Laylee’s classes, as a result of the school’s alternating A-day and B-day schedule, lasted an hour and fifteen minutes. This length did not usually bother her. If anything, she prided herself on her patience. She could sit through an entire powerpoint without so much as a single idle fidget. However, she was learning today that seventy-five minutes was an extremely long time to stare as a daemon of deconstructed viscera loomed above her teacher’s head.

From her seat near the back of the class, it was impossible to avert her gaze from the daemon without also completely ignoring Mrs. Bailey’s lesson, which would have been deeply irresponsible of her. Instead she kept one eye on the bright rectangular light of the overhead projector. Shapes, graphs, and equations slid around, into and out of focus, as Mrs. Bailey added and removed transparent slides, occasionally drawing on them with a red marker to demonstrate to her students the importance of showing their work. The other eye Laylee kept on the ceiling. The daemon writhed. With the classroom blinds shut and lights off, it remained visible only through the scant few photons the projector failed to properly aim, a mere tint of redness standing out against the ceiling shadows. Its bones collided, over and over, the same meaning repeating.

P E R I L

P E R I L

P E R I L

Laylee had already had quite enough of peril. This daemon seemed to have nothing else on its mind. As far as she’d been able to decipher over the last forty-five minutes, its sole function as a spiritual creature was to remind her that peril, as no more than an abstract concept, existed — a fact with which she was already deeply familiar.

As much as she didn’t want to admit it, the beast was successfully annoying her to the point that it needed addressing. Daemons, like all bullies, did not simply stop because one withheld the response they sought. One had to make them stop.

Laylee allowed herself to close her eyes. She had to do this quickly, before she was noticed and called out for not paying attention in class. Her hand felt against her right temple. She searched around, inside her skull, for a muscle she’d long ago decided to let atrophy. When she found it, she managed to flex it, and spoke to the daemon without any movement of her mouth or the air.

Can you gesture literally any other word?

The daemon briefly halted its squirming. Then it resumed, its floating bones clinking together in a different tenor.

Y E S

Oh good, you can listen. Could you also stop? I’m at school. I’m trying to learn.

The daemon paused, as if considering, before replying.

B U T    T H E R E    I S    P E R I L

Laylee rolled her eyes, obviously irritated but also elated to put all her eye-rolling practice to use.

You’ve made me well aware. But there is also Geometry. And grades, and things that I need to pay attention to right now that aren’t you.

H E E D     M Y—

You have been heeded. Laylee rubbed her temple harder. A headache was beginning to form in the back of her neck. I don’t know how I could possibly heed you any further.

“Ashleigh, do you have any ideas about how we could solve for x?” Mrs. Bailey asked, with a pointed bite.

Very few of Laylee’s classmates turned their heads to look at her, with most evidently being incurious about either her answer or whatever she could have done that would have gotten her called out, but some did. Laylee’s heart quickened. She sat upright in her chair, hands clasped together, prim and proper. No one should be looking at her. No one should notice her. And she should never, ever be at risk of being in trouble.

Laylee looked first to Mrs. Bailey. She was an older woman, with curly white hair, a long, flower-patterned dress, and the unmistakable aura of authority that came from having worked at the school long enough to have been the current principal’s tenth-grade math teacher. Laylee heard other students talk about her as if she was strict, as though newly passed regulations were the only thing keeping her clear plastic ruler on the projector and off of their knuckles. That had never been Laylee’s experience. To her, Mrs. Bailey had always been patient when she’d failed to understand part of the lecture. She was typically extremely direct, answering her questions in an unambiguous way that Laylee found quite refreshing. Now, with the spotlight moved from the screen and onto her, Laylee started to understand what her classmates were talking about.

 Laylee then turned to the projector screen, observing a graph and a drawing of an intersecting triangle and circle.

“Since x is the area of the circle, and its diameter is the same line as the hypotenuse of the right triangle, we can use the Pythagorean Theorem to calculate the hypotenuse. Then we divide that number by two, then square the result and multiply it by pi.”

“Very good, Ashleigh. Thank you.” Mrs. Bailey turned her attention back to the projector, writing the equations out on the plastic sheet. “Since I’ve already given the length and width of the triangle, could I get a volunteer to place those values into the formula and see what answer we get?”

Both Valerie and Evan shot their hands up, eager to take the burden of attention away. Laylee slid more comfortably into her seat, looking back at the monster living in her soul.

See that, idiot? You are not going to stop me doing well in—

The daemon fell from the ceiling.

It dropped from the shadows above, stretching itself long as it enrobed Mrs. Bailey. Its bloody form swallowed her, wrapping her in translucent red. Mrs. Bailey coughed, and coughed again. Each time harder, each time louder. Through the daemon’s body, Laylee saw her clutch at her throat. Her diaphragm moved in weighty jerks but produced only slight croaks.

Stop it.

