The Devil Went West

On dark days, Mrs. Jasmine wouldn’t speak. She’d cry and wallow in the shadows that clawed at her mind and screamed in her ears.

On bright days, Mrs. Jasmine still wouldn’t speak, but sometimes you could catch her lips moving. Words formed behind clenched teeth as she attempted to hiss out a prayer to a god that would no longer save her from torment.

The debate always existed: which day was worse?

*

I took the job of caretaker after I couldn’t stand working at the local hospital anymore. My job there should have been simple: teach the children that self-harm wasn’t the answer, give them some new coping skills, and get them situated for release.

I’d worked with children for years as a social worker; baker acted kids were nothing new to me. But between the nursing strikes and pay cuts, I got tossed into the adult ward more often than not, to my utmost contempt.

I couldn’t work with adults. Children were malleable with so many years left, and I saw them as savable. Redeemable.

Adults? Around age 17, the ship sails on turbulent waters, and then they spend their lives trying to cope with the issues that nobody helped them with as children. Adults are warped in ways that can’t be untangled, and with age, size shifts.

That had been my final straw at the hospital. The powers that be had tossed a colleague into the lion’s den of the adult psych ward with little to no training. One of the patients escaped, and before anyone could blink; his massive paws were bashing her head onto the painted cinderblock walls. The blood stark against the white landscape as he drug her through the ward, whistling a jaunty tune. By the time we got to her, she was barely breathing and her eye-

I’ll never forget that eye.

The blood had pooled within the sclera and dripped down the edge of her lash line as she blinked, unseeing.

I walked out that day with two others.

So, when my old boss called with this placement, I wasn’t in much of a position to turn it down.

“It’s amazing pay, Jo. All you gotta do is make sure she’s comfortable and fed.”

“Non-violent?” I’d asked, watching the last leaves of autumn drop from my maple tree onto the freshly tilled soil beneath.

“Nope,” Marie’s voice chirped through the phone line as I snapped my blinds closed. “Just a lonely old woman who needs some help in her golden years. It’ll be a cakewalk.”

I’d dipped into my savings last week for the mortgage when I texted Marie. I couldn’t go back to social work; my heart couldn’t take the whining any longer at the ripe age of 55.

“I’ve never done a live-in before.”

“It’s only during the week. You’ll be home on weekends.”

I’d huffed a sigh. I wasn’t ready to go back to work, but the money was running dry, and my nightmares were circling closer and closer every night. Vultures preparing to pick my mind to pieces the moment I let my guard down.

Thank God for Ambien.

So, I’d hung up the phone, packed my bag and shown up on Mrs. Jasmine Letha’s doorstep the next day. Suitcase in hand and a torrential downpour chasing me from my car.

The home, if you could call the sprawling estate that, was anything but welcoming. The looming façade was marred with discoloration and broken shutters; the dead, soaked grass, patchy and growing through the cracks of the concrete. I couldn’t help but think about how disappointing it was that something so beautiful had been so sadly neglected.

After ringing the bell, an elderly man with a surly expression had opened the door and silently inspected me from head to toe. His icy-blue eyes skated unpleasantly over me.

“Hate to interrupt, but it’s a bit wet out here. Mind letting me in?” I’d asked as a shiver worked down my spine from the cold seeping through my jacket.

“Name?”

“Jo.”

One white brow quirked at me as I ground my teeth. “Jo? I’m afraid we aren’t expecting a Jo.”

Insufferable man.

“Joella Zophos. I’m here to care for Mrs. Letha.”

“Ah, yes.” He turned to the side, finally allowing me entrance. “Right this way.”

In hindsight, I should have listened to my gut the moment I stepped over the threshold of the house. The churning of my stomach making my heart pound, a conflicting crescendo bouncing off the vaulted ceiling and dust covered chandelier. If I’d been smart, I’d have turned around, started my car, and eaten canned tuna for a month until I found a new job.

But that’s the thing about people; we rarely listen to anyone, let alone to ourselves.

My second-hand boots squeaked across the polished floor as I followed him into the silent mansion. Halls lined with paintings of people who, I assume, were important at one time or another were chilled and dark as the man led me to a cupboard of a room off the west side of the kitchen.

“How quaint,” I hummed; setting my suitcase he’d never offered to take on the floor.

“I’ll be sure to let Mrs. Letha know your thoughts. Now,”- he extended his arm to the kitchen- “you are welcome to any food, but dinner is served at 5. You will join Mrs. Letha for the meal.”

“I prefer to eat dinner a touch later,” I said, straightening my spine.

“We do not stray out of our rooms past sundown, so be sure to finish up before then.”

