The Fold
Flash fiction piece entered in a contest in 2009. Finished 50 of 280 by popular vote but wasn't selected for the anthology. Incidentally, the first flash fiction I've ever written. Special thanks to writer Paul Mitton for his help with this piece. ♥
The Fold
The evidence was false. But who cared about that when the results would convict a hated man? A cop was dead, the villain was Avery and the only one who believed he was innocent was...Avery.
“Where were you at the time of the murder?”
“I was not there,” Avery said.
The detective questioning him moved closer to the single pool of light, his disbelief palpable. Half of him remained in shadow, his reflection in the one-way mirror half man, half darkness. Avery felt a smile threaten.
“Where were you?”
“Home.”
Even Avery thought it was a lame alibi.
“Were you alone?”
“Yes.”
It was a lie. Avery was never alone.
“Can anyone verify your presence at home?”
“Can you verify I wasn't?”
Detective Quaid smashed his fist onto the table, an action meant to intimidate, to startle a telling response from the suspect. Avery looked at his accuser, one dark brow quirked in silent inquiry. Avery could feel his eyes changing, the irises turning black, heralding trouble. Angry whispers arose from within, a telltale twitch rippling the hairs on the back of his neck.
A whisper shivered over the room's occupants.
'He was theeeeerrrrre.'
The detective stepped back, frowning.
“What the hell was that?”
Avery didn't need to struggle for calm. He was adept at hiding what was inside. His innocent, confused expression was in place without conscious thought.
“What was what?”
Hatred flashed in Quaid's eyes. Curiously, he smirked, showing no fear.
“Did you bring your imps with you, Devil?”
Avery closed his eyes, debating internally in an attempt to bring the situation back under control. Opening them, he knew they were black; knew the possibility of control had passed; knew Quaid was going to die if he didn't stop. Immediately.
“I don't kill,” said Avery.
“No,” Quaid sneered, leaning close. “It's your demons who kill. I know all about you, Devil.”
“Deville,” Avery corrected, a ripple of awareness coursing his spine. His stomach clenched. “Avery Deville.”
“Devil, Deville. It's all the same. You're possessed.”
The man was resistant to Avery's persuasion. Several present drew in unheard anticipatory breaths, anxiously awaiting Avery's inevitable capitulation.
Avery shook his head. “Not possession, Detective Quaid. That implies we can separate.”
He'd managed to surprise his interrogator. Not many knew his secret, preferring to believe he was under the power of Satan—or that he was the dark lord himself. For some reason, demon possession was a much more comfortable belief than the alternative.
“What are you?” asked Quaid, puzzled.
Avery smiled, his pleasant features completely at odds with the evil that seemed to emanate from him.
“I'm a collector.”
***
Avery left the bullpen, his steps unhurried. It would be a few days before they missed Quaid.
His persuasion techniques were far more effective on the weaker minds of the other officers in the precinct.
A smile tugged at his lips, a sense of satisfaction filling his mind. They always liked having a new person to torture. Quaid would give them years of enjoyment. The man's mind was impossible to manipulate. The challenge was irresistible.
Avery was only their catalyst. It was his job to find the strong minds and absorb them.
“You can't do this to me! Let me out!” sounded within.
“We can't separate, Detective Quaid. Remember?” Avery replied, sub-vocally.
Avery felt Quaid's reaction as a tensing of his shoulders.
“Welcome to the Fold.”
“Where were you at the time of the murder?”
“I was not there,” Avery said.
The detective questioning him moved closer to the single pool of light, his disbelief palpable. Half of him remained in shadow, his reflection in the one-way mirror half man, half darkness. Avery felt a smile threaten.
“Where were you?”
“Home.”
Even Avery thought it was a lame alibi.
“Were you alone?”
“Yes.”
It was a lie. Avery was never alone.
“Can anyone verify your presence at home?”
“Can you verify I wasn't?”
Detective Quaid smashed his fist onto the table, an action meant to intimidate, to startle a telling response from the suspect. Avery looked at his accuser, one dark brow quirked in silent inquiry. Avery could feel his eyes changing, the irises turning black, heralding trouble. Angry whispers arose from within, a telltale twitch rippling the hairs on the back of his neck.
A whisper shivered over the room's occupants.
'He was theeeeerrrrre.'
The detective stepped back, frowning.
“What the hell was that?”
Avery didn't need to struggle for calm. He was adept at hiding what was inside. His innocent, confused expression was in place without conscious thought.
“What was what?”
Hatred flashed in Quaid's eyes. Curiously, he smirked, showing no fear.
“Did you bring your imps with you, Devil?”
Avery closed his eyes, debating internally in an attempt to bring the situation back under control. Opening them, he knew they were black; knew the possibility of control had passed; knew Quaid was going to die if he didn't stop. Immediately.
“I don't kill,” said Avery.
“No,” Quaid sneered, leaning close. “It's your demons who kill. I know all about you, Devil.”
“Deville,” Avery corrected, a ripple of awareness coursing his spine. His stomach clenched. “Avery Deville.”
“Devil, Deville. It's all the same. You're possessed.”
The man was resistant to Avery's persuasion. Several present drew in unheard anticipatory breaths, anxiously awaiting Avery's inevitable capitulation.
Avery shook his head. “Not possession, Detective Quaid. That implies we can separate.”
He'd managed to surprise his interrogator. Not many knew his secret, preferring to believe he was under the power of Satan—or that he was the dark lord himself. For some reason, demon possession was a much more comfortable belief than the alternative.
“What are you?” asked Quaid, puzzled.
Avery smiled, his pleasant features completely at odds with the evil that seemed to emanate from him.
“I'm a collector.”
***
Avery left the bullpen, his steps unhurried. It would be a few days before they missed Quaid.
His persuasion techniques were far more effective on the weaker minds of the other officers in the precinct.
A smile tugged at his lips, a sense of satisfaction filling his mind. They always liked having a new person to torture. Quaid would give them years of enjoyment. The man's mind was impossible to manipulate. The challenge was irresistible.
Avery was only their catalyst. It was his job to find the strong minds and absorb them.
“You can't do this to me! Let me out!” sounded within.
“We can't separate, Detective Quaid. Remember?” Avery replied, sub-vocally.
Avery felt Quaid's reaction as a tensing of his shoulders.
“Welcome to the Fold.”
©2009 Laura J Miller (Jaimey Grant). All Rights Reserved. No portion of the above may be reproduced without permission from the author.