Losing Charity

Losing Charity - 15

It climbs out of the pit and I know I've lost my mind. Gone crazy. Had a psychotic break. Misplaced all my marbles.

That's the only way I'm seeing what I'm seeing, because it cannot be real. What emerges from the fire is a little figure of a man. Or something shaped like a man. It is more the size of a toddler, about two feet tall. But so not a child.

It wears a cheap baggy three-piece suit, brown pinstripe. Chunky black shoes smeared with soot. And a battered brown bowler hat.

The thing's skin is dark red. Dull ruby, you might call it. It has an ugly, craggy face. Beetled brow. Big, bulbous, protruding nose. Pointy ears like a Christmas elf. From its back sprout a pair of leathery black bat wings. And it has a tail. A long, hairless red tail with a sharp black point at the end.

The tail flicks back and forth as its stands there watching me with beady black eyes.

An unlit cigar dangles from its mouth.

Yeah. Cigar.

Somehow the cigar and the hat and the bad suit make this otherwise terrifying and impossible little creature seem ... well, not safe, exactly, but tame. Slightly comical, maybe. Like an organ grinder's trained monkey in a little suit.

Maybe for a second that's what I think I'm seeing here. A monkey in some kind of costume. Believe me, when you start seeing things like this, things so far outside the range of what you could call normal that you question your own sanity, your brain goes to work, racing like crazy to concoct any wackadoodle "rational" explanation it can come up with.

Monkey in a costume? I'll take it. Yeah, let's go with that.

Then it speaks.

"Well, don't you look a fright?" it says.

Same voice I heard speaking from the pit. Only now it is coming from the mouth of this little ... whatever it is.

Clearly not a monkey. Because monkeys can't talk.

Try again, brain. Help me out here.

Ventriloquist?

That's worth a shot. I only think the costumed monkey is talking. Yes, I can cling to the sane stick a little longer with that.

Barely.

"Ohmigod, ohmigod, ohmigod ..." I chant.

The creature winces. Like I slapped it or something.

"Easy on the OMGs, if you don't mind."

I clamp my hand over my mouth. It's almost an involuntary movement.

The thing starts toward me. Backlit by the fire pit, it looks sinister and dangerous, never mind the cigar and hat. I whimper and press myself back against the unyielding wall.

"Stay ... stay back!" I say.

The little creature stops. It shrugs and raises its stubby red hands in a placating gesture. "Hey, sister, don't sweat it. I'll stay right here. You've obviously had quite the eventful evening. I get it." It jerks a thumb over its shoulder at Peter's smoldering corpse. "Boyfriend here —"

"He's not my boyfriend."

"Right, right. Your gentleman caller here, he's down for the count."

"He's dead," I say flatly.

"Well ... yeah. Nice bit of work that. He never saw it coming. But my point is we need to focus on you. Because this—" The creature waves its arms to take in Peter's burning body, the rest of the room, and, by extension, this whole horrible night. "—this all adds up to one big mess. So I ask you — and I mean this sincerely — how can I help you?"

"Wh-what are you?" I blurt.

"What am I? Not who? What am I? That's rude."

"I'm sorry ... it's just—"

"I'm an imp. I-M-P. Imp. But that's not what's important here. What's important is what are you? And what you are is scared out of your cute little wits, am I right? Of course I am. What say we turn on the lights, huh? It's a little dark and spooky in here."

Recessed LED bulbs come on and push the shadows back.

"How did you do that?" I demand.

"It's a voice activated system, remember?"

"Oh. Right."

The room was still dim, but a lot less like a horror cave.

Although still horrible.

The creature looks me up and down and shakes its head, clucking with disapproval.

"What?" I say.

"You're a mess, Charity."

In spite of everything, I blush. I cross my arms and draw my legs in more, suddenly very self-conscious that I am sitting here in the floor in my underwear and stockings, partly covered in vomit.

"But that's not your biggest problem," continues the imp.

"What is?" I ask.

"Isn't it obvious? You killed a man!"

*************************************************

Losing Charity © Dan McGirt 2019. All rights reserved.

Please give a star if you enjoyed this story. Comments welcome too. Thanks for reading!