His statement piqued my interest, pausing my hand as it hovered over a hand-stitched quilt on the bed. “Alzheimer’s?”

They hadn’t briefed me on Mrs. Jasmine’s mental status. The request had been for a companion, not much more, and I’d been desperate enough not to ask. I’d had an aunt who had sundowners. Nasty business, the lost aimlessly hunting for reason at night.

The old man ignored my question, powering forward and stepping back from me; as if my very presence was causing him grief. “I will come get you in an hour to meet Mrs. Letha. Take this time to unpack.”

Without another word, he shut the door, and I realized-

I never caught his name.

*

Two hours later, I came to the conclusion the devil would not be retrieving me.

“Old bastard. Probably wants me fired already.”

I straightened the collar of my black dress and, with as much confidence as I could muster, stepped out of my sanctuary.

The halls were even drearier and frozen as the sun was sinking behind bleak clouds. Rain slashed across the windows, disguising my harried feet as I realized I had no idea what the time was. Time set itself with the sun as every clock and timepiece was wound to one specific number and not moving. The scent of rosemary and meat had me following my nose to the sound of silverware scraping and closed grand doors.

Odd, I had thought. I never saw anyone cooking, and my room is just beside the kitchen.

But again, I ignored myself and pushed open the doors.

The sound of steel against fine china paused as I saw a woman in a wheelchair at the head of the table; her back to the east as if she were a church in Spain awaiting her flock.

Powder-white hair and thin pale skin stood stark against her black eyes as she brought a piece of meat and potatoes to her wrinkled mouth.

“Thought you’d gone and got lost,” she said before scratching her teeth against the cutlery.

“Apologies, Mrs. Letha. I was under the impression I would have an escort.”

“Mrs. Jasmine, honey. Take a seat.”

She nodded to the seat on her right, and not wanting to offend her, I sat.

“Best not to wait around here for anyone,” she continued, pouring herself some wine. “None of us keep up with the time like we used to. Just can’t seem to care enough anymore. Wine?”

My hand on the table trembled as I nodded my head, and her steady hands poured the wine. Its rich burgundy color swirling in the crystal. Blood against a pristine canvas.

“I’d be happy to buy a clock. I noticed none of yours are working.”

She pushed the drink to me, her eyes never straying from my face. “No need. We all know what’s coming when.”

My hands steadied as I sipped my wine, eyeing this strange old woman. She hadn’t seemed as incapacitated as I’d expected. A sharp brightness rested behind her pitiless eyes.

Something sly, cunning.

I drained my glass and poured another.

“Is there anything I can do for you tonight? Read to you perhaps or”-

“Do you like lamb?”

I started at her abrupt question before realizing the meat resting in the center of the table was, in fact, a whole roasted lamb surrounded by cooked carrots and red-skinned potatoes.

My nose curled upwards. “Not particularly.”

“Hm. Shame. It’s good for the soul.” She cut another piece of bloody meat off her plate. “I need little from you but your time. You’ll find it’s a precious thing in this house.”

“Isn’t time precious everywhere?”

Both sides of her lips turned up. “For individuals, perhaps. Few care about the time of others besides their birth, marriage, and death. Will your husband mind your being gone?”

I hid my hand under the table, the gold of my ring burning. “No.”

“No? Interesting. Few men would want their wives away from home for such a long time.”

I ignored her prodding statement and asked the question that was searing my mind. “I was told not to leave my room after sunset. Is there a reason for that?”

She picked her teeth with a sharp nail before saying, “This house is old and falling down. Best not to wander in the dark.”

“Worried I’ll stub my toe?”

“Perhaps. Do you believe in ghosts, Jo?”

“I don’t not believe in ghosts. Though I’ve never had the pleasure of meeting one.”

“The devil?”

Lightning flashed. “Have I met the devil?”

The pouring rain and raging storm reflected in her glassy eyes as she smiled. “Do you believe in the devil?”

I gripped the bottle in my pocket and could have sworn the scent of dirt filtered through the room; I twisted my wedding band with my thumb. “I don’t think it matters whether I believe in the devil or not. My belief won’t manifest such a creature, and my ignorance won’t keep it at bay.”

“Too right, Jo. So best not to wonder, hm?”

“I see,” I gulped. “And will Mr. Letha be joining us at any time?”

She paused, a smile lighting up her black eyes before she parroted back to me, “No.”

I gulped my wine and remained silent, mentally planning my escape in the morning; money be damned.

“Nothing to worry about, my dear.” She brought the glass to her lips and winked. “Thank God for Ambien.”

I stiffened at her comment, the little peach-colored pills rattling in my pocket.

We didn’t speak for the remainder of dinner as she devoured the sacrifice on the dining room table.

