Creepy - Day 13 - The Devil's Trick

Episode Date: October 13, 2020

Will you be ready?***The Devil's Trick written by ShadowSwimmer77***The Devil's Fresco written by Sumgigh***See your donation rewards podcast at patreon.com/creepypod***You can also subscribe to us on YouTube:https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCQ3SrH_3fsROXFAjomKcUtw***Produced by Steve Blizin***Title music by Alex Aldea***Intro/Outro Narration by Joe Stofko Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information. Hosted by Simplecast, an AdsWizz company. See pcm.adswizz.com for information about our collection and use of personal data for advertising.

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Creepy presents the 31 days of horror. Day 13. The Devil's Trick Written by Shadow Swimmers 77. There's a lot of darkness in this world. That's a lowercase D dark, mind you. There's also the captain. little D kind, but that's another kind of thing altogether.

Now some people tell you it's the big darkness you got to watch out for, and in some ways they'd be right. Could I agree with them on that a long time before a good friend of mine went and showed me just how far down the crazy rabbit hole goes. Beemans, vampires, all of that monster madness bullshit. Turns out it ain't quite as much malarkey as your rational mind I'd like to believe. That enormous darkness, well, that's a lot of that. That's biblical, end of the world type stuff.

But the thing about that, it's obvious, you see. That kind of thing? Any number of people stand up to fight it. Basic human survival. That's why there's so many damn zombie uprising fantasies out there. Somebody wants to grab their shotgun and go get them some sweet hot action. God damn masturbatory is what it is. And that's why there ain't no way in hell the world will end that way.

We'd know that if we just pay attention. Society and culture has got any number of references to the little darkness being the one to get you. The world won't end in a bang, but a whimper. The road to hell is paved with good intentions, and my personal favorite, the devils and the details. This is a story about those details and that devil.

If you're looking for some kind of action movie blockbuster finish, I'd ask you to get off now. There's there won't be any of that. Plenty other place you can go for for all the vicarious thrills and heroics you could ever want. I'd encourage you to do so. All you're going to do is be making a point for me. Big evil is exciting and stimulates imagination. But people can't be bothered with the little one.

That's why it's so damn insidious. Anybody still here? Then let's set the stage. A few weeks back, I was in a pretty bad way. my only boy Billy had been killed on his way home from basketball practice by a junkie looking to make a quick score. I live outside Philly and such things aren't unheard of. No, they're a lot less common nowadays, thank God. Anyways, my boy was dead.

And his mom and I ended up splitting up soon after due to stress. I managed to get myself fired for my job and most days were spent either crawling out of the bottom of a bottle or searching around. see if I could get a line on his killer. Most of the time both. Well, one day I found the bastard. Punk was crashed at a flop house, high out of his mind, sprawled out on a mattress stained with dirt and God knows what else. I walked up to my boy's killer and considered him.

He was young, only a few years older and Billy probably. Jock covered and little scraggler of the yellow beard. He was wearing this stupid nick. cap, a whole bunch of striped colors. It's how I knew for sure I had the right guy. The cap was the only detail of one witness of my boy's martyr could remember. I grabbed the filthy pillow line next to him and sat atop his glazed face before pulling out my 45 to finish the deed.

I sat there for what it felt like forever, while I was probably only a minute or two. Bear on my gun making a depression in the pillow where I was pushing it down again. against his forehead. It's not like we were the only people in the room. All around me there were a bunch of other junkies crashed in various stages of fucked up. But at the same time, it was just him and me and the gun. My hand was shaken from fear and rage and adrenaline. There was this little kernel of blackness somewhere inside my chest just screaming at me to pull the trigger. And somehow, Wow, some way. I didn't.

I stumbled out of that crack house feeling like a balloon that had all its air let out, just totally drained. It ain't that I'd never kill before. Got plenty of that and a handful of tours to Iraq. But that would have been the first time I committed murder. And brother, if you don't think there's a difference and you need to spend more time thinking on it. So by the grace of God or just dumb luck, I managed to save my soul from the devil for another day. The experience managed to scare me straight. The thought of what I'd almost done

and what my life had nearly turned into enough to make me want to puke. I vowed then and there I was going to make a change. Fast forward about 12 months. Ever so gradually I'd managed to pull my life out of the gutter. I cut back significantly on the drink end and thought about going to meetings in the basement of the local church, but ultimately decided against him. I thought, I thought, figured I had it under control and really didn't feel like sharing my story just yet. Things kept getting better, and after a few months, I even got a Java security card for this hoity-toity high school down the main line. About that time when Johnny gave me a call, I was good friends with a guy Jack, or at least

had been back in the day. We'd broken our teeth in the army together, gone through Basic and a first deployment in the same unit, thick as thieves. We've been out of touch for the better part of a decade. But just because our lives were grown apart, that didn't mean there had been any kind of falling out. We got assigned to different stations. Jack got out, and I stayed in.

