The Lake

In life, it isn’t what you look at that matters. It’s what you see; and people only see what they are prepared to confront.

Riley Johnson was an only child, living with her mother and father. She spent almost all of her time at the piano in her house, playing wonderful music that her father composed for her. He loved music very much, but an injury to his hand when he was in his mid-twenties had forced him away from the piano. And when his daughter was old enough to begin to play, he was thrilled to see that she enjoyed it just as much as he once had. The music that he had written throughout his life, but had never been able to play, was finally able to be heard. And his daughter played it wonderfully. Their relationship together grew into an unbreakable bond. Riley loved her father more than anyone in the world, and their mutual love in music was what linked them together.

Almost everyone in the town knew Riley and her father. They were very friendly, and well-respected by all of their neighbors, and all of Riley’s classmates and their families. Her father was really involved with the school, and everyone knew that he was her father. The two looked so much like father and daughter that it would be impossible to mistake their relation. They had the same straight brunette hair, and deep brown eyes that reflected the light. And of course, they had the same long fingers that were perfect for piano.

Riley played in recitals every month, and always took home either the gold or silver with the music her father wrote for her. After every recital, Riley and her father would go out to the lake to celebrate. During the warmer months, they would wade out into the shallows, and skip the largest, flattest stones they could find, competing to see who could throw it farther. Her father won almost every time. During the winter months, when the lake was entirely frozen over, they would slowly venture out onto the solid ice, competing to see who would have the guts to take that one extra step. Riley almost always won those competitions, only ever turning back when she heard the faint cracking of the ice beneath her feet. Her father had nicknamed her his “little daredevil”, since she was always willing to take that extra step. And it wasn’t just in those trips to the lake. She took things one step further with everything in her life. But one day, in the middle of December, as the holiday spirit was spreading throughout the city, something went horribly wrong.

Riley’s Christmas piano recital was just finishing up, and she had strayed from the usual music that she played at the recitals, written by her father. Instead, she played a classic Christmas ballad. It was a festive recital, and was more about the after-party than the piano-playing itself, so there was no winner; and therefore, no reason to celebrate. Despite that, after the holiday luncheon, Riley and her father felt like celebrating.

They took their usual trip down to the lake, which held so many fond memories for them. Riley looked out across the vast expanse of pure snow. The lights opposite them on the lake, from the distant city across, could scarcely be seen through the onset of flurries floating down to the ground, resting carefully on the fragile surface of the ice. Riley noticed that the wind was blowing harder than usual, and a chill ran up her spine. She could feel the cold seeping into her bones, and her father noticed her shiver. Smiling, he hugged her, trying to give her some of his warmth.

“You sure you’re ready for this?” he asked.

“If by ‘this’ you mean win, then yeah, bring it on,” Riley joked.

Her father laughed kindly.

Riley took a few steps out onto the ice, and her father followed alongside her. One by one, they took step after step onto the solid ice, barely even hearing any noise under their feet.

Her father decided to stop, saying that he was as far as he was willing to go. But Riley continued, step after step, further and further out across the lake. Feeling particularly brave, she twirled around, giggling like she did when she was much younger. Facing her father, she walked backwards slowly, listening for any sign of cracking beneath her feet.

“It sure is solid this year,” she said, when suddenly, the ice gave way beneath her.

As the freezing cold water hit her body, Riley was shocked, unable even to scream. She couldn’t see, hear, or feel anything; only an intense numbness that shook her body, frightening her more than anything in the world ever had. A few minutes later, she passed out.

When she regained consciousness, she found herself in a hospital with a beeping monitor hooked up to her finger, assuring the doctors of her prolonged existence, and constant heart beat. Her head pounded, but she felt otherwise perfectly normal, only a bit foggy. As if she had awoken from a long dream. She looked next to her and saw her father sitting in a chair, smiling at her reassuringly.

“Dad, what happened?” she asked.

“You fell into the ice. I only got to you just in time.”

“You save my life.”

He nodded, reaching out to squeeze her hand.

The hospital attendants walked in, informing her that her mother had signed the necessary paperwork, and she was free to leave whenever she chose. The nurse said that her mother was waiting for her in the car just outside the doors to the hospital.

After thanking the nurse, Riley got up and walked out, her father by her side.

“How would you like to ride shotgun?” he asked.

