(Alternatively: “I Saw Granny Ethel with the Devil”)

Part I | Part II | Part III | Part IV | Part V

Grocery Store

Todd the demon is a he, now, if only because Granny Ethel insists upon using copious ‘Dear boy, keep trying’ and ‘Atta boy!’ critiques to varying degrees depending on how well his needlework, crochet, and knitting attempts progress.

Gender isn’t a concept the demon concerned himself with before. If Todd had been, say, a girl named Tonya, he supposes he’d be a she instead. If Todd had been gender-neutral and properly communicated with his grandmother, he supposes she would call him they or child, appropriately. Granny Ethel isn’t one to discriminate. Even when she properly wears her glasses and sees his obviously un-Todd-like appearance, only shaking her head and smiling with a good-natured “kids these days” on her lips. But he wouldn’t mind if Granny Ethel called him boy, girl, thing, or abomination, so long as she stayed happy.

Granny Ethel is a patient woman. Todd simply can’t understand why or how she’d become the black sheep of her family, especially after a full week of living with her hospitality. Through the constant baked goods and the modest but satisfying three-meals-a-day; the careful (oh-so-careful) dusting of trinkets and bookshelves with tiny cloths and feather dusters not fit for large claws, which he insists upon doing while she looks on in worry before brewing more coffee; the midday television re-run breaks spent sealing cash donations into envelopes and discussing human rights issues instead of watching old shows, he simply can’t think of her as anything but a paragon of her kind.

It’s a problem with them, he concludes. Not her.

It isn’t a decision he makes lightly.

Spending such a brief time with her, he’s already learned so much more about humans than he ever would have cared to know, beyond perceiving them as vessels or a means to an end. There is much suffering in the world—sometimes even more than that in Hell—but there is also kindness.

He’s known that, but he witnesses it first hand during their first trip outside of Granny Ethel’s home.

“Come, now, Todd, we have much shopping to do. I’m afraid my pantry isn’t stocked appropriately for the upcoming food donation drive and I can’t just skip it this month.”

Todd remembers addressing an envelope to the local food bank—most people would stop there, figuring their good deed was done.

“I also have to stock up on this week’s groceries. Feel free to buy whatever you want, dear. I can cook anything, you know! At least, I try. I suppose you’d like some snacks, too. But I am so glad you’re here; think of all the bags we can carry between the two of us!”

There is no car in Granny Ethel’s driveway, or a garage to store it. He wonders how they’re going to make it to the grocery store as he waits for her to lock the door behind them, as she hobbles down the two small concrete steps with her cane in hand.

It isn’t until she’s halfway down the sidewalk that he realizes they’re walking. In public.

An old crone in black and a demon at her side, wearing a handmade shawl so lovingly stitched with various, terrifying occult symbols.

He isn’t the only one who sees a problem with this—the neighbor’s dog, a small, bug-eyed thing, yaps indignantly at them from the front lawn as it bounces around the dewy grass at its owner’s feet, soon erupting in warning yowls and howls, before falling silent mid-yip when Todd locks eyes with it. The neighbor—Maurice, if he remembers Granny Ethel’s gossip correctly—stands frozen, watering can dangling limp from his hand as he overwaters the begonias at his feet, mouth hanging open in undignified disbelief.

“Good morning, Maurice!” Granny Ethel calls with unmitigated cheer, and a hint of pride. “Nice morning, isn’t it? Oh! Have you met my wonderful grandson Todd? He finally came to visit! We’re going shopping now. Will you watch my house?”

Maurice simply stares, dumb with shock.

Halfway down the block, another neighbor’s car brakes with a squeal before they make it out of the driveway and they stick their head out of the window to gape.

Shutters crack open. Curtains are shoved aside.

Before Todd knows it, they are the cul-de-sac’s center of attention.

Granny Ethel doesn’t pay it any mind and continues obliviously on, waving to each face in turn as those faces pale, yet hers remains rosy.

“My, such a busy day today. I haven’t seen everyone out like this since the Fourth of July block party. Oh, if you’re still here during summer, Todd, we should definitely take part. Maybe we should start knitting an American flag for the occasion. What do you think?”

He can only nod.

They make it to the grocery store without incident—aside from the broken fire hydrant caused by a distracted driver and the one, single person who ran away screaming, and the handful that crossed themselves, and the one person bold enough to snap a picture with their phone before Todd grabbed it from their hands and threw it while Granny Ethel wasn’t looking, too distracted with how well the city’s roadside flowers were blooming—and Todd, ever the gentledemon, takes a small shopping cart from its line and trails behind Granny Ethel as she consults the list taken from her purse.

