Jonathan Lowell McCarthy

~ * ~ * ~

“This better be good,” I thought as I started to reveal myself to the person who dared to summon me. Manifesting is a process in itself. Forget the movies where someone reads gibberish and bam—the devil shows up. Bah! Nonsense. It takes time, you idiots, for the body to disintegrate in one realm and reintegrate in another. And tedious. So damn tedious.

The name’s self-explanatory—it’s an ancient ritual to summon the devil. When has anything “old” ever been fast? Besides, I’m not some random devil child; I’m the real deal. I’m the Daddy, if you catch my drift.

Sadly, I don’t get a say in this madness. Anyone of you dumbasses who can read the ritual binds me to their soul and by doing so, saves their asses from my wrath. Once I’m standing right in front of you, I must do as you ask. I’m bound by the ancient laws. But no matter, in the end, I usually end up with your soul, so it’s a sweet deal to me anyway. Even Rasputin, that Rasputin, lost his soul to me after a decade of messing around with the Romanovs. What can I say? I’m a patient man, even though I’m no man.

Anyway, here I am again. More than four decades have gone by since my last forced visit, and this better be something interesting and worthwhile, or so help me, Lucifer!

“Hello, love, welcome to The Grail,” I heard her voice before I opened my eyes. It was one of those sweet grandmother types that everyone loves. Short. Tiny. A little stooped. All wrinkled with hair as white as snow and a smile that never leaves their face, even when they’re angry with you.

“You have got to be kidding me!” I grumbled.

“Now, that’s no way to treat your elders, young man,” she chided. “But it’s ok. You’re a guest here. Tea?”

My jaw was rolling around somewhere on the floor. The balls on this tiny, wrinkly creature!

Young man?

Elders?

Guest?

Fucking tea?

Sure, I look young—hello, I’m no fucking human. Time doesn’t touch me.

I also look very dashing, which adds to the whole young-looking situation. Vanity is one of my virtues.

But being admonished by this little creature? Ridiculous.

Not much I could do, though. She summoned me, and I had to… obey.

Obeying a tiny, frail grandma. How far have I fallen?

I shook my head to gather my thoughts. This old lady took me completely by surprise, but let’s get real now.

“Let’s get down to business, grandma! Wha-“

“I’m making green tea, love.” She walked away, completely disregarding the fact that she was being utterly disrespectful to the King of fucking Hell. “Come join me in the kitchen, and we’ll discuss this business of yours. Maybe we can even get started on why you don’t know the first thing about good manners.”

I groaned, shoulders slumped, looking up at the dull cracked ceiling of The fucking Grail. 

“Come along, young man.”

I ground my teeth. Lucifer help me. He rebelled at the mention of bowing to humans and built Hell. He would’ve gone nuclear if he knew how ballsy these humans have gotten.

Stepping into the kitchen was no less harrowing than stepping into God’s Heaven or diving into a pool of holy water, balls first.

The mixture of flowery wallpaper and tiles right next to each other in one closed space was hideous enough, but to have floral curtains as well was downright diabolical. To add salt to the injury, this little woman’s kitchenware was also splattered with flowers all over. It was… disturbing, and that’s saying something. After all, I’m the daddy of everything disturbing. I cannot believe a tiny human had actually outdone me.

I wanted to applaud her, but she shoved a hot mug of green tea into my hands and sat in one of the floral chairs, putting her own equally flowery mug on the table.

“Come, sit.” She waved me toward the seat opposite her.

I sighed heavily and did as asked.

“What—“

“So, how are things?” She asked with a smile, like we were just catching up over coffee.

Now, see, I’ve seen a lot during my time. The worst of the worst. Things that, if you knew, would turn your blood to ice in your veins. And none of them has ever made me pause or falter.

But this little lady? I was astonished and a little bit unnerved. “How are things where?”

“In hell, of course,” she chuckled.

“In hell?”

“That’s where you come from, right?” She was amused. Maybe from having me there, maybe because she saw what her question was doing to me. Maybe both. Whatever it was, she sure was having a good time from the looks of it. She was the first person in the world to have met the devil and asked him that ridiculous question.

How are things in hell?

Asked by a nonagenarian miniscule grandma.

What has the world come to?

I had no control over the laughter that escaped me. One of those bellowing laughs that you lot call an “evil laugh.”

I don’t understand what’s so evil about a deep belly laugh, though, seriously. What’s wrong with you people?

“Hell is,” I snorted, not believing I was actually responding to the absurd question this old biddy had thrown at me. “Hell is hell. The worst and most interesting people all gathered in one place, getting tortured day in, day out. The usual.”

“Really?” She frowned. Oh, I struck a chord there, didn’t I? Come on, grandma, tell me why I’m here. “I guess I was hoping for a different response. Hoping… It was all an elaborate lie. A myth, as the new generations say, you know?”

I didn’t know what to make of her. But now I was intrigued.

Summoning the devil, yet hoping it’s all a myth? Now, that’s a contradiction if I ever saw one. “Why do you care about hell anyway? You’re not planning a visit there, are you?”

The smile that I thought was etched on her face disappeared then. Her eyes hardened as she said,  “Jonathan Lowell McCarthy.”

Jonathan Lowell McCarthy.

He wasn’t a big deal. Not really. A one-time offender. Small fish. A small fish currently burning in hell under my watch. Generally, I shouldn’t even remember him. It was a while ago, and as I said, he wasn’t a big deal.

“What do you want, lady?”

“Jonathan Lowell McCarthy,” she repeated, like the name itself was a question, an answer, and an explanation all in one.

