Mr. Walters Catches a Demon

The patrol cars screamed past, their sirens slicing through the night like wailing banshees. Mr. Walters, an aged figure with an eerie resemblance to Wilford Brimley, though much leaner, yanked down the shades in his living room. Shadows engulfed the room, obscuring the faces of the portraits lining the walls. He sank into his threadbare armchair, a chorus of creaking leather and aching bones accompanying his descent. From the basement below, a faint, muffled cry drifted up, barely reaching his ears as he lifted his chipped coffee mug to his parched lips.

"Right on cue," he muttered, setting the mug on a coaster scarred with age.

His fingers lingered on the mug's rim, his mind wandering back to the days when Dolores still graced the house with her presence. She had been the heart of their home, meticulously maintaining it, weaving delicate doilies for the end tables, and nurturing their garden with loving care. Now, the garden was an overgrown mess, and the house—and he—desperately missed her touch. A soft, mournful chuckle escaped him. He longed for the day he could join her in the afterlife, yet a grim purpose kept his old heart beating.

Nearly a decade had passed since he discovered his peculiar gift—his mission. Demons, masquerading as ordinary people, infiltrated society. They handled bank transactions, bagged groceries, chatted about the weather on TV, and cooked in restaurants. They taught in schools and sat among the students. Demons, indistinguishable from humans to everyone but him. But Mr. Walters could see them for what they truly were.

He remembered his first encounter vividly. Grief still clung to him like a shroud, with Dolores only days in the grave when a man knocked on the door, a suitcase in hand. He claimed to be selling magazines, but his words fell on deaf ears. A wave of corruption radiated from the man, and Mr. Walters knew. Inviting him in, Mr. Walters closed the door behind them. He savored the memory of that day, the invigorating interrogation, and how one blow from his hammer eradicated another demon from the world. How many more had there been since then? A couple dozen? More?

The moan from the basement pulled him back to the present, and he sighed, rubbing his temples. "Time to get to work," he said, knuckling his lower back as he lumbered toward the basement door.

He clicked the light switch and descended the creaky steps. The scent of earthy dampness and musty mildew grew stronger with each step. A solitary bulb hung from a chain, casting a feeble, pale-yellow glow that barely illuminated the puffy, tear-streaked face of the young woman bound to a stout, heavy chair. She blinked against the sudden brightness, jerking her head away.

Mr. Walters was struck by how easily he had captured this one. True, it wore the guise of a young woman, but a demon was a demon, and demons fought like cornered beasts. In his prime, Mr. Walters had been a state champion wrestler, and it usually took all his strength and skill to subdue such fiends, especially now, in his aged state. Yet, a solitary, savage blow was all it took to topple her. He studied her casually, then shuffled the last few steps to where she sat, bound and helpless.

"Ah, there now," Mr. Walters said, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "What do you have to say for yourself?"

She mumbled through the filthy rag gagging her. The restraints groaned with tension as she strained to pull away from his bony finger. He brushed her swollen eye and traced a line down her cheek with a gnarled, yellow fingernail. As it reached the gag in her mouth, he tugged it free.

"Who are you?" she asked weakly, her voice slurred from a split lip.

Mr. Walters answered her with silence, and she began to sob. "Let me go," she whimpered, her cries growing louder as the reality of her situation sank in. "Please, please let me go."

Mr. Walters pulled another chair from against the wall and sat, elbows on knees, watching her through steepled fingers. With a sigh of mock regret, he shook his head. "I can’t do that."

"Please?" she begged, her voice rising in frantic intensity. "Please! Please!"

Desperation fueled her thrashing, but the bonds held fast. Minutes ticked away, but she made no progress in loosening her bonds. Her efforts eventually waned, leaving her panting and slumped, defeated. "Water," she croaked.

"Quite a show you put on there," he remarked, idly twirling the end of his bushy, white mustache and ignoring her request. "I might have mistaken you for an actual human if I didn't know better."

"What are you talking about? Let me go. Please, I just want to go home," she whimpered hoarsely.

"I’m certain you do," he replied. "And I will send you home. But first, I want to know why your kind won't leave me in peace."

"What do you mean?" she asked, confusion tinging her voice.

"You know exactly what I mean," he said firmly.

The young woman recoiled as he leaned closer, turning away from the dangerous look in his eyes and the hot, sour breath on her cheek. "What's your name?" he asked.

"Liz," she stammered. "My name is Liz."

"Good," he nodded. "Now, why are you here?"

"I was just looking for my cat," she cried. "That's all. Please, you have to believe me."

Mr. Walters chuckled, a dry, humorless sound. "Your cat. Right."

"Yes, he got out of the house and..."

"Liar!" he screamed, spittle flying from his lips. "You're lying," he said, his voice low and menacing. "Why won't you just admit it?"

"I don't know what you want from me!" she sobbed. "Please, just let me go home."

