The demon arrived without smoke, sulfur, or ceremony. It just appeared in the corner of the room as a sentence.
At first it was only three words long.
You are tired.
The reader laughed, because this was true. The sentence darkened.
You are alone.
Which was also true.
The letters thickened against the wall, and the reader tried not to look at them, but new words appeared wherever the eyes went.
Ignored.
The demon gained shoulders.
Unwanted.
It grew hands.
Failure.
Its face began to form.
The reader understood then. Every word gave it substance. Every accepted description made it more complete. So the reader tried better words.
Kind.
One of the demon’s fingers vanished.
Necessary.
Its jaw cracked.
Loved.
The thing screamed, although no sound entered the room.
For a while, that seemed to be the answer. The reader spoke only generous words, careful words, words polished smooth by hope.
The demon shrank. Then it smiled. On the wall appeared:
Coward.
The reader flinched.
The demon’s spine returned.
Liar.
Its ribs unfolded.
Cruel.
Its eyes opened.
The reader shouted that none of those words were true.
The demon stepped closer, and that was when the reader understood the trap.
Truth did not matter. Belief did.
The demon became whatever language the reader accepted, whether whispered by enemies, remembered from childhood, or supplied by the reader alone.
It leaned close enough for its breath to move the hair on the reader’s arms.
One final word appeared between them.
Demon.
The reader stared at it for a long time, then smiled.
“No.”
The word vanished.
So did the horns. Then the claws. Then the teeth. What remained was small, frightened, and almost human.
The reader considered it carefully. “You’re a thought,” they said.
The thing became smaller.
“A habit.”
Smaller still.
“A word.”
And at last, it disappeared.
©2012 Rhyan Scorpio-Rhys
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