Page 99 of Devil Inside

Look at her. A young woman selling popcorn. Her dress speaks to us. How it shimmers in the dim light. We like it. Want it. She’s fashioned in the style of a bygone era that calls to us.

All the people working here are fashioned after flappers. Sequins and beads. There’s a pearl choker wrapped around her throat, and we picture it cinch, the beads tightening, pressing against her flesh so hard, it leaves an even row of indentations along her neck. Her ink black hair is cut so short, it clings toher forehead. An ostrich feather headband lined in silver rhinestones crowns her temples. She has taken a pencil and painted a beauty mark on her upper lip.

How stunning she is. We remember this era. Miss it.

Her body will do nicely, we thought. Such suitable flesh.

“Don’t let Tim see you,” she said as we drew near. “He’ll be pissed if you’re not—”

We touched her hand before she could finish and drifted, careful not to spill.

One pitcher poured into another.

Much better. The shiver of new skin sent a rustle of sequins across our body. Scales on a snake. Our serpentine dress clings to our body, so snug. This vessel would suffice. A Sauvignon Blanc. Juicy and crisp. Passionfruit aromas. Very herbaceous. Very untamed.

Shall we?

We abandoned the concession stand, wandering into the crowd. Jordan may have believed he was alone, but he never truly is. Up the steps he went, heading for the balcony.

We heard him calling. Half the city did. Probably all of Purgatory heard him hollering. Such a melodramatic display, shouting out into the night. Shattering glass. Breaking automobiles.

Jordan has come here, perhaps to see if we would follow him in.

Why here? Of all places? We are accustomed to his travel patterns, his endless sojourns through the city, losing himself, wandering its streets as if he were seeking some secret message embedded amongst its buildings. The bricks hold nothing for him. There is no truth. The world is burning all around and his body will burn with it, his flesh nothing but ash soon enough. This is the only truth. The only secret worth revealing. These buildings will be in ruin. Empty temples. Bitter winds. A black sun. We can show him, if he lets us.

If only he’d let us.

If only we’d let ourselves. Have we been nervous? Afraid? Is that why we’ve been avoiding him?

I needed to hear him say he needs me. How silly. And now that he has, look at how I come running. This is how he calls for me, breaking windows, then beckoning us to follow him into the blackness, this shadowed venue, where people sit in the dark and bear witness to fictions. Fantasies, all of it. The dreams mankind captures. The alchemy of these moving images has always moved me. What might this evening’s screening be?

Now that we have followed Jordan up the steps, into the closed-off balcony, we are careful to keep our distance so not to draw attention. The beads wrapped around our throat keep clinking. The sequins on our dress scrape. We step through the doors and...

Our breath halts.

It’s stunning. Absolutely gorgeous. A palace of cinema. A gilded cavern of flickering images. Etched frescoes of cherubs cover the walls, as if this is a church. Something so holy. A place of miracles. Suspended at the very center of the ceiling is an enormous chandelier dripping crystal. The light weeps diamonds, the sparkle of each tear creating a prism of colors. We hear the faint tinkle of glass, a brittle shiver, even from this distance.

This is a house of worship. A temple for celluloid. We want to fall to our knees and weep, beseeching this manmade god whose image is cast across the screen below.

This is the only holiness we understand. Here is a god worth worshipping.

Jordan sits at the very edge of the balcony, in the row overlooking the audience below. The movie has yet to begin. We don’t know what film we are about to venerate.

There is a din of voices below, the low murmur of a dozen different conversations blending together. All those bodies beneath us, in the dim shadows of the theater. A pit.

This is the abyss.

Home again, home again...The audience may as well be burning. And here’s Jordan, watching it all from up high, bearing witness to their agony.

A devil himself.

The entire balcony is empty, save for him.

Now us.

The lights in the palace dim. The colors within the chandelier slowly recede, sapped of their blood, until the entire theater is now nothing more than a darkened cavern. A grotto.

The screen—so massive, so white—opens to us all, a portal to another world.