Daemonic High Holy Days

 by Gail Fulkerson

    Valentine’s Day was a festive occasion in the daemonic world, when daemons preyed upon the lonely and broken-hearted humans who went without a lovely card or flowers or box of chocolates on love’s special day. 

    As the sun set on February 14th, Frank et al would leave their nests and fan out, scouring the streets of the city, listening for the quiet sobs and outright wailing of the despondent, signs of human despair that seemed to stab ever more deeply into the human spirit with every passing year. Many victims were easily found quietly sobbing into pillows in their bedrooms; some were found stone-faced as they sat in their sadness ‘watching tv’ with dead eyes that took in the images; some stared with empty eyes into the dark abyss within and without, waiting for death to claim them; and, some were sat in their bathrooms, clutching a razor-sharp blade poised shakily over their wrists, trying to pluck up enough courage to make the slash to end their bleak existences. 

    COVID-19 had ramped up the desolation in human hearts, exacerbating their physical and spiritual isolation from family and friends, making them so much easier to pick off. All a daemon had to do was to walk up to any house, ring the bell, then wait for someone to open the door, to apparent emptiness. The daemons had learned long ago that becoming invisible allowed them easy entry into any abode. Once past the threshold, the daemons would materialize and set upon any living being who dwelt within. 

    And it was never a pretty sight, what with all the blood and gore splattered on the walls and family photographs, and pools of the stuff on the floors. Those humans who could not be consumed on-site were disarticulated (read: torn asunder) and hauled home in burlap potato sacks.

    Frank and his family’s haul had been bountiful this year. Their stomachs bloated with victuals, belching and passing wind, the family carried or dragged their bags full of body parts home. They all looked forward to getting the leftovers wrapped and put away in the freezer for future meals, before dropping onto the couch to finish digesting their feast in front of the tv. They watched and guffawed and made jokes about the news reports of their antics earlier that evening. The best was when they showed footage of daemons dragging heavy sacks of meat along the alleyways and main roads. They also aired close-up images of the endless blood trails that stained the asphalt and gravel, which elicited shrieks of high amusement from Frank and his family. 

    The news anchor was anxiously exhorting all vigilantes to take up arms to rid their city of the scourge of daemons from hell by whatever means possible. Nothing was off the table: shooting, stabbing, burning, hanging, drowning; all were offered as solutions to address the unholy infestation. The daemons howled with laughter at this last news item, knowing that none of the humans’ attempts to rout them would be successful. 

    Following on the heels of a lucrative Valentine’s Day was the highest of daemonic holy days: Easter. February’s observance was merely a warm-up for Easter, when the gates of hell would be flung wide and daemons of all stripes would be let loose to hunt hapless souls while the humans basked in the afterglow of love’s holiday.
    Easter was for the reaping of ‘devout souls’, the humans who openly professed their love for their god, all the while breaking every taboo in their bible behind closed doors: extramarital affairs, theft and embezzlement, gambling, gossiping, and engaging in pornography, to name a few. 

    It was customary for daemons to feign fear and injury whenever a human invoked the name of his or her creator, fervently believing that its utterance would somehow protect them against any and all daemonic attacks. It brought a smile to their black little hearts as they tore into their first victim of the season.

    ******

    There was still time for the daemonic community to prepare for Easter’s reaping. Knowing how much the snot-nosed, smelly little human tykes enjoyed searching for easter eggs, the daemons had developed a ruse to get the kiddies to find only the eggs they had hidden, while overlooking the ones the parents had cached. (Daemonic easter eggs are a bit larger, more garishly decorated, and have an aroma of freshly baked cookies wafting on the air at the height of a kids’ nose. Topping it all off, a daemon would don a white rabbit suit and hide all the eggs plucked from a basket slung over a furry forearm.)                 
    Duping adult humans was easy — duping their kids was even easier.

******

    There was a run on freezers at many of the appliance stores just before the Easter weekend. Daemons who had been at the Valentine’s Day massacre had already filled every shelf, nook and cranny in their home freezers, but still wanted to participate in the slaughter during the Easter festivities. Who could blame them? After all, daemons far and wide know that the sweetest meat belongs to the most devout sinners. 

    (Here’s a little factoid that many people don’t know: Daemons who prey upon humans living in Saskatchewan will bury their catch in snow drifts in their back yards in the winter, negating the requirement for a freezer from late October until the following April. Not wanting the neighbours to see just how much ‘food’ they have, daemons will go out in the blackness of a moonless night and retrieve what’s left of their Valentine’s Day haul, re-caching it in their basements. The behaviour of ravens caching their food comes to mind: Perhaps that’s where daemons got the idea.)

    Easter is fast approaching. Every daemonic parent has filled their little imp’s heads with bedtime stories of heroic daemons slewing hordes of humans with a single blow of their hellish swords, as well as the infamous Gorgonzola, the snake-haired daemon, who killed thousands with a look. Before they turn out the bedroom lights, loving daemonic parents deliver a final admonishment to their   children to sleep tight and not let the humans bite. Many a daemon child has lain awake, quaking under their covers, terrified that an errant human will rise up from under their bed to bite them, or worse. 

    Sleep tight, humans… you never know who’s in your bedroom watching you as you rest peacefully in the arms of Morpheus. 

Gail Fulkerson is a writer who specializes in the supernatural. She lives with her family in Saskatchewan, where she is working on another story involving Frank the daemon.