.

  III. Possessed

  It’s morning. Arica is fumbling around in the kitchen when Emily walks in.

  “I found the coffee maker,” Arica says, tossing an empty box aside. “Want some?”

  “Yeah,” Emily says. “Kira still asleep?”

  “I guess,” Arica says, pouring coffee grounds into the filter.

  “Lazy cunt.”

  Emily walks back through the living room, which is bare except for a dingy brown couch that came with the house and a few stacks of taped-up cardboard boxes; she’s running her fingers through hair that’s still damp from the shower. Emily knocks on the door, asking Kira if she’s awake. No response. She nudges the door open, peering into the haunted room.

  “Holy hell,” she says.

  Kira is sitting Indian style on the bed. Her white nightgown and the blankets in front of her are soaked with dark vomit. Emily approaches, covering her mouth with the top of her shirt; the room has an overpowering chemical odor. It’s also frigid; Emily shivers.

  “Kira, you look like Dawn of the fucking Dead,” Emily says.

  Kira’s mouth and neck are covered with black, crusted puke. Strands of her blonde hair are stuck to her face. Her eyes have no sparkle; they look like the eyes of a corpse.

  Kira blinks and peers up at Emily; her eyes look normal.

  “What’s Fe-lush-a?” Kira asks.

  Arica enters the room, a mug of coffee in each hand. She recoils, seeing and smelling the mess on the bed.

  “What happened?” Arica asks.

  Emily reaches out with her long, slender arm and clutches Kira by the elbow. She coaxes her friend upward. Arica stares, mouth open, mugs in hand. Kira slowly slides off the bed and stands; her legs are wobbly. Emily leads her out of the haunted room. Arica steps back to let them through.

  “She only drank one martini last night,” Arica says. “Should I call an ambulance?”

  “Not yet,” Emily says.

  Steam is coming from the shower. Emily pulls back the curtain and tests the water with one hand. Kira is staring straight ahead, the dead look back in her eyes. Emily carefully slides off the stained nightgown, leaving Kira in her underwear. Kira cocks her head to one side, the sparkle back in her eyes. She grins and it looks like a wild animal trying to imitate a human’s smile.

  “Lesbo,” she whispers.

  Emily frowns.

  She watches Kira step out of her underwear, toss the garment aside, and walk into the shower stall, sliding the curtain shut behind her.

  Emily exits. She goes into Kira’s room and gathers the sheets and blankets. She tosses them all out the back door into the snow.

  “Maybe she’s possessed,” Arica says.

  Emily and Arica are in the kitchen, drinking coffee from their stolen Clarkson College mugs.

  Emily rolls her eyes. “Yeah, no doubt.”

  “I’m serious. She didn’t look right at all. She looked like someone else. I told you there was something wrong with that room.”

  “Maybe she had a secret bottle of something stashed away and she drank it all last night after we got back from the bar,” Emily says. “Serves her right for not sharing.”

  Emily takes a sip of coffee, grimacing. “Gross.”

  “Sorry. Couldn’t find the sugar.” Arica gestures at the stack of partially opened cardboard boxes.

  The two girls turn their attention to the hallway; Kira, naked, her blonde hair soaked, is walking. She enters the haunted room and closes the door behind her.

  “Okay, it’s been like ten minutes,” Arica says. “We should check on her.”

  They knock on the door, no answer. Emily turns the knob and peeks inside. Kira is sitting Indian style against the far wall, underneath the spot where the black face-like scuff used to be; it’s not there anymore. She’s wearing several shirts, a pair of pants that matches none of them, and each foot has a different color sock. Her blonde hair, still wet, hangs limp. She gestures toward the floor, as if to say, “Sit.”

  Emily and Arica sit on the carpet a few feet away from their friend. The room still has a distasteful chemical odor; it’s cold. It’s snowing outside, a steady flurry floating past the window.

  Kira blinks, bringing life back to her dead-looking eyes. “I think this room is haunted,” Kira says, imitating Arica’s words and voice perfectly.

  Arica recoils. Emily’s expression is closer to curiosity. She adjusts her eyeglasses; today, she’s wearing blue lipstick that matches her shirt.

  “What’s with the weird mark on the wall? It looks like a face.” Kira says it in Arica’s voice.

  “You really are fucking possessed, aren’t you? I told you this room was haunted!” Arica starts to stand up. Emily clutches her arm, eases her back down.

