Little Miss Satan

Fiction // Campy 80s-slasher obsessional

Little Miss Satan

I had a bad crush in high school, and her name was Violence.

She asked me to bring her something the night of the lunar eclipse.

I sneaked out that cool Saturday night in my Nightmare before Christmas shirt. It was the edgiest thing I owned, except the thing I’d written and folded into my pocket. I biked a dozen miles to the nice part of town. It was weird that her parents got such a big house but were never in it; the door was unlocked; my instructions were—basement.

Muffled music chugged up from the floor.

I recognized the tune, Iron Maiden’s “Fear of the Dark”, from my dad’s oldies radio station.

My footsteps creaked down those steps, but I think my heart was even louder. I was so nervous. At the bottom of the stairwell, candlelight shadows danced around to hushed voices. When I heard her voice for the first time that night, my pounding heart still skipped like a dancer.

There was no rail, so I had to slide my fingers along the wood walls until I lowered enough to touch the cellar stone and mortar. I knew there were old houses here but maybe this was colonial even. Fitting for old-town royalty from the city.

I swallowed, wiped my sweaty palms—ugh hyperhydrosia—tried to straighten the worry out of my face.

I didn’t want to be so noisy but the ancient planks didn’t agree. Each step I lowered my weight, I gritted my teeth and EEEE-ERRR, EEEE-ERRR. I was still a little heavy. Black hides it well.

At first, I was just a pair of feet to them. Then legs. They must have heard me but kept on talking. Just get this over with.

I see them, try to keep a consistent pace and show a whiff of confidence.

Oh, Violence.

The main riff of Iron’s Maiden’s “Fear of the Dark” thundered.

Of course she would look amazing down here too, even in the gloomy light and raw furnishings.

This was a good place for parties and whatnot, probably her hook-ups too. Not like I was ever invited. To the parties, I mean.

But there I was, invited not to a party but… this. I still wanted to be there.

Sheelah was there too, looking even witchier than in school with a black hood and fishnets up her hands and down her legs. Not the fun kind of witch either but always just a bit too serious about it. I’d hoped she couldn’t make it but I guess I’m never lucky. Stop wringing your hands, look cool, look confident.

They were both on hands and knees, painting a red pentagram onto the stone floor. Candles everywhere. I glanced around and accidentally tread over a thick line of silvery salt across the entrance.

This was my chance. I had to be confident; I had something she wanted. “Hey guys.”

Cringe—I was too loud. They stopped, looked at me. This was the right time, right?

“You’re late.”

Violence, oh god. Please don’t be mad when you gave me a chance.

Sheelah just smirked.

“Took a longer, ah, time to sneak out than usual.” I’d never sneaked out before. I needed to clear my throat.

Violence’s cool blue eyes melted me as I stood there. Finally, she said: “It’s cool. You’re just in time.” Her tone was unbelievable. She just spoke like she knew exactly what was happening, always in control.

My spine sagged. I breathed.

“It’s fortunate you made it over that salt line,” Sheelah spoke up, “There were either no spirits or only weak evil spirits attached to you. You’ll need to be unburdened here.”

“Burden-free,” I said too cheerfully. “I brought…” I didn’t know what to call it. “I brought what you asked for.”

Violence stood; the pentagram was nearly finished. Wow.

She was so tall, like a model. I heard a rumor that she was kicked out of modeling school for kicking a photographer in the nuts when he groped her. She looked like a Valkyrie we learned about in lit class: royal, strong, freaky beautiful. She was blonde and pale, of course, but with no freckles or moles, and her face all sharp features where it mattered—her chin, her cheekbones, her eyes—and soft features where any girl wanted them—her lips, her button nose, her curving jaw to give her that heart-shaped face—oh! I could write poetry about her, but she was so scary too.

She floated over to me. She wasn’t dirty from the floor. I couldn’t even hear her footsteps. “May I see it?” She smelled like vanilla, orange, pepper. Sheelah put the finishing touches on the last corner of the pentagram.

