[Listen]
[Sound of an ax chopping wood. Quirky music fades in…]
Christopher Gronlund:
I want to make one thing perfectly clear: this show is not about lumberjacks…
My name is Christopher Gronlund, and this is where I share my stories. Sometimes the stories contain truths, but most of the time, they’re made up. Sometimes the stories are funny—other times they’re serious. But you have my word about one thing: I will never—EVER—share a story about lumberjacks.
This time, it’s a story about a group of older women in a quilting circle who unwillingly summon Satan through their latest project’s design.
But first, the usual content advisory…
“The Sinister Quilt of Agnes Burr” deals with summoning Satan to our plane of existence, so of course there’s mention of ancient cults, magic, and other paranormal things. While the violence in the story is mostly comedic, there is a fairly grisly scene not necessarily played for laughs. (But it is still kinda funny.) I also threw in trespassing, auto theft, property destruction, and passing mention of infidelity to round things out. And, of course, there’s swearing.
But really, it’s a goofy story that still made me laugh after returning to it after a five month long break.
All right: let’s get to work!
The Sinister Quilt of Agnes Burr
The quilt was a construct unlike anything the four existing members of the Quincy Quilting Circle had ever seen, a design chosen by their newest member, a 62-year-old from Peabody, Massachusetts named Agnes Burr. They’d seen her work in multiple quilting magazines and books and were ecstatic she sought them out after moving to town. But her first project with the group wasn’t what they hoped for. In the private company of the original members, Florence Johnson said she found the pattern too avant-garde for the group, while Karen Stockton made no attempt to be so kind, calling it, “a garbage-ugly travesty beneath our usual fare.” Violet Merriweather admitted she found it disturbing, but couldn’t tell anyone why. The president of the tiny group, Martha Washburn, reminded the others to be nice. They all agreed, that in their combined 220 years of quilting experience, it was a pattern defying description.
It was assembled in stages, using fabric and a pattern provided by Agnes. Each week, the group worked on squares, with Agnes bringing it all together at home before planning a big reveal. She promised the group would be astonished by her experimental, bold design.
But the Quincy Quilting Circle was a sisterhood rooted in tradition, a place to gather as friends—not a group created to push boundaries. With each members’ decades of experience, there were few techniques or ways of working they’d not encountered. While Agnes’s permanence with the group was yet to be decided, they all agreed that her leading a project would likely never happen again.
* * *
“All right, everyone,” Agnes said, “gather around for the big reveal.”
She had placed the quilt on the floor in Martha’s living room and covered it in black cotton fabric. The other four stood in a circle around the piece. Agnes bent over, grabbed a corner, and pulled it back—uncovering the quilt.
“This might sound strange, but at my old circle in Massachusetts, we always joined hands around a new piece.” Agnes extended her right hand to Martha and her left to Florence. They reluctantly took Agnes’s hands in theirs. Martha shrugged and reached for Violet; Florence reached for Karen. When Karen and Violet held hands—completing the circle—they all looked down at the quilt.
It looked like black and red static, similar to an optical illusion where a three-dimensional image appears if you look at it just right.
“Are you all seeing what I’m seeing?” Violet said.
Karen nodded. “Yes, and no matter how hard I try, I can’t bring myself to look away.”
And that’s when it happened: Agnes Burr tightened her grip on Martha’s and Florence’s hands and yelled, “Oh, mighty Satan, Prince of Lies and Deceiver of All, I call upon you to enter this earthly realm!”
The center of the quilt swirled at their feet, where an endless void opened below. Deep down, a pinprick of orange light grew to an ember, and then a raging inferno.
“I have provided the means for visitation and offer you entrance to this physical realm to do as you please, save but one request.”
The flames morphed into a great horned head. As Satan floated toward the edge of the pit, Martha pressed a finger into the the joint on Agnes’s hand at the base of her pinky finger. She twisted her grip to increase pressure, causing Agnes to yelp and let go.