Life happens, you feel me? Johnny was Jack's older brother. I'd met him a few times. Enough that if I ran into him, I'd be sure to wave him down. But what were the odds of that? Well, pretty good, it turned out. Johnny was in Philly for some kind of conference. Jack knew I lived in the area and told his brother to check up on me on accountability.

Johnny called and told me we should go grab a drink. I was unenthusiastic. Seeing I tended to do my drinking alone and I didn't need anyone egging me on. But what was I going to do? I didn't feel I'd insult my friend's brother, even if we had exactly talked for a few years. I told him I had a second shift, so it might be a second shift. a little late. But he said no problem.

You'd go ahead and get started without me. I finally rolled up to the hotel my old beater just about half past 12. Johnny was sitting in the lobby and he stood up when he saw me walk through the door. Gabe, how you been, man? Passing well, Johnny. How's your brother? Good, good. Say, he glanced over at a well-dressed fellow sitting next to him.

Let me introduce you to Bernard Bernard was the living Webster definition of Euro trash Fake tan stupid short-ass stubble beer Taylor German suit spoke three languages And could have been a pretentious dick and all of them You know the type Turns out Johnny had just met Bernard earlier in the evening The guy was Polish but working for a Swiss branch of Johnny's company

This conference was his first time in America And he was looking to get fucked or the very least fucked up. Johnny asked if I had mind if Bernard come along for a ride and grudgingly I said no problem. Now it was midnight on a Wednesday or Thursday I suppose. So we had to drive around for a bit before we found somewhere we could get a beer. The name of the establishment we ended up at was the fireside. Though why I couldn't tell you because it wasn't anything like a fireplace inside.

It was a total dive. I've been in plenty of like it in my army. days and just walk in and I could tell we should probably think about heading back the way we came. But Johnny was insistent that we wouldn't be able to find a place better, and Bernard figured to give him a real American experience he was hoping for. So that was settled. Johnny and Bernard were both already well on their way to a pretty solid headache the next morning from their pregame at the hotel.

It picked up right where they left off that Johnny asked in the pole acts pretending to be a bartender, what kind of micro bruised they had. She gave him this look at a curdle of milk. The only other folks in the bar were a handful of local shooting pool in the other side of the room that were already eyeing us up. I felt the hairs in the back of my neck starting to stand up. I'm feeling I was all too familiar with for my time in Sater City. Johnny, seriously, I think we need to think about going. Ah, come on, Gabe.

One drink. Fine, I nod to the bartender. Three buds. She gave me something like a smile on a barracuda before setting three red and white cans in front of us. And so we settled in. Johnny and Bernard tried to explain to me exactly what it was their company employed him to do. Johnny told me how Tiffany was pregnant with their second, and he was sure this would be a boy. I sat there with my beer in front of me, occasionally taking the swallow as I tried to listen.

But really my focus was still held on the four pool players shooting looks at us from across the room. I did some mental math, nodding along with the conversation. I figured I could take two of them, sure, and Johnny could maybe handle one, but Bernard couldn't punch his way out of a wet paper bag. I wasn't liking the odds. I started to interpret Bernard, who was telling us all about his daily workout routine, when one of the locals finally decided to make his way over. You foreign?

He looked at Bernard, the smell of booze giving away the fact that he'd, He was well into it. From experience, I could tell he was looking for a fight. Bernard is from Switzerland, Johnny said. Actually, Bernard slurred. I'm from Poland. Well, shit. Her new friend grinned maliciously.

My wife's half Polish. Hey, asshole, he turned to Johnny. Why are you going to say you Swiss if he's a Polack? You can't go around disrespecting people. like that? The booze had slowed Johnny's normally quick wit. I mean he works in Switzerland. Nah, it's all right, it's all right. The tough was smiling with his teeth. I gotcha. Hey Bernard, was it? You want to come out back with me and have a cigarette? Bernard was on his slightly swaying feet immediately. Bernard, buddy, I looked at him.