Riley nodded, though a bit surprised. Her father never let her ride shotgun, unless it was just the two of them.

When Riley entered the car, her mother was oddly silent, and her blue eyes were red and puffy. It was apparent that she had been crying.

“Mom, it’s okay. I’m alright. Thanks to Dad,” Riley said, trying to help. She turned to the back seat and smiled at her father.

“I know sweetie, I know,” her mother said shakily, and the three of them headed home.

Riley continued to play piano, but her father wouldn’t write any more. He said that he’d lost inspiration, and just didn’t have it in him. Whenever he thought of his music, thoughts of what happened that night after the recital inevitably followed. So instead of working on new music, she just perfected the music she already knew. It drove her mother crazy, how constantly she played, but Riley felt comforted by it. Since she didn’t have any new songs to play, Riley stopped attending recitals, despite her father desperately trying to convince her to go. But it would be weird for her to go to recitals and then not visit the lake after, and there was no way she wanted to go back to the lake. Not after what happened.

Finally, almost a year after the incident, Riley decided to write something of her own. It was a sad, almost spooky song that was more complex than anything she’d tried to play before. It was a combination of a bunch of different tunes of the songs her father had played, but set in a different, diminished key. She spent all of her time working on the piece, and stopped paying any attention to school. Her grades started to drop, and her mother didn’t even do anything about it. After what had happened, it seemed that her mother had checked out of Riley’s life altogether, spending all of her time either working, or sitting silently, alone in her room. Even Riley’s father couldn’t do anything to shake her of her depression.

Riley believed that finishing this song would signify moving on, and forgetting about what had happened—or nearly happened—to her. She could go back to the way her life was before she nearly died, and even resume the monthly piano recitals. She had great confidence in this new song, and her father encouraged her constantly. Finally, the time came for Riley to present the piece to the public. She convinced her mother to set up a slot for her at the upcoming recital, and she felt that she was more prepared than ever.

Her mother dropped her off at her recital, and Riley stepped out of the car, onto the sidewalk. Nervously, she looked up at the tall, dark building as if seeing it in a new light. She had not visited the hall in over a year, and she began to lose all confidence in her song, doubting every decision she had made up until that point. Suddenly her father appeared beside her, and rested his hand on her shoulder.

“Riley, you are the most wonderful pianist I have ever heard, and your music is beautiful. You have no reason to be nervous.”

Taking a deep breath, Riley nodded, knowing in her heart that what her father said was true. She took one more look at the building, with its stained-glass windows, and its church-like intimidation. She walked through the front doors, down the aisle, past the hundreds upon hundreds of seats that would soon be filled with adoring parents, siblings, and friends of those playing, and up onto the stage. She looked out upon the empty seats with a feeling of pride. Pride in herself, and in her own talents, but most of all, pride in her father. He was the most wonderful man she knew, and her true hero. He not only showed her the way through life, and helped fuel her one true passion, but he had saved her life. He was always there when she needed him the most, and she had no doubt in her mind that he wouldn’t pull through for her today.

Riley walked over to the grand piano in the center of the stage. Its slick black cover shone, reflecting the light with a virtuous radiance. She ran her finger softly along the black and white keys, feeling their familiarity, and the ease at which her mind processed them. They weren’t just a series of white and black buttons that you push to make music; they were a sequence of sounds that, when connected in just the right way, created the most lovely, eerie, sad, beautiful sounds she could ever imagine. But when she looked at the piano she didn’t just hear music, she felt her father’s loving gaze, his approval, his admiration in her skill. And that, she realized, was why she treasured it so much.

An hour later, she was back stage, listening to the final chords of the song that was played before her own. The audience stood up, applauding generously the music from the third movement of Moonlight Sonata, a Beethoven classic.

“And now, ladies and gentlemen, here to present to you a song of her own, composed entirely herself, is young Miss Riley Johnson!”

A polite, quiet applause followed the announcement, and she walked out onto the stage. Riley’s chocolate brown hair was curled into ringlets, and pulled back, out of her face, so that it would not get in her way. She wore a sleek, strapless black dress that travelled all the way to the floor, and long, webbed black gloves. As she walked on stage, she immediately began to search the audience for her father, but she instead saw her mother sitting alone, the chairs on either side of her occupied by strangers. Regardless, Riley continued toward the piano, flashing a confident smile, and sat on the bench behind it, facing partially away from the audience.

