A street from childhood empties like a cigar cut incorrectly. All of the curtains in the windows, still, preflinched for the hands that will throw them aside in morning light. I slink down into the driver’s seat of a stolen car—red leather, slow-stitched with white accents—the kind of interior you dream about within a dream. My pinky nail grows out into the shape of a key and I slide it into the ignition.
I knew the car was bait when I saw it, stupefied from the glint of chrome details on the grille under the sole streetlight. But there’s a certain psychology to the way I’ve been living my life. I want to be unscathed by everything. Worse, I believe it’s possible. I saw the car and knew nothing could catch up with me when I slinked it away from the curb. But then, my nail in the ignition. The neon-blink of the dashboard coming to life. The headlights opening their eyes.
It was like any horror movie you’ve seen, where the antagonist is suddenly distinguishable from the background. In the center of the lights’ Venn diagram, the devil appeared in his street wear with eye sockets of flame. So many of us want to be the exception to a rule, and I am the most arrogant I’ve ever been. In what universe should I have survived?
The devil walked around to the driver’s side, and I smiled like someone trying to avoid a speeding ticket. When he said my name, a fire sparked at the base of my spine. In my real-world bedroom, my name burrowed into the pillow, rustled when I jolted awake. The weight of a just-uttered word changed the temperature of the room. There are some things I’m not meant to escape. Days later, my back is still animated with the devil’s voice.
(Editors’ Note: “Dreamscape with the Devil” is read by Matt Peters on the Uncanny Magazine Podcast, Episode 66A.)
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