Once she completed her dinner, I wheeled her past more paintings; their glowers narrowed further as we slipped by.

“Thank you,” she said once we stopped before her room. “I will see you in the morning, dear. Try to get some sleep.”

Slamming the door in my face, I released a shaky breath and reached into my pocket. With little thought, I popped the god into my mouth and made my journey back to my room. The painted faces grinned at my receding back.

*

Few sounds can break through the drowning sleep of synthetic drugs.

At first, it was such a subtle noise my dreams warped it into reality. The scratching of rat’s nails against the walls as they scurried away from the light.

But then, the scratching slowed. No longer a rushed race against inspection but a lethargic drag across wood grain.

My eyes shifted behind closed lids as the noise persisted.

Grogginess battled with an increased heart rate as I rolled to my side, cracking my left eye open.

The room was as I’d left it, silent and dark.

I briefly convinced myself there was no sound. No calling to be awoken in the night.

But before I could roll back over and resume my unconsciousness, a tap sounded on the door.

One.

Two.

Three.

I slammed my eyes shut. Willing the rats to return.

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

The harsh crash of a nail against thick wood.

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

Three times it sounded as the clocks chimed their songs for the first and last of the night.

I tucked myself under the hand-stitched quilt, pleading for the noise to cease.

But as the silence became one with the night, I wished for the sound to return as a newcomer replaced its tempo.

A whisper.

So familiar, I felt the freshly tilled soil under my fingertips.

So familiar, I felt the freshly tilled soil under my fingertips. My breath turned to pants as the phantom hand traced the curves of my face, once with love before the bite came quick as a copperhead from the leaves.

My limbs turned to ice as I bravely poked my head from under the sheets.

“Nothing,” I falsely defended, my breath puffing before my face.

“Nooooo,” it hissed. “Secrets trampled each other to get to you first. Many lies prepared for a chase.”

“Everyone has secrets.” But I knew mine would bury me.

Silence replied. A quiet that lasted so long I thought I’d escaped.

Until a scream rattled my door and shot me from my bed. The sound of unimaginable suffering flowed under the door, filling my room with blood. I abandoned all logic as fear will have you do. Ripping the door open, I ignored the gouges in the wood and ran down the hall, my bare feet freezing against the floor.

Her cries howled through the halls as I raced to Mrs. Jasmine’s room; the faces, watching.

Waiting.

The screams became louder and more tortured the closer I came. Until my hand twisted the doorknob, and I entered her quiet room; the door closing behind me.

The air was suffocating. The sickly scent of medicine perfuming the stale bedroom as I approached her bed, the covers drawn.

My hand would not steady as I clutched the hand-stitched quilt and gingerly peeled back the fabric.

But where her hair was once white, it now matched my own grey roots. Those black, sly eyes no longer stared with cunning but watched the ceiling lifelessly; a jagged scar split her brow and blurred the iris.

The lock clicked.

A pale hand, coated in mud, curled around the edges of the door. Long sharp-tipped nails scratching and clacking.

Scratching.

Tapping.

One.

Two.

“Leave me be,” I pleaded. “This is a dream.”

“You should know by now, Joella,” the voice slithered into my ears. “The dead don’t dream.”

Three.

*

The frozen winter wind cracked against the windowpane as naked trees danced in the setting sun. Their scraggly fingers, reaching for God.

The nurse draped a quilt over the woman’s shoulder as she glanced at the untouched dinner beside them.

“You gotta eat, Mrs. Jasmine. The doctors don’t wanna tube you again.”

The woman ignored the nurse as she continued to stare out the window.

Watching.

Waiting.

“No luck?” A stern voice asked from the door.

The nurse shook her head. “It’s a dark week for sure, Dr. Letha. Can’t get her to take a nibble.”

The old doctor approached, his icy-blue eyes landing on the plate, the scent forcing his nose to wrinkle. “No wonder with this spread. What kind of meat is this anyway?”

“Lamb. They thought it’d be nice for the holiday.”

“Idiots. Half of these patients don’t even know what day it is, let alone a holiday. Here.” He pushed the food to the nurse before turning to the old woman. “I need to take her to have that eye assessed again. We still can’t figure out why it won’t stop bleeding.”

The nurse always avoided staring at the weeping eye, but upon his statement she slipped and nausea assaulted her.

The jagged scar split the old woman’s eye in half, the murky iris seeming to watch in a way only the damned could.

The nurse’s hands shook as she exited the room, whispers slithering under the door.

“Heard she offed her husband, then tried to kill herself.”

“I heard she got busted poisoning the patients. Until one of em’ slipped something back in her food.”

And as the surly white-haired doctor closed the door, a final voice laughed through the wind.

“I heard she met the devil.”