As expected, those within the store stop and stare. Even the calming elevator music jolts to a pause.

A young man in an employee vest, who looks high, shoots Todd the demon-horn hand sign and smiles before swaggering away to the frozen food aisle, and the manager meekly approaches them, skirting around a fresh fruit display.

“Ma’am, is there—is there something I can—do you need help?” he asks, sweating from his receding hairline to his neck as he tugs at his collar and straightens his frumpy tie.

“Oh! I’m so glad you asked. I didn’t see any sales circulars by the door—what kind of specials are on right now? Particularly on things like pizzas and cereals and whatever else young men like to eat.” Granny Ethel leans in close to the man, close enough to loudly whisper, “See, my grandson here is a quiet, shy boy despite his appearance, and I don’t think he’d ask me himself, but I bet he’d love to get some junk food to snack on between meals.”

The manager’s eyes widen, blood-shot, as he looks to Todd, who only smiles—which comes off as terrifying, he’s certain, with all the sharp teeth and red eyes involved.

“S-SURE! Junk food. Right. Um—uh, w-well, I think there’s a BOGO—buy one get one free—deal on the frozen pizzas. Uh…most cereals are marked down right now…th-there’s a sale on potato chips…hot dogs…” His voice trails off, too burdened with trembles and fear as he continues to hold Todd’s gaze. “And—you know, I’m sure some other employee can help you, ma’am. I’m not one anymore as of this moment. I QUIT.” That said, he yanks the flimsy plastic nametag from his shirt and runs for the door, followed by half of the shoppers who abandon their carts and drop their baskets, scattering groceries everywhere.

Granny Ethel watches him go, then sighs. “He must have been overworked and stressed. I almost walked out on a job a long time ago for the same reasons, but I needed it. You be careful of corporate America, Todd.”

He takes her words to heart, and he fully agrees.

Shoppers that remain in the grocery mart avoid them at all costs as they meander through the frozen food section, the bread aisle, the junk food corner—and Granny Ethel pays them no mind, filling the cart to the brim with refills of groceries she needs back at home and treats she thinks Todd needs more of in his life. He supposes he does, if she says he does. Far be it from him to contradict her adolescent-savvy wisdom.

Even so, the single shopping cart is far too small for all of the spoils—halfway through the shopping list, he finds them in need of another. It isn’t an issue. Many are left scattered, abandoned, around almost every corner. By the end of the list, both carts are full to the brim, and Granny Ethel is simply beaming.

The checkout lines are deserted—they have their pick. Although only one station is manned by a clerk, and it greatly narrows their choice.

As Todd wheels the two shopping carts to the register, he recognizes the young employee from before, who once again shoots him the demon-horn hand symbol.

“Love your poncho, dude,” Sam (as his nametag reads) comments with a bit of a tired drawl, and there are dark shadows under his eyes as expected from an overworked youth on minimum wage, but he is otherwise energetic, quickly scanning each of the items set on the conveyor belt, and smiling at demon and old woman in turn. “Did the little lady here knit that for you?”

“Crocheted!” Granny Ethel corrects with a grin, preening like a proud parakeet. “It does suit him, doesn’t it? Of course, I would never make something that didn’t suit my dear grandson. He must always be well-dressed.”

“You seem like a really supportive gramma. That’s cool. When I was in my super hardcore death metal phase, mine just dragged me to church every Sunday.” A digital beep accompanies nearly every word as he skillfully rings up each grocery down the line.

“Oh, I would never do that. Mainly because I no longer belong to a church. And also because Todd seems so averse to discussing Bible passages, so I never force him.”

At this, Todd gives a wry smile. He places the final handful of groceries onto the conveyor belt and sidles around Granny to the other side of the checkout, bagging the groceries that have already been scanned. It seems the official bag boy has fled in fright.

“I can imagine. Never one for religion, myself. Oh, and you’re eligible for the senior citizen’s discount, so let me just…” Sam pauses a moment to key in a code on the register and it dings. “Aaand, there. Your total comes out to $204.56. Stocking up for the winter already? It’s only March.”

“Oh, dear, no. Half of this is for the food drive!” Granny Ethel chuckles good-naturedly as she leans her cane against the counter and digs through her small pocketbook and produces a checkbook, then dives back in to search for her favorite pen.

Sam turns to Todd while awaiting payment. “By the way, dude, that costume is killer. I’ve never seen anything so realistic, with the added bonus that you scared the boss away! Totally made my day. My week, even.”

Todd gives a nod, happy to be of service, even if it isn’t a costume. He can’t exactly say it aloud. Perhaps one day he’ll learn how to speak English coherently, but for now nonverbal cues work just fine.

Finally, Granny Ethel finds her pink, plastic jewel-encrusted ballpoint pen and makes out a check to DeVille-Mart, even going so far as to take one of the heavier paper bags for herself, never one to make Todd carry all of the groceries himself. “You have a wonderful day, young man. Thank you.”

“Y’all have a great day, too, Ma’am.” Sam offers a toothy smile, and it seems sincere enough as he sees them off with a lazy wave “Hope to be seeing you shop here again.”

Todd isn’t so sure they’ll ever return once upper management hears about this visit, but it’s nice to know they are accepted by at least one individual.

“Now, Todd, let’s get to the food bank. We have such a long day ahead of us. But there’s a reward at the end of it—I bought ingredients specifically for chocolate turtle brownies!”

( Prompt by @plotsandpromptsforall )

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The morning routine begins the same way, every day.

Before faces are even washed, before foundation considered, they bicker.

“Another day faced with beauty,” says Shadow, cast behind you on a plain white wall filled with cabinets, made ever stronger by the five bright lights blaring before you to better illuminate the bathroom space. On days when her silhouette is darker, her opinions are also stronger. And so is her whining. If her form could droop, it probably would. And it does, as you lean over the sink to scrub cleanser into your cheeks before rinsing it away.

“More like faced with the back of our dear person,” says Reflection, massaging dewy moisturizer beneath her eyes to soothe away the dusty shadows and slight puffiness brought from lack of sleep. She is vain, and she doesn’t so much as flick her eyes toward the shadow on the wall, focused solely on her task of finding blemishes and imperfections to cover for the day.

Like your shadow, your reflection is also bound by your actions, repeating even the tiniest movements you make as you reach for bottles and creams and powders lined up across the marble countertop. But the words—the words, they speak themselves, and you are the unfortunate middleman. Mostly, you roll your eyes and remain silent because this usually only lasts through the morning. When the two aren’t in a space together, they usually keep quiet, too. And when they are? That’s what headphones and music are for.

“No, I can see, you know,” Shadow claims. “I can see every color, every single hair, every eyelash, every pore. You are the shape of me complete and I am nothing but a blank slate of a sloppy, lumpy form.”

Hey now, you want to intervene, but you know it’s something you think of as true on your worst days. At times, you wonder if these two are simply your own struggling thoughts recycled and spat back out at you, pinioning you between the loathing and vanity born from the need for society’s acceptance. Only at times, because their back-and-forth is too real and they have minds of their own, like Peter Pan’s shadow and the evil queen’s mirror on the wall.

“Jealous?” Reflection taunts, a smirk on her lips as she smoothes a light pink lip balm over them that smells like fake strawberries and oil.

Shadow nods, hands on hips, as you consider your foundation palette for the day. You never can quite find a tone that matches your skin perfectly, so mixing two, sometimes three, has to do. “I’m not ashamed to say yes. I want to be filled in. I want to have eyes. I want the color of our lips and our fingernails. You have all of that beauty for free.”

“Beauty? Please. If anything, I’m jealous of you, you silly thing. You’re free of the pressure imperfection brings. You have no scars to hide, no acne, no crooked teeth. You have no need to pluck the hairs between your eyebrows or seal the makeup on your face to hold everything together.” Reflection purses her lips as the foundation is dotted all around and smoothed and patted in with a damp blending sponge. You’re no make-up pro, but it does well enough.

“I am not beautiful,” Shadow says, and she believes it, deep down. “You can’t be jealous of me.”

“Yes you are,” Reflection counters, and she believes it, too. “And yes I can.”  

“No, you—”

“Yes, I—”

Their words overlap and the sound grates on your ears.  

Today, just the one day, you choose to reply and put an end to the argument that took a strange turn into the sentimental. 

“Agreed. We’re all beautiful no matter what we look like. Even if we aren’t, who really cares? This is who we are and we have to live with it.” You check your face for streaks, making sure it’s all covered, and decide it’ll have to do. If there’s a flaw left over that bothers someone, they'll just have to get over it.

“And for what it’s worth, I’m jealous of both of you because y'all don’t have to exist in a three-dimensional, physical form.”

Strange occurrences are a dime a dozen in Aberline.

They don’t necessarily fall under the paranormal category, but I consider them to be little curiosities all the same, just ever-so-slightly out of place—able to be looked right over by any but those who are agonizingly bored enough to curb-watch their neighbors, or those looking for inspiration to write something and keep up with their self-inflicted skill of choice.  

I guess I’m the latter, even if a balanced mixture of both of those things brings me to this series of accounts.

Now, as a disclaimer, as bizarre as these tidbits from around town may sound, this is not fiction.

