The Eighth Gate

35 | Deal With the Devil

Something was not right.

Mary could sense it, could feel it stirring restlessly through her stiff bones; it was some sort of premonition, a sensation brought upon by instinct and confirmed by a tight squeeze in her gut.

The hallway was dimmed to a low glow; the light fissures above flickered weakly, unable to combat the nightly darkness that poured into the corridor, blotting her sight. Despite her impaired vision, the wide window stretched across the left side of the narrow passageway opened to a pearly disk dangling in the night sky, providing a stream of silver light that guided her forwards. The pale glimmer accented the shadows that made up the indiscernible walls, the darkened carpet, the waiting opaqueness spread out a few yards before her, where the hallway seemed to disappear infinitesimally into blackness.

Mary had no idea where she was or where she was going. Not a single sensible thought propelled her forwards; instead that creeping feeling of suspicion and unease lightened her heavy, hesitant feet and hastened her blind steps into the unknown. She had been maneuvering through this endless hallway as if she were an unwarranted intruder, someone who was not supposed to be slinking and lurking in the shadows of the foreign walls that encased her. She did not ask herself why. The question never occurred to her.

And that was when she became aware of the sounds.

The screaming planks of wood cried out beneath the soles of Mary's bare feet, the resounding creaks echoing through the empty corridor and stopping her in her tracks. Adrenaline pumped through her—adrenaline and fear—yet for what, she had no idea. Sweat sprouted on her hairline along with the hammering of her heart in her chest; the constant beat pounded on her temples in a steady rhythm. Yet despite this sudden bout of anxiety, she continued on forwards, for the sound of something else had managed to pierce through the drumbeat in her ears, the crying at her feet, the ceaseless echo cluttering the silence.

Moans.

Moans and grunts and the occasional sigh in between; she thought she could pick up a trace of a word hidden inside soft releases of breath, as if the act were a language itself. These noises grew louder as she went, and before she even realized it she was standing before a half-open door. The intimate sounds were coming from inside, from which the sporadic flicker of red and yellow flames could be seen dancing wildly, licking the damp air in the hearth against the eastern wall. Above the faint crackling of splintering wood, she could now clearly make out the gasps and moans as belonging to a male and a female.

The creaking wasn't from the shifting floorboards; it was from that squeaking bed, she thought after she opened the door and beheld the silhouetted sight of a naked girl hovering over a bare boy who caught her eye as she entered. She could not describe him, no matter how hard she tried, for his prosaic face was easily forgettable, like those worn by people in passing crowds. Yet in that moment an inexplicable feeling of absolute dread gripped her, as if she had just walked in on a murder. Yes, in that moment the young man's face was familiar— familiar enough to make her feel as if her heart were breaking into bits and pieces. She fell to her knees and the faceless man opened his mouth to speak—

And then the woman threw her head back and let out a manic laugh, a sort of hair-prickling snicker that sent shivers sweeping down Mary's spine. She caught Mary's eye—her gaze was glowing blood red, two angry rubies in the darkness. Her grin was sinister, and that was when Mary knew it was a demon. She tried to warn the unsuspecting boy, tried to open her mouth to speak, but she couldn't move a muscle. Mary was frozen, trapped at the doorway. She could not even close her eyes to block out the sight of the woman plunging her bare hand into the man's chest, her endless stream of laughter echoing around Mary's ears as the life drained out of him...