I think we gotta get going. You guys have a conference in the morning. He rolled his eyes. Fuck the conference. I'm going for a smoke. The local pat at my shoulder. Yeah, friend. We're just going for a smoke.

Won't be a minute. Before I could say anything further, they were already out the back door. Johnny was back in his drink, already forgetting the whole thing. Johnny, I asked him, How invested in your new buddy are you? He shot me a quizzical look.

Because I'm pretty sure he's about to get his ass kicked out back. And I'm of a mind to just walk out on him before they decide to take it out on us too. Johnny just laughed at me. Gabriel? These guys are harmless. No, they ain't, Johnny. I'm going to tell you again, we need to leave. Now grab your stuff and let's get out.

out of here. I'm just pulling my life together and the last thing I need is to be getting in bar fights. Let's go find a pay phone and call the cops to come make sure Bernard walks out of here, okay? We can do it anonymous, so if I'm wrong, even though I'm not, it won't be any harm done. Johnny got mad then, a drunken kind of anger. Fuck off, man. Look, if you want to leave, that's fine. We can make our own way back to the hotel. I was just doing jack-a-favor looking in on you anyway. Now come on No, damn it, I need this Another kid on the way

You know the last time I got to go out? Seriously, fuck off I open my mouth to say something else But then thought better of it Words wouldn't change anything I had to work the next day And damn it I wasn't going to screw up my teeter and hold On a somewhat normal kind of life for the thinkless drunk

An ass kick and serve Johnny Wright I stood up, tossing bills on the bar, and walked out with a look back, even though I still had a bad feeling I couldn't quite shake. You remember earlier, I said I'd save my soul for another day when I didn't sanction Billy's killer. Little did I know this would be the day. See, I didn't end up calling the cops after I left. I thought about it, sure, but then decided that, nah, there's two of Johnny and Bernard.

One of them will be in enough of one piece to help the other out after their third. thump-ins and like I said it'd serve them right well came to find out the next day that I've been dead on about the ass kicking didn't stop with the beating though the paper said it was a beer bottle across the head that finally killed Johnny he'd also been stabbed a dozen times so who knows I went into a bit of a depression for a while after fell off the wagon for a bit I almost lost my security job, though somehow I didn't. Skip the funeral, didn't want to face Jack. He never called me.

Don't know if I ever found out I was there. So what's my point? We tend to think the devil as some red-faced horn motherfucker. And after all I've seen, I'll admit the possibility that something like that maybe even exists. But that's capital D, darkness. the one anybody stands up to fight against. In terms of strict definition, Satan is just an adversary,

something he struggle against. What if instead of down in the land of hell, fire and brimstone, the devil lives inside every single one of us? What if he's just a little voice, telling you to do things and maybe even make sense, that you know in your gut are just plain wrong? How would we know to fight?

How would we know we haven't already lost? From the Patreon Vault. Creepy presents. The Devil's Fresco. Credited to some guy. I don't know art, but I know what terrifies me. My friend Eric, he knows art. Compared to me, he knows everything about art.

When we were young, he was a kid who got his paper, Mesh sculptures put up on display in the art room or his portraits put up in the hallway in the case next to all the school athletic trophies and awards. Teachers would always fawn over what he would create as if it was the most amazing thing in the world. There'd be small comments about what art programs he should get into after high school or that he should travel abroad to study the masters. After graduation, I went to state and studied finance. Eric moved to New York and lived in a loft with other artists. When I would go to visit him, it was like stepping into a strange, surreal world. It felt like exactly how you would imagine the scene.

A lot of scruffy-looking guys, girls that looked like anything you said was so stupid or boring. Housing that was massive impact with people, but still living like they were all poor. Eric wasn't poor. He had plenty of money. He came from it. And instead of spending his money on tuition, he used it to throw parties. He had no interest in school or really even the art scene. Sure, he could talk about Banksie like he personally knew him and he knew supermodels by their last name.

And he always knew where the party was going to be when I went to visit. But there was this boredom in his eyes. He hadn't had it in high school. There was something about being there that had changed him. I would have said so, but I was studying finance so that I could get a safe job and get a safe job. home in a safe neighborhood for a safe, quiet life. He probably thought I was the definition of a sellout, as if I had ever aspired to be something different.

