Kit
. . .
Twenty Years Ago
In the pristine white hallways, I passed people in scrubs and white coats, kids, both bald and with full heads of hair, in wheelchairs and using walkers. It was a place I’d become quite familiar with—the pediatric oncology ward of UC Davis Children’s Hospital.
I turned the corner into a room lit brightly by a combination of the fluorescent overhead lights and wall-to-wall windows letting in the sun.
Except even with all that light, the room still felt dim.
My nephew, Xander, was sound asleep in his hospital bed, head covered by a beanie.
He was so small that he didn’t look more than five years old, but he was six, pushing seven.
I hardly glanced around the room before I started to dig around my backpack.
Even though he was asleep, I spoke to him like he was awake.
“I brought my DS. I don’t have a lot of games for it yet, but I should be able to buy some more soon.
” I set the dark-blue handheld game console on his bed.
“I can bring the PSP next time, but I think you’ll like the games on this better. ”
I looked up at my sister. Breanne was crying silently, the tears slipping from her eyes like she didn’t even realize they were there. She glanced up at me and gave me something that once upon a time could have resembled a smile. Now, it was no more than an acknowledgment of my presence.
“What’s wrong?” I asked, wondering if it was something more than what was already amiss.
“He’s not getting better,” she whispered, eyes locked on her son. “The chemo, it’s not…it didn’t do anything. The cancer is still…” She trailed off and shook her head. “It’s getting worse. They said it’s getting worse.”
My entire body sank. “Is there…? What else can they—will they do?”
Breanne shook her head. “Nothing. There’s nothing else they can do. He’s dying.”
“No,” I said, as though that single word would change anything. As though that single word could make everything okay, rid Xander of the cancer. “Breanne, there has to be something.”
Breanne shook her head again, looking so young. She was young. Twenty-two. No age is the right age to lose a child, but to lose one when you yourself are hardly more than a child…
I sat beside her, putting an arm around her shoulders, not saying a thing. I stared at Xander, his tiny body so weak and damaged. I had to do something. I didn’t know what, but something. This could not be it. I could not allow him to die. I could not allow Breanne to go through that.
I stayed a while longer with Breanne, but Xander never woke up.
Before I left, I tightly hugged my sister goodbye.
I exited the hospital and found my bike where I had hooked it up outside, hopping on and riding home, parking it in my garage.
The house was empty when I walked in, unsurprisingly.
Mom and Dad were still at work, and my younger brother Cody was at camp.
I headed straight for the pantry and crouched to the ground.
On my hands and knees, I reached to the far back and pulled out a full, unopened bottle of vodka.
I was in need of a little liquid courage.
I cracked open the bottle and poured it into a water bottle the size of my head before immediately departing the house again and jumping back on my bike.
My destination was the local library. We had one computer in my house, and I didn’t want my family to see my search history.
I ran in and found an open computer. Dropping my backpack on the floor beside the desk, I sat in front of the box-like desktop and creamy-white keyboard with huge buttons and took a few hearty sips from my bottle.
The vodka burned my throat as it went down, but the sharp pain helped me focus.
I got on the internet, the webpage automatically opening to Yahoo!
. The red logo and the overrun screen with links to email, “hot jobs,” blue news links were a familiar sight.
The first thing I searched was how to cure leukemia.
I clicked through a few results, but nothing I was seeing was anything new. I grumbled and went back to the search bar. I took another few swigs of vodka, my head buzzing and empty stomach sloshing.
This time I typed help a sibling deal with grief.
My finger slammed down on the backspace button. Not yet.
Next, I tried my nephew is dying. Help. Nothing useful, again. I took another chug of vodka, my throat on fire.
I typed in how to get what you need. Vague as shit, but I was beyond the point of caring.
I combed through the results on the first page, finding nothing useful.
I clicked to the next page and the next, sipping on the vodka throughout.
I went through nearly thirty pages of results before finally clicking a link to an out-of-date website with a seafoam green and teal background and overly bold text, along with blue links to other sections of the website on the left side.
The curvy red title at the top of the webpage read: all your desires will soon be granted.
I leaned closer to the screen as I scrolled and read from the section heading “Calling Who You Need.”
Demons. This article was talking about demons.
I did not believe in demons, but I couldn’t stop reading.
The article detailed how one has to be extraordinarily specific when summoning a demon, as you want to call one that specifically makes deals, not a demon lord or one who will cause unending havoc and chaos upon our world.
Apparently, it was a fine line. I wasn’t one hundred percent convinced of this website’s legitimacy, but it was worth a shot. I had to try something.
I snatched a thinning notebook from my backpack and a yellow pencil, opening it to a blank page. On it I wrote:
1) Clear space, little to no obstacles
2) A sacrifice or an offering must be presented
3) Repetition may be necessary
I lastly copied down a quick summoning chant.
I knew where to go for this ceremony, but I needed an offering. I had no idea what that could be, so I searched offerings for demons. No murder.