I fumbled to pull out the folded paper. Violence didn’t move, only towered over me, slender hands opened. I unfolded it for her a little slower than I had to: anything to stand next to her a few seconds longer.

“Do you think it’ll work?” I placed it into those long fingers like a trophy. I couldn’t believe I was handing her something she actually wanted.

Her eyes coolly moved line-by-line down the page. I tried not to rub my hands together, so I casually glanced around again like I wasn’t waiting for her next word, and I was curious what it may say about her.

A little weird. It was cobwebbed, underground, no windows. I would say it was a repurposed cellar, made of masonry with a wood furnace and divots for wine bottles and a few shelves of forgotten things, but modernized with the water heater and some dusty lightbulbs. Very Parisian catacomb-vibes, I imagined. I realized I had no idea what this meant.

She looked up.

“It’s perfect. It’s brilliant.”

I grew an inch taller. Sheelah appeared before us, done with her own work, and read mine. See, I could contribute.

She looked between us. “It’s a little… aggressive, isn’t it? Maybe vicious, I think. We should slow down, acknowledge the other spirits of the area, and pay respects to the Mars retrograde and eclipse we’re experiencing before diving in deeper.”

What the fuck, Sheelah? You had so much respect in school, all the artsy alt boys talked about you, and you looked so good in your black outfits, and you had to put me in my place the second I got a chance?

“What do you think we should—” I remembered Violence was next to us, “I think it’s good. We should use it. I wrote it especially for tonight.”

Time stopped a second, and Violence was the judge, jury, and executioner, looking between us, weighing us. Please pick me, Violence. I need this. I made it for you, per your instructions, what I thought you wanted.

She did not budge. I wouldn’t either.

Sheelah frowned, turned away as if looking for those evil spirits she mentioned.

Violence handed me back the rumpled paper I slaved over, and I think I saw a tiny flash of approval in those glacier eyes. It was so surreal to actually be spending time with these two girls—it hardly felt real. Out of my league.

“So, is that blood?” I tried to sound casual, gesturing at the satanic geometry.

“It is.” Violence sounded almost bored.

“From, like, a butcher, right?” Please let it not be something weird like they killed a cat out back.

“A butcher,” she repeated with the slightest hint of amusement, “is this the 1900s? I got it from the grocer in Walmart. Nobody says ‘No’ to me.” I bet not. “Oh, Sheelah, may as well start the ash around the pentagram.”

“I know that—this isn’t my first ritual.”

“Nor mine.”

“As a witch, I’ve done many,” she whispered, barely heard, “and you’ve done one.”

She sifted the catcher’s ash next to the ancient furnace on the far side of the room by the water heater. She then set to work, scraping and shaping a thick circle of ash farther out from the pentagram, six or seven feet wide. Doing Violence’s bidding. “Where’s Axel?”

He’s coming too? I guess it makes sense with the music. What a weird mix of people. The awkward poet, Violence the goddess, Sheelah the witch, and now the metalhead? Well maybe that’s more fitting than you’d think.

“Text him?” I can contribute. I’m helpful, I’m useful, I’m cool.

A gentle scoff from the blonde giant. “These rough-hewn rafters, the planks above,” she pointed up, “there’s no signal. No Wi-fi. It’s medieval down here.”

I eyed the forgotten speaker next to a backpack festooned with pins and band patches. Ah, Axel. How did Violence convince him to come? Surely it wasn’t, well, you know.

The upstairs door opened, steps creaked, heavier than mine. He was back, dragging something heavy. Maybe fetching some symbolic dummy or figure for the ritual.

The next song played: “The Number of the Beast” by Iron Maiden.

“You ready, Emily?” She made even my boring name sound beautiful coming from her.

“Ready for anything.”

“We’ll see. Axel?”

“Yeah, got him, don’t need help.” His pace quickened and he hopped down the steps, dragging a huge duffel that clomped solidly down each step. The sound was too dull, too organic, for a dummy or an effigy. I got a bad feeling.