I'd visit a few times a year. Any excuse I could get to travel to New York. I loved and still loved the city, so visiting Eric was a good excuse. He was my oldest friend, and the idea of losing touch with them just felt wrong. By the end of college, it was getting harder and harder to get in touch with Eric. He still officially lived in New York, though where he was at any given night was off and only discovered the next morning, but he went all over. He was a part of a sort of rotating, traveling group of artists, musicians, models, and trust fund babies who travel the world on a whim because there was something they just had to do. Burning Man or Coachella were the norm, but there was more.

We were in Rome last month, he told me in between drags of a cigarette. I had slept on a bare mattress next to a half-dozen other bare mattresses and a Soho loft the night before, only getting home at 5 a.m. I don't think Eric had slept. How was it? I asked. My back was killing me from the weird position I'd passed out in, the pain second only to the pressure in my head. They did it all wrong. Who did?

Everyone. None of them saw it right. I didn't understand what he was talking about, but I'd sort of gotten used to that. To me, it just sounded like Eric being smart or trying to sound smart. It didn't mean anything. It's just who he was. Who he'd become.

Holland. He said, lighting another cigarette he pulled from its perch behind his ear. What about it? I asked try not to gag from the smell of stale smoke and spilled microbrews. Van Gogh. He came close. Close to what? Letting it in.

Are you going to make sense anytime soon? I asked. Not to you. He said and walked out of the room. I didn't see Eric for a couple years after that. I'd gotten a really good job after getting refusely. really lucky internship after college. So when I finally heard from Eric that he was going to be back in NYC and we should hang out,

I didn't have to save up or even ask my parents for help. I just went. It was a nice feeling. It must have been how it felt for Eric all the time. For all that I thought Eric had changed in the six years since high school, I never could have imagined what I walked into when I found his new place. He was staying in what I could only assume to be an abandoned warehouse, but not like it was a cool and hip sort of place. I mean like the sort of place you might see someone shooting up in the corner, but it was beautiful, kind of.

For a shitty as the outside look, the inside was like a massive mural. Every square inch of the place from the walls to the floor to the supporting columns was painted in this crazy, beautiful. surreal continuing mural that sort of shifted as you looked at it. If you moved your head side to side, it gave off this really crazy feeling, like the colors themselves were moving. I couldn't imagine looking at it high or even drunk. I found Eric in one of the rooms, and by found, I mean I wandered through until I saw him painting behind a massive hole from where the drywall had crumbled and been demolished.

He was filthy with dirt. His hair was a mess. His eyes were tired and bloodshot as he used brushes scattered around him to cover and recover spots on the wall. He didn't say anything. I just watched. He grabbed a brush from his pocket, but it'd be wrong and he'd throw it out in anger. Soudies his hand to smeared to paint to his liking before throwing a bucket of paint over his shoulder to splash like a wave against the floor and wall. All the while he muttered to himself and shook his head like he was disgusted with himself.

I wasn't sure if I should call 911 or his parents. I probably should have called both. After ten minutes or so, his frantic movements finally slowed down and I watched him pull out a joint and light it. Taking a massive hit before slowly letting it roll out of his mouth. Hey man. He said without actually looking at me. Hey. I said,

How, how's it going? Eric took another drake and tilted his head. I paused for a moment, not sure if I should say anything. Are you okay? I guess. He said. Is this? I paused again.

Is this like for an art show or something? Like that? He said, finishing the joint. Be like what? Two years. You've been working on this for two years? Eric looked around. No.

This has just been. What's today? Tuesday, I said. The 30th. Four days. He said. I looked around in shock. You painted all this in four days?

He scoffed. It's worthless shit. I know it can paint worthless shit in four days. I looked around again. Looks pretty amazing to me. Because you are a sheep. My concern for my friend withered away pretty quickly. I wasn't in the mood to be talked down to.

Especially from someone who had never once come to see me or ask me how things were going in my life. If he wanted to let himself go down the drain, then so be it. Fuck you, man. I don't need this. If this is who you are now, then have a good life. I turned to walk away. It's not a bad thing.

He said softly over my shoulder. What's not a bad thing? I asked. Being a sheep. I envy that. Still sounds like you condescending me. Stop acting like you have some sort of truth that I don't understand. I like my life for your information.

Actually, I love my life. Eric nodded slowly. Yeah. You can't unsee things. I walked toward my friend. Not sure if you needed a hug, a bath, or some psych meds. Probably all three. Dude, it's me.