She set the metronome to a slow 80, and counted herself in. One, two, three, and… The music flew through the ends of her fingertips like silk, weaving a sad, pure melody. As the song went on, the mood began to change, and weave between sadness and fear, and everyone in the audience who knew Riley’s story understood at once that it was a song about what happened to her all those months ago. As she finished up the long piece, Riley stood and looked into the applauding audience, seeing her mother. Even from all that distance, Riley could make out the tears that were running down her mother’s cheeks, and whether they were tears of sadness or tears of happiness, she could not tell.

And then she saw, at the back of the audience, standing in the aisle, her father. His presence reminded her of her motivation for the song, and so she took the microphone and said, loudly and clearly to the audience, “This song was for my inspiration, my admiration, and my hero: my father.”

After the recital, as strangers congratulated her, she noticed her neighbor, her mother’s good friend, smiling at her. Riley walked over to her, surprised at her presence there, but before she could say anything, the woman smiled at her.

“That was beautiful Riley, and I just loved how you dedicated it to your father. His death was ever so tragic, and I am very sorry for you and your mother.”

Riley was about to thank her when the words processed in her mind.

His death?

“I’m sorry Mrs. Marisol, but what do you mean?”

“Oh, my apologies dear, I don’t mean to bring up past difficulties. I was only meaning how he died saving you, at the lake last year.”

Riley frowned. “But Mrs. Marisol, my father isn’t dead! He saved my life, but he lived; he even came here tonight!”

Now her neighbor was puzzled. Shaking her head, she looked at Riley as if she had gone mad. “No dear, your father died that night. He can’t be here, that’s not possible. I think you’re confused.”

“No, no…” Riley trailed off, turning away, unable to believe what she was hearing.

Her father had helped her with her song! He had been there with her at the hospital, and had smiled at her after her performance. He had encouraged her throughout the past year, and helped her to see her true purpose in life. Her father was alive, she was sure of it. What was Mrs. Marisol talking about?

Riley turned back to her neighbor, and saw that she had gone off somewhere. A moment later, the woman returned with her mother at her side.

“Riley…” her mother began.

“Mom! Tell Mrs. Marigold the truth; tell her she’s wrong. Daddy’s not dead, he lived. Tell her!”

Her mother looked at her sadly, shaking her head.

“Mom, tell her!”

“Sweetie, your father is dead. He died a year ago, at the lake. He died saving you.”

Riley shook her head.

“Riley, what’s wrong with you? Why are you being like this?” Her mother’s eyes were swelling up with tears.

“NO!” Riley shouted at her mother, running away from her, from Mrs. Marigold, and from everyone. She ran out the doors of the hall, down the street, and toward the lake. She didn’t stop running until she reached the edge of the frozen water.

Riley picked up a chunk of ice and threw it as far as she could out onto the lake, screaming as loudly as she could manage. She thought about the past year, and all of her interactions with her father. She thought about how he had hugged her, smiled at her, patted her on the shoulder, and squeezed her hand reassuringly. But then she thought about how he would seem to just appear by her side when she needed him. How he would never go to work, and would never really talk to anyone but her.

She broke down crying, and sunk to the floor, her black dress collecting snow from the ground.

“Riley!”

She looked up, and saw her father, standing out on the ice, waving to her.

“Riley, I’m here, look: I’m not dead,” he said calmly, comfortingly. “You’re mother’s crazy, she’s not thinking straight. But I’m here. And guess what?”

She forced herself to speak. “What?”

“I bet you can’t get farther than me,” he teased lightly.

Riley wiped the tears away from her eyes, stood up, and brushed the snow off her dress. She smiled, realizing that she had been right all along. Her father wasn’t dead; he was right there, calling to her.

“Is that a challenge?” she asked, managing to laugh through the tears.

Her father raised his eyebrows, and she knew that meant yes. If her father was out that far, she knew that she could go that far as well, and so without a second thought, she raced out onto the ice, wanting to embrace her father, to feel his existence, and to prove beyond a doubt in her mind that he was real. When she was a few feet away from him, she slowed to a walk.

“Riley!”

“Yeah, I’m coming.”

“Riley, what are you doing?” he yelled, sounding entirely panicky.

