The Devil Made Me Do It

Something wasn’t right. When John Powell woke up in his bed, he sensed the disturbance almost immediately. The room felt colder—the space rearranged. There was a weight that hadn’t been there before he turned off the lights and the darkness carried him away.

He had lived in his house on Pine Street for nearly forty years. With the kids grown and his wife deceased, it seemed like ages since the house felt anything other than empty. But as the tiredness left his eyes, that no longer seemed to be the case—he knew it wasn’t. For the first time in years, John wasn’t alone.

He wanted to reach out and turn on the lamp by his bedside but refrained; fearing what the light might expose. Still, he had to do something. He couldn’t just pull the covers over his head and wait for the feeling to go away. If anything, his fear would only grow.

“Hello?” he whispered, unsure if the sound left the confines of his mind.

His question was met with silence, and John didn’t know if that was better or worse than the only other alternative. As the silence lingered, his imagination did its best to fill the void as images of burglars and bogeymen crept into his mind. His heart rate climbed.

With sleep far out of reach and the silence feeding his fear, John reluctantly shifted himself out of bed. The wooden floor creaked under his weight, but the suddenness of the sound didn’t alarm him. He knew his house better than his own body—all its quirks ingrained into his subconscious from decades of familiarity.

Still, he had no desire to wander through the house blind. Even those who know the intricacies of their homes are no strangers to smashing shins on the corners of tables or driving toes into the legs of chairs. He grabbed his iPhone resting by the lamp.

He pressed his thumb on the home screen and waited for the device to unlock. For a moment, the faint glow from the phone illuminated his form— temporarily blinding him.

Once his eyes adjusted, he pressed another button and turned on the phone’s flashlight.

When he looked up, he nearly screamed. The shadow stood directly in front of him like a hell-bent demon. The sudden manifestation of his fears sent a jolt of panic through his heart. Only after regaining his breath did he recognize his reflection staring back at him from the dresser mirror.

He cursed himself for being so foolish. Old age had made him jumpy. Scared of his own shadow. Literally, his daughter would have added.

Despite his embarrassment, he remained on edge. Just because he was jumpy didn’t disprove his fear of an invader. He supposed his scream would have alerted anyone to his presence, causing them to flee. Yet, this did not prevent him from quietly opening his bedroom door as he entered the hallway.

He didn’t bother checking any of the other rooms upstairs. All the doors were closed, and he was certain that if there was an intruder in his home they had not taken any precautions to hide their presence. Almost as if they wanted to be found.

As he walked towards the stairs leading to the living room, he reminded himself of the family portraits hanging on the walls—if for no other reason than to prevent another scare when he inevitably noticed his family staring through the suspended frames.

However, when he forced himself to look at one of the portraits dangling from his walls he was afraid. Not because of the eyes staring back at him, but because of the eyes that weren’t.

They had been removed; cut out from the sockets of his wife and children’s developed faces. His, however, were still intact. Panicked, John shined his phone on another image—this one of him and his eldest son at Yankee Stadium. Once again, his boy’s eyes were gone.

I can’t be seeing this right, he thought, assuming it was his peepers that were damaged and not those in his cherished photos. He was about to look at a third picture hanging on the wall when one of the doors behind him opened.

John didn’t wait to see who or what stepped out. He made a dash for the stairs, planning on calling 911 as soon as he was outside. He’d made it about a third of the way before he misjudged his footing and fell to the bottom; breaking his hip in the process. He cried out in pain. Even with the adrenaline numbing his body to the bulk of the shock, his side hurt like hell.

He tried to move but was met with another explosion of agony. With no other choice, he waited for the intruder to come down the stairs. He listened hard but heard nothing other than his own haggard breathing. After a few minutes he wondered if he hadn’t imagined the whole thing. Had Dr. Rodriguez mentioned hallucinations as a possible side-effect of his new heart medication?

Before he could think of the answer, something else caught his attention. There was a light on in the kitchen—the fridge door hanging wide open.

His eyesight wasn’t what it used to be, but he could still make out the image of the family Christmas card taped to the front of the fridge. Only, part of the picture was missing…or, more accurately, parts of the family.

Jesus, how long has the fridge been open? John thought, becoming aware of the chill that had settled over the room.

He decided this too was a question better saved for later. Right now, he needed an ambulance. He was about to press the emergency button on his cell phone when a voice called out.

“Don’t.”

The suddenness of the sound and the harshness of its tone caused John’s hand to fumble—the phone falling face down on the floor.

Trying to gather courage and failing, John called out, “Who’s there?”

“It’s unsettling, isn’t it?” the voice said from the shadows of the living room.

John wondered how the intruder had managed to make it downstairs without him noticing.

“What is?” John asked, hoping that the police were on their way.

“Knowing that someone’s there, that someone’s watching. It doesn’t sound like much, but it’s enough to paralyze a man.”

“What do you want? Money? I have a safe in my room, the combination is—”

“Silence!”

John grimaced, and another bolt of pain ran down his leg.

The voice continued as if never interrupted. “It’s amazing anyone ever moves at all because the truth is someone’s always watching. They know every secret, every dark thing you do. We try to act like we’re genuinely good people, but it doesn’t fool anyone. They know the truth…He knows the truth.”

With the phone’s flashlight pointed upward, the room was lit in a faint glow. As the intruder’s speech came to an end, he stepped out of the shadows.

From where John was sitting, he was incredibly tall. Of course, lying on the floor somewhat warped his perception. Regardless, it wasn’t the size of the man that scared him; it was the knife resting in his hand. That and the mask that concealed his features. Looking at his blank face, John was reminded of the Beatles song, Nowhere Man.

The faceless shadow drew closer.

“God, please don’t.”

The man laughed. “I’m sorry John, but God isn’t here.”

He reached down and picked up the phone. John didn’t see him touch any buttons, but the light died all the same.

“Has no one ever told you? Darkness is the Devil’s greatest friend.”

With that, he fell upon his victim. As his knife made its first incision, the killer felt the gaze of another rest upon him. Behind his mask, he smiled. For once in his life, he found that he didn’t mind.