Martha raised her free hand above her head and chanted in a language older than the written word:“Ahs-furr mor-octa trobe. Mee-long narra-bock!”
A green bubble of energy surrounded Satan when he stepped into Martha’s living room. As he pushed against it and howled, Agnes pulled something from her pocket and hurled it at the floor. The room filled with acrid smoke. When it cleared, Agnes Burr was gone.
Satan looked at the remaining four women and said, “Would one of you ladies kindly explain to me just what in the name of my abode is going on?”
* * *
Martha’s three closest friends stared at her in disbelief.
“I don’t know,” she said. “It just…happened.”
Florence shook her head. “No, something like that doesn’t just ‘happen.’ I know when you’re hiding something. Sixty years of friendship, and this is a new one to me.”
“It’s nothing, really,” Martha said.
“You just trapped the Prince of Darkness in a glowing green cage. That’s much more than something. Really!”
“All right, fine. But you’re all going to think I’m making this up. When I went to San Francisco in the late 60s, I wanted to experience as much as I could. That included spending a bit of time at the Black House.”
“What’s that?” Violet said.
Florence shook her head. “The Church of Satan is what that is.”
“Sure, that’s what it was,” Martha said, “but I wasn’t a member. A friend brought me along for a ceremony one night. The church’s founder, Anton, played organ. Because I played and wanted to learn more, he gave me lessons.”
Karen said, “You mean to tell us you play every Sunday at our church, led by the hands of the founder of the Church of Satan?”
“I swear I only took lessons. During those sessions, he said he could show me ways to unlock my mind and have all I craved. He never charged me, so I figured the least I could do was listen to him while we played.”
Karen crossed her arms. “Just listen to the Father of Satanism spout off. Nothing bad could come from that!”
“It was the 60s, Kare. We all had our moments.”
“Well, I didn’t!”
“Enough with the bickering, ladies. You’re not the ones summoned and bound against your will.” Satan clapped his hands. “Hurry, hurry, hurry!”
Martha continued. “I did find the different ways of thinking I was exposed to fascinating. Quincy, Illinois isn’t known for its diverse ways of looking at the world. So much opened up to me in those three years out west. Let’s just say I delved deeper than the simplicity the Church of Satan offered. After a blood oath to an ancient cult, I was granted access to archaic tomes that spoke of gods eons older than any I’d find at home. I no longer practice, but much like a lapsed Catholic, once you’ve given yourself over to the Old Gods, they never fully let go.
“So, that’s how I knew a way to imprison Satan to this spot in my living room. Unfortunately, only Agnes has the power to send him back.”
* * *
“Well,” Satan said, “if I’m Agnes’s problem, you can just release me, and I’ll be on my way.”
“Nuh-uh,” Florence said. “What makes you think we’d just let you go?”
“It never hurts to ask.”
“You’re not going anywhere. Martha and I will go find Agnes and bring her here so she can send you back to Hell where you belong.”
“What about us?” Violet said.
“Just…” Florence looked at her best friend.
Martha said, “I’d suggest you go to the kitchen and make a pot of tea or coffee. Have some cake and pretend he’s not here. We shouldn’t be long.”
* * *
On the drive to Agnes’s house, Florence said, “Do you really think it’s a good idea to leave those two alone with Satan?”
“If it was just Violet,” Martha said, “I’d worry he’d try tricking her into somehow releasing him. But Karen trusts no one.”
“Can he be released?”
“No. As long as I’m awake, the cage stays up and we’re good. But he will talk to them. Try getting something out of them he can use against us all. Karen will tell him to shut up, though.”
“I still can’t believe you never told me about all you did out in California.”
“I’m sorry,” Martha said. “Those days are long behind me.”
“Yeah, because I’m sure taking a blood oath to an ancient cult just goes away on its own.”
“I was eighteen and on my own for the first time, Flo. It’s not like it was planned.”
“Well, you still could have told me…”
* * *
Karen and Violet sat at Martha’s kitchen table, finishing their tea. When they were done, Violet got up and lifted the top off the cake stand.