She frowned. “Exactly what you told me to. I’m coming to you.”

“Riley, stop!”

She suddenly realized the voice wasn’t coming from her father, it was coming from behind her. She turned around and saw her mother standing nearly fifty yards away on the shore, her eyes as wide as quarters.

“Come back,” her mother begged. “Please.”

“No Mom, you’re crazy. Dad’s alive. He’s right here.”

Riley went to point to her father, but as she turned back to face him, she saw nothing but the great expanse of the lake, with the faint lights from the city all the way across the lake.

“But…” Riley trailed off.

She couldn’t believe it, but then she saw an opening in the ice, and realized with horror that her father must have slipped through, as she had.

“Dad!” she screamed, running toward the hole.

But as she got closer, the ice beneath her began to crack, and she heard her mother screaming as it gave way beneath her. Riley heard her father’s voice calling to her, saying her name, and she felt his firm grasp on her shoulder as she sunk into the depths of the dark, cold lake.

Poe Essay

An obsession is defined by the Miriam-Webster dictionary as “a persistent disturbing preoccupation with an often unreasonable idea or feeling”. This term, used more and more loosely over the years, has been used to represent passion, but this is not its correct use. To use this word is to discuss not just a passion, but a continual, unrelenting focus on the same perverse concept. Edgar Allen Poe is known by many to be a brilliant man, gifted with the ability to invoke emotions in his stories and poems. The mood of his stories often appeal to the emotions of fear and misery alike, and to compel those readers to feel that, he sets up many common gothic elements in his stories. Poe has written numerous different stories, the majority of which use his most common and most universally portrayed concept of death. The presence, or occurrence, of decease is not the only way Poe brings about death into his stories.  The persistence of this death as the theme, mood, and central idea of his stories is what helps the reader acknowledge his obsession with death. He uses various literary elements to bring the perception of death into a great number of his famous works, thereby presenting his fixation with that particular notion. Edgar Allan Poe’s use of diction, foreshadowing, and symbolism emphasize his main points, and connect the story together into one central theme; death.

Diction is used in his stories to set up a horrifying mood, and transform the reader’s emotions to those of fear. In stories such as “The Masque of Red Death” and “The Fall of the House of Usher”, words are used to describe and illustrate different aspects of the story, such as the setting and the characters. Individual words are utilized throughout to show a gothic tone, and to link particular elements of the story to ideas of death and pain. “But in the western or black chamber the effect of the fire-light that streamed upon the dark hangings through the blood-tinted panes, what ghastly in the extreme, and produced so wild a look upon the countenances of those who entered, that there were few of the company bold enough to set foot within its precincts at all” (Poe, “The Masque of Red Death”). The correlation of the color of the window with the color of blood, in combination with the guests’ reluctance to go near that chamber, helps the reader to feel negatively about that room. Likewise, the use of blood in the description invokes thoughts of pain, suffering, and even death in the reader.

Other than just using diction to present a particular circumstance of death, Poe uses intense description to create an image for the reader that presents death as gruesome and terrifying. “As I rapidly made the mesmeric passes, amid ejaculations of “dead! dead!” absolutely bursting from the tongue and not from the lips of the sufferer, his whole frame at once—within the space of a single minute, or less, shrunk—crumbled—absolutely rotted away beneath my hands. Upon the bed, before the whole company, there lay a nearly liquid mass of loathsome—of detestable putrescence” (Poe, The Facts in the Case of M. Valdemar). To any reader, the image presented to them through this diction is petrifying. Just before this ending to the story came up, the body in question had been preserved for an extremely long time, in some sort of unknown state between life and death. The man, M. Valdemar, had managed on more than one occasion to explain to the narrator of the story that he was, indeed, dead, but his body had shown almost no signs of it. However, at the end, the body suddenly showed extreme signs of death, not only shocking the reader, but omitting a horrible image. The entire story had led up to this final climax, and the story centered on this idea of death. “I endeavored to shriek-, and my lips and my parched tongue moved convulsively together in the attempt-but no voice issued from the cavernous lungs, which oppressed as if by the weight of some incumbent mountain, gasped and palpitated, with the heart, at every elaborate and struggling inspiration” (Poe, “The Premature Burial”). Up until this point in the story, it had been made clear that the narrator suffers from a condition where he often passes out, finding himself in a state very like that of a dead man. His worst fear is that he will pass out into this state, and those who are not aware of his condition will believe him to be dead, thus burying him in the ground. Despite precautions that he had taken, the narrator strongly believed that he had managed to be buried alive, and thus, his reaction is identical to one of someone who, in actuality, was buried alive, despite his circumstance being entirely not one of premature burial. At this point, however, the reader is not aware that his circumstance is not deadly, and has no reason to think otherwise. Poe uses this imagery, and these thoughts of fear in the reader, to imply a situation where a horrible death is about to take place. By setting the story up so that the reader would feel this way, he manages to contain the theme of the story to one of death, thus focusing every thought of the reader onto one of the most feared and horrible ways to die.

