SUSAN’S DEMON

Ron Wetherington

​

One need not be a chamber to be haunted—
One need not be a House;
The Brain has Corridors surpassing 
Material Place.

Emily Dickinson

​

​

 

            I woke abruptly, sat up, and there it was. I was fairly certain it was a demon when I saw wisps of smoke coming from the corners of its eyes. But I could be mistaken, as my bed-chamber was dimly lit, and I was still quite sleepy. You all feel this, don’t you, that indefinite status that shifts us back and forth in the wee hours when we may or may not be leaving or returning? The bedside clock blinked five-thirty, and I generally arise well after six. Something had nudged me.

           It failed to disappear as I rose and spread the curtain open, letting in the grey luminescence of the predawn hours. It remained perched there at the foot of the bed, on its haunches, with arms resting casually on its knees. In the dimness, it appeared to be naked.

             I sat again on the bed, reached over to the nightstand, and switched on the small light, the shade radiating its incandescent orange glow. Indeed, the smallish creature had no clothes at all and was apparently sexless. The approaching dawn now exposed its narrow eyes, staring at me without expression, and a slender nose on a rather gaunt, yet youngish face. Its unruly hair was mauve.

            I wanted to ask who or what it was, but didn’t. It was entirely possible, you see, that I was still asleep and dreaming. Such lucid occurrences are not uncommon—you all know this—which is doubtless the principal reason I felt no apprehension. It crossed my mind that it might have come from the chili I ate last evening.

            “Are you a demon?” I finally asked. It continued staring at me. “A sprite? A malevolent spirit?”

         It gave me no answer. I was certain that I was still emerging from a dream, and I wanted none of it. I rose from the bed. “You may leave, now,” my voice was quite firm. “You were not invited!” But after I emerged from my shower, dressed, and reentered the chamber, it was still on the foot of the bed. I

approached it and reached for its shoulder. My hand passed through it without contact. So it was not a material being. It responded by turning its head to meet my gaze. Still no expression whatsoever.

              Now was about the right time to be frightened, don’t you think?  But since the creature appeared apathetic and had not yet acted belligerently, I remained composed. What ought I to do? What would you do? It was unresponsive but unthreatening, spectral and yet not an illusion. I had two choices, right? I could continue to confront it, trying other measures to elicit a response, or I could just ignore it, close the door, and go on about my day.

                   I chose the latter. I mean, whose place is it, after all?

           But I also invited my friend Janice for drinks that afternoon. She could both confirm that I was not hallucinating and offer advice. Because we often share intimate thoughts about strange things. Because, while I’m pretty rational, I don’t always trust my own judgment. And because drinking alone demands too much self-reflection. I don’t really enjoy self-reflection, do you? Dickenson certainly did not! Ourself, behind ourself concealed, should startle most, she wrote.

❦

            The martinis were dry and the cashews salty. Halfway through the second round, I said, “By the way, there’s a demon on my bed.”

              Janice didn’t blink. Taking another sip, she squinted her eyes conspiratorially. “I’ve got one in my closet,” she whispered.

        "I’m serious, Janice,” I pouted. “Come look!” She followed, our martinis in hand, and I opened the door to the now-sunlit room. The bed was empty. We stood there silently. Can you imagine how embarrassed I was? Disappointed, even. Although to be rid of it was a relief, I suppose.

            “Let’s look in the closet,” Janice offered. I scowled at her. “It was right there!” I pointed to the empty space.

            She gave me a comforting glance. “It’s okay, Susan.” She drained her glass. “If you get lonely, you can borrow mine.”

❦

            Even though she didn’t reappear after several weeks, I thought of her often. I named her “Ginger”, deciding she was female. After all, why would I want a male demon? There are already enough walking around in the flesh!

            But maybe she wasn’t a demon; maybe she was a sprite, a fairy—a respectable elf. Since she didn’t do or say anything, how would I know? I wonder, to this day, why she appeared. So, of course, by now, you’re asking yourselves, “Is Susan going mad?” No. I don’t have delusions. I don’t consort with nymphs. I seldom have any troubling dreams. I’m quite sane—well, as much as any of us in these troubled times.

            But I saw a therapist just to be sure. He says we all have demons—parts of our past that we hide away in the mind’s dusty corners. He says sometimes they emerge and tease our attention. My therapist tells me we often mistake our demons as harmless and that perhaps Ginger was (or is) the personification of mine. He says that I should encourage her; that I need to confront my demons to deal with them properly. He thinks I’m apathetic.

            I think he’s projecting—isn’t that what they call it when someone transfers personal feelings onto someone else? Even if I do have a demon, I certainly don’t want his version! Or even Janice’s. She can keep him in her closet. And I’m not apathetic! I just don’t give a shit.

            I’m not going back to the therapist, by the way. Ginger and I can deal with each other without him or Janice, don’t you think? All I need is another opportunity. And another martini.