Ian Canon

The Devil at the Door

It was around four in the afternoon, on an unusually warm autumn day, when the Devil knocked on my door. In a colossal hand, he held a small bush—literally hundreds of wilted black roses—the petals falling around his cloven feet. This wasn’t the first time I’d met Darius. About three weeks ago I was the one knocking. He was in town on business, some kind of soul convention I think. And I was selling my novel door to door. He introduced himself as Darius, as if (as if!) I should have known who he was, but I was only interested in getting my sale. He rattled off more names, stopping after each one to gauge my reaction. 

“The Dark Lord, Old Scratch, The Evil One, Shaitan, The Black Woodsman, Infernal Fiend, Beelzebub, Lucifer, Behemoth,” and finally, frowning, he meekly said, “The Breaker of Men.” 

“Stop,” I told him—I got the picture. He asked for my name. 

“Margaret or Maggie,” I said, but he thought it might be cute to call me Maggot. 

It wasn't. Code names for women you just met are never cute. But I didn’t tell him that. Instead, I pushed my novel again—I had a quota to make. 

He kneeled in the doorway, still taller than me, and pretended to be interested in what I was selling. I could use this faux-interest against him, I thought. He was just like other powerful men. In other ways, though, he was different. For starters, he smelled like matches that had recently been snuffed. Not unpleasant, though. And he was at least eight feet tall with muscles in places I didn’t think deserved them. Most of those muscles were covered by a thin black fur, purple skin where there wasn’t any, and he had goat legs, hooved and angled. From behind, you’d probably mistake him for some terrible animal, which in many ways he was. His tail ended in a bony tip, veiny wings protruded from his back, and horns curled above a hairless head. But his face was that of a man—not traditionally handsome—a snarling, purple-faced man trapped in a painful grimace with eyes that burned at the corners like a candle flame. 

I explained that my novel was a sci-fi sex opera in space, and he nodded along, stopping me every once and a while to make a joke or to pry into my personal life. But this wasn’t my first rodeo with a man like Darius. I knew to stay on the periphery of flirty, create my own faux-interest in his soul-trade, then steer the conversation back to my novel. After a while, when the empty flirtation found only dead ends, there was the question I was waiting for: “How much?” He bought every copy I had and paid extra for a signature. Then there came one last attempt. He asked me what there was to do in town. I understood the implication—the missing invitation in the air—but chose to ignore it. I told him about the Ferris Wheel on the river, Yarrow Park, and the bellflower fountain—the last where I went on stressful days. He, in turn, tried to tell me about a recent stress of his own—a genocide that caused a hundred-mile backup in his “fiery halls,” but I cut him off. I had already got what I wanted. This was when he started to get desperate, stammering mostly unintelligible things in his booming voice that once shook heaven, things like “If it pleases you…” or “should you find yourself unencumbered by work…” or “I’d like to make your acquaintance again….” With his cash in hand, I simply turned and walked away. 

In my Uber, however, I felt different. Here was this man (sort of) who had all the authority of the underworld in the palm of his hands, groveling at my feet. In his presence, I didn’t feel like a struggling author selling books door to door. I was something more, something elevated, and I wanted more of his power, wondered how many books I could sell with his help. When I got home I started Googling. I wanted to learn more about The Lord of Darkness. I read the Wikipedia entry, ordered a bible and Paradise Lost (I was looking for objectivity), read Washington Irving's "The Devil and Tom Walker" and Stephen King's "The Man in the Black Suit” and looked for his social accounts but couldn’t find any. Based on what I had read, he could give me what I wanted, but at a price—my soul. I chewed on this over for about an hour, maybe less, put on my paisley jean jacket, and went out to find him. 

This time, an elderly man with big ears answered his door. It was an Airbnb and he and his wife were the owners. I asked if he knew where to find the previous occupant, and they told me something about respecting his privacy. Devil take him! But I remembered Darius was in our podunk town for a soul convention. I tried to find it, but nothing came up. I called every event space I could find, but no one knew of (or would admit to knowing) a soul convention. There was nothing online except for a few empty incantations and spells that promised lower-level daemons, which I of course tried. Ancient names in the mirror, dead rabbits burned in a pit of hot coals and sulfur, a stew of bat hairs, soot, mandrake roots, and two-leaf clovers. Nothing worked. It felt like a dead end. I had all but given up, gone back to work on my door-to-door sales, my next novel, and my puttering writing career. 

But here he was again, bashfully scraping the bottom of his hooves on my cement steps, avoiding eye contact. “Good evening,” he said. 

“Hello,” I said quickly, curtly. I didn’t want to seem overeager. 

“These are for you.” The petals fell completely from the stems as he handed them over. 

I looked down at the bare stems, unsure how long he expected me to hold them. “Didn’t expect to see you here.” 

“It is precisely in my nature to show up unexpectedly.” 

I waited for him to say something more, but he let the quiet sit in the air. The games had already started. I crossed my arms, tapped my foot.  “Are you going to tell me how you got my address?” 

“You are a lady of immeasurable will, a beast in human flesh, and I could not, well, I—you see, in your novel… when I digested its prose—your printer of words, your—publisher is the word—was willing to divulge certain secrets after a calculated pressure. It is a matter of worry for me how easy the encounter was, how quickly this man-peasant revealed you to me. I do not wish to frighten you, but other men, unspeakable creatures, could find you. I can post my gargoyles at these corners, keep an eye on you, as long as you grant it. You see so many strange men on your house calls, it is certain, so I wish to offer you my protection should you find it essential.”

“My publisher?” 

“I can sense your anger. If it bothers you, I could exterminate their lot, bring them below with me.”

My publisher at the time, who I won’t dignify by putting their name out there—they don’t deserve the free press—was a middling startup with a handful of authors under their belt. You can probably guess how effective I think they are, what with me going door to door to sell my damn novel. 

“I have my own way of punishing those who wrong me,” I said. 

“I would not question your strength to harm your enemies.” 

“Oh?” 

“You struck fear in me from the moment I opened that door.” 

I could feel the smallest smirk on my lips. He was not, on second thought, entirely like other powerful men, those who try to hide themselves. He openly admitted fear moved him. I could use that, I thought. 

“For a fortnight, I’d secluded myself in my infernal office, ruminating over our meeting, unable to make a single tortuous decision. Fear. What a beautifully heightened state. It prevented me from action. I knew only the name. Maggot.” 

“Or Margaret, or Maggie.” 

“If I did not send for my black-winged steed at that moment, if I did not partake in this journey to see you, I would have entered my own hell.” 

I wondered if he knew the extent I went through to find him, or if I still held all the cards. I decided to press him. “Lord knows I don’t need any more assholes in my life.” 

“Certainly this is no work of the Lord, Maggot. He does not grant his nemesis gifts that aren’t riddled with poison.” 

“There’s still time for poison.” 

He made a hoarse sound, like an old man clearing his throat, which I took for laughter. “So you accept?” 

“Accept what?” 

He opened his hand to me, hoping I’d take it, his fingers thick, like that of an ape. “Your time.” 

Instead, I rolled my eyes. “In what capacity?” 

“I have heard of these moving pictures you humans care for.”

“A date?” 

“If that is the name of the ritual, yes. I want to explore the Maggot before me, see if those freckles would burn with me below.” 

I should have been scared of the words “burn with me below” but I wasn’t. I think there’s a certain lightness life can sometimes take when you’re a writer. A sort of neutrality to the events that happen to you, judging them not as good or bad, but as opportunities for a story. It’s why I wasn’t afraid of him. It was why I unenthusiastically shrugged and said, “Okay.” 

The candles at the corners of his crow’s feet glowed brighter, and I wondered if they’d be hot to the touch. 

“There’s an excellent vegan restaurant called Topanga's,” I said.  “I’ve been dying to try out.” 

“Vegan?”

“Pick me up around nine tonight?” 

“Tonight?” 

“Are you going to be repeating me all night or…?” 

“No—no, most certainly no.”

“Then nine?” 

“I will have a chariot ready.” 

“Wear something nice,” I said, looking down at his loincloth. 

“Yes, you as well.” 

I closed the door. With my back to it, I slid to the floor and screamed into my palm. If things worked out, I might not even have to give up my soul. There was a chink in his armor, a desire beyond just the soul. Like all egotists, surrounded by yes-men, servants and slaves, he wanted someone who said no, who went against the grain. It was a sham, of course. I had very little in the world, and Darius could have nearly everything, but what I had was me and what he wanted was the same. 

He was thirty minutes early. I answered the door in a towel hanging low on my chest, the smallest one I could find, and told him to get lost. He wore only tattered black suit pants too short for him, and I thought he looked like the Walmart version of the Hulk.  I told him to wait outside, and to find a shirt, then slammed the door in his face. When I came back out, forty-five minutes later, I saw our ride. It was a wooden stagecoach, trimmed with gold, led by two muscled horses black as midnight and snorting flames. The door to the stagecoach opened as I approached and the interior was lined in crushed red velvet. Darius sipped from a gem-encrusted chalice and wore a tunic, chest open.  

“My lady,” he said. “Thirsty?” 

“No,” I said, getting in.  This was a delicate game I was playing, and I had to keep my wits about me. 

Darius spent most of the ride crossing and uncrossing his goat legs, the thread of his pants rustling every time, and looking out a sliver in the velvet curtains. There was intermittent small talk, of course, about the true nature of fire and the number 666—topics he thought of—but I found them uninteresting and told him so. When we arrived at the restaurant, we were greeted by a stammering host, his eyes darting around Darius’ frame. We followed him, a hush having fallen on the restaurant, everyone looking up from their conversation or their food to stare at the purple giant in strange clothing. I loved it, the attention, the awe. The host led us to our seat—a dim, candlelit corner booth near a large window—which would cause anyone passing by the window to stop and stare at the thing across from me. I had to take a chair instead of the booth because it had been pushed so far back to accommodate the bulk of the man-beast. 

The host filled our waters and we sat in silence. I wanted to see what he'd do with it. 

“Do you dine here often?” He kept his attention on the table, where he dug nervous holes into the oak with his talons. 

“Only when someone takes me.” I lied. I had never been there before. 

“So you see a lot of men?” 

“Men, demons, minotaurs. You name it.” The truth was that I was only committed to my work, to getting to that next level. This was my first date in ages.

“Oh,” he said with a sad smile. His teeth were small purple daggers. 

“I’m kidding.” 

“A human joke.” He nodded his head slowly.  “Excellent.”

“Do you?” 

“Do I joke?”

“Go on dates?” 

He looked down at the clawed, giant hands. “No.” 

I filled the space by drinking my water. 

“I’ve not had the time. I am, you see, the second most important being in existence.” 

“Never a bride, always a bridesmaid.” 

“Never—” 

Before he finished, an uncontrollable thought popped into my head. I leaned over the table, losing my composure and forgetting why I was there, and blurted out, “So my novel? You said you read it?” 

“Ah, your novel.” He clasped his hands and sat up straight. 

I admit it made me anxious to know that a man like Darius—or anyone, really—had read my first novel. It was why, when I remembered he had, it slipped out of me. It felt intimate like they had a part of me that I could not control, and at any minute they were going to tell me that I was an imposter with no talent. Buried deep down I still, sometimes, felt like that nerdy girl looking for approval. 

“I found it rather charming,” he said. “Bold, even. To end in the exact same place you started.” 

I explained to him where I thought my work, at the time, fit in the modern to postmodern continuum, and how my second novel, still in development, furthered those goals. He did very little talking during this, and I probably got a bit lost in my sermon, but the waiter came by our table and rescued me. 

I ordered for the two of us. He had no need of eating, he said, though he could taste just fine. I ordered a vegan-pecorino pesto and truffle linguine with cherry tomatoes. He got a portobello burger, kale caesar, and a tankard of beer. I stuck with water—for now. 

“Enough about my work,” I said. “Tell me about yours.” 

“I am not privy to share certain… details about my employment.”

“Says who?” 

“It is merely the law.”

“But whose law?” 

“The law of the underworld.” 

“I’m confused. Aren’t you in charge?” 

“I am.” 

“So—why can’t you tell me again?” 

He paused, as if he were thinking of a logical reply, reconsidered, and said, “What do you want to know, little Maggot?” 

“What do I want to know?” 

“Yes.” 

“Uh, do you like it?” 

“Once.”

“Once?”

“Are you going to repeat all that I say, Maggot?” 

“A human joke.” It’s shocking how much a simple joke can change your perspective on someone. It made me start to like him, see that there was a certain charm that was appealing. Not a lot more, though—he was still the supreme evil. 

“Indeed.” He stopped digging into the table. “But my position, as you might call it, was once my great passion. I have grown bored as of late.”  

“Bored with all that power?”

“I am only secondary, inferior, and ancillary to the final cause of man. Nothing I have ever done has given me more power, brought me closer to my goal.”

“Second place isn’t half bad.”  

“It’s been hundreds of thousands of years, Little Maggot!” He squeezed his fingers into fists. “My legions grow, but the gap between the two of us does not shrink. Without progress, what do I have?”

The waiter came by with our food. I twirled the linguine around my fork and said, without looking up at him, “What was the, you know, goal in all of this?” 

“All I ever wanted was to bring the Lord above to his knees, to rule over all creation, to be the supreme being of all things that exist. I wanted to crush the goodness of the world, break the will of mankind, feast on the famine and disease of your suffering with no one to stop me!” 

“Jesus,” I said. 

His eyes shot flame. “Please, Maggot, keep those names to yourself.” 

“It’s just, that’s a bit extreme, don’t you think?” 

“I was ambitious in my youth.” 

“And now?” 

“I realize now that this whole venture was a trap. He gave me nothing but unfulfilled and impotent power.” 

I sensed daddy issues, the sort where you’re simultaneously trying to beat and prove yourself to the old man. These men could sometimes crumble under the thumb of affection, so I reached over and laid a delicate hand on his giant mitts. He was cold, but his reaction was warm, like a giant lost puppy dog. “Are you unhappy?” 

“I am unsatisfied, perhaps—cursed with the desire for more suffering. It is my hell that I carry with me.” 

“That’s very… human of you.” 

I didn’t know if he’d take that as an insult or a compliment. He avoided eye contact and looked out the window at the one or two people who had stopped to stare at him. 

“And your profession, Maggot? You disturb others, door to door, with goods? Is this your dream?” 

“A total nightmare.”

“Then why continue? Unlike me, you are free are you not?” 

“It’s only a stepping stone.” 

“A stepping stone?” 

“Like, a means to an end, a vehicle towards greatness, a necessary evil, you know?

“I am the necessary evil.” 

“And like you, sometimes I do what is necessary to achieve my dream.”

He met my gaze now, as this, I believe, was the sort of trade he was interested in—his trade, the soul trade. When he hears the words “my dream” it becomes his time to shine. He was ready to make a deal. 

“What is it, this dream of yours?” 

“I want to be a great writer.” It sounded cheesy saying it out loud. 

“What is it about greatness you seek?” 

I was about to answer, but a woman with lemon-colored hair parted to one side of her head, the kind of woman who’d try to return food after finishing her entire plate, approached the table. “Sorry to interrupt,” she said, holding a copy of Paradise Lost. “Could I get a signature?” 

He signed it and handed it back to her. 

“I have to say, I just love how you—” 

He snapped a finger and the sound of her voice disappeared. She began to panic, palming at her throat, but he snapped again and she walked away. 

“Is she going to be okay?” 

“She’ll have learned her lesson.” 

“Does that happen often?” 

“Enough to be a nuisance.” 

“You hate it?” 

“It is merely a hangnail. I do not walk around fearing it, but I must rip it out quickly, then move on. But we were onto something, were we not?”  

We were. “Greatness,” I said, savoring the word. 

“Ah, this greatness you seek. That was our point of departure.” He put his hands together on the table and bent down to look me in the eyes. The candle on the table flickered, then went out, and the restaurant was suddenly cold. “And you want this from me, is that it?” 

I sat up straight, trying to meet his stature, and brushed my hands down the front of my blouse. The hair on my arm had risen, and I interlaced my own fingers. “No.” I said it slowly but forcefully. 

The word was a slight blow to his frame. His head moved back, nearly imperceptible, but I saw it. He was stunned. “It is not often I am denied.” 

“I am not interested in a trade.” 

“But I can provide these things with the movement of my finger.” 

I was clenching my jaw so tight I was worried one of my molars might crack.  “I want it on my terms, not yours.” 

He seemed to rise up in his seat and the room darkened even more. “I could reach through your chest and take your soul, on my terms.” His voice was low and deep. 

It was hard to think of my next move over the thundering sound of my own heart. I wanted to look around the restaurant, to see if anyone else was witnessing this stalemate, but I wasn’t going to give ground. Instead, I held his gaze and said “do it.” 

He waited for a moment, blinked, and the warmth returned to the restaurant. “Impressive,” he said, relighting the candle with the tip of his finger. “What are your terms?” 

I told him we had only just met, that I wasn’t ready to discuss terms, and if he were serious about me, he would wait to discuss the nature of my soul. He agreed. Truthfully, if he knew my plan, if he knew how I intended to use him, he would use it against me. But I had accomplished the first part of it, and the second could now commence. 

“Let’s celebrate,” I said, ordering two tequilas and an olive martini. “To our future terms, whatever they may be.”

There were more drinks, more laughs, some sorcery, and I asked him trivial questions about the landscape of hell, good and evil, the nature of reality, the philosophical problem of evil, and he, with charm and flair, a smile on his deviled face, answered them all. By the time the bill came, we were both at least a half dozen drinks in, and I had learned the mysteries of the universe within the unfortunate blackhole of a temporary blackout. The dinner was topped off with three shots of espresso, allowing me to escape the event horizon, and a cheesecake. 

On the way home, inside the chariot, we shared the same side, our hips pressed against one another. He was loudly boasting about his time spent with Stalin, the cruel advice the man could sometimes give when I placed a hand on his immense thigh. The way he looked down at me—his scowl, still there, but grown lighter, like the growl of a puppy dog—I knew what he was thinking.  

“Do you want my body?” 

“And more, my little Maggot.” 

“I can teach you how we humans live.”

“Is this a deal?” he said. 

“A deal. You may never get my soul, but I can give you one for a night.” 

“Impossible,” he said. “Only he can give them and only I can take them.” 

“You have a lot to learn about humans.” 

“Show me.” 

When we got to my place, and after some more small talk and a few glasses of Glenlivet 12, I suggested, bluntly, that he take off his pants. He laughed, then did as I commanded. It was smaller than I thought it would be and caused him some embarrassment. He could no longer look me in the eyes, having reverted, right there in my living room, into an unclothed child, a shrinking giant inspecting the black keratine of his hooves. 

“Sit down.” 

He sat on my frayed leather sofa and I came around the coffee table, towering over him. 

I began to unbutton my blouse. “Have you done this before?” 

He didn’t say anything. I let my top slip to the floor. Still nothing. I sat on the coffee table and extended a foot towards his nether regions. “Is this the new experience you wanted?” 

It moved under my foot and he made a sound that wasn’t quite terrestrial. He looked up at me, his mouth open at an angle. It was perfect. The whole thing was so embarrassing that he had to have both gained and lost a soul within a few instances, understanding what it was like to be human. But I wasn’t about to ease his suffering. I wanted him to feel the fear, the excitement of his own lost power, and so I told him I had to get up early in the morning.

He put on his things, slowly, sadly, unable to look at me directly. “When will I see you again?” 

“I’m pretty busy,” I said. “I’ll call you?” 

He gave me his number: 666-666-6666, then crawled through the front door, spread his wings, and soared into the air. I didn’t call, but a week went by and he called me. I told him we might be better off as friends. 

This is where things get interesting. A man like that can’t stay friend-zoned forever—can’t take the reality of it. He won’t stop calling, writing, showing up, sending gifts, and doing what he can to see me. He hasn’t crossed a line yet, and I don’t plan to reply to him until you reach out to me. 

I want to make it clear. However you want me to proceed, given certain conditions you promise me, I will certainly accept. The whole world will want to see the devil locked in the friendzone, humiliated. I’ve bet my soul on it. And this is your chance to get the Devil’s maggot story. But you are not alone. I have sent this offer to all the major publication chains, so there will be competition. 

If you need proof of my story’s veracity, I have included an article from my town’s local lifestyle magazine called The Vine. Darius and I appeared on the forty-fourth page of a forty-eight-page paper, pictured and titled “Our New Dark Queen Has Arrived For… Vegan?” If you need anything else, I have written my phone number on the back. 

Oh, and as part of a signing bonus, I’d also like you to re-publish my first novel, under your publication, with no edits. These are my terms.

Ian Canon (he/him) is a Metis writer from Edmonton, Alberta with an MFA in Writing from the University of Saskatchewan. He was mentored by Scotiabank-Giller-Prize-winning author, Sean Michaels. He is the author of the novel It’s A Long Way Down (2018) and the poetry collection Before Oblivion (2017). His stories have been featured in long con magazine, in media res, Brink Literary, Montréal Writes, The Sunlight Press, The Spadina Literary Review, and others. He has won the Illumination Prose Prize from Spire Light Magazine and is the Editor-In-Chief of Quagmire Magazine.