The Demon Is In The Details | PJM

It's Just A Box

"Wouldn't you rather be at home and in bed right now? I know I would," you lament for the dozenth time since your best friend dragged you out into the middle of nowhere.

She gives you a disgruntled look from over her shoulder. "Can you stop being such a spoilsport already?"

You're not trying to be a spoilsport. You just don't see the appeal in trudging through the woods in the middle of the night to go bury a box of questionable items at some supposed crossroads just so nothing can happen.

"Do you really believe in this stuff, Dom?"

Dom—or Dominique Portland to almost everyone else—has been your best friend since you were both barely tall enough to see over the kitchen countertop. Inseparable only just scratches the surface of the bond you share. Your summers growing up were spent sharing her small twin bed and waking up to her mother frying bacon and flipping pancakes nearly every morning.

The silver ribbons holding her unruly space buns in place flutter in the air as she spins around and starts walking backward, her mocha eyes assessing you. "You know I do," she finally says, a playful smirk curling the corner of her full lips, making the piercing in the center of the bottom one glitter in the soft moonlight filtering through the trees.

You've always found her to be a stunning human being; a bit eccentric maybe, but that only adds to her beauty, you think. The bright lilac streaks in her tightly coiled hair match the overall dye of your own, a sentiment you both think speaks volumes for the kind of friendship you have. Her cinnamon-colored skin is radiant and smooth, and she has a smile that lights up any room.

"Watch where you're going before you trip or something. I'm not carrying your ass the three miles back to civilization," you grouse good-naturedly, giving her shoulder a playful swat.

Dominique laughs, the sound echoing through the sparse canopy around you. But she spins back around and resumes stalking through the underbrush, the flashlight in her hand swinging wildly across the trees. Her platform combat boots make quick work of the climbing weeds and thin saplings under foot as she picks up her pace.

She started dabbling in witchy things over a decade ago, mostly crystals, tarot cards, herbs...and now summoning demons, you suppose. When she first showed you her tarot cards and the satchel of crystals her grandmother passed down to her on her eighteenth birthday, you humored her by letting her read your fortune or whatever it is she did with them, thinking it would be a phase and pass.

But, as the years went by and she continued to delve into the mystic arts and varying degrees of the occult, you realized it wouldn't be passing; at least, not any time soon. It's become less about humoring her and simply more about supporting your best friend in what she loves to do, even if you find it a bit unorthodox.

"We're almost there," Dominique sing-songs, throwing her hands up and doing what you've coined as her terrible impression of jazz hands. The bangles on her wrists clack together, creating a tinkling sound that you find eerie as it peals through the quiet of the forest.

"Oh, golly gosh, how exciting," you mutter to yourself so Dom doesn't hear your unenthusiastic sarcasm, before continuing a bit louder, "Cool. Think we'll be back before the sun comes up? I'd like to be able to get at least a few hours of sleep before work tomorrow."

Dominique chuckles, her shoulders swaying as if she moves to some musical beat you can't hear. "Don't worry yourself, my lovely friend. I'll make sure you're home and in bed long before the sun graces us with its warmth."

You follow Dom through a tight squeeze between two towering trees. It opens up to a small clearing. The moon, bright and full overhead, illuminates the space like a spotlight setting the stage for a grand number. In the very center of it all stands a giant tree, the star of the show, with its branches reaching far to each side. Its leaves thread through those of the others lining the edge of the clearing.