King Flea

Horror/Religious/Fiction

I watched the tiny black dots, one moment climbing through the hairs on my arm, the next lost in the pea-green shag next to Nathan’s bed. Why they didn’t suck my blood right then and there, I don’t know. Maybe they were filled with Nathan’s blood. Maybe his cat had been sufficiently drained. I knew it was only a matter of time before they were hungry again. And I’ve got sweet blood.

“I’m not sleeping on this floor. It’s nasty! Look, it’s covered in bugs!” I held out my arm, but by the time Nathan looked, the black crumb had teleported.

“Yeah, it’s Ginger. She goes outside and brings back all these fleas.”

“Ever heard of a flea collar?”

“She has one! And we use powder on the floors, too. It doesn’t help. You can sleep on the couch, if you want.”

“I guess I will.”

I felt itchy all night, and the fear of being eaten by fleas invaded my dreams. In one dream I was eating cereal, and when I looked down, the bowl was filled with black specks swimming in the milk. In another, my skin was shiny, inky-black, and taut with blood.

I was happy when the morning finally arrived. The Kent family, along with their special sleepover guest, me, all sat down to a nice family breakfast before church. Nathan’s mother made bacon and eggs. She lit up the house with enthusiastic salutations and affirmations. I enjoyed sitting together for breakfast; at my house, we ate on the couch, or at the table but at different times. Nathan’s dad, a tall preacher with a chinstrap beard like Abraham Lincoln, sat at the head of the table. Unlike Lincoln, who wore a smirk at best, the pastor wore a broad smile round the clock. Probably why his congregation at Rugged Cross Baptist loved him so much; he was approachable. But, whenever he was near, I recognized an involuntary tension come over me, like my body was bracing for something. He asked me how I slept.

“Fine.” I lied to the pastor.

He gave me a wink and took a bite of his eggs.

“These eggs are runny.” The pastor said it so quietly that nobody but me heard him. Not at first. I watched his face, waiting for the punchline—waiting for the shrug—but then his smile was gone, and his crystal-blue eyes became sharp, slicing through the Sunday laughter.

SLAM!

He brought his hand down hard on the kitchen table—the plates and silverware rattled. My bones rattled. I felt small. I was small.

Nathan’s mom flinched. “I’m sorry…I’ll…I’ll make you new—”

SLAM!

The pastor’s hand hit the table again, this time so hard that a spoon fell to the floor with a CLANG.

Now he was towering over Nathan’s mom. Spittle glistened on his ham-colored lips. “Is it too much to ask to have a nice breakfast? And look, you’ve made our guest uncomfortable. Are you stupid? Are you stupid? Answer me! Are you stupid?”

I looked down at my plate.

Nathan’s mom cried and made new eggs. Five minutes later, the smile on the pastor’s face returned.

A flea hopped onto my arm. I watched it feed.

During Sunday school, while Mrs. Harris told us the story of Daniel in the Lion’s den, I scratched at the tiny red bumps on my arms.

“So God shut the lions’ mouths?” I asked.

“Yes. Because Daniel had faith in Him,” replied Mrs. Harris.

The other kids nodded their heads; all this was obvious to them. They wanted the teacher to show them pictures of Jesus fighting the Devil on top of the mountain from her Children’s Bible.

I ignored them. “And King Darius had the families of the people who put Daniel in the den killed? Like, even the kids?”

“Well…” Mrs. Harris shut her Bible and picked a piece of lint from her blouse. “It was a different time.”

“Why didn’t God save the kids?”

“The point is to have faith in God,” said Mrs. Harris, then asked the kids if they wanted Teddy Grahams.

I scratched my arm, and a small bump erupted with blood.

Wafts of rose perfume from fanning women made me feel nauseous. A few rows behind me a man shouted “Amen!”

With heavy eyes, I watched as Pastor Kent preached to his congregation about love and respect. I wondered if Nathan and his mom felt loved and respected.

“My friends,” the pastor pleaded, “if we cannot respect our fathers and mothers, how can we respect ourselves? How can we respect God?” The pastor’s smile faltered. He looked at me, and his smile returned. He winked. “And God demands respect, doesn’t he? Yes. God demands respect.”

In the car on the way home, I saw a man walking on the shoulder of the road. He was completely naked and looked confused. On his back, a tattoo of Jesus on the cross hung askew. I asked my parents why he wasn’t wearing any clothes. They said they didn’t know. Then we got KFC.

When we got home, I peeled the skin from my chicken with my teeth and thought about Nathan’s dad. This holy man. This man of God. He had faith. But I wondered, did Nathan have faith? Did his mom? Did I?

“Good sermon today about respecting your father and mother,” said my dad, plopping a second helping of coleslaw onto his plate. “Hopefully you didn’t inspire that. Were you well-behaved?”

“Dad, do you think King Darius was a good man?”

“King Darius from Daniel in the Lion’s den?”

“Yeah. Was he a good guy?”

“Not at first, but in the end, he did the right thing. He let Daniel out of the den, right?”

