Page 30 of Devil Inside

“Excuse me, miss,” we say in our most even tone, not wanting to startle her.

This woman—short, cropped hair, olive skin, a fabricated tan—stops, then turns toward our voice. She has never met us before. We are a stranger to her, so we must act accordingly. Her hesitant expression is a testament to this woman beingmore attuned to people looking, not actuallytalkingto her. She would rather be seen, not spoken to.

Not so much of a saint, then, but merely the statue of one. A false idol of the flesh.

We’ll show her what wonders come with worship.

“Did you drop this?” We hold out our own phone to her, this unused thing.

The woman looks down, now curious. Clearly, it’s not her phone. It’s enough. Here is our opening. Our aperture. We take it. Our fingers barely graze the length of her hand and—

I slip in.

There. That’s more like it. A better fit. Much better than the body before.

We breathe freely now, no longer encumbered. That man’s petty resentments have festered over the years, blaming the world for his failures—as a father, a husband, an employee, a human being, an insect in this anthill. He’ll suffer from a heart attack before long, but that is not our concern. We are free of it. Free of him.

Our fresh flesh fits so much better.Snug as a bug in a rug.A rosé. Light-bodied. Pink-hued from its limited exposure to the grape skin. First order of business: release our pet. The dog bounds along the sidewalk, now free. We turn and walk in the other direction.

We are now unleashed as well, at last.

There it is again. That itch. Even in this skin, the seething sensation creeps up on us, a slow but steady burn in our sinew. Everything tightens. The snakeskin constricts.

This body is no longer a perfect fit.

Just listen to her yearning. It’s so loud. Abandoned by her husband, abandoned by her boyfriend, her lovers,everyone eventually lets go,throws me away, who’ll ever love me, when am I ever going to find someone who will want me for who I am, oh God, I’m going to be alone forever, aren’t I, it’s true, it’s true, I can feel it, oh God, don’t let me die alone—

Her self-doubt stuns me, an endless tide of anxiety. Of shame. It’s so loud. A downright din. I can’t escape it. I need to free myself. Get out of this suffocating skin.

An elderly woman sits on a park bench. It appears as if she is alone. Abandoned in this park. Her eyes possess a particular vacancy that appeals. She is empty. Whatever spot her attention latches on to, we can’t see it. Her lips move, barely perceptible to anyone but us. She is whispering under her breath. Talking to herself. We hear her. Her pleading. The loneliness radiates all around her.

She will do. Just for a moment. There’s a risk to her skin. A danger of containment. Senescent cages. We have to be careful. Have to be quick.

I won’t get trapped again.

I am so desperate for someone,anyone, other than this self-loathing host devouring herself with her own niggling doubt. Maggots of insecurity gnaw away at her vanity, worms roiling about her soul, chewing through. Such a waste of flesh.

There is no need for pretense for our new charter. No ruse necessary for this vessel. We simply walk up, kneel down before her on the park bench. We find her eyes, so lost. Filled to the brim with loneliness. She won’t be alone any longer. We’ll make sure of it.

“Hello,” we say. It takes a moment for her to acknowledge us, lost in her own tangled thoughts, the murmur of her words so hushed, so breathless, only the devils can hear.

“Yes,” we say. “Of course.” We run our fingers along the length of her cheek. Such an elderly vessel. The wrinkles in her cheek are like soft, velvet curtains. Drapes to our being.

I slip in. I wrap myself inside her skin and close those curtains. Safe here. I am now safe. For a while. Just for a second. A muscat. So dry. Peach, apricot, orange blossoms.

Wait. What’s this?

We feel it now. The dementia. The plaques and tangles eating away at her mind, sealing her off from her own sense ofself, one cell at a time. She can’t remember who she is. What scraps of memory she has left are so few, so lean, she can’t help but cling to them.

What an empty vessel this is. How hollow.

A trap.

Her mind has decayed, chewed through. I’ll be stuck inside if I’m not careful.All those years.A drop of water for us, barely a blink of our existence. But there’s a weariness within her. A fatigue. It tires us. We haven’t moved, haven’t taken a single step, and yet, the mere notion of movement is far too draining. The length of her life exhausts us.

Our new body is not bound to this world for much longer.

Her heartbeat is unsteady. Slow. It feels like a fist pounding against a door. I’m trapped inside this host, unable to escape, the pulse of this vessel’s heart our only hope.