“Do I smell chocolate?” Satan said from the living room. “Devil’s food cake?”
“It is,” Violet said.
Karen shook her head at her and then shouted, “You shut up in there!”
“You have to give me a piece. It’s in the name. It’s my foooooood.”
“I said shut up!”
The two returned to their discussion about how Karen was never fond of the thought of bringing Agnes into the circle when Satan said, “You know, this is all your fault.”
“What do you mean, this is all our fault?” Karen said.
Violet raised her index finger to her lips. “Shh, don’t speak to him.”
“You all made me,” Satan said. “Humans, that is. You do know there’s no unified concept of Hell in the Bible, right? You just bought into a version made up in a book by an Italian guy in the 1300s, and a British poem written after Shakespeare was dead and buried. In fact, most places in the Hebrew Bible refer to ‘the satan,’ not plain old ‘Satan.’ Meaning various human accusers—not me.”
“Well, that’s not the Bible I follow!” Karen said.
“Well…that became the first part of your Bible so many love quoting to keep others down.”
“You can try tempting us like you tempted Eve, but we’re not biting.”
“See, even that’s wrong. I wasn’t the serpent in the Garden of Eden.”
“You sure were!” Karen said. “It’s even mentioned in the Book of Revelations!”
“First, you mean Revelation—not Revelations. A book written after the fact to scare people into following your god. It’s just apocalyptic fan fiction written by man. Second: that’s still not me, Karen, it’s—“
“How do you know my name?”
“There are so many things I know…”
Violet shouted, “She said shut up!”
* * *
Martha pulled up to Agnes’s house, and she and Florence got out. She knocked on the front door several times to no response. After that, she tried the doorbell and pounding on the door.
“Agnes, we know you’re in there. Open up! We’re not mad.”
Nothing.
Martha checked the door, but it was locked. When she went to look in a window, Florence lifted the doormat in the hope of finding a key, but only found debris. She eyed the line of bushes and stones at the front of the house and found what she was looking for.
“Psst!”
She got Martha’s attention and pointed.
Martha picked up the fake stone among the others and removed a backup key from the bottom.
She unlocked the door, and the two entered the house.
* * *
The inside of Agnes’s home looked like the set of The Addams Family: floors covered in Persian rugs, walls decorated in tapestries; velvet curtains pulled back with braided cord at the windows; old paintings hanging from rails running around each room; antique furniture sought after in its day, now seeming garish to modern eyes; taxidermy animals and oddities in glass cases.
Not a quilt to be seen.
“Agnes,” Martha said. “We just want to talk.”
They wandered the first floor of the house, marveling at the nicer antiques she owned, but also recoiling at some of the oddities: a china cabinet full of broken porcelain dolls on display; an ornate mahogany side table holding a jar filled with a murky liquid preserving what appeared to be a two-headed baby alligator.
“I’d be afraid these things would come to life at night and kill me,” Florence said.
Martha shook her head. “I’d just hate dusting all this stuff.”
The last room they entered on the first floor was the only space that didn’t fit in with the rest of the decor.
* * *
Even if Martha and Florence worked together on their dream quilting space, it would have paled in comparison to Agnes’s. In the center of the room was a workbench that appeared to be made from a massive kitchen island, with cabinets and cubby holes to keep tools and works in progress. On one wall, a clean desk; across from that, a sewing station with two machines. A lounge chair with task lighting for hand-stitching in comfort. Shelving and cabinets holding as much fabric as some stores. Along the back wall, beneath a quilted banner reading WALL OF FAME were all of Agnes’s award-winning quilts, mounted and protected in swing-frame panels. Martha and Florence wandered over and looked.
Each frame also contained the cover of the magazine in which the quilt appeared, or the award certificate or medal it won.
“These are good,” Florence said. “Some even great, but I never understood the appeal of her work. It doesn’t seem like it should have won this many awards and been featured in so many places.”
