In the Dark of the Night

         One dark night around midnight, a young man entered a graveyard. It was a shortcut home to his wife and children. In a hurry (and rather freaked out by all of the headstones), the man rushed through the cemetery until he tripped over a bottle. The bottle was black with silver rings around the base and was encrusted with rubies as red as blood that were about the size of a human eye that was out of the socket. Amazed by the random bottle on the ground, the man got up, dusted himself off, picked up the bottle, and ran like he was being chased by a pack of hungry wolves until he was out of the graveyard.
         Once home, the man took the bottle and crept quietly to his study as to not wake his loved ones. He was silent except when he swore under his breath after running into several pieces of furniture. Upon entering the study, the man turned on the lights and examined the bottle further. The base was stout and ovular in shape similar to a few perfume bottles his wife kept only more immense. The scarlet red rubies were embedded in the surface all the way around the base with two silver rings above and below the gemstones. The bottle’s neck was slender with rubies the size of teardrops and made up most of the container’s height. What sealed the bottle was an even bigger ruby that acted like a cork. It was cut elegantly and was roughly twice the size of those in the bottle’s base.
      The man grasped the ruby with a nervous, shaking hand and, after some hesitation, pulled. The ruby was stuck fast and no matter how hard he tugged, it would not budge. Finally, he gave up and threw the bottle out of frustration. It hit the wall bottom first and the ruby was launched from the bottle. The man did not see where it had gone, for his eyes were fixed on a thick, black smoke that poured from the bottle’s mouth, carrying with it, the pungent odor of death and decay as well as a feeling of hopelessness; that life was too full of misery to suffer through. The man coughed, sputtered, and choked on the smoke. He cried as well, feeling as though the sorrows of the world had been violently thrust upon his shoulders. He ran to the door of his study, desperately trying to obtain the oxygen his lungs screamed for. The door would not budge, however, and the man was trapped with the smoke.
      As the man fought with the door, panic now setting in, he failed to notice that the smoke was gradually taking shape. Before long, the smoke was gone and in its place floated an ancient man. By the time the young man noticed he could breathe, was no longer crying, and stopped trying to break the door down, the old man had been there for a good twenty minutes. Feeling the presence of another in the study with him, the young man spun around and screamed out of terror, but quickly covered his mouth. He hoped and prayed the home’s other denizens had not heard his feminine yelp.
      The man of the bottle was very old, perhaps as old as time itself. His long arms and torso were covered by a black, blood-stained cloak that had several rips, tears, and gaping holes in it. His legs, which were also long, were covered by equally tattered and stained pants. His skin was paler than snow and seemed too small for his frame for it stretched, nearly to the point of tearing, over his bones. It was heavily blemished with scars, burns, wounds that appeared to be fresh but were not, and pock marks from both chicken and small pox. Some skin was missing in places, possibly lost to a flesh-eating disease like leprosy. His eyes were lacking life, color and emotion and resembled those belonging to a snake. His hair was long, silver, and straighter than one would have thought possible. It was falling out in frightening amounts, but never lessened. As a whole, the poor man seemed to have every illness and ailment known to man and then some.
      “Who dares open the bottle?” the old man from the bottle asked, looking at the cowering man with disdain. His voice was raspy and soft, but still delivered fear to the man.
      “I-I di-didn’t m-m-m-mean t-t-to,” the man stammered. “Wh-who a-ar-are y-you?”
      “I go by names no human could hope to pronounce correctly or even accurately. You may call me Agony. I once brought great suffering, dread, and woe to your kind, but Mother Nature, Father Time, and my elder sister Fate thought I was being too hard on you after causing the Great Depression. They gave my baby brother, Payne, my job and gave me…ugh…genie duty.” Agony scowled at the man as he spoke as if it was his fault he was imprisoned in the bottle.
      “So, you’re here to grant me wishes?” the cowardly man asked, trying not to laugh. Who would’ve thought someone as frail yet evil-looking as Agony would be granting wishes?
      “No. Your idea of a genie is incorrect. I am more along the lines of an oracle who will answer three questions truthfully.”
      The man was rather disappointed. No wishes but truths? That seemed ridiculous. However, one question came to mind quickly.
      “My wife, has she been…” he trailed off, not sure how to ask.
      “Faithful? Yes, which is more than I can say for you. Your adulterous ways excite Mephistopheles and he cannot wait to drag you to Inferno or Hell as you know it.”
      The man turned pale. Although he asked for conformation, he was certain of the answer. It was not the one he received. Moments passed and the shocked expression remained.
      Agony rolled his eyes. “Two questions left. Ask now, gape later.”
      The man snapped out of his daze. “Uh, right.” After some thought he asked, “will I work in my office for the rest of my life?”
      “No,” was Agony’s reply. This brought a sigh of relief from the mortal. He saw himself in his dream job as a movie star.
      “Will I ever be famous?” was the man’s last question.
      “Yes,” Agony replied and he and the bottle disappeared in a cloud of smog, his answer echoing throughout the study.
      A year later exactly, the man lost his job. His wife discovered his cheating and divorced him, leaving him nothing save the clothing on his back. He became famous, all right. He was a famous criminal, known for armed robbery, murder, and kidnapping. He spent the rest of his days cursing Agony, convinced the demon residing in the cursed bottle was responsible for his crime.
      Agony, however, just watched the man suffer and commit crime after crime, enjoying his misfortune. He didn’t mind being blamed, he’d even take the credit the man gave him, if he could. As long as it was for suffering, Agony did not mind at all.