Violence glanced meaningfully at me then met Axel at the steps. They were nearly the same height and Axel wasn’t a little man either. He was all denim and more band patches—Bathory, Ozzy Osbourne, Iron Maiden; old but good stuff I think—and a bit surly. I never really talked to him before. Now he’d just dragged someone down the steps.

My Valkyrie zipped open the duffel.

A man’s head, pale-blue, lolled out. Older than us.

“He’s dead.”

“So?”

Sheelah was lighting more candles and just laughed. What a witch. I edged closer to Violence and Axel to see in morbid curiosity. Ugh, he looked really dead. I checked the distance between Violence and Axel. I’m not jealous, just making sure he’s not overstepping his bounds.

“It’s harder to kidnap than in the movies. I thought I’d do that thing and squeeze him unconscious but…”

“Right, it doesn’t work like in the movies. You fucking idiot. We need a live sacrifice. What’s the sacrifice if he’s already dead?” Violence raised her voice but she was always in control. It was like witnessing the slow-simmering anger of Freya.

Axel rolled his eyes and half-turned away, not giving Violence the respect she deserved. She unzipped the rest of the duffel, examining the body. I imagined her as a doctor in that moment—brains and beauty, I’d be angry if I weren’t feeling something else.

“Still fresh, at least.”

“Duh, I just got ‘im.”

Violence looked back at us, the body, the paper I held, to Sheelah. “Sheelah, dead body? I still want to see what Emily can do here.”

“Mars is in peak retrograde right now. A body is still powerful. We could add something else sacrificed.” She’s saying ‘Go ahead.’

At least the night is still on. Goddamn Axel almost ruining things by being a brute.

“Right on. Heavy fucking metal.” Axel hopped away to his things in the corner.

Violence stared critically at Axel and the speaker playing 80s metal, unblinking. “I don’t hate it, but don’t let it drown us out.”

Axel clicked down the volume one notch, but I think when Violence turned he put it back up. I tried to give him a dirty look.

Our focus redirected to the heart of the room—the drying pentagram in the circle of ash, legion candles flickering and smoking from all angles. Shadows shook in the corners like little devils. Heavy metal guitars bounced off the stone walls. I didn’t think I belonged there, but here these three stood next to me like I was one of them.

We dragged the cooling body out of the duffel and into the center of the pentagram. I was careful to not smear all the work Violence and Sheelah had done.

“Who was he?” I asked. Violence wouldn’t pick a rando.

Axel and Sheelah snickered. Violence’s huge eyes flicked up to mine—a jolt of pleasure zaps me.

“A local pickup guru, except it turns out this one was a virgin.”

“A fool,” Sheelah said.

“A liar,” Axel continued.

“And a virgin.” Violence and I repeated together, like a dream come true. I wonder if she likes me. She invited me here for the ritual, but that can’t be all it is, right?

I got a dreadful feeling suddenly. I was so focused on Violence, I forgot to ask—

“Violence, what’s the ritual for?” She’d done one before: for what? Did she always look like this?

“You didn’t have to tell her anything about it? You just… asked for the most crucial piece and off she went?” Sheelah tittered. I never came so close to hitting someone before.

“You’re right, Emily, I guess I forgot,” Violence said, never forgetting anything. She thought carefully about what to say as the eyes of the others impatiently bored into us.

“It’s not your first,” I added to fill the pause.

“A summoning ritual, one way or another, gives us something we want. The details depends on how things go. Emily, you should unbutton his shirt.”

Violence commanded, and I obeyed through my trembles.

“Here we go, Violence. This is the one,” Axel said, his voice a key higher. Violence nodded, never looking at him.

The music’s pacing slowed, and a choir of voices hovered over Quorthon’s crushed-glass croak. Guitars buzzed under the fuzz of 80s recording equipment. Epic.

Sheelah broke from us suddenly then, and pulled a fat, dusty Bible from her bag. Violence’s eyes narrowed, pleased.

“Stole this from St Bart’s.” The witch grinned and hissed through the space between her two front teeth. She tossed it into the furnace; I didn’t even realize it was lit but the fire roared and the heat poured out into the chilly cellar.

“Emily, you first. Alone. Read it.” Yes, my queen.

‘The Number of the Beast’ finished. Next on Axel’s playlist: Bathory’s ‘Blood Fire Death’.

Dizzy, I pulled out my work again. I couldn’t believe she chose me, she asked me to write this, she needed something I had, this writing, something she couldn’t do, and she told me what would happen here, and all I felt was the excitement to do something for her. Oh, Violence.

I swallowed, mouth dry. How did she read this through the gloom? I squinted, but I didn’t need to read it. Of course I memorized it already.

I wrote this for you. I hope it was everything you wanted.

Liquid ruby spill stone floor

Carving ribcage—hands of whore

Spite of Nimrod inverts, corrupts

In spite of God, who deserts the lost.

Profane holy, rise up wicked

Hellfire bramble, abattoir thicket

Spit on all that light has touched

and we love all the devil’s brushed.

Heaven crushed by heavy hooves,

Angels raped as only demons could.

All black-hearts blaspheme his Word,

spill His chalice, gulp the gourd.

By whetted lips, by sapphic tits

By sinners, liars, hypocrites

By sheer abjection of all that’s good

Break free, we summon thee

as devils should

All Hail Satan, All Fuck the Lord

Nothing. Drums and guitar and harsh vocals continued. I looked at Violence. They were all transfixed on their knees.

Violence gestured with one flick of her wrist and a wave of those fingers.

Continue.

I repeated it again, louder, my voice starting to strain as excitement boiled in that strange room.

Yet again. Their voices joined mine as I grew hoarse, and the first time was a careful rehearsal but the second time was wilder and wickeder. The third time we competed to see who was the loudest, pushing words to their limits, and we finally started to sound like a coven.

To be down here, with Violence, doing this absolutely insane shit like it was the most serious thing in the world—I’d take this memory to the grave.

The knife still glinted by candle—in Violence’s hand. The chanting was unstoppable as she crawled—I was on my knees now too—to the corpse, and she plunged the knife into its chest. Red spray covered her and more dribbled from the wound. How could she make even this look so sensual? What would she look like taking a real life?

“Enough, back, back,” Sheelah broke the chant. Violence stood up, so slowly, like she had to make the decision for herself to exit the circle. Our voices died as something sucked the light from the candles around us.

Imagine an audio recording of a bear pushed through a blender, then played backwards, and that was the sound.

A hateful sound, a sick sound, a sound of something that can’t exist.

Hard enough to shake the knife from the body.

Music drowned out. I fell backwards; we were all scrambling backwards—no, Violence was standing, backing away slower than the rest of us. Sheelah was yammering a prayer or another ritual but I could barely understand her through her ragged breaths. Axel swore up and down. I was going to be sick.

The corpse in the pentagram shook—something inside wanted out.

A wet cracking sound, and the floor shook like a giant fist inside that dead man hammered on the inside of his ribcage BOOMPH BOOMPH BOOMPH until its head and arms came out and it pulled itself out and oh my god oh my god. Violence watched transfixed like it was the end of the world, her lip curled in something like disgust and pity.

“You idiot,” Sheelah screeched over the roar, “what did you summon?” My mouth didn’t work.

It was bones, longer than they should be, with muscles attached, but stretched and missing like it was only half-finished. Warthog tusks from the too-wide bone-mouth. Horns on the skull rising out of the limp hair of a hospice patient. It was walking regret, living wrongness, something made to spite God, pulling itself out of the corpse, bigger than the body itself like a magician’s nightmare.

Wasn’t that what we asked for?

I felt locusts in my brain. I couldn’t think couldn’t think just lay there and stared at what we’d done.

Its head brushed the ceiling. The room was so dark all we could see was each other and the creature like our lives were beacons in the inky black. The stove roared flames but we were freezing. The keening quit, but in its place was a low buzz like voices of people down in hell were dragged up here, trying to escape.

It got Sheelah first. Her mouth twisted, her tongue caught. She sat up taller on the burning stone floor and looked at us like she just killed our cat. She said, “I lied in court when my parents got divorced because I hated my mom.”

What the fuck. No.

Axel couldn’t hold back: “I tried to light that church on fire but I got scared halfway through when I found out vodka isn’t flammable enough, and I ran away.”

What was this? It was clawing deep, dark feelings we’d left buried. Like always, I looked at Violence, and like always, she was doing the coolest thing possible, holding up a pagan symbol: the norse hammer pendant around her neck.

It was ripping the words from my lips. I clenched my jaw. No.

“I came here because I love Violence and everything about her and maybe she’ll—”

“Demon,” Violence called out, her voice deeper and stronger than I’d ever heard. Now this was a ritual. Oh god did she hear me?

It turned to her. I wish she let out a dark secret. Could it be about me? Or something to put her a little more on my level? Who am I kidding?

“It is I who have summoned you. What is your name?”

I prepared myself for an epic, Roman Emperor-like name.

“Fuck you,” it blasted at her, deep as a bull, and it pushed past and tore up the stairs, breaking through one as it escaped.

Sheelah and Axel were babbling confessions behind us—oh my god so was I.

“—and that’s really why I’m here,” I heard myself say. Petrified. Mortified. How much did everyone hear me vomit up about Violence?

The demon’s power lifted, and we fell silent. ‘Blood Fire Death’ stilled its final notes. We exploded back into activity.

The mysterious witch register dropped a second and Sheelah could barely stutter out “fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck”, grabbing her bag as Axel scrambled beside her. I rushed over to Violence to help her up. Wow—she came face-to-face with a monster, demanded something from it while Axel nearly pissed his pants.

My giantess floated to her feet, eyes wide but still. On the panic scale, she was at Five when we were Tens.

The other two flew past us, tripping up the stairs with bags of candles, salt, and other talismans. The witch shouted, “Too aggressive! Now that thing is loose out there.” I wasn’t sorry to see her go.

Violence watched them. No way I was leaving without her. Their frantic steps faded over our heads as they took to the streets. If I’ve ruined things with Violence over this, I’d rather the demon have just finished me off.

“Shouldn’t we help them?” I said. We didn’t move.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Violence breathed, her tone tilting upwards so slightly. I froze.

The commotion faded. The stereo was still spinning: Van Halen’s ‘Runnin’ with the Devil’ started.

I tried to meet her gaze when she turned to me. I felt so dizzy looking up at her like I was trying to glimpse up at the top of a skyscraper from the street.

We were alone together. I wasn’t really thinking about the loose demon and Sheelah and Axel chasing it with a bag of candles. Say something.

“Are you OK?”

“I don’t know.” For the first time, she looked down away from me. I could instantly feel the chill lift. “We’ll need to go up, go help them.”

Say something, say something! Now was the chance. I couldn’t begin to guess what wild thoughts were in her head but she must have been lingering.

“Yes, but, maybe we should,” please give me something to work with here, “hide the body or something?”

Great idea. I glanced around as if I were looking for a blanket or something.

She looked back at me. “We should.”

“Hey, so,” I summoned all the courage I could, “we may have all said some things earlier.”

“Go on.” Her words cut through the song’s chorus. This basement felt like the whole universe in that moment.

“I might have said some things,” I was doing it. I was holding it together. She asked me to write her that poem. She asked right in the end of the class, ignoring school quarterback throwing a paper plane at her, ignoring the drummer drumming on her desk, leaning over to me, saying those sacred words I heard you can write because someone mentioned it from our creative writing class and I was able to stammer Yes yes what would you like to read like an idiot assuming already she wanted something but she did. Emily she wanted something. Emily there was something there.

There still was. Don’t freak out don’t panic she’s beautiful but she’s human, she could still have her own—

I tried to not look her up and down like I wanted to. I tried to only look into her indomitable gaze but I kept flickering to her lips—I hate being so self-conscious—please don’t make me feel a loser, I just want—

“I confessed something that maybe you heard.” Like pulling teeth, why can’t I do it?