They flipped through each quilt as though they were teenagers flipping through posters in a store rack at the mall. When they neared the end of the wall of quilts, Agnes charged in and hit Martha in the back of the head with the shell side of a taxidermy tortoise, sending her crashing to the floor. When Agnes reared back to take another swing, Florence squared up, ready for a fight.
“You don’t want a piece of this, Morticia. Take another swing, and you’ll be joining her down there.”
Agnes set the tortoise on a nearby desk and then squatted down to check on Martha.
“I’m so sorry,” she said while checking the back of Martha’s head for damage. At least there was no blood. Florence gently patted the side of Martha’s face.
“Martha. Martha, wake up. Martha…”
Her eyelids flickered a moment before opening.
“What happened?”
Florence said, “Spooky-Pookie, here, hit you in the back of the head with a turtle.”
“Tortoise. It’s a tortoise.”
“Oh, I stand corrected. She knocked you out with a tortoise.”
“I was out cold?”
“Yes,” Agnes said. “I can’t apologize enough. I was scared and didn’t know what else to do.”
Martha tried standing, but Florence kept her seated on the floor.
“I need to get up,” Martha said. “And we need to get back to my house. Karen and Violet are in danger.”
* * *
Satan said, “Do you really believe a loving god would send people to hell for things beyond their control?” Or for making human mistakes, like a parent who gets mad at an six-year-old and punishes them for not coming into the world with full knowledge of everything?”
“That’s not how it works,” Karen said. “Only bad people go to Hell.”
“Nuh-uh. Most believers—at least here—think anyone not believing in Christ’s sacrifice ends up with me. And they do, but it’s not my fault. It’s all on humanity. You underestimate your power for creation. Billions of people fixated on the the same belief and willing it to life, all because humans crave power and control. And others are willing to follow. Y’all needed a boogie man, and here I am. ‘Be good, or the Romans will come for you. You’d better behave, or the banshee will scream! Oh, that darn Satan—he’s gonna getcha if you don’t finish all your dinner!’
“I’m not the one bombing poor people and starving children. I’m not turning away refugees or locking migrants up for profit. You can blame me in an attempt to absolve yourself of the sin of looking away, but I’m the nice guy when compared to—”
Satan stopped speaking when the cage surrounding him dissolved. He waved his hand where it was and felt no resistance.
“Compared to what?” Karen said.
She and Violet screamed when Satan stepped into the kitchen to finish his tirade.
“I’m just humanity’s reflection in the mirror, and I don’t like what I see when I look out from it. Y’all make horrors far greater than any I can imagine, and in doing so, insult the God you claim to worship by doing it all in his name.”
Karen grabbed the cake knife and held it out in front of her in defense.
“You can put that down,” Satan said. “I’m not gonna hurt you ladies. But if you’d be so kind as to cut me a piece of that delicious-looking cake, I’d really appreciate it.”
Karen slid the cake off the table and stomped on it when it hit the floor.
“Oh, that’s just hurtful.”
“I can scoop some up and put it on a plate for you,” Violet said.
“Thanks, but that’s nasty now. I’m not eating off the floor.”
Satan stepped to the kitchen door and opened it. He smiled and said, “Please consider my words,” before walking away.
* * *
As Florence drove toward Martha’s house, Agnes said, “I’m so sorry I hit you. I’m sorry I dragged you all into this.”
Martha turned around and said, “You don’t need to keep apologizing for hitting me with your turtle—uhm, tortoise. We’ll call it even if you tell us why the hell you summoned Satan to my living room.”
“I made a deal with him when I was eighteen. Just joking around that I’d give my soul up to be able to quilt like my mom. She never understood me—she wanted someone very proper and reserved. Instead, she got gothy little me. My mom lived for quilting. I gave it a try to bond with her, but it wasn’t my thing.