I repeat: This is not fiction.

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Entry #1

3:05 p.m., Saturday

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It’s hot outside. Not as searing as the big Texas summer heatwave to come, but enough to feel the heat seething out of the tarmac; too hot for bare feet, children and canine alike, to stick around for too long in one place, so they run like hell itself is on their heels. The neighbors who like to hike up their water bills have fancy sprinkler system rigs churning full-blast despite the fact that each individual droplet fizzles and evaporates on contact with the ground. The grass is green, and full—not thirsty. Even the dirt rejects it, and the murky runoff chases the fleeing children down the street, flooding out from the gutters and deep into the crevices between the gravel, sinking down, deep, deep down, to nurse the devil.

There are no sidewalks—no buffer between those unfriendly lawns and punishing streets.

It’s too hot for a great deal of cars to pass by, even with one of the most high-trafficked lanes running perpendicular to this corner lot where I sit, watching, witnessing the rubber tires sticking, melting, leaving muddy tracks behind until nothing but rickety rims and hubcaps remain, sparking against the dry gravel with the drivers none the wiser. Soon, the tire tracks melt into the road and no one is any the wiser.

It’s too hot for dads hiding in baseball caps and sleeveless T-shirts and chrome-reflective sunglass lenses like insect eyes to tend to their overgrown and prospering yards, though moms brave the temperatures and don big, floppy sunhats to tend to their gardens and propagate future foliage fated to meet a lawnmower blade one day or another. Of course, it’s always an accident—that’s what they say. But who can really believe it, when a good number of the block’s small dogs and cats conveniently go missing after wandering into particularly well-grown ivy patches with only abandoned collars to prove they ever existed at all? Someone has to fight the good fight, even at the risk of angering a wife or two.

Which brings me to the leading star of today’s sighting.

It begins as a strange noise, just a buzz in the ears, like a determined fly dead-set on securing a trophy as Most Annoying Insect in Aberline, or an indecisive mosquito unsure of just which part of the ear to feed on. Personally, I’d go for the neck if, if, I, specifically, subsisted on an all-blood diet, but that aside, the noise isn’t an insect at all.

Somehow, despite the heat, despite the sizzling street swallowing up most wheels unfortunate enough to travel through, an old man—the dad kind, with the billed, threadbare hat pulled low and the sleeveless T-shirt and the same unsettlingly deflective sunglasses that conceal human eyes from sight and from seeing—drives along, hugging the gutters, taking up the entire designated cycling lane, on his trusty orange-painted steed: the riding lawnmower.

There’s no grass in sight. It’s important to mention because the purpose, or the expected purpose, of a riding lawnmower is to tame wild grass and to cut it back into subservience, especially when it grows out of hand and begins to swallow particularly large acreages and remove them from the landscape forever. It isn’t a primary means of travel.

Is it…?

No. Definitely not.

He obeys local road rules. There’s a stop sign, and he stops. He draws a bare, sun-reddened, wrinkled arm across his sweating brow, but his hat and sunglasses don’t budge an inch. Only the half-cigarette clamped between his teeth bobs up and down as he takes a drag, though it leaves no smoke behind. The end doesn’t seem to be lit.

It’s all too easy to see from where I sit, and he’s within earshot, so I have to ask. I have to know, before he looks both ways and crosses the street and I lose my chance, as all chances eventually are.

“Sir, why are you riding that lawnmower?”

He looks to me. It’s difficult to tell if he sees me through those lenses, but I have to assume he does. For seconds. Minutes. Not speaking. Not breathing.  

“There’s no grass,” I say, pointing out the obvious, pointing literally to the gravel beneath him. Although there is grass around, always around, creeping, watching, waiting. Just not beneath that lawnmower. It rumbles, hungry, as it remains stalled and still.

The man stares. Minutes pass. The grass waits. Listens. The lawnmower purrs.  

An old truck trudges past, tires sticking to the pavement, peeling off the rims. The driver doesn’t pay the lawnmower, man, or melted tires, any mind. The bald child sitting in the bed of the truck watches me, until they both drive around the curve, to a known dead end. They don’t come back.  

“Just because you can’t see it doesn’t mean it’s not there,” he says, breaking his long stretch of silence, but the silence seems preferable to this revelation. Then, he looks away, checks the intersection once more with a craning neck and a sneer, unlit cigarette bobbing, and sets off on his way, mowing the unseen.

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Further observations

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It’s the only time I’ve ever seen him, but like an urban legend left to memory, I still hear his lawnmower’s engine mingling with the locusts and cicadas during the hottest part of the day, and sometimes in the dead of night when the dark is all too quiet.

Someone has to fight the good fight.