I found a long list and decided on two items: black candles and red wine.
I had to do this now, before the alcohol left my system and my nerves shot back up.
I closed out of the web, packed my notebook and vodka back into my backpack, and exited the library to ride back home.
I fell off my bike a block away from the library, so I ended up wheeling it home on unstable legs.
I re-entered the kitchen of my still-empty house.
Back in the pantry, I snatched red wine.
Perhaps my parents should have invested in a lockable liquor cabinet.
I then stumbled to the bathroom cabinet and pulled out a few scented Yankee candles. Next stop was the garage, where I found spray paint and spray-painted the candles black. This was likely not what the web meant by “black candles,” but I was making do.
I shoved all of my supplies into my backpack then hopped back on my bike, pumping the pedals so hard I knew I would be sore the next morning.
I kept pumping until I got to a large wooded area.
I dropped the bike at the edge of the forest, backpack on my back and still holding the unfinished vodka bottle.
I jogged into the forest and kept pace for a while as the sun slowly sank in the sky.
Once I got to my intended destination, a large clearing I’d come across before on a hike, I stopped.
I knelt down in front of my backpack and pulled out the candles and the red wine.
I lit the candles with a plastic lighter I pulled from my pocket then took my pocket knife and pressed the sharp blade into the tip of my pointer finger, cringing at the pain.
I squeezed the finger so blood dripped out and onto the leafy ground of the forest. Then I started to chant the Latin summoning spell I’d found.
I didn’t understand a word of it and knew my pronunciation was likely a bit off.
I held the red wine tightly in my hand, ready to offer it to whoever may show up.
Tears formed in my eyes as I continued to chant.
For good measure, I did the chant a few times over.
The air was still, as if the forest was holding its breath in anticipation.
Then a man in an ill-fitted charcoal suit appeared before me. I flinched away, taking two involuntary steps back.
He surveyed me up and down, passing a solid form of judgment. His eyes flashed an empty black. “May I help you?” he asked, sneering at the sight of me.
“I need something,” I slurred, breathless and too drunk to be surprised that this worked.
“Doesn’t everyone?” the demon drawled. “So, what? You’re failing a class? Do you want the girl in fourth period to look at you? Do you want your parents to understand you? Is this something worth calling me for, Christopher?” I did not question how the demon knew my name.
“My nephew,” I said, winded still, “he’s sick. I want him to be better. I want his leukemia gone, and I want his cancer gone. I want him to be healthy. I don’t want him to be sick.”
The demon sighed, raising his eyes to the sky.
“What a noble request. And you’re sure you want to do this for some snot-nosed kid?
You have your whole life ahead of you, son.
You’re willing to give it away for some six-year-old brat who may not live his life in a useful way?
You don’t know that he’ll be a successful member of society.
He may turn out to be a criminal or a politician, though, those really are one and the same. ”
I nodded vigorously. “I’m sure,” I said. “I want to do this.”
“Fine,” the demon said. “If this is what you want, then who am I to deny you of that desire? Now, I see you have something for me.” He eyed the wine, which I handed over.
It vanished, and in its place appeared a packet of paper.
The demon held the packet and a pen that also appeared from nowhere out to me and said, “Initial here, initial here, sign here, initial here, initial here, sign and date here. And here”—he held the last page of the contract closer to me—“I need your thumbprint in blood.”
An invisible force pierced my thumb, causing me to hiss in pain. I pressed a shaky thumb firmly to the paper. I neglected to complain that he could have used my already bleeding pointer finger.
When I was done, the contract and the pen both disappeared in a cloud of smoke. Blood dripped down my thumb.
“There you have it,” the demon said, turning to leave. “I suppose we’ll see you in ten years’ time.”
“Wait, what?” I asked, feeling suddenly sobered.
The demon chortled cruelly. “What?” he repeated back to me.
“You didn’t think that the wine was your payment?
No. No, of course not. Your payment is your soul, young man.
In ten years’ time, your soul belongs to Hell.
Well, actually, it already does. In ten years’ time, at eight p.m. on this exact date, you will die.
A reaper will come to collect your soul, they will take you to Hell, and we’ll own you forever.
But fear not, because your nephew is fine.
And he will continue to be fine. The cancer is gone.
He will not die, not anytime soon, at least. He is healthy. And you are now ours.”
The demon disappeared. I stared at where he once stood, the empty forest floor, frozen in place, limbs unable to move, not that I even had the ability for that desire in that instant.
Eventually, my movements automatic and stiff, I wandered back to my bike. By the time I arrived home, my parents and younger brother were in the house. I said a brief hello then went straight to my room, closing the door and crashing into my bed.
After a restless night of sleep, I went to the hospital and once again walked into the room to find my sister crying. Except this time, they were tears of joy. Her eyes were wide, confused, and jubilant.
“The cancer is gone,” Breanne said simply. “It’s gone.”