“But then he fed kids to the lions.”

“I don’t remember that part…”

I bit down on the chicken bone and tried to imagine what it must have felt like in those final moments before the lions came from the back of the den.

…broke all their bones in pieces…

I stood beneath the alien-green glow of the exit sign, staring at the door. I was challenging myself. A silly game I played while my parents attended the church’s Wednesday night business meeting. I’d walk across the courtyard from the church hall to the fellowship building, down the steps to the basement level, and work up the courage to begin. The game was simple: walk to the end of the darkened hallway, touch the door, then walk back. No running.

It was a long hallway with seven doors. Behind each door was a small, uninsulated room with folding tables and folding chairs and windows set high enough to capture light from the street level during the day. On Sunday mornings before service, the church would give classes in these subterranean rooms on how to be good Christians. But in the evenings, there were no classes. All the rooms were empty. All the doors, shut. The only light was the bright green Exit sign at one end of the hallway.

After touching the door, I walked back toward the light pouring down from the fellowship hall, my heart revving steadily with each step, fear pushing softly against my back. Slow down, I thought. Slow down or you lose. And when I was safe, at the threshold of light, I looked back down the long hallway at the glowing green sign and thought, See, you are brave. You are strong. You have faith.

Then I’d start again. Above each closed door, on a thin sheet of metal, were the names of books from the bible: Genesis, Mathew, Mark, Luke, John, Psalms, and the last door on the left, Revelations.

I began saying the names under my breath, each of them a milestone—each a dedication to my bravery and faith.

“Genesis.” There’s no one down here but you.

“Mathew.” You’re in God’s house. Nothing can hurt you here.

“Mark.” Well, it’s not the church. It’s just the fellowship hall. Does that count?

“Luke.” Protect me, Jesus. Protect me, Jesus. Protect me, Jesus.

“John.” God let those kids be eaten by lions.

“Psalms.” He let them die.

“Revelations...” I paused. The door was open, the green light from the Exit sign spilled over a table and chairs. I felt something behind me. I turned around. On the wall at the opposite end of the hallway, where light poured down the stairs from the fellowship hall, a shadow bobbed. For a moment, it comforted me. I figured it was my mom coming to tell me it was time to go home, but as the shadow stretched, something inside me knew it was him before he stepped down into the hallway. It was Nathan’s dad. It was the pastor.

“Oh, hello,” he said, his signature smile spread across his face. “What are you doing down here?”

“Just playing around,” I said, and pushed on the exit door to leave.

“You can’t go that way. The door is stuck. I’ve been meaning to fix it.”

I pushed harder. It wouldn’t open.

The pastor stepped slowly into the hallway. “I never got to apologize for this morning. You know, I’m a little embarrassed that you saw me like that.”

“That’s okay,” I said, glancing into the room beside me.

“It’s just…it’s all about love, you know? Respect is love, so if I don’t get the respect I’m deserved, then I don’t feel loved.”

In the low light, the pastor’s face began to morph. His cheekbones jutted from beneath his eyes, which were no longer crystal-blue but black dots swimming in milk. His arms extended, knuckles nearly touching the floor as he stepped toward me. He licked away the smile from his ham-lips, and said, “Shall we pray together?”

I bolted into the Revelations room and slammed the door. “Please leave me alone.”

“What are you talking about? Come out here. Let’s pray together.”

I pleaded. “Please leave.”

“Come out and pray you little fucker.”

“Please! Please, just leave me alone. I’ll pray in here!” And I did pray. I prayed to God. I prayed to Jesus Christ. But as I was praying, I thought about the kids in the lion’s den. I thought about King Darius.

The pastor pulled on the handle.

I prayed.

The pastor tugged harder, the wood frame snapped in response—it was only a matter of time before the lock broke. But as much as I screamed for help, no angel came to save me. The lion’s jaws snapped. It hissed for me to open the door.

I turned on the light, thinking the brightness would drive the demon-pastor away, but when I looked down, my arms and hands were covered in its fleas.

---

And the king gave the command, and they brought those men who had accused Daniel, and they cast them into the den of lions—them, their children, and their wives; and the lions overpowered them, and broke all their bones in pieces before they ever came to the bottom of the den.

---

---

Thank you for reading!

The prompt from

EJ Trask

was “Give me a demon, no redeeming qualities, no romance. Make me stay up all night.” I’m not sure I accomplished that, but this prompt did remind me about the real demons who walk among us. Those false-faced “good guys” who hold positions of power. As kids, we knew them instinctually.

I’d love to tell you this story is all fiction, but it’s not. The most frightening part of this tale happens at the breakfast table. The family is terrorized. I was there. I witnessed this scene first hand. Luckily, I didn’t have to endure this daily, but my friend did. His mom did. People all over the world do. If you know a demon, kick them in the nuts and tell them I say hi.

Shony.

Pick up a shirt, sweater, tote, or mug at my Etsy shop! AUTOMATIC WRITER STUFF

If you liked King Flea, you might also enjoy: