⌚ Approximately 10 minute read

⚠ Content Warning: demonic possession, addiction, sacrifice, occult themes, horror elements

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The clicking of the typewriter resounded in the late evening air, creating a discordant beat with the softly playing country music. Mark didn’t have to use a real typewriter to write his manuscripts, he had a computer sitting in the corner, but the typewriter did make him feel more satisfied. The click-clacking of the keys and the fulfilling sound as the carrier swished across from the end of a line back to the beginning of the next were sometimes the only things inspiring enough to keep Mark writing.

“Oh no, she ain’t never comin’ back,” sang the iPhone in the corner through its overpriced speaker attachment.

It’s not that Mark didn’t enjoy writing, but, since he had quit his day job, the task had started to seem more like work. His focus had to be on finding a home for his novels. He had finished seven books and, though none had been accepted for publication yet, he was hopeful. For now he didn’t have much to worry about. His rent was being paid for by his parents, but he didn’t know how long that would last.

The song changed on the iPhone. Another country song; it was no surprise. Mark had created the playlist specifically to help him in writing this particular piece, one with a western setting which included magic, similar to Stephen King’s Watchtower series.

Mark didn’t like country music. Mark didn’t like westerns. Right now, Mark didn’t like anything.

He daydreamed, letting the noisy keys on the typewriter rest as his mind wandered to his old feelings for writing, for words. He had once seen words as a sort of magic; the ability to express thought or emotion to another, to discover the deepest places of one’s own psyche. He used to think of using words being like wielding a pickaxe and breaking into memories to try and find the most important parts of one’s life.

With the thoughts and feelings rushing over him, his hands began to move again, pressing one key and then the next, the beat of the keys melding with the music now, tapping along with the hi hat and snare.

Sometimes when Mark let himself go he could feel the words flowing through him, like he was a string being strummed by some unseen musician. Trying not to focus on it, Mark realized that he had finally gotten into that space, he was back in the mindset where he was freely writing whatever he wanted. It was more than that, though. He was writing what the universe wanted.

Mark’s story was reaching a climax. The playlist on his iPhone finished and the room fell silent, but he continued writing without noticing. His main character was about to come upon the villain, who was summoning an ancient, evil power in the basement of the old saloon. The scene was coming to life and the tension was rising. It was time for the villain to speak the final words of his dark ritual.

“Araticus viticulum daemonium!” the villain shouted, spilling blood on the pentacle he had carved into the dirt floor of the basement with his foot.

Suddenly, the lights in Mark’s studio apartment flickered and then went out. Mark’s hands lifted from his typewriter. He had finished the scene, which had given him a feeling of great relief, but now he felt something else welling up inside him. Could it be fear?

Mark felt something press down on his shoulder, swiveling him around in his office chair. In the dark, Mark could not make out anything, however, the smell of sulfur fell over him as if someone had lit a match.

The darkness remained and Mark’s eyes didn’t seem to be adjusting. The grip on his shoulder tightened. Mark’s forehead broke out in sweat. Had it been so hot in the room before?

“Wh-wh-who are you?” he stammered. He swallowed hard, finding it difficult over the lump in his throat. He tried again, without the stutter this time, “I said, what do you want?”

In the dark, a woman’s voice, but somehow low and guttural, replied, “You are the one who summoned me. What do you want, mortal?”

Mark’s heart raced as he struggled to regain control of the situation. Summoned? What was this creature talking about? He forced himself to take a deep breath and consider his options. He could try to reason with her, or he could try to run. But before he could make a decision, she spoke again. “What is this you’ve been writing mortal?” Mark heard the shuffle of papers in the darkness. “Hmm… I’m surprised this didn’t catch my attention, earlier. Very well, mortal. I shall offer you a deal.”

Mark’s mind raced. A deal? What sort of deal could this thing offer him? And why would his writing have caught her attention? He had never written anything that could be considered occult or supernatural. He took another deep breath, trying to steady himself. “What kind of deal?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

The creature — demon? — chuckled, a sound that made Mark’s skin crawl. “I can offer you skill, mortal. A power beyond your wildest dreams. All you have to do is continue writing, and I will provide you with the inspiration and the means to achieve greatness.”