By foreshadowing the eventual outcomes of his stories, Poe presents another way of allowing his obsession with death to seep into every page of his stories. By hinting at the death that is to come, or by setting up the suspense, Poe is able to refer to the death that is to come in the story even before it happens. Thus, the reader is constantly kept on that same mindset that the only thing that could possibly come out of the story is, indeed, a death. “To be buried while alive is, beyond question, the most terrific of these extremes which has ever fallen to the lot of mere mortality. That it has frequently, very frequently, so fallen will scarcely be denied by those who think” (Poe, “The Premature Burial”). This quotation, taken from the beginning of the story, tells the reader that the story will be about someone being buried before death. This informs the reader where the story will eventually end up, if they didn’t already infer that from the story’s title. Before Poe reaches his main plot focus in this story, he also discusses three other profound stories that the narrator tells about circumstances where people have been buried alive. This continues to remind the reader that death is a major part of the story. Poe’s inclusion of death in as many parts of this story as possible show his persistence with the subject. “Ligeia” is a story Poe wrote that seems to be about the tragic love story between the narrator and his beloved wife. The story begins with a great deal of description, discussing Lady Ligeia’s beauty, and many aspects of her character that the narrator really loves. However, the fact that the Lady Ligeia had died prior to the writing of this story is made evident to the reader, and the reader is constantly reminded of this fact. “There had been much in her stern nature to impress me with the belief that, to her, death would have come without its terrors; -- but not so, Words are impotent to convey any just idea of the fierceness of resistance with which she wrestled with the Shadow” (Poe, “Ligeia”). This constant reminder of the current state of the narrator’s late wife serves as Poe’s way of linking this love story to the theme of death.

The use of symbolism with some of the main elements of the story allows Poe to centralize the story on the concept of his obsession. This use of symbolic representation of death is particularly evident in two of his stories which stand out to me. In “The Fall of the House of Usher”, the story is set in a decaying, old house that looks gloomy, and seems to suck the spirit out of the narrator. “…an effect which the physique of the fray walls and turrets, and of the dim tarn into which they all looked down, had, at length, brought about upon the morale of his existence” (Poe, “The Fall of the House of Usher.)When the phrase “House of Usher” is used, it can be taken one of two ways; either the literal house that the man Usher owns, or the Usher family. If the reader makes this connection, it becomes apparent that the house is representative of the family. Since the house is old and decaying, it could be inferred that the members of the family might not be of sound mind. While the symbolism of the house representing the family might be missed, the symbolism used in the “Masque of Red Death” is nearly impossible to miss. “It was in this apartment, also, that there stood against the western wall, a gigantic clock of ebony. Its pendulum swung to and fro with a dull, heavy, monotonous clang; and when the minute-hand made the circuit of the face, and the hour was to be stricken, there came from the brazen lungs of the clock a sound which was clear and loud and deep and exceedingly musical, but of so peculiar a note and emphasis that, at each lapse of an hour, the musicians of the orchestra were constrained to pause” (Poe, “The Masque of Red Death”). This clock is a representation of the time as is passes. A feeling of unease sets in amongst the guests at Prince Prospero’s masquerade. As the clock chimes every hour, the party has to come to a halt, and the people have to remember that while they are in there partying, time is going by, and in the meantime the Red Death is continuing to take its victims. This representation of time is also an indirect representation of time’s control over death. No matter how much power death has over people, time is still what brings things to their end. “…whose tall figure stood erect and motionless within the shadow of the clock,” (Poe, “The Masque of Red Death”). This concept of death answering to time is especially represented when the figure that brings death to Prince Prospero walks right up to the clock, receding into its shadow. Since this clock was mentioned time and time again throughout the story, once the connection was made to death, the entire story enveloped the theme of death.