“I’m beginning to think you weren’t really here for a demon.”

Do it Emily do it do it do it LAST CHANCE—

“I’m more interested in, ah, another demon. A prettier, uh, one.”

Violence grew closer, and I could smell her again. I’d never been this close to her; I felt like I was drooling over a marble statue in the Louvre. I’m not drooling, Violence!

“You know…” she started. Oh god, yes? What do I know? What do you know? What did you notice?

“You look a little like a boy.” My back bumped into the wall. How’d we get here? I have exactly one second to respond before it got weird.

“A … boy.” You fucking idiot, what is that? Be funny. Be cool.

“Not like, a hairy man, just boyish at some angles. Girlish at some others. I think I like it.”

“You don’t like someone more like, Axel? Or Sheelah?” Say anything you want to me, Violence. My knees are turning to sand. People are probably shitting themselves upstairs in the real world.

I saw the face of God: she sniffed, stifled a giggle, touched two perfect fingertips to her perfect pouting lips. Even her eyes flickered. I’d never been happier with myself.

“Axel? He’s fun and all, but kind of a meathead. Who kills their sacrifice when we have a newbie?” The way her voice played with the word ‘newbie’ like it was a beach ball in the sun.

“And Sheelah,” a downturn in her tone, “I keep that witch bitch around to keep an eye on her. She’s more like … competition.” I don’t think anyone was competition for you, Violence.

I don’t know what’s happening oh my god her lips are on mine and I can’t think. I don’t want to think. I just want to be in this moment; I involuntarily close my eyes, my senses all shut down except touch so I can be with Violence in this moment. Maybe I should just die now, nothing will top this in my life.

“I really did think your writing was something special. I knew you had a gift. You think Axel could have written that?” The flicker of a smirk; her eyes danced as she crouched, hand on the wall above my shoulder like a boy would, her breasts hovering an inch from mine. I heard the rumors of her with so many boys, football players, musicians, and I believed them all—the way she looked. She nipped and sucked my lower lip harder again. Heat grew in my torso—stop clasping your hands together!

My hands. They found a moment of steadiness, released each other, rested ever-so-lightly on her waist. Ugh, so little. She didn’t react. I wanted to pull her closer even as all the gravity fell on me: the demon, the body in the basement, me flying so close to her sun and burning.

“Emily.”

I gurgled.

“I need you to stay cool for me here, can you do that? I need you to be the girl who wrote about raping angels, because I need a badass with a brain. Can you be that for me? Or you just the girl who is worried about her palms and sneaking out?”

I didn’t recognize myself holding this girl so much prettier and more desirable than me. I felt like I was breaking the law, like I shouldn’t be allowed to have any of this. It hurt to think, but I knew—I’d give anything to keep this feeling.

I swallowed, mind still reeling from the memory of her lips on mine, trying to imprint that thought forever, and nodded. I wanted to tell her Yes, or No, whatever she wanted.

“I can be her for you.”

Those too-big sapphires floated between my eyes and lips. “And you’ll write again for me?”

“A thousand spells.” Not poems; they’re spells to her. Could they get someone else killed? That didn’t seem to bother Violence, so maybe I shouldn’t care either? We’ll be safe; she knows what she’s doing; she’ll take care of me. Maybe she needs a friend, a partner, a lover—that’s why she sought me out, why she turned to me; she could have picked any number of imperfect people, even a boy, but was it really the writing or me? Wait—

For the first time, she truly smiled, and I saw her teeth. Perfect upper tooth show. Ivory artwork. The canines were too sharp.

“Then come on.” She grabbed my hand, making for the exit, me in tow. “We’ve got a demon to catch.”

We flew up the stairs toward the long night ahead, the husk in the pentagram forgotten, ‘Running with the Devil’ striking its final beat on the stereo.

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Specials thanks for the beta reading and feedback from:

“Anonymous MILF”

Lila

“a female who drives a subaru”

Six Stars - Guide & Table of Contents

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