Mrs. Bailey convulsed, dragging some of the daemon’s mass as she leaned on the projector for support. Laylee’s own breathing hastened. Other students sat up in their seats. Laylee would never know how this suffocation looked from their view, but she heard the murmur in the room start and shift in volume from are you okay to oh my god, go get help. 

Stop it!

Around Mrs. Bailey and the daemon, a distortion began to form. Light from the projector diffracted and shifted in hue as it passed through the scene of the strangulation. Laylee sat upright. The old woman’s lungs gargled.

Okay, okay! I’ll listen to you, just please stop.

With a viscous stretching, a gap formed in the daemon’s mass. Mrs. Bailey’s head poked through. With another wet cough and a sudden, sharp gasp, air returned, and life with it. She remained there, now standing by the stool she’d been sitting on, coughing heavy into a clenched fist. Laylee did not waste a moment.

“Excuse me, I need to run to the restroom,” Laylee shoved herself out of her seat, determined to not allow herself to wait for permission. As she hurried between the rows of desks, she saw Mrs. Bailey wave a little shoo motion with her free hand. The mass of the daemon began to slide away from her teacher, following Laylee towards the classroom door.

Laylee let the door swing shut. The halls were empty, and she’d stepped out of view from her classmates. Good.

The creature had not yet made it to the door. Laylee reached up to her neck, felt around for the thin chain she wore, lifted it up and followed it down, until her hand clasped the little golden cross on her necklace. She tore it off, breaking the sterling silver. She pinched the cross between her thumb and index finger, careful to not let her thumb cover the whole of it. Then, as the daemon flattened and pushed its mass through the crack at the bottom of the classroom door, she held the cross up, and in her mind shouted:

In the name of Jesus Christ, in the name of everything on this Earth that is human or holy, in the name of those above, and in condemnation of the name of those below, you will relinquish your hold on my teacher, and you, foul beast, will relinquish your hold on my soul!

This did not seem to impede the daemon’s ability to to slide under the door. Nor did it stop the mass from building, foaming and sputtering through the gap, growing ever larger and ever closer.

In the name of Jesus Christ, I command you to leave.

The daemon grew larger, now nearly reaching the door handle, and therefore almost back to its full size. Laylee took a step away.

In the name of Jesus Christ, I command you to stop.

It did not.

This is how it had worked, she’d thought, in her memories. Someone stands there, holding a cross at you and screaming, screaming, screaming until your tears and snot eventually wash the daemon away. There must have been something she was doing wrong, something in the motions she had missed.

Maybe the words needed to be said aloud? But uuuuuugh that would be so completely embarrassing.

By now the daemon had entirely reformed itself, floating bones and all, on her side of the door. It began to slide towards her. She stepped away.

In Christ’s name, please just leave me alone.

It was then the daemon gestured something that really threw her for a loop. 

W H O ?

Laylee lowered the cross in her hands. What on Earth do you mean “who”?

The daemon, aside from the way it gently flowed back into itself, remained still.

He’s like… Laylee paused, not sure exactly how to explain who Jesus Christ is or was. It felt like having to explain that when you drop something, it goes down. There wasn’t a way to exist without that knowledge, or so she’d thought. Then again, she supposed that at one point Isaac Newton had needed to explain to people that dropping things makes them go down, but she was no Newton (the daemon should have grabbed Evan for that), and neither was she a priest. He’s your boss, I think. But also, like, your boss’s arch-enemy? He sees everything you do and hears everything you think and judges everyone but also loves them very much. Except, maybe not you. He might hate daemons, but I think he’s also not capable of hatred, so I’m not sure.

N O T     A W A R E

Well, what exactly are you aware of? Please don’t say “peril.” Laylee turned away from the daemon, already discouraged by the lack of immediate success at her attempted self-exorcism. I do actually have to walk to the restroom and back to avoid being even more conspicuous. If you’re going to be latched to me, you can wiggle your words while we walk.

Laylee waved at the daemon, beckoning it to move in front of her so that their conversation, to the extent this bizarre communication could be regarded as such, could continue. The daemon did so at a pace that Laylee was tempted to call glacial, but when it had fully slid itself in front of her, she came to realize that its movement speed was just barely below her normal comfortable walking pace. As they moved through the hall, she had to constantly slow down in order to not step on the creature. Surely it had come from Hell to torment her, specifically.

D O N ’ T      U N D E R S T A N D 

Which part? Jesus or my question about your awareness? Laylee stumbled a bit, struggling to find her footing in the floor as the daemon smeared its gore across it. Her white tennis shoes had begun to stain red, but that was fine. It’s not like anyone would notice.

B O T H

Let’s start with the easy one, then. You’re here because of peril, yes? Are you the peril?

N O

See, that’s very good information for me to have. What, then, is the nature of this peril?