Mark was skeptical. He had heard stories of deals with demons, and they never ended well. But the idea of having unlimited inspiration was tempting. He thought of all the times he had struggled to find the right words, the right plot twist. He thought of all the rejections he had received from publishers. Could this thing really help him achieve his dreams?

“What’s in it for you?” he asked, trying to appear calm.

The creature’s grip on his shoulder tightened. “I feed on the energy that is released when mortals use their creative powers. The more you write, the more powerful I become.”

Mark shuddered. This was not a decision to be taken lightly. But he couldn’t deny that the offer was tempting. He had always been drawn to the idea of being a famous author, of being able to express himself without inhibition.

He took a deep breath and made his decision. “I accept your offer,” he said, his voice shaking slightly.

The creature chuckled again and moved her face close enough to Mark’s that he could see it. She was beautiful, with angular features and long curly red hair. Behind her, flames rose up from the floor and Mark felt a surge of energy flow through him. In his mind, his ideas took the form of words and sentences, anything he imagined became perfect prose. He knew, somehow deep down, that from this moment on, he would never struggle to find the right words again.

The creature released her grip on his shoulder and backed up, disappearing into the darkness again. Then, after a moment, the smell of sulfur disappeared and the lights flickered back to life. As he looked around apartment, he noticed nothing out of the ordinary, no sign of whatever had been speaking to him. But he knew that he was not truly alone. Mark could still feel the presence of the demon, like a figure just outside his periphery.

Was this what the ancients had called a muse?

No. Mark had made a deal with a demon, and he knew that it would come at a cost. But for now, he was content to bask in the glow of his newfound power.

He turned back to his typewriter and began to write. The keys clicked and clacked, the carrier swished back and forth, and the words flowed effortlessly from his mind to the page. He was a writer, and he had made a deal with the devil.

As Mark continued to write, he felt an exhilarating rush of creativity coursing through his veins. The words flowed from his mind to his fingers, faster than he could type. He wrote for days on end without pause, only stopping to take sips of water and to stretch his cramped fingers.

Days turned into weeks and Mark hardly left his apartment, except to buy groceries and other essentials. He typed until he was too exhausted to continue, often passing out at his desk despite his bed being only a few feet away. When he woke, he continued where he left off.

Weeks turned into months. He missed plans with friends, holidays, and even his own birthday. His parents called him, worried about his health, but he brushed them off, telling them that he was hard at work on his writing.

The pages began to pile up, filling all the corners of the room, the bed, and the small sofa. Mark was no longer writing stories, but something else entirely. His writing had taken on a dark, almost sinister quality. He wrote about creatures that lurked in the shadows, about rituals and sacrifices, about forbidden knowledge.

At first, he had been hesitant to explore these themes, but the demon had encouraged him, whispering in his ear, urging him to push the boundaries of his imagination.

Mark knew that what he was writing was dangerous, but he couldn’t stop himself. The rush of power was too addictive. He was like a junkie, always chasing the next word, the next high.

And then, one day, he hit a wall. The box of paper that was once endless, had emptied entirely. He could have bought more, but it was worse than that. He couldn’t think of anything to write. His mind was blank, and the demon was nowhere to be found. He pulled out an old notebook and a pencil and tried to write, but the words wouldn’t come.

He sat at his desk for hours, staring at the blank page in front of him. He knew that he had to write something, anything. But he couldn’t.

As the sun began to set, he was crying maniacally at the desk, tears streaming down his face and pudding on the desk near the typewriter, staring at the pencil in his hand, trying to will it across the page, trying to write anything. Then he heard a knock at the door.

He stood up and walked toward the door, stumbling on a stack of pages on the way and falling into another. Finally, he crawled the last few feet and opened the door to find a woman standing there. She was tall and slender, with long, curly red hair and angular facial features. She was wearing a black dress that clung to her curves.

Mark felt a jolt of desire run through him.

“Hello, Mark,” she said. Her voice was strangely deep and sweet like honey. He recognized that voice, but in his stupor he couldn’t place it.