Poe demonstrates his obsession with death by metaphorically allowing the main points of his stories to represent death. The symbolism used with many key elements of a story, such as the setting, or an important object, Poe manages to key into the central theme of death without constantly bringing it up. Instead of referring to death constantly, he simply connects a major point of the story to death, so that, in the mind of the reader, that object invokes thoughts of death. Poe also uses diction to bring many gothic elements together, and directly inform the reader of the story’s connection to death. He oftentimes would use his words to create an image, which  brings fear to the reader, and informs them of the possibility of death in the situation. Lastly, by foreshadowing deadly events, Poe can continue returning the story to the theme of death. Ultimately, Poe uses many common literary elements to connect his stories to one central theme; death. With that theme in mind, and with the way he presents it to the reader, it can be seen that Poe truly does have an obsession with death.

Bibliography

“obsession.” Merriam-Webster.com. 2012. http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/obsession (13 March 2012).

Poe, Edgar A. Ligeia. 1838. Poe Stories. Web. 12 Mar. 2012. <http://poestories.com/read/ligeia>

Poe, Edgar A. The Facts in the Case of M. Valdemar. 1845. Poe Stories. Web. 12 Mar. 2012. <http://poestories.com/read/facts>

Poe, Edgar A. The Fall of the House of Usher. 1839. Poe Stories. Web. 12 Mar. 2012. <http://poestories.com/read/houseofusher>

Poe, Edgar A. The Masque of Red Death. 1850. Poe Stories. Web. 12 Mar. 2012. <http://poestories.com/read/masque>

Poe, Edgar A. The Premature Burial. 1850. Poe Stories. Web. 12 Mar. 2012. <http://poestories.com/read/premature

Faust Legend

A person’s choices are what make them who they are. The way someone turns out is not set up by a string of fate, but rather, it is determined by the actions they take with every situation that presents itself to them.

So what do I do?

Some people say that I’m a trickster; an evil creature that tricks humans into ruining their lives. People say that I cause some of the most horrible things imaginable. People say that I am the reason they fear death. And they’re probably right. Some of the worst events in this world and the next originate from myself.

But I am not the one who does those horrible things. I merely present a choice. Admittedly, the choice favors my own ideals, and I use every might t drive people down the road of my choosing. I do everything I can to light the road for them, disguise it, and make it seem like the best possible path. But I always tell them where it leads. I always let them know of the terrible darkness and evil that awaits them on the other side.

So when a person makes a deal with me, they are making a choice. A choice to be given the easiest, most wonderful path through life that there could possibly be for them. A choice that they fully know will lead them to their own destruction. But they always make the choice I want. They always go down my path.

You see, I have a talent. One talent that provides me everything I could ever need. I can read people like a book. I know them better than they know themselves, and with just one look, I can see what they fear most, and what they most long for. I know how to present myself, in both appearance and manner, so that I will have not only their full attention, but the ability to weave words, and convince them beyond a shadow of a doubt that my way is the best.

Each person is a new challenge, and each challenge is always a success. There are as many different kinds of people as there are opportunities in the world, and what people never seem to see is that what I offer is not something that is impossible to achieve on their own. Humans are so entirely gullible, and so entirely hopeless. They always choose the easiest way to get to where they want to go, and always take any shortcut that presents itself. Some people are more difficult to convince than others, and the more exigent the challenge, the more I enjoy watching my plans unfold. I recall one such individual that provided an immense amount of enjoyment for me. Her name was Amanda Lee Jorgensen.

It was a cold winter day in Michigan, and the snow was falling for the first time that year. The air was still, and eerily quiet, considering the myriad of children who were out and about playing in their yards, building snow forts and snow men and making snow angels.

She was sitting alone on a bench in a park, looking out over the frozen lake. She had a hood up, which covered her eyes, and made her appear to be just suspicious enough to ensure that no one would bother her. She was looking down at something, but I wasn’t close enough to see what. Curiosity getting the best of me, I crept closer until I saw what it was. Or, should I say, what they were. In the woman’s hands were a handful of IDs. Each of them showed a picture of her, but each contained a different name.