Her tears flowed freely, mingling with the dirt on her face. The air was thick with the smell of mold and fear. He studied her, searching for any sign of the demon lurking beneath the surface. "Tell me why you’re here!"

"I was looking for my..."

Anger flashed in his steel gray eyes as he gripped her shoulders, his nails digging into her soft flesh. Blood trickled down her arms in thin rivulets. She shrieked in agony.

A rush of panic overcame her, and she thrashed about once more, but the bonds held firm. He stepped back, watching her struggle. A chuckle escaped him, a mix of amusement and cold indifference. She kicked wildly, one shoe sailing across the room to bounce harmlessly off the wall. Mr. Walters turned off his hearing aids, muting her ear-piercing shrieks. The frenzy soon subsided, replaced by fresh tears and pleas for release. With a sigh, he replaced the gag and headed up the stairs, stopping at the top.

"I see you’re not ready to talk yet," he said, plunging the basement into darkness with a click of the switch.
Night fell, and Mr. Walters drifted to sleep, his dreams haunted by memories of Dolores and the demons he had vanquished.
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The gag muffled her sniffles, each breath tainted with the foul odor of mold and decay. The damp scent hinted at something rotting, making her grateful for the darkness. Panic clawed at her mind, but she forced herself to stay calm. Her bruise throbbed, her shoulders burned from his nails, and her wrists were raw and bleeding from her attempts to break free from the ropes that held her. Rats squeaked somewhere in the darkness, and the echoing drip of water teased her, a constant reminder of her thirst.

A bug crawled across her leg, eliciting an involuntary scream she stifled as soon as it escaped. She would not give that crazy bastard the satisfaction of any more tears or begging. She felt a cold dampness in her groin. Her face burned with shame as she realized she had wet herself during the ordeal.

Slowly, with steady breaths, she relaxed as best she could. Her muscles ached from lack of use. Her hands, tied behind her, strained against the rope. Nimble fingers probed for a weakness but found none. She tried rocking back and forth, but the chair wouldn't budge—it felt nailed to the floor. She had to hand it to old kook; he was thorough.

She needed a plan, but exhaustion replaced the earlier rush of adrenaline. Alone in the silent, dark basement, she struggled to stay awake, and despite the pain and discomfort, exhaustion overcame her. She fell into a fitful sleep.

Tormented visions plagued her brief periods of slumber. Each time, she woke with a gasp, frantically searching for the pincers and screws that had tortured her in her dreams, only to find nothing in the blackness of the basement. She fought to stay awake, not wanting to revisit the nightmares. She had to escape her all-too-real horror, yet her eyelids again grew heavy, and again she slumbered. The smell of food awakened her sometime later.

A blurry image of the old man loomed across from her—her eyes not yet adjusted to the dim light. She mumbled something incoherent, realizing her gag was gone. The urge to scream for help welled up within her, but she suppressed it, knowing if no one had heard her by now, it would be futile. Her tongue felt like it was coated in dust. Even if she wanted to, she doubted she could make a sound, and she would not give him the satisfaction. She yearned for water.

“Ah, good, you’re awake,” Mr. Walters said, his raspy voice reverberating in the dimly lit basement.

She ignored him.

“You don’t really need sleep, do you?” he stated.

The scent of eggs and bacon tickled her nose. A low growl rumbled in the silence. Instinctively, she tried to press her hands to her hollow-feeling belly, but her movement only met resistance from the taut rope. As her eyes adjusted to the light, she could see him more clearly. A chair matching the one she was tied to supported the gaunt frame of the old man. Her eyes locked onto a glass of water on the floor beside him. He followed her gaze and grinned.

“Breakfast,” he said, casually taking a forkful.

She eyed the food, then looked away, muttering to herself.

“Come now. It’s been nearly three days. You must be hungry. Surely even your kind eats?”

He offered her a bite, lifting a forkful of eggs to her lips. Three days? Hunger pushed the thought away before it could take hold. She opened her mouth and took it, slowly chewing and savoring the taste. He offered another forkful, and she accepted. After a few bites, she swallowed the last morsel of eggs and licked her dry lips. Mr. Walters studied her as she ate.

“Water,” she croaked.

“Tell me why you are here,” he said, an encouraging smile on his grandfatherly face.

“I told you, my cat got out.”

With an annoyed sigh and a menacing glint in his eye, he reached over and firmly seized her by the chin with his bony hand. Her resolve melted away like butter in a hot pan, her gaze locking onto the threat of pain in the old man’s eyes. Not for the first time, she saw true madness in his stare. Tears welled in her eyes as she struggled to say something, anything to appease him. He squeezed her cheeks, forcing her mouth open with a steely grip, and poured the water from the glass he held in his other. She coughed and spluttered at first, then gulped it down greedily.

“More,” she croaked when the glass was empty.

“After you answer my questions,” he replied, releasing his grip.

“I don’t know what you want,” she whispered hoarsely. “Please, let me go. People will notice I’m gone. My mom—she’s waiting for me, expecting me over for dinner. The Police—”

“Your mom. Your kind doesn’t have mothers,” he sneered. “But I will release you if you tell me why your kind keeps hounding me!”

“I don’t know what you mean by ‘your kind.’”

“You want to play games, do you? Fine, let’s play,” he said, throwing the food and water against the wall in a sudden burst of anger. He wrapped her hair around his gnarled fist, tugging her face close to his.

“Tell me your name!” he snarled, pulling her head so close their noses nearly touched.

She glared back, stubbornly refusing to answer. He yanked her hair.

“Liz,” she whimpered.

“Your real name,” he growled.

“I don’t…” she began but abruptly cut off as his grip tightened, and he pulled her face closer.

“My name’s Liz. I don’t know what else you mean. That’s my name.”

“A stubborn one, I see. Let’s try a different question. Why did you come here?”

“I’m just looking for my cat,” she shouted.

“Enough lies,” he sneered, spittle flying from his lips. “You were sent to kill me! You know who I am!”

“I don’t know what you mean. I’m telling you the truth! Please, you’re hurting me,” she begged.

“You know you are beaten. Confess!!”

“I don’t understand what you want from me,” she wailed, sobbing uncontrollably, before settling into a nearly inaudible litany of, “I want to go home, I want to go home,” over and over again, rocking back and forth as much as her bonds would allow.

Mr. Walters released the wad of hair tangled in his fist and turned away. This was not like the others. Oh, they begged to be set free, too. They pleaded to see their loved ones—wives, husbands, boyfriends, girlfriends—and offered money, sexual favors, and everything in between. But in the end, they all broke, confessing their true name, their demon names, promising to leave him alone if he would just let them go. And once they confessed, there was only one way forward. His eyes drifted over to the sledgehammer propped in one corner. Good ol’ Benny, he mused, not knowing why he named it that, but the name fit.

But this one was different. She would not give her real name or make promises of wealth or debauchery. The interrogation had gone on for three days, but she still refused. Not like the others, indeed!

He studied her intensely, watching as her sobs faded like morning mist over the lake where he and Deloris had once picnicked. Resignation etched itself onto her face, and she began muttering, falling into a rhythmic chant—a behavior he had never witnessed in a demon. Yet, what struck him most was her unwavering insistence on being called Liz. Could she be telling the truth? Demons were known deceivers, but they always broke long before now. For the first time, doubt crept into Mr. Walters' mind about his discernment.

His thoughts raced, his heart thundered in his chest. He sent up a silent prayer: Lord, have I erred? Silence met his plea. Drawing his chair closer, he scrutinized her face, her defeated demeanor, her steadfast denial of anything supernatural. Bile churned in his gut. He battled the urge to retch. Had his mind grown feeble, mistaking the innocent for demons?

“What have I done?” His voice was low and husky. A tear leaked from the corner of his eye and ran down his wrinkled cheek. The reality of his situation sank in.

“Miss,” he said in a pained voice, “I’m so sorry. I think I’ve made a dreadful mistake.”

“I want to go home,” she whispered, her gaze trying to penetrate through the hardwood floors.

“I know, I know,” he said soothingly.

“Please, I want to go home.”

“It’s okay now,” he said softly, “you are not what I thought you were.”

She looked up at him, a guarded look in her eyes, “Are you going to hurt me some more?”

With a dismissive shake, he leaned back in his chair and stared into space.

What do I do?

Time ticked away as he sat motionless, his thoughts a storm of torment, praying for God to send him a sign. The young woman was no demon; he was certain of that now. But what was he to do? His gaze drifted past Liz into the dim recesses of the basement, where the bodies of true demons lay in shallow graves. With a heavy sigh, the answer came to him like a whisper from the abyss. He lumbered to the corner of the room and grasped Benny by the shaft. His holy mission had to continue. He wished he could let the woman go. He wished he had not made such a dreadful mistake to begin with. But he could not risk her bringing the police. They would find the bodies and dismiss them as human. No one else shared his gift of true sight. He must continue the Lord’s work until he is called home to be with Deloris again.

"God, forgive me," he whispered, creeping up behind the woman. With Benny raised high over his head, he brought it down in a mighty swing. The hammer smashed into the girl's skull, but instead of blood and gray matter, a burst of hellish flame erupted, nearly blinding him.

The hammer slipped from his grasp, crashing loudly onto the wooden floor. Mr. Walters' jaw fell open in shock. This was something new! Never had he seen this before. He heaved a sigh of relief, clutching his chest to steady his racing heart. Shuffling across the room, he slumped into his chair, almost mirroring the lifeless form opposite him. Craving something stronger than black coffee, he muttered to the bound figure.

"You crafty son of a bitch, you were a demon after all."