We've known each other since kindergarten. Can you just tell me what you're talking about? Eric rubbed at his eyes, smearing the paint that had been on his hands across his face. He sat down in a toilet that had been pulled out of the wall and started to tell me a story. He told me about traveling. He told me about going abroad and listening to the people he was with.

Listening to what things were amazing and what things were pathetic. They only existed in a world that had the two ends of the spectrum. There was nothing in between. Either you thrived and lived on the edge or you suffered and wallowed in the dark corner of your own existence. I pitied him as I heard those words. We were somewhere outside Venice when I started to hear rumors about something called the Devil's Fresco. A painting? I asked.

Eric shook his head. No. That's just what it's called. There's really no translation for it in English. It wasn't a thing so much as a moment in history, a level of existence. It was talked about as being this moment in total openness to the world that you see that there is no light. It's only darkness. You can't feel the darkness without the light.

The light that we see is an illusion of the devil. The light makes us afraid of the dark. That bullshit Hollywood line about his greatest trick being that he convinced so well he doesn't exist, it's bullshit. His greatest trick is making us feel safe. It felt so bad for my friend. There was so much pain in his words. I wanted him to remember when we were kids.

I wanted him to remember making snowmen and going to school dances and stealing playboy from the bookstore. I wanted him to remember laughing and being happy. I told him. I don't believe in God, or the devil. It doesn't matter. They're just names for things that people can't put words on. What is a dog called the sun?

It doesn't have the words. The devil's just a name that people put on evil. Because they needed it to have a face. Eric said. His eyes filled with tears and made streaks in the paint and dirt along his nose. So what's the devil's fresco? I asked. The unattainable.

Eric said. It's the understanding and the expression of the darkness in the world. They say that when you find it, the devil or whatever appears. Jesus, why don't you just kill someone if you're so hard-pressed to be evil? I said with a laugh, but immediately regretted it. the idea. I was scared and desperate in searching for words. That's not evil, he said. It's impulse. I'm not sure if I was more scared over how quickly he answered that or that he already

considered the idea. You have to let the devil inside. The devil's fresco is painted on your soul. Some asshole who feels a hundred people has no light there. It's all darkness. There's nothing hidden. I've surrounded myself with people who might as well be the cancer of this world and lived in the darkness and I still can't find it. Why would you want that? I asked, because it's impossible. Look around, man. Eric said, waving his hands to the sides. This world is shit. It's all shit. Those assholes I hung out with for years, looking down their knows is at everyone else trying to point the lens anywhere but themselves? You think that's any way to live?

Then come home, I said. When was the last time you even talked to your parents? Eric's face was soaked with tears and his hands smeared at his face until it resembled the swirls on the wall. We sat there for a while and talked. We talked about nothing. We talked about everything. At the end, I really did.

I really think he was feeling better. I even convinced him to come back to my hotel and take a shower. Sleep in a real bed. Alright, man. He said standing up. Just let me finish something. No, I said. You gotta come with me right now.

Eric smiled. I'm not gonna off myself, man. I just want to finish up painting and get some pictures taken. some pictures taken. I bet I can sell some of the chunks of the wall to some of those assholes in the village and make mint. It made me laugh. I don't remember the last time Eric actually made me laugh.

I made sure that he had cab fare, and even called for a cab to pick him up in an hour under the threat that if I didn't hear from him in 90 minutes, I was going to call the cops. He agreed, and I left. 90 minutes later, I called the cops. Two hours later, I was getting me. giving my statement. Six hours later I was identifying Eric's remains. They showed me crime scene pictures and I knew that there had been some kind of mistake. The pictures around the scene were of a warehouse, but there was no paint on the walls. The only room that looked like it had any paint

on it was the room where Eric was found in, and it was a note written on the wall. But it wasn't paint. It was blood. Eric's blood. Identifying the body wasn't easy. Eric's body had been torn apart. His belly had been split open and his intestines been pulled out and wrapped around his neck. His legs have been broken, his left foot amputated. But the device used hadn't been found. His face was horribly beaten and there was evidence of extensive sexual assault.

That note on the wall. The one written in Eric's blood. You can't fear the dark. without the light. I didn't tell the cops. Probably because it wouldn't have mattered, but I knew the note was to me. I had reminded my friend of the light. I had allowed him to be swallowed by the darkness. For more information, including pictures and videos of the stories told on this podcast, or to suggest stories for future episodes, please visit us at Creepy on Twitter, Instagram,

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