Graham Masterton - The Devils of D-Day

“I doubt your existence,” I said. “I doubt if you’re anything more than a nightmare.” The devil cackled. “Then watch,” it said. “Just watch.”

There was a silence. The shadows of the drapes rose and fell, like the wings of dreadful creatures. Then the house was pierced by a high, hideous shriek, and I heard furniture falling, glass breaking; and someone keening and moaning like an animal in agony. I turned. The door banged open again. From out of the corridor came a low, howling wind, and then the sound of someone staggering towards us, mumbling in pain as it came.

There was a crackle of electricity, and the whole room was dazzlingly lit by a blueish light. Then there was darkness again, and a rumble of thunder that compressed my eardrums and almost threw me over. Then there was another fierce blitz of electricity, even brighter than the first, and in the wide-open doorway, her arms raised in desperation, her face blotted white by the demonic lightning, I saw Antoinette, the elderly maid, in a nightdress soaked by torrents of blood—her whole body, her arms, her legs, her stomach, her face—porcupined with knives and forks and scissors and skewers. It was as if every sharp instrument in the whole house had flown from its drawer and stabbed itself into her.

Her voice almost swallowed by another burst of thunder, she moaned: “ Father Anton, save me… ! ” and collapsed to her knees with a clatter of knife and scissor handles.

I turned back to the devil, and I was stunned and furious. “Is that your damned power? Slaughtering old women? You damned maniac!”

The voice came from somewhere else now—on top of the dark mahogany wardrobe, in a corner where I couldn’t see.

“You would consider it powerful if it happened to you, monsieur. Or if it happened to Madeleine. I could make it happen to Madeleine right now. Every pitchfork and castrating knife in the whole of her farm could stick itself into her right now, right this minute. You only have to say the word.”

I said, quaking: “What are you? What kind of a devil are you?”

The devil laughed. “I am Elmek, sometimes known as Asmorod, the devil of knives and sharp edges. I am the devil of swords and daggers and razors. Do you like my work, you with your blunt cudgel and your blunt anger?”

I hurled my candlestick towards the shadows where the devil’s voice came from, but it clattered uselessly against the wardrobe door, and dropped to the floor.

“You have a choice, monsieur,” the devil said. “You can either help me or try to hinder me. If you help me, Adramelech will reward you. If you hinder me, these dead will remain dead, and I will make sure that your precious Madeleine is sliced up like so much meat.”

I pressed my hands to my forehead. I could hear Antoinette gurgling and choking in her own blood, but there was nothing I could do. If I tried to fight this devil any longer, it was going to cut everyone to pieces, including Madeleine and Eloise and Jacques Passerelle, and once the sun had risen and set, it would probably cut me to pieces, too. I knew then that I was going to have to pacify this demon, and play for as much time as I could get. If we searched for its brethren, it’s twelve brother devils, it could take us months, and by that time I might have found some way to exorcise it for good.

I lowered my eyes, trying to look resigned and obedient. I said: “All right. It’s a bargain. What do you want me to do?”

The devil rustled in pleasure. “I thought you might see sense. You are a good man and true, aren’t you?”

“I’m just trying to save people’s lives,” I told him.

“Of course. Very commendable. Life is full of commendable deeds, and it’s such a pity that they usually cause so much pain. I am the devil of suicide by throat-cutting or slashing of wrists, did you know that? I am always honoured when someone slices himself up nicely.”

“Just tell me what to do.”

“Of course,” said the devil. “All in good time.”

“What am I going to do with these bodies? What if the police ask me about them?”

“That’s very simple. When we have left, the house will burn. Not a severe blaze, but enough to gut this room, and the room along the corridor where this lady slept. It will be a great tragedy. Everybody will be sorry that their old priest is dead, but he was senile, wasn’t he, and perhaps he let the candle fall on his bedspread, or a stray-log drop on to his rug. Nobody will think to question you. You will have had no motive for arson, and so nobody will suspect your involvement.”

“For Christ’s sake, I didn’t kill them anyway!”

The devil laughed. “How many murderers have said that! How many witches have protested their innocence! How many Nazis claimed they were only obeying their orders!”

I shut my mouth tight, and told myself, silently and firmly, to keep my fear and my anger bottled up tight. If this devil ever suspected that I was trying to play it along, it would probably cut me up like shish-kebabs in a split-second. I still couldn’t get that sickening apparition of Antoinette out of my mind, and I knew that I was going to have nightmares about those forests of knives and scissors for the rest of my life. There was no sound, now, from the doorway. I guessed she was probably dead.

“How are we going to get you to England?” I asked the devil.

Elmek was silent for a moment. Then it said: “There is a copper-and-lead-bound trunk in the cellar. It was first used for carrying sacramental robes and chalices in the days when the king travelled around the countryside, staying at the chateaux of French barons. I will enjoy the irony of travelling in it myself. You will arrange for transportation across the Channel this afternoon, and all you will have to do is collect the trunk from the cellar and take it with you.”

“Supposing I deliberately forget? Supposing I leave you behind?”

“Then these two people will remain as dead as they are now, and your precious Madeleine will have the nastiest death I can devise. And so will you.”

Outside the shattered window, the sky was growing greyer as dawn approached. I said: “All right. If that’s what you want.”

“That’s precisely what I want. I am looking forward to meeting the Reverend Taylor again.”

I stood in the ruined room, wondering what I ought to do next. I kept the ring of hair curled around my finger, and I couldn’t even bear to look at the carnage around me. I felt a sourish, bilious taste in my mouth.

The devil said, “You can go now. Get dressed. The sooner you arrange our journey, the better.”

I looked up at the gloomy corner where it was hidden. I said: “If I disbelieved in you—if I refuted your very existence—would you disappear?”

Elmek laughed once again. “If I disbelieved in you ,” it said, “if I refuted your very existence, would you disappear?”

I wiped my soiled and sweaty face with my hand, and I felt about as desperate and depressed as I ever had in my whole life.

I reached the Passerelle’s farm just after seven, in a chill, thick fog. I parked the Citröen in the muddy yard, walked across to the stable door, and knocked. A black-and-white dog with matted fur came and snifled at my knees, and then loped off round the side of the farm buildings.

Jacques Passerelle appeared at the door, wiping his hands on a towel. His braces were hanging from his belt, and he still had a blob of white shaving cream clinging to his left ear. He was smoking one of his Gauloises and coughing.

“Mr. McCook, quiest-ce que c’est qui se passe? ”

“Is Madeleine here? It’s rather urgent.”

“She’s milking. Round the side there, third door. You look bad. A night on the tiles?”