“I heard.” I leaned back in my chair and crossed one leg over the other. “What about him?”

“You sent him to hell.” It wasn’t a question nor an accusation. It was just a sentence.

“I did.” A confirmation.

She sighed, and we sat in silence for a moment, sipping our tea. “I guess he deserved it,” she finally said, defeated.

I kept quiet.

“He wasn’t a bad boy, you know?” The smile was back on her face. Wistful. Good. Without that smile she looked… incomplete. “He loved to play with all kinds of toys back in the day. His daddy got mad when he saw him throwing a tea party for all his toys once… Everyone was invited. Tom the Teddy, as well as all his cars and trucks. His daddy said playing with dolls and teddies would make him a soft boy, but I never agreed. I never thought being soft would be so bad. I love him, my little boy.”

“It wasn’t the dolls,” I finished my tea.

“Beg pardon?”

“It wasn’t the stupid dolls that made him do what he did that day. That’s some dumbass notion you humans have. Boys equal blue, girls equal pink. Boys beat the crap out of each other and are supposed to be tough, because, you know, they’re incapable of feelings and never shed a tear. Girls need protection, girls cry, and girls are supposed to be these adorable little dolls in puffy dresses—because, you know, the female of the species can’t possibly have layers like everyone else. I call bullshit. You’ve been wrong, time and again, yet you never seem to learn from your mistakes to amend your ancient, demoralizing, and utterly ridiculous way of thinking.” What can I say? Human stupidity pisses me off. “Yes, maybe his daddy’s idea of what a man should be did mess with the boy but it wasn’t what pushed him that day.”

I was expecting her to reprimand me again for my foul language and behavior, but this woman was full of wonders. I couldn’t keep up with her unpredictability.

“Then what made him do it?” She asked, genuinely wanting to know.

What makes anyone do anything? Who knows.

“He was tired. He had a shit day. He was angry at himself, at his father, and yes, at you. Kids are almost always pissed at their parents, blaming them for anything that goes wrong in their lives. And more often than not, they’re right. But this was different. It’s not like he was planning to do this. It just happened. As things usually do. You go out for a walk, you don’t plan on tripping up and breaking a leg, do you? But it happens. He did a stupid thing, let his anger take hold of him, not knowing it would blow out of proportion so fast.”

She nodded, trying to understand. And I think she was starting to get it. What happened wasn’t Jonathan’s way of getting back at them or a way for him to punish them. It was just an accident.

“Why did you send him to hell, then?”

“Other than the obvious?”

“Yes, other than the obvious.”

I sighed. “Can I have more tea?” If we were going to sit here and talk about this stuff, we might as well turn it into a tea party of our own. I bet Jonathan’s daddy would have had an aneurysm if he walked in on this specific tea party. That made me chuckle. I think she was thinking along the same lines because I caught her smiling furtively.

Why did I send him to hell? I had to. To me, it’s as simple as that.

And then there’s the Rule Book that God gave us on the grand opening of Hell. We’re stuck following it, even when it doesn’t make sense. As the spawn of the devil, we’re regrettably adept at being submissive, following our orders to the letter.

She brought the tea and settled down in the seat before me. Expectant. Ready.

“Your Jonathan killed that man. ‘You shall not murder; and whoever murders will be liable to judgment.’”

“Matthew 5:21,” she whispered. “But it wasn’t murder. Jonathan pushed the man in a fight, and he fell and hit his head. It was an accident—”

“Potato, potahto, lady. End result is that the drunkard died at the hands of your Jonathan. It’s as simple as that.”

“But it’s not as simple as that. It’s not right.”

“A bit too late in life to doubt your beliefs, innit?” I drank more tea. Damn! This was good tea. “And you’re only questioning these things because it happened to one of your own. You’d’ve died ignorant if your son was still walking on this earth free as a bird.”

I was right, and she knew it. But she had a point, and I knew it. It’s never as simple as that, and it’s not fair. But it rarely ever is.

After that, we simply sat there. The inn was old, and old buildings never stay quiet; they creak and groan with the weight of their history. And if I’m not mistaken, this building hosts a few ghosts of its own—meek, harmless ones. It’s the charm of any old inn; a few spirits always moaning and wandering around.

We sipped our tea in a silence that wasn’t entirely silent. Yet, it felt peaceful. Comfortable.

“So,” I began. “Was that why you brought me here? To talk about your dead son?” A useless reason for summoning the best. A waste, really. But oddly, I wasn’t mad.

“Jonathan died five years ago in prison. His daddy died twenty years before that. And people have stopped coming to this inn for a while now. It happens when your son goes to jail for murder. Even if it’s an accident. It gets lonely. I think I just needed someone to talk to. Someone who understood.” She chuckled. “Do you have to go back now?”

I didn’t.

I didn’t have to stay either.

I could kill her for wasting my time. For using an ancient ritual for such a pathetic, human reason. I should kill her and take her soul. And I would’ve, if it were anyone else. But her? Nah. She’s one ballsy old biddy, and the earth needs more of her kind.

So, I stood up, took off my coat, and rolled up my sleeves. The horrified look on her face when she saw the tattoos covering my arms was priceless. I don’t blame her though. Not everybody digs my kinds of tattoos; people in different stages of torture. They’re personal to me though. Some of my best work back in the day. And these specific people looked stunning under my torture. Even the memory of them, of their wretched screams, is invigorating.

“Do you like lasagna?”

Her eyes wide, she smiled. “I don’t hate it.”

“Get comfy. You’re about to taste the best damn lasagna this side of Hell—perfected by yours truly.”