“I was stunned when Satan appeared in my bedroom. I was a sarcastic, misanthropic thing at that age, so I thought it was funny. ‘Sure, I’ll give my soul for quilting skills.’ Poof—there he was! He held a contract in his hand, and I signed it. Of all the dumb things I did when I was young, that was the dumbest. Not trading for power or musical skills or something I really loved at the time. Quilting! I sold my soul for quilting! But…my mom warmed up to me, so it wasn’t all bad.”
“How did you summon him?” Martha said.
“Turns out I had some innate abilities. No idea if it came from being in contact with the literal Devil or not, but look at me: I was way into studying magic when I was young. And I saw enough to know that some of it was real. I didn’t know it would actually work, but I figured I’d try.”
Martha looked back again and said, “But why?”
“I’m sick. Lung cancer, even though I never smoked. Not even a clove cigarette in a club back in the day. I thought I beat it, but a followup appointment showed it’s back. I don’t want to spend an eternity in Hell, so I figured I’d see if I could pull him here and bind him to me. Release him back to Hell in exchange for my soul.”
“I can’t knock that thinking,” Florence said, “but you could have left us out of it.”
“I didn’t want to bring anyone else in. I tried summoning him by myself, but realized I needed five points to do so. Me, plus four others. I can’t explain how, but I can sense things, and I knew something was different when I met Martha. I’m so sorry. I really do enjoy the group. And I’m sorry I ran. When I saw Martha do what she did, I thought I was next.”
“I wasn’t going to do anything to you,” Martha said. “I just hope when I was knocked out that the cage somehow stayed up. If he’s loose, there’s no telling what horrors society will face.”
* * *
Before leaving Martha’s backyard, Satan morphed into human form: a lithe, seedy-looking guy with slicked-back black hair, a thin mustache, and a pointed goatee. His skin still blazed red, although it didn’t appear as extreme in an even darker red leisure suit. He rolled a toothpick back and forth over his yellowed teeth, appreciating the way the clacking sound echoed in his skull. Three blocks later, he stole a Tesla Cybertruck, just so he could roll along at six miles under the speed limit and send people behind him into fits. He waved to people giving him the finger and gunning their engines to get around him.
“Gas pedal! Use it, CuckTruck!” someone shouted at him, bringing joy to Satan’s dark heart.
Once in town, he rolled down the windows, blasting a variety of the worst songs ever recorded: “Baby Shark,” “Barbie Girl,” “Who Let the Dogs Out,” and “Kokomo” by The Beach Boys. He was rocking out to “The Macarena” when he pulled into the Jiffi Stop parking lot. He got out of the Cybertruck and loitered near the front door, eventually stopping a 12-year-old heading in on his way home after school.
“Hey,” Satan said while pulling money from his pocket. “I’ll give you a hundred bucks if you go into the store and kick that guy in the nuts.”
He pointed through the window at a middle aged balding man obsessed about which variety of bottled water to purchase.
The kid looked at him, shook his head, and went inside.
“Little fucker,” Satan muttered. “What kid turns down a Benjamin?”
Next, a group of four teenagers approached the store. As they neared the door, he said, “Hey, fellas. Gimme twenty bucks and I’ll buy y’all some beer.”
“No, we’re good,” one of them said.
“All right: ten bucks.”
One of the kids sniffed the air.
“Dude, you smell like matches!”
“Yeah, well you smell like a kid whose parents don’t love him, so we’re even!”
“What the hell’s wrong with you?” another said.
Satan grinned.
“Look around, kiddo, and you tell me. A world where you’ve all been through active shooter drills, instead of leaders actually fixing things. Parents who didn’t let you play outside when you were younger and then later, held it against you. The unfair expectations failed adults put on you all to succeed, all so they can pretend the nights you were conceived in a drunken mess weren’t mistakes after all, even though you’ll go on to repeat. That, and so much more, is what’s wrong with me.”
The four teenagers turned and walked away from the store. Satan opened the door and went inside.
The cashier looked up and and said, “Hey.”
“Howdy,” Satan said. “Do you have restrooms. I’m gonna buy something—not just dump and run if you know what I mean?”
The cashier pointed to a back corner of the store.
