“I liked the stories,” the creature said, almost dreamily. “The ones that woman wrote. And then the ones on the television. They were such clever stories. You had to guess who did it, and it was never who you thought it was going to be, and then at the end the mustache man explained everything. Like you did, just now. I liked that very much. You did such a good job, like the mustache man.”
“Poirot,” Sherry said. “I thought you might like that. So—you just like stories? Mystery stories?”
“They pass the time,” the spirit said. “There’s so much time, isn’t there? It piles up. You little persons, you think I care about you. You think that I care about your immortal souls.Thosearen’t interesting. I’ve never even seen one. They don’t pass any time at all, and I have somuchof that.”
“You were bored,” Sherry said.
“Yes,” the creature said. It looked pleased that she understood. “I’m sobored. And I ran out of stories. There’s so muchmore time than stories. All I had was time. Time and a little bit of power over the minds of the little persons. So I decided to make myownstories.”
“I’d wondered,” Sherry said. “It seemed like that. Like a play. But why Winesap?”
“Because of you, of course,” the demon said. “You were perfect. A librarian, that’s perfect. I wanted a librarian. I had to look a long time to find you. A librarian who knows about the stories. A librarian who knows how to act in one. Not this very clever kind with the purple hair on the head and the silver ring in the nose. Theproperkind, like in a book. That’s the kind I wanted. Just like you. You felt so special when you got to help with a murder. You felt like you were reallyalive. A nice old lady librarian who’d run away to a nice little town to get away from what she’d done, but you didn’treallyfeel guilty. You were just afraid of getting into trouble. Youlovedgetting to do a murder with your Caroline. All I did was give you more of it. More murder, and more Caroline, and more getting to feelsoimportant. Didn’t you like it?” it asked, as if it was genuinely expecting a response in the affirmative.
Sherry’s face was so hot. It felt ridiculous to blush at what a demon said, but she couldn’t keep from blushing. “What are you talking about?More Caroline?I haven’t seen her in years.”
“But she’s always there, in your little stories,” the demon said. “Most murders are soboring. They don’t have a feminine touch. One man shoots another man over drug money, and the police catch him twenty minutes later while he’s still running down the street with the gun in his hand. That’s not a story. That’s just anincident. That’s not whatyourstories are like. There’s always a Caroline in yours. A woman who needsto be saved, or a woman who needs to be punished, and always all sorts of plots and schemes and lies. Caroline was very good at lies. They kept you from being bored, just like my stories. You didn’t let her go, when you left her, so now I’ve given you more of what you loved so much about her. All of the Caroline that you need.”
“Butyoumade all of this happen,” Sherry said. “I didn’t take over this town and trap everyone here and make everyone forget what year it is and force people to murder each other. That wasyou, not me.”
“I didn’tforce,” the demon said. It sounded offended. “I neverforced. I justsuggested. I hinted to the little persons what theycoulddo. It was up to them what theydid. And then I let you solve the murders. The only thing I forced was no killing in the library. I wouldn’t like that. To get blood on the stories. It would make it harder to read them.”
“Oh,” Sherry said. “That makes sense.” Then she said, “I’m not doing this anymore, you know.”
“Yes, you are,” the demon said, very pleasantly. “You’re good at it. You like it. You’ll keep solving the murders and making the stories. We won’t be bored ever again.”
It felt as if it would be easy to agree. The demon wasn’t wrong, not really. Sherry did like it. Shelovedit. And she was good at it. The trouble was all that death. The demon had threatened her into investigating before, but she knew the truth now. Nudges. The point of the murders was her investigations. The stories. If the investigations stopped, the killings would have no point. She could make Alan’s murder the last of its kind, in Winesap, if she was brave enough. She didn’t feel brave enough. When she opened her mouth to speak, she feltsurprised even while she was doing it. “I can’t,” she said. “I’m sure that you understand. You said before that I’m like that detective in those stories you like. I’m like him in more than one way. I don’t approve of murder.”
“I don’t care about you,” the demon said, and it was closer to her. It didn’t step closer. It just was. “I said that Ididn’tforce,” it said. “But I can. And I will.”
Sherry lifted her chin. Her legs were shaking. “Try it,” she said.
The demon climbed into her.
It was a strange feeling, to have your entire self erased. It started from her childhood. Her mother vanishing, and her father. Opening presents under a pink plastic Christmas tree. Trying out for a solo in the recital and not getting it. Digging in the grass of the backyard. Pushing broccoli to the very edge of her plate. Big things. Little things. The demon rifled through them and then discarded them. Her first kiss. Her wedding day in a modern Methodist church that she’d always thought was ugly. In the car with Caroline, the rain pounding on the windshield. Everything but the most essential parts for the character it needed her to play. The nice librarian in the small town. The tea and toast. The marmalade cat. The circle of quirky but loyal friends. No will, and no fury. No capacity to notice the endless, pointless deaths.
The demon settled into her skin and flexed its new muscles. It stretched, and popped her neck. “I can do this whenever I want,” it said, with Sherry’s mouth. “Wouldn’t you rather just be good for me, instead of making me take charge like this?”
Sherry couldn’t quite remember how this had happened, or why. For a long moment she didn’t think anything or feelanything at all. Then something in a secret little corner of her brain pinged. “Do I have to investigate?” she asked. Her words slurred together. The demon had tightened up her tongue. “I can investigate. I’m good at investigating.”
The demon sighed through her mouth. “Ah,” it said. “Did I take too much of the mind away? It’s so easy to break the little persons.” It loosened its grip on her then. She could move her fingers again. “Youaregood at investigating,” it said, warmly and sweetly. “Won’t you keep doing it, Sherry?”
Sherry didn’t reply. She was still wearing her coat. She put one of her newly freed hands into the pocket and closed her fingers around her yew dagger. She didn’t have time to consider what she was about to do.Hear me, protect us, deliver us from evil.Sherry could only hope that she had been able to make it sharp enough. “No,” she said. Then she yanked the dagger out of her pocket and, before either the demon or her own instincts could stop her, used both hands to stab it as hard as she could through her shirt, through the coral necklace, and into her own chest.
There was a blaze of pain, and even greater heat, heat that rushed through her hand and the dagger and into the necklace and her chest, a burn that circled her throat and poured straight into her heart. A howl came out of her mouth. She crashed down heavily onto one knee. The demon was tearing out of her like a Band-Aid being ripped off tender skin. Black wind was pouring out of her nose and mouth. It shrieked, then it giggled. “Oh, clever,” it whispered. “Clever little person. You know the old stories, too. The old ones and the new ones. A wand of yew, and a sacrifice of blood, and a stake in a dark creature’s heart. I’ll abide by the rules, little person. The storiesare no good if the rules aren’t followed.” Sherry’s whole body felt cold. The demon was still laughing. “What a good ending it is,” it said. “Until next time, little friend.”
The room was suddenly quiet. Sherry’s shirt felt wet.
“Ouch,” she said aloud, just as someone kicked through the meeting room door, and she passed out.
Twenty-seven
The next few weeks were very, very strange, despite being the most ordinary weeks that anyone in Winesap had lived through in years.
She woke up in the hospital, feeling groggy, nauseous, and as if more time had passed than she would have preferred. It was very dark outside, and Father Barry was asleep in a chair in the corner. She tried to clear her throat, which turned into a cough, which made her head pound. Father Barry woke with a small start, looked toward her, and sighed. “You’re awake!”
“So are you,” she said. “How long was I out?”
“Just a few hours,” he said. “Asleep, not unconscious. You were awake when I brought you here. They think you have a concussion, so that’s probably why you don’t remember.”
