IT WAS only a short journey to reach home; across the abandoned churchyard, over the tumbledown stonewall that enclosed it, and up through the overgrown tangle of shrubs and roses filling the back garden of the demons' mouldering old pile. A path snaked through the dead weeds and high grass, twisting carefully between the lowest gap in the wall and thoughtfully making its way through the shrubs and brambles. That the path took the very shortest way between house and churchyard was a testament to its creator's laziness. This creator was of course little Murmur himself; the tatty scraps of black and red satin hanging from the brambles were proof of this.
When the little demon reached the back door of his home, he walked right in without stopping to turn any handle or lift any latch. This sounds mighty clever of him, but it was not. The door did not need opening because it was already open. In fact, it had been open since autumn 1847, when a group of local boys had decided they didn't believe no sissy, foolish tales about the old house being haunted and weren't afraid of no ghosts or ghouls. So in bold daylight they had forced the back door in (and it didn't take much forcing, for rust and woodworm had done much work there already), and entered. Much annoyance they had caused the demon family with their hooting and their hollering, and their running up the old staircase and sliding down the banister. At least when the banister had broken off mid-slide the noise had reduced-once the initial laughter the boys directed at the plight of their unfortunate friend had faded.
But the game of indoor tennis which the boys had then started in the upstairs hallway had been the beginning of the end of the fun. The ball had bounced up into the open trapdoor leading to the attic, and the boys had climbed up the conveniently placed stepladder in search of it. Unfortunately for both the little demon and the boys, the demon had bolted up the ladder himself earlier, before the boys entered. Little Murmur had jumped behind an old dresser left forgotten up there many years before. There he cowered, praying to the Great Demon that the ball would soon be found.
And found it soon was. With a cry of triumph, the youngest boy had spotted it in the corner and swooped to snatch it up. Quite why the ball had then bounced from his eager hand and landed in the little demon's lap was unclear. With a yelp and a screech of cloven hoof on floorboard, Murmur had leapt up and over the dresser, galloped across to the trapdoor and jumped through it. He heard the boys' screams of horror and surprise, but not one glimpse of them did he ever see again.
While Murmur's demon family smoked and steamed and fumed at his foolishness, and his mother began thinking about whether all of the family's things would fit in two suitcases, the screech of the attic window being forced open reached the only-slightly-pointed little ears of the fearfully listening Murmur below. The boys' urgent, frightened voices had quickly faded as the sound of them squeezing out the tiny opening and into the kind, steady arms of the great elm tree had ceased.
Throwing himself down on a sofa whose stuffing bulged forth from threadbare, faded fabric, the little demon felt glad he and his kin had not been forced to flee from this home. The front parlour he lazed in was grand and high-ceilinged, or at least it had once been grand. Now the dark red damask wallpaper hung off in strips that muttered nervously in the wind, which whistled in through a broken windowpane. These tall windows looked solemnly towards the street, framed by purple and gold curtains darkened further by black mildew. The chandelier gracing the centre of the fine white plaster ceiling hung at a teetering angle that did not invite one to linger beneath it. Fine shards of glass glinted sharply on the threadbare, dust-smothered Persian carpet, the crystals broken by crashing against the ceiling. From where he lay flat on his back, the little demon began counting the crystals dangling from the chandelier. There were many of them, although not nearly so many as there were glinting stars in the night sky Murmur had been staring up at earlier.
Little Murmur had only reached thirteen when his counting was cut short by a shriek and a crash coming from the entrance hall. The little demon had barely finished shooting bolt upright when another shriek and crash identical to the first rung out.
'Loving heaven!' came the furious scream of Beball, followed by a series of violent bangs.
The uttering of this dreadful four-letter word, which Murmur preferred to simply think of as 'the L word', made him cringe.
'That loving saint, it makes me feel healthy just thinking about it!' was the livid response that reached Murmur's only-slightly-pointed ears.
Then Beball and Behemoth stormed into the parlour where Murmur sat anxiously fiddling with his tail. Steam and smoke poured from the angry pairs' eyes, ears and nostrils, and very soon the room was a foggy haze.
'That Saint Kriztofer, the exalted angel, coming and beating us to it like that!' screeched Behemoth, clattering up and down the room at a speed so fast he was but a mere blur in the haze.
Beball showered an already battered stool with kicks. 'Yes, cheated us of our fun, he did! Loving cheated us!'
The little demon could barely see past his own baby-clawed hands by now, as the steam and smoke had grown so thick.
'Did you succeed in making that ruined gambler turn to evil sin?' Murmur asked in a tiny squeak, directing his beady, smoke-stinging red eyes at a hazy shape he presumed to be Behemoth.
'Don't you mock us, rabbit-tail!' came Behemoth's furious shriek, right into little Murmur's ear. 'Do we look like we triumphed in our wicked plot tonight, you quarter-witted sunbeam!'
Without turning his head, Murmur swivelled his little red eyes sideways. A long hooked nose hovered there with smoke curling up from its flared nostrils.
'Oh, that really is a shame,' Murmur replied in a squeak so high-pitched that, other than demons, only cats and mice could have heard it.
'A shame?' Beball spread his long, sinewy hand over the stool's seat, and then drew his fingers together so that their talons cut deep into cover and stuffing. 'A blessed saintly action is not a shame; it is a failure which every demon should kick himself for. It is a loving catastrophe!'
With one jerk of a scrawny, iron-hard arm, Beball sent the battered stool flying across the room. It knocked a vase off a table as it passed, then flew straight through the window. The weary stool had barely settled to rest amongst the dead leaves and lank grass when a gust of wind entered through the hole the stool had exited through. The heavy velvet curtains billowed out, and the door banged shut.
The violence of these sudden sounds made little Murmur's eyes water in a way that was rather shameful for a demon, but he was glad that the room had been cleared of its smoky haze. When older brothers armed with insults were about, he preferred to have his vision sharp.
Now that they had let out some of their rage, Beball and Behemoth sat down. They sprawled on their chairs, Beball with his hooves resting on the neighbouring chair and Behemoth with his on a table. The thin wisps of steam still curling forth from the recently arrived demons' ears were testament to the rage still boiling within, but they nevertheless got out their books and set about studying them.
'Now, where is that chapter on turning men to acts of evil desperation?' muttered Beball, thumbing through the crinkled yellow leaves of an ancient leather-bound tome.
When the cover fell wider open, little Murmur caught a glimpse of the label stamped inside: HELL'S GATE SCHOOL LIBRARY - FOR ISSUE TO SENIOR STUDENTS ONLY.
He let out a huff. It really was unfair. All the grownup demons demanding that he be mighty evil and then not even letting him read the books that told you how. That he had not yet read all the introductory books he was supposed to did not occur to the little demon. After all, why bother learning how to conjure up a rat infestation when you could just learn how to create an invisible flock of evil fiends that can swarm about a man's head and torment him night and day?
'Here Doctor Mortimus says one ought to spin around thrice on entering the dwelling of the prey,' said Behemoth, reading from the half-foot thick book he held. 'Then he advises that the Number of the Beast should be traced upon the floor and the
sign of the Sun Demon scratched on top of it. This helps to erase your scent from the threshold, so that saints and angels will not know a demon has passed it.'
Beball tossed aside his tome and took the book from Beball, who was holding it out to him. 'Hmmm?sounds like that was where we went wrong?'
'Where you went wrong,' shrieked Behemoth. 'I said we should spin thrice and you said we should spin twice and spit once!'
'But you didn't remember about the Number of the Beast; it wouldn't have worked anyway, you stupid dove!' screeched his brother, tossing the book aside.
Beball violently wagged his talon-tipped finger in Behemoth's face. 'Don't you call me names, angel-eyes! You are the oldest; if anyone ought to know this honey, it's you!'
The room was beginning to fill with steam and smoke again. Little Murmur could already barely see down to his hooves through the murk. He let out a sigh. A whole, tiring night of evil and still they had the energy to carry on like this (Beball and Behemoth were now rolling around on the floor shrieking insults whilst trying to strangle each other).
The little demon sighed again, and started nodding off to sleep.
'Get your hooves on the furniture!'
Little Murmur woke with such a start that his rear lifted several inches off the chair. 'So sorry, great Mammon!' he gibbered, fearfully looking up the form of his father towering up through the smog before him.
'Do it-now!' bellowed the great demon, pointing his long, long talon at his son's little hooves, which rested neatly together on the floor.
With his hocks knocking together in fear, the little demon obeyed. He quickly swung his hooves up onto the sofa and sprawled as best he could (which was not very well at all).
'Don't you feel proud when you see our two boys like this?' Mammon said to Murmur's mother, who had just come up beside him.
She looked fondly down at Beball and Behemoth, who were still rolling around on the floor trying to choke each other. 'Yes, quite. It makes those tiresome early years all worthwhile when you see them doing so well.'
'What did Professor Classilabolas say-you did talk to him about Murmur at the parent-teacher evening, did you not?' Mammon said to his mate, scowling down at the little demon.
'Yes,' she replied, joining him in frowning down at her youngest. 'He thought I ought to take him to see Dr Azazel.'
'I think you should, vilest. Look at the boy; if he were any smaller and rounder one could almost mistake him for a human child on a dark night!'
Murmur gibbered and whimpered beneath this terrible pronouncement. He wished his parents would not say such hurtful things in his hearing.
His mother nodded. 'I'll come to the school tomorrow and take him to the doctor. Perhaps he's just a bit late in his development, but it is wise to be sure there is nothing wrong with him.'
Mammon responded with a 'harrumph' that suggested he suspected the latter. But he said nothing and turned away from his son with a face that was unimpressed.