* * *
There were few things Satan loved more than wrecking a public restroom. He squatted in the urinal and left a foul surprise for the next person in need. The paper towel dispenser was emptied, and its contents shoved into the toilet to clog the commode. Just to be sure, he pulled all the toilet paper off the rolls and filled the bowl. Soap from the dispenser was poured onto the floor and down the sink: a slick tripping hazard and instant bubbles for the poor person left to clean up the mess. He pressed a hard, pointy fingernail against the mirror until it shattered into a spider web pattern of glass. After admiring his work, he wandered the aisles of the convenience store.
“That’s one hell of a sunburn,” the cashier said.
Satan smiled. “Yeah, I fell asleep in a tanning bed.”
He continued moving up and down the aisles, until stopping at the candy.
“Excuse me, kind sir. Would you happen to have any Chick-O-Sticks or Circus Peanuts I might be overlooking?”
“What’s that?” the cashier said.
“What’s that?! Only some of the finest confectionaries this side of the Mississippi! I’ll take that as a no. Do you have any Black licorice or candy corn?”
“No, we only have those around Halloween.”
“What do you recommend, then?”
The cashier pointed to the Pizza-By-the-Slice display, where three pizzas warming for who-knows-how-long sat on a tiered rack inside a glass case.
“A slice of pepperoni, then. Please.”
The cashier grabbed a slice for Satan.
“Do these comes with it?”
“Napkins? Yeah, of course.”
Satan removed the top from the dispenser and took the whole stack.
“I’m a really messy eater.”
The cashier looked like he was going to protest, but instead, shook his head and took the pizza slice to the register.
“Anything else?” he said.
Satan pulled out the hundred dollar bill.
“Yeah. I’ll give you this if you kick the next guy to come through that door square in the nuts.”
The cashier shook his head and said, “What the hell’s wrong with you?”
* * *
Florence pulled Martha’s car into the driveway. Before she could put it in park, Martha leaped out.
“Slow down!” Florence said. “We don’t know if you have a concussion.”
Agnes ran to her side, just in case. Martha opened the front door and was horrified to see the cage gone and Satan nowhere to be seen.
She called out. “Karen? Violet?”
“In here,” Karen said from the kitchen.
Florence entered the house and followed.
* * *
“Are you two okay?” Martha said.
Karen rested a mop against the counter and said, “We’re fine. He got out, came through the kitchen, and left.”
“I feared that. I’ll tell you more later, but I got knocked out for a moment. That’s when the cage must have come down.” She looked at the floor and added, “What’s up with the mop?”
“He wanted a piece of cake, and I damn sure wasn’t going to give him what he wanted. So, I knocked it on the floor and smashed it.”
Karen raised her right foot, showing off a darkened canvas slip-on shoe.
“Did he say where he was going?”
“No.”
“All right, we need to think,” Martha said. “If we were Satan and free to roam, where would we go?”
“The casino or a bar,” Florence said.
“Good options.”
Karen looked up in thought. “Maybe start a fight in a church?”
“Yeah, maybe? How about Florence, Agnes, and I go to the casino, while you two check the bars.”
“Those are good places,” Violet said, “but not where I think he went. He really seemed to want a piece of your Devil’s food cake. He seemed so sad when Karen stomped on it. I think that’s where he went: in search of a bakery. In search of cake.”
* * *
Satan sat alone on the Crazy Cakes patio, eating a red velvet cupcake and drinking a plain black coffee. He watched a white Toyota Camry and gray Buick Encore pull into the parking lot. The five members of the Quincy Quilting Circle exited the vehicles and sat down with him.
“That’s quite a look,” Martha said. “Red suit, slicked-back hair with a ridiculous widow’s peak. Why not go for a 20-year old blonde guy in business attire?”
“It’s expected of me,” Satan said while chewing a bite of his cupcake.
“Don’t talk with your mouth full,” Florence said. “That’s nasty!”
The Dark Lord brought a hand to his mouth and said, “Sorry.”
“How’d you get here?” Martha said.
“Borrowed a truck for a little while. And then walked around until I found this place.”
“By ‘borrowed,’ do you mean stole?”
“I choose to not let semantics get in the way of a good time.”
“So, you’re having fun?”
“Not really. I forgot how boring this place is. It’s my Hell. And you’d think a place called Krazy Cakes would have Devil’s food cake, but no. Don’t get me wrong, this is a delicious cupcake, but almost every step outside of your home has been a disappointment.”
A group of three women came out and sat near them on the patio. Martha leaned in toward Satan and spoke more quietly.
“I’m not sure talking about all this in the open is the best idea. Will you at least come back to my place so we can discuss things in private?”
“Nuh-uh. You want me to come back so you can capture me again.”
“No, seriously—that was an in-the-moment thing. We got lucky. If I started chanting right now, what would you do?”
“Stop you to break the invocation.”
“Right. I was only able to pull that off because you probably weren’t expecting to be summoned to a living room in Quincy, Illinois. One moment in Hell, and then here.”
“Yeah, you’re right. I was checking in on a guy I’ve been forcing to watch that TV show, Small Wonder, on repeat—24/7—coming up on 35 years straight and FOOM! Next thing you know, I’m here. It was a surprise. Yeah.”
“So, you’ll come with us, then?”
“I don’t know…”
“I have Devil’s food cake at home.”
“Nuh-uh, you did. Until Karen, here, wrecked it.”
“I really do,” Martha said. “When I host gatherings at my house, I always send food home with everyone. If guests don’t take it all, I drop things off at church. But sometimes I set aside a bit for myself. I have a tiny Devil’s food cake waiting for me. If you agree to come with us, it’s all yours.”
“Really?”
“Yes.”
Satan looked at the last bit of cupcake on the table in front of him.
“All right, but give me just a sec.”
He got up and wandered to the other group on the patio.
“Hey, you’re Susan, right? Susan Ollinger?”
The woman furled her brow and said, “Yes…?”
“Are you here, today, to confess to Debbie how you’ve been sleeping with her husband for over a year when she’s away on business?”
“What?! Who are you?”
“Eh, just somebody you’ll get to know better in about seven years. Have a lovely afternoon, ladies.”
He wandered back to the quilting circle and said, “What? I’m Satan. You think I’m gonna let an opportunity like that slide by?”
* * *
Satan stood at the open kitchen door, waiting. When Martha produced the personal-sized Devil’s food cake and cut it into quarters, he stepped inside and reverted to his true form.
“That’s unsettling,” Florence said as Martha handed him the cake and a fork.
He took a bite and closed his eyes.
“Oh, Martha! That’s heavenly…”
“Thank you,” Martha said. “Now, we have a solution to our problem.”
Satan started to speak, but looked at Florence. He held up a finger and finished chewing. After swallowing, he said, “Really now?”
“Yes. It’s simple. You give Agnes her soul back, and she releases you. We open the portal, and you go home.”
He paused before taking another bite of cake.
“You don’t think I’ve thought about suggesting that? It’s the obvious solution, except for one thing.”
“What?”
“Once I make a deal, it has to go to completion. I can’t just give back someone’s soul.”
“You’re saying she has to die before you can do this?”
“Yeah!”
“All right, then” Martha said.
She grabbed the knife and swung it at Agnes’s throat. The newest member of the Quincy Quilting Circle brought her hands to her neck, pressing against the cut to no avail.
“I’m so sorry,” Martha said as blood spurted from Agnes’s neck and pooled on the floor.
“What the hell did you just do?!” Florence said.
Violet and Karen looked on in horror. Satan continued eating his cake as if nothing were happening.
“Help me get her to the floor,” Martha said. Florence helped her best friend.
Martha held Agnes’s bloody right hand.
“It’ll all be okay. Trust me…”
Satan finished the first half of the small cake as Agnes bled out. At the moment it happened, he set the plate down and closed his eyes. As he slowly inhaled, Agnes’s soul left her body and was consumed by his breath. He smiled and opened his eyes.