Mark felt his heart race. “How do you know my name?” he asked.

The woman smiled. “I know everything about you, Mark. I know your deepest desires, your darkest fears.”

Mark felt a chill run down his spine. “Who are you?” he asked.

The woman stepped closer to him, and he felt an electric current pass between them. “Don’t you remember?” she said. “I came here once to offer you a deal.”

Mark looked at the woman, wary but intrigued. “What kind of deal?” he asked.

She smiled again, revealing sharp teeth as she pushed the door all the way open and stepped inside, knocking over a towering pile of typewritten pages in the process. She reached her hand down and stroked Mark’s cheek before placing a finger beneath his chin and lifting it and beckoning him to stand. He did so and the woman continued, “Once, I offered you unlimited inspiration, Mark. I gave you the power to write the greatest stories the world has ever seen. I can give you that again, Mark.”

Each time she said his name, Mark became more enamored with her. He knew he should listen closely, to be wary of any further deals with this demon. “Wh…wh…why would you do that?” he stammered.

“I will continue to be your font of knowledge and inspiration, Mark. But in return, I will require something from you.”

Mark hesitated. He had already made a deal with this demon, and he knew that it had come at a cost. He looked around his apartment, at the piles of documents he had written but never sent to publishers, at the dishes in the sink and the trash in the bin overflowing. But the idea of having even more inspiration seemed impossible to resist.

“What do you want?” he asked, salivating with desire.

The demon’s smile widened. “Your soul, Mark. It’s a small price to pay for greatness, don’t you think?”

Mark’s heart pounded in his chest. The demon had never mentioned anything about his soul. He had thought that the price for his power was just the energy that was released when he wrote.

He took a step back from her, feeling a sense of dread. He had heard stories about souls being traded to demons, stories of eternal torment and damnation. He had written the stories himself, somewhere in this chaotic and disgusting room. He had already lost his soul for a while, hadn’t he?

“I…I don’t know,” he said. “That seems like a high price to pay.”

The creature stepped closer to him, her eyes glowing. A sulfurous wind blew through the room, despite the lack of air flow in the studio apartment, slamming the door behind her. “Think about it, Mark. What is a soul, really? It’s just a word for something that you don’t even know exists. And what is greatness worth? More than a soul, I would argue.”

Mark felt himself being drawn in by her words. She was right, wasn’t she? What was a soul compared to the power of unlimited inspiration?

But something inside him rebelled. He had always believed in the value of his soul, even if he couldn’t define what it was. He had tried for years to put his soul into his writing, even his worst writing had soul. What good would all the knowledge and inspiration in the universe be with no soul behind it.

“I can’t do it,” he said, shaking his head. “All these months since our deal began, I have been a husk of a person. All this…” he motioned to the stacks of pages around him, “It has no value without a soul.”

The woman’s smile disappeared, replaced by a look of anger. “You’re making a mistake, Mark. You could have been great, but now you’re just like all the others, content to live a mediocre life.”

Mark felt a pang of regret, feeling the words in the darkest parts of his own heart. Perhaps she was right. On his own, what hope did he have to become successful? Yet he knew that he had made the right decision. He couldn’t sell his soul, no matter how tempting the offer.

“I’m sorry,” he said, backing away. “I can’t do it.”

The demon’s eyes narrowed. “Fine, Mark,” she said. “But don’t expect my help anymore. You’re on your own now.”

And with that, she turned, opening the door with some supernatural power, and walked away, disappearing into the darkness.

Mark watched her go, feeling a sense of relief mixed with sadness. He had lost the demon’s help, but he had also avoided a terrible fate.

He went back into his apartment and sat down at his desk, picking the pencil back up. The blank page seemed to mock him, but he forced himself to start writing again.

At first, the words came slowly, but then they started to flow more easily. He wrote about his struggle with the demon, about his fear and his regret. He wrote about the power of creativity, and how it could be both a blessing and a curse.

As he wrote, he felt a sense of peace. He knew that he would never be the greatest writer in the world, but he was okay with that. He was content to write for the sake of writing, to express himself in the best way he knew how.

And maybe, just maybe, that was enough.