E X T A N T

Laylee rolled her eyes again, in a more perfect circle than the time before. Just as she did, a student rounded the corner of an upcoming hallway. He was a dark-haired boy, likely a junior or senior. Luckily for her, he apparently did not see or did not care about the slow-walking girl rolling her eyes at nothing. He passed by her just as she reached the restroom. Laylee hesitated briefly before heading inside, knowing that the daemon would follow her, but she decided it was unlikely that it would be the most disgusting thing to ever be on that floor.

Are even you attempting to be helpful?

Y E S     

W A R N    Y O U

Ah. Laylee now remembered another aspect of an exorcism. Here is a way you can help me. What is your name, foul beast?

The daemon wiggled across along the bathroom floor’s pattern of hexagonal black-and-white tiles.

H A V E      N O N E

Laylee grinned as she stepped into a stall door, which was not something she’d ever thought she would do. She picked the large, accessible one, allowing for standing room for both herself and the daemon. You know that by denying me your name, beast, you permit me to grant you one? And once granted, it shall be your name, with all the power a name holds, for however long you cling to this soul? I’ll repeat the question — what is your name?

H A V E     N O N E

I think I’ll call you Rutabaga. Laylee’s choice of name for the daemon was based on the flawless logic that she would very much not like to be named Rutabaga, and therefore the daemon probably wouldn’t either. Also, the daemon’s red hue, pinkish at the times when light passed directly through it, somewhat reminded her of the color of a stalk of rutabaga.

Wait, no, she’d been thinking of rhubarb. What was a rutabaga again?

Rutabaga, the clump of hellspawn, did not seem to take any great offense to the name bestowed upon it. Laylee held out the cross again, pressing it directly against the slime. To her dismay, none of the burning, boiling, or hissing she’d hoped for came to pass. She supposed there was no harm in trying, though.

In the name of the Lord above, in Christ his son, and in the Holy Spirit, I, Ashleigh Natalie Lee-Grenweld, command thee, Rutabaga, to exit this body and soul and return to the Hell from whence thou came.

Rutabaga simply did not seem to care.

“Damn it,” Laylee permitted herself to say out loud, throwing her arms down in frustration. She’d have to ask for forgiveness later, but considering the circumstances, she had to hope that the Lord would understand why she might be more than a little ticked off at Him right now. 

Laylee fell to her knees onto the clean-looking but inherently icky bathroom floor. Her hands pushed into the body of the daemon from both sides. She stared into it, desperate to find anything resembling eyes that she could look into.

Listen to me, stupid. We are both going to be in so much trouble if my mother finds out you’re here. Have you ever latched onto a soul before? Have you been exorcized before? Is this your first time? Because I know a thing or two about this. And, yes, I clearly don’t know how to kick you out of here, but my mother knows how to find people who do. And let me tell you, they’re awful. And, and evicting a daemon out of you? It sucks! It sucks so bad. For everyone, you included. Can you please, please just go?

It once again gestured another vile word.

N O

Then can you at least shut up? Shut up and try not to drown anybody nice? You can stay with me, you can leech off my soul, you can ruin my lunch, you can warn me whenever there’s peril. Just please don’t let Mother find you. Do we have a deal?

The little snot did not writhe either a confirmation or denial. Laylee squeezed the bloody mass in her hands tighter.

What exactly is it you want me to do?

N O T    D O

Laylee blinked, needing the small moment of adjustment to parse the daemon’s meaning. What do you want me to not do?

D O    N O T    P U R S U E

This information, while Laylee broadly categorized it as helpful, was not exactly wanted. Whatever peril the daemon saw, or she now suspected foresaw, seemed to be made dangerous by her own capacity to seek it. That couldn’t really be the case, she thought. She only pursued an insubstantially above-average high school academic experience. She only sought the comfort of normalcy. No hubris drove her to fly towards the sun. Whatever it thought it saw had to be something she could do without.

What about this? You generally try to avoid drawing attention to me, and I’ll be glad to not pursue whatever it is that you specifically want me to stay away from. All you have to do is point it out whenever it comes near me, and I will be happy to oblige. I have no interest in searching for peril. Does that sound agreeable to you?

Rutabaga, after a pause that made Laylee feel every second of the too-long she’d been kneeling on the bathroom floor, signaled its reply.

Y E S

Her pact with the Satanic now confirmed, Laylee breathed a sigh of relief. She stood upright, careful to get neither the spiritual gunk nor the physical germs anywhere but on the soles of her shoes, the part of her long skirt that had guarded her knees from the floor, and her palms. She flushed the toilet, for performance’s sake, though she was not aware of any audience, and hurried to the sink to thoroughly wash her hands.

Things would be fine, she assured herself. She simply had to make it through Math. And Gym. And the car ride home, and dinner with Mother, and the subsequent school day. Then do that every day, forever, until the time she would awake to find herself standing before Saint Peter, and he alone would observe and judge her fairly. Regardless of Rutabaga and whatever its peril may be, Laylee would remain unobtrusive in the eyes of this Earth.

Laylee lathered her hands with watery, pink soap, and scrubbed away as much of Rutabaga as she could. She could do this. She was good at this.

She had to be.