I felt it before I saw it, the shadow falling across my newest page. The longer I looked into it, the more I thought I saw things moving within it, like a thousand miniscule eyes blinking. It was the third night he had come, and, I presumed, with the same request. “Have you finished it yet?” he asked me in the dull loathsome tone he always used. With a sigh, I kept my pen moving across the page. “No, no I haven’t. You know I can’t work that quickly. I have needs, like sleep, food, and exercise.” At this he laughed, mocked me with his painfully dreary vocals. “You cannot have such mortal necessities until this is finished, as you well know.”

The smug tone in his lifeless voice finally made me stop. I gently placed the pen down, and looked up. He hadn’t expected that, and I took no small pleasure in his surprise. “I apologize that this mere human shell cannot replicate your greatness, my lord.” That threw him off. He was unsure of whether to bask in the title, or rage at the sarcasm. He took the third path; ignorance. “If I do not get that book to the council, there will be hell to pay.” Again with the puns. They were quite terrible, and he possessed them in excess. I winced slightly at his obvious joy created by his joke, though I kept my mouth shut. A writer who learns his mouth to stay, lives to publish another day. “I’ll need at least another month, possibly two. You can’t keep showing up here with your darkness and faint smell of sulfur. The neighbors threatened with the police last time an ominous cloud appeared over here.” I knew already how this conversation would go, with him begrudging me my request, then showing up yet again the next day.

As I predicted, he pinched his shadowy temples between two talons, and closed his yellow eyes. With a dismissive wave, he said “So be it, human, but do not keep us waiting much longer. I will be back to check on you soon.” More like daily, I mentally sighed. As his eyebrows drew together, and his thin lips drew into a scowl, I wondered if maybe he could read my mind. But then he picked up his foot and plucked something from it. An earwig, wriggling impotently in his dark palm. He then casually flicked the insect into his mouth, muttering “Damn bugs”, and then vanishing back to his underworld. Finally relaxing, I again picked up the pen that had been my shackle for the past few days. This impossible errand he had me doing was killing me, draining the life from my body as surely as any sorcery he could’ve wrought. As the daylight began to grow to prominence outside, I turned to the brick behind me and scratched another tick mark. Four days without sleep or sustenance. I don’t know what kept me alive, either willpower or witchcraft I would never know. What I did know, I reaffirmed with a nod to no one in particular, was that this book did indeed need to be finished.

At the beginning of that week the demon had first appeared.  He came through the conventional means; dark clouds, lightning, and of course the shadows. His scales were mostly polished, and hidden beneath his tailored three-piece suit. He had imperiously ordered me to write a novel, a great compilation of demonic knowledge, for his dark council. They had provided me with various unholy texts, so that I may take all the greatest ideas of the infernal, and transfer it into a single book. These books were stacked around me, like lost ruins on the brink of collapse. If I didn’t die to the demon, surely his books would take their own retribution. Smothered beneath the vessel of my art, I thought, smiling bitterly at the irony. My fingers were ink-stained and exhausted, but still I slaved on, working through another sunrise. At this point, I ventured cautiously upstairs, fear competing with hunger. When no great hellish guard appeared, I sprinted to the cabinet and retrieved some chips. I’d need my strength for the coming night.

As I had prophesied, he returned later that night. As the sky darkened, and I saw the shadow begin to creep across my paper, I sighed again. I could almost hear the sirens responding to my angry neighbors probably phone call. “It’s finished!”, I announced, cutting him off before he could begin. He smiled at me, pleased with my abrupt change of time frame, and held his arm out for the manuscript. I handed it to him, my final masterpiece. He held it up to his flaming eyes, absently padding for his hell-forged glasses. His face drew together in a scowl, and he looked at me sharply. “How thin, this is, after such a time! You have accomplished nothing! Look, let me reveal to you your insolence.” He opened the cover, to the single page within. Then his eyes widened, and his mouth tightened. With a curse, the demon began to swirl, fading into a small vortex centered above the book. “Damn you and your free thought! I should’ve bound your mind to my will like a puppet! I never should’ve allowed someone with creativity to read through our sacred tomes.” His voice trailed off to a whisper as I closed the book. Using knowledge gained from the books, I had found a way to banish the strongest of demons. One simply had to misspell the title of every book, and insert the creatures name in the middle. As I stood up and began to leave, I noticed a faint mark on my desk. The beast and his wretched claws had somehow carved the number 6 into my desk. With an exasperated growl, I left the room, never to again put pen to paper.