“Her soul is now mine—the deal is complete.”
“Okay,” Martha said. “Now give it back to her and we can send you back.”
“Maybe I don’t want to go back. Maybe I like it here more.”
“Do you?”
“No. Hell no, this place is insufferable. I just wanted to see your faces when I said I might stay.”
He bent down and ran a finger over Agnes’s knife wound, sealing it.
“I’m leaving the scar,” he said. “As a reminder that you should not meddle with things you don’t understand.”
Satan then kissed Agnes on the forehead. She startled awake and immediately clutched her throat.
“You’re okay,” Martha said. “There was no other way. Let’s call everything even and put today behind us. Your soul belongs to you, and only you, again. You’re free from the deal.”
Agnes’s eyes filled with tears.
“Really?” she said.
Satan nodded. He summoned the contract before him, and it burst into flames.
“Yes, really. All right, I’ve fulfilled my end of the deal; it’s now time for you all to fulfill yours.”
He carried the plate with the other half of cake into the living room.
* * *
Satan stood in the center of the Summoning Quilt and said, “All right, my turn.”
“Do you need our help breaking the bond?” Martha said to Agnes.
She nodded and said, “Yes. We all need to join hands again.”
“Oh, I have one more thing to say before I go,” Satan said.
Martha said, “What?”
“When you have your next scan, Agnes, act surprised, okay?”
“What do you mean?” she said.
“I like you ol’ birds—you’re a lotta fun. I’m not saying you won’t get creamed by a bus or something, but you’re not gonna die from cancer. I promise that. See? I’m not all bad—just respond to my surroundings…”
“Really?!”
“Yes,” he said. “You’re gonna be okay. And I’m sorry, I lied. One more quick thing: for Florence.”
“What’s that?”
He took a bite of the cake and began chewing; winked and said, “Hey, Florence, look at me! I’m talking with my mouth full!”
Florence shook her head, and Agnes asked them to all join hands around the quilt. When they did, the pattern again shifted to red and black static.
Agnes shouted. “Oh, mighty Satan, Prince of Lies and Deceiver of All, I call upon you to leave this earthly realm! We open this portal so you may end your visitation and return to your unholy realm!”
The pattern morphed into a black void. Satan floated down, until he was little more than a pinprick of flame and then gone. The portal sealed with a roar!
Florence sniffed the air and said, “Is that brimstone?”
Martha smiled. “No. I think he left us with a fart. Classy.”
When they were done laughing, Agnes looked at the quilt on the floor.
“You should be the one to keep this safe,” she said to Martha. “I don’t know how you do what you did, but you’re clearly more suited to be the keeper of such a thing.”
“Agreed.”
Agnes continued. “And I understand if you kick me out of the circle. I really made a mess of the day.”
Florence said, “I still don’t know if I believe half of what I’ve seen, but I’m glad you’re well. I’m good with you staying in the circle if the others are?”
Karen and Violet nodded their heads, and the four looked to Martha.
“Of course you’re welcome,” she said. “But you’ll understand if it’s a really long time before we let you choose a design again…”
* * *
[Quirky music fades in…]
Christopher Gronlund:
Thank you for listening to Not About Lumberjacks.
Theme music, as always, is provided by Ergo Phizmiz. Story music this time is by Ludwig Moulin, licensed through Epidemic Sound.
Sound effects are made in-house or from Epidemic Sound and freesound.org. Visit nolumberjacks.com for information about the show, the voice talent, and the music. Also, for as little as a absolutely free, you can support the show at patreon.com/cgronlund.
Not About Lumberjacks is made without the use of any generative A.I. The stories, here, come straight from my mind—not from a machine.
In May, several towns in northern Illinois undergo a sudden (and very strange) transformation.
[Quirky music fades out…]
[The sound of an axe chopping.]
Until next time: be mighty, and keep your axes sharp!
Leave a Reply