I grinned from ear to ear. A perfect challenge, I thought. I knew it would be tricky; it wouldn’t be easy to read the soul of someone who cons and fools people for a living. At that moment, I couldn’t help but see the irony in the situation. I would do to her what she appears to have done to so many people.

The woman sighed, and stuffed the IDs in her coat pocket. She removed her hood, revealing long, curly brown hair that slowly collected flakes of snow as they fell from the sky. I knew from that moment exactly what I would have to do to convince the woman to sell me her soul. But it would take a bit of preparation.

I watched the woman for weeks, observing the minor characteristics in her behavior, and seeing what drove her to continue lying to people, and playing them. She wanted the money, and she enjoyed the thrill. She seemed to revel in the knowledge that she was able to convince people that she was someone who was vastly different from that which she truly was. She was currently going by the name Katherine Hadley, and she was tricking a very wealthy man into believing that she was his daughter.

Katherine, or whatever her real name was, had done her research. She had learned everything she needed to make the con work, and it seemed to be. By the third day of her fraud, the man believed her, and he hadn’t even asked for a paternity test. I watched, almost impressed with the skills this woman had. But I knew the real her, and I knew what she wanted most. It was time.

I appeared in the apartment she was renting moments before she was to arrive. I waited until she came to the door and took out her key, and then I swung open the door. This was my favorite part; their initial reaction. She woman jumped, and then, upon seeing my horrible appearance, screamed.

I grinned, showing what I knew to be razor-sharp, blackened teeth.

“Hello Katherine,” I said in a low, raspy voice.

She turned to run, but I appeared in front of her. My glowing red skin emanated a radiating heat, similar to that of fire. My head was bald, and slightly distorted, and my eyes were sullen black, empty of any light or feeling.

“Going somewhere?”

I had her trapped, and she knew it. She shook with fear, but there was a sense of disbelief about her. Almost as if she couldn’t really believe what was happening before her very eyes.

“I just want to talk,” I said, keeping my low voice calm and steady.

“Who are you?” she asked.

“Oh, you know who I am. But I promise, no harm will come to you right now. I only want to talk. Please, do come in.”

I motioned through the open door, and Katherine entered reluctantly. It was at that very moment that I knew I had made the right choice in appearance. The woman was a wannabe actress, and so, naturally, I had to make everything over-the-top.

“Please, sit down,” I said, grinning once again, and pulling out a chair for her.

“What do you want with me?”

“Oh Katherine. Dear, dear Katherine. I have come to help you. Don’t you see?” I laughed, a gruff laugh that came out much louder than necessary. “I want to give you the opportunity of a lifetime.”

“I don’t want your money,” she said, trying to keep a bold tone to her voice, but I saw right through it.

“Oh, I know. I don’t want to give you money. No, that wouldn’t make you happy. And that’s all I want; to make you happy. You see Katherine, I’m not evil. Not really. I give people the best life they could possibly ask for, and I only ask for one thing in return. One tiny, little thing that doesn’t even truly matter.”

“There is nothing you can give me that will make me sell my soul to you,” the woman said, looking down at her fidgeting hands.

“Oh, Katherine,” I shook my head. “I’m disappointed. I haven’t even gotten to the best part.”

Her gaze stayed down.

“How would you like the opportunity to be a real Hollywood actress?”

Her eyes snapped up for a fraction of a second, but then returned to her hands. But not soon enough for me to miss it.

“And I don’t mean soap operas,” I explained. “I mean real Hollywood movies. You’d have a real audience for once, one that respects your talent and appreciates you for who you are. You would no longer be alone, and you’d have endless money coming at you. I am providing you the chance for a life of security, where you can live your dream without hesitation. You have a gift Katherine, and the world deserves to see it.”

Slowly, the woman’s eyes lifted to mine. The fear was disappearing, and she seemed hopeful.

“All I need is that one little thing in return. After a lifetime of happiness, and greatness, what does it matter what happens when you die? Isn’t life the most important thing?”

“I’ll do it.” Her voice was confident, and she even managed a smile.

I returned her grin, and said, “But just remember, when your life is over, there’s no turning back. There will be no second chances. When the time comes, you must give me your soul.”

She nodded. “I understand.”

My black eyes lit up, showing small white pupils. “Fantastic.”