  “I’m… perplexed,” Kira says in a raspy version of her own voice. “Everything is so… disorganized.”

  Arica turns to Emily, cupping a hand to her mouth, whispering. “Dude, I told you, she really is fucking possessed!”

  Emily doesn’t bother to whisper. “So? What would you have us do about it? Take her to the campus clinic and ask for some amoxicillin?”

  “A church can do an exorcism or something?”

  “Have you ever read The Exorcist or seen the movie?”

  “No,” Arica says.

  “Well, two people die during the exorcism scene at the end,” Emily says. “Besides, I liked the demon version of the little girl better than the regular one.”

  Kira laughs, a wheezing cackle.

  “We have to do something,” Arica says. “It’s not like people aren’t going to notice.”

  Emily shrugs. “Unless she goes on a killing spree or something, I see no reason to subject her to whatever indignities a hospital, asylum, or church might inflict upon her.”

  “We have final exams starting tomorrow,” Arica says. She stares at her possessed friend, a conflicted, pleading expression on her face.

  The Kira-thing mumbles a series of seemingly unintelligible words.

  “What’s that?” Emily asks.

  “Latin.” Kira’s smile looks feral. “Backwards.”

  Emily seems fascinated. “What else can you do?”

  “I don’t know,” Kira says. “I still feel… perplexed.”

  “This is so wrong,” Arica says.

  IV. Syrup

  The three girls are sitting at a table in Paddy’s, a restaurant that specializes in breakfast. The presence of greasy bacon, fried hash browns, and warm maple syrup lingers in the air, a pleasant mix of aromas. Kira, her mismatched clothes mostly covered by the pink jacket she’s wearing, is staring ahead, dead eyes, mouth limp.

  “Do you have any shades?” Emily asks Arica.

  Arica is staring at Kira, an expression on her face that seems to be asking, “What the hell are we doing?”

  Arica: “Huh?”

  “Sunglasses. Do you have any?”

  “No. Why?”

  Emily: “What’s that movie where the two guys put sunglasses on the dead guy and parade him around, pretending he’s still alive?”

  Arica offers a horrified expression in response.

  Emily smiles. “Don’t look at me like that.”

  “This is awful. What if she doesn’t even eat regular food anymore?” Arica whispers, making sure no one near hears.

  “Yeah, you’re right. She probably drinks blood or eats raw meat. Maybe the waitress will bring us some uncooked bacon.”

  “I’m serious. Look at her. She’s totally out of it.”

  “You shouldn’t talk about Kira like she’s not even here. It’s rude.”

  Arica: “She’s NOT here. We don’t know w
ho… or what… that is.”

  Kira blinks and scans the area, watching a few of the other patrons fill their mouths with eggs and bacon and sausage and biscuits, pancakes and waffles, toast and jam, hash browns and country gravy, drinking orange juice and coffee and milk. Together, all of their conversations create a background of unintelligible words.

  “The scents,” Kira says.

  The waitress, a heavy teenaged girl with pink hair and a pierced nostril, arrives to take their orders. When it’s Kira’s turn, she points at a picture of waffles on the glossy menu. The waitress nods and leaves.

  The three girls are walking through the parking lot toward Emily’s Jeep. It’s snowing.

  “I can honestly say that’s the most syrup I’ve ever seen someone consume in a single breakfast,” Emily says.

  Arica responds with a sharp frown. “She drank the whole bottle. A lot of people saw that.”

  “Yeah, I thought the waitress was going to barf,” Emily says, pulling a set of keys from her jacket pocket. “That would have been hilarious.”

  Emily stops a few feet from the back of the vehicle, an angry look on her face. “Really?”

  A rusty blue car is parked a few inches from Emily’s Jeep, making it impossible to get into the vehicle from the driver’s side.

  Kira sheds her corpse expression and steps forward. She reaches down, grips the blue car’s bumper, and stands, thrusting her palms upward. The car flies through the air, flipping upside down. It lands in the small snowy valley past the curb with a muffled crunch of metal and glass, the bottom facing the sky.

  “Oh my god,” Arica says, scanning the parking lot for witnesses, seeing none. “I hope no one saw THAT.”

  Kira opens the door and climbs into the back seat. Blood is trickling from one nostril.

  “Like the cops would believe it anyway? A 110-pound girl throwing a car down a hill?”

  “Let’s just go,” Arica says, heading for the passenger side. “This is really bad.”