I came to learn that the woman’s birth name was Amanda Lee Jorgensen. She was 25, and thanks to me, she would soon become the leading star in a new Hollywood movie. As soon as she was set up, I departed from her life, off in the search for another wondrous human soul to take. But after my success, I found myself returning to the life of young Amanda.

The time I visited her was at her premiere. She watched the movie gleefully after taking numerous pictures on the red carpet. With her newfound wealth, she was able to restyle her hair, and buy expensive makeup and clothing. She no longer looked anything like the Katherine I once watched.

After she returned to her large home, Amanda withdrew to her room. It was filled with illustrious furniture, and her vanity contained unimaginable jewels. She had a very large closet filled with what could only be designer dresses and jeans and shirts and shoes and everything. But what I noticed above all else was that she seemed happy.

Suddenly, a knock came at her bedroom door.

“What is it!” she snapped.

The door slowly opened, and an older woman walked in.

“What do you want Debbie?” Amanda asked tiredly.

“I came to let you know that I booked you for an interview with People magazine for tomorrow at noon.”

“Are you mad? I have my hair appointment at 11 tomorrow morning!”

“I’m sorry Amanda, but as your manager, I thought—”

“You thought?” she cut her off. “Well, stop, because that obviously isn’t working for you. Reschedule my hair appointment for after the interview.”

The manager, Debbie, nodded and left the room. Once she was gone, I revealed my presence.

“Hello Katherine,” I said.

Amanda turned around, her eyes bulging at the sight of me.

“Enjoying your life?”

“It isn’t over yet is it? I thought that you said I would have a lifetime of this! I can’t go now. I won’t let you take me!”

“Relax my dear Katherine, I’m not here to collect your soul. Not just yet. I was simply checking in on you. Making sure that you don’t forget our little agreement.”

“My name isn’t Katherine, it’s Amanda.”

“But you’ll always be Katherine to me,” I said. “Well, it’s time for me to go, but don’t you forget about our deal.”

With that, I disappeared.

It was years before I saw her again. By the time I returned, Amanda had starred in seven movies, as well as played significant roles in fourteen others. She was 40 years old, and had only grown more spoiled. She had married a fellow actor and divorced him less than a year later, taking from him his house and half of the money they had shared. It seemed that Amanda had become obsessed with the fame and fortune, and had forgotten the thrill she had once enjoyed in her not-so-innocent little cons. Her life had changed; it was no longer about the acting, but the recognition.

As I watched Amanda go about her day-to-day business, I saw that she was very unhappy. No matter what she was given, she always wanted more. She was never satisfied with anything she had.

This, of course, made me sad. It turned out that the path I had worked so hard to pave for Amanda had grown dark before its end. Which could mean only one thing; I had to bring it to a close sooner than planned.

Once more, I waited until Amanda was alone in her room to appear.

“Oh Katherine. Dear, sweet, sad Katherine. What have you done with your life?”

She turned around calmly, almost as if she’d been expecting me.

“I think you know what’s coming.”

Amanda shook her head.

“I promised you a lifetime of happiness. But that happiness has come to an end. You have managed to find a way to bring an end to our agreement, which means that I have come to collect your part in the bargain.”

“No, please!” she begged. “I will change, I will. I will try to be happier with my life. I have so much more than I can do!”

“Katherine, that doesn’t work on me. I see straight through your lies. I know you to be the deceptive young girl you once were, and your cons don’t work on me. One thing you should always remember; you can’t trick a trickster.” I laughed. “Unless you’re me of course.”

 “No, this isn’t what we agreed upon. I haven’t lived a lifetime yet!” she argued.

“A lifetime is only as long as the life that is lived. When a child dies, they may have only lived a handful of years, but that handful of years was their lifetime. And so this has been yours. And now it is time to come with me.”

“This is your fault, my unhappiness. If you had given me something more, something better, I wouldn’t have turned out this way.”

“Oh, but you know that isn’t true,” I said. “This is entirely your own doing, and so you must remember that whatever is to come, you have brought it upon yourself.”

And so Amanda Lee Jorgensen, the young con woman from Michigan, screamed for the last time as her life drained away. And I, with her spirit bound to me, returned to the fiery pits of Hell, where those who have led a life of sin and horror are taken. Amanda would become just another face amongst a sea of evil spirits.