Free Tales from the Crypt - Demon Knight by Randall Boyll

that?
    The Salesman extended a hand, grinning horribly to his audience, which now included Brayker. A windowful of faces, Jeryline thought, and wondered how many of these faces would be left if the Salesman got back in. Nobody could hit like that; nobody could punch a fist through a living skull. Unless, maybe, they are wigged out on drugs and totally insane.
    “Damn,” Brayker whispered. “Just like before.”
    She was about to turn her head to comment on this, ask him when and where the hell the befores had happened, when the Salesman shouted: “It could have been easy, my good people. It could have been a simple matter of giving me that key.” He let his gaze bounce from face to face in the window as if memorizing each one, finally settling on Brayker. “You must be so dreadfully tired after all these years, Brayker,” he said. “So horribly, dreadfully sick of it all.”
    Brayker said nothing, but raised the pouch so that the Salesman could see it. “Not as long as I’m alive,” he rapsed through the aching knot that was his throat. “It starts again tonight, and it will end like it always has.”
    The Salesman looked off to one side, shaking his head. “Sometimes even I grow weary of this,” he said.
    Jeryline watched as he extended his other hand to the one he was holding to his side. A trace of light gleamed off his moving little finger, where a pointed fingernail that seemed as thick and yellow as a talon grew. With it he rasped the skin of his palm in the shape of a cross, and held it out for them to see. “Behold!” he hissed, and punctured his palm with the talon. A drop of dark blood peeked out. With a hard and purposeful swipe of his hand, he carved his entire palm open in a single deep line.
    Bob Martel slumped backward against Jeryline. “So damn much blood,” he groaned. “The Sheriff, ah God, the Sheriff . . .”
    His eyelids fluttered. Jeryline wormed herself to the side and let him thunk to the floor, her eyes still on the Salesman and his hand. He cupped his palm for a moment while blood formed a pool in it, watching it with an almost motherly expression of concern.
    He snapped his head up and his crazy grin came back. Again lightning stroked the sky and cast harsh light over him. “Ask Brayker why you’re about to die,” he shouted over the following clap of thunder. “Ask Brayker!”
    He swept his hand to the side and tipped out a small bit of his blood. It spattered on the gravel and was instantly washed under by the rain.
    “Arise, friend,” he intoned as if in prayer.
    At that spot in the gravel a strange lump bumped upward with a crunch. Wet rocks tumbled lazily from its peak. Jeryline barely had time to blink before the earth underneath the spot erupted into a geyser of dirt and mud. Some wet, syrupy thing burst up, hurling more dirt and a spray of mucus aside. In that wink of an eye, she saw arise, crouched and newborn and blinking stupidly in the rain, a guy in a cheap rubber monster suit.
    What the hell? she wondered. What the . . .

Author’s Interlude
    by
T. C. Keeper
    Was that cool, or what? Rubber monster suit! R-U-B-B-E-R monster suit! According to Lesson Two of the Famous Dead Writer’s Course it is important to keep the reader wondering what will happen next. I’ll bet that none of you expected the Salesman’s blood to bring guys in rubber monster suits out of the ground! Took you by surprise and made you want to read more, didn’t I?
    Truth is, Jeryline only thinks they are monster suits, because never in her life has she laid eyes on a real demon—but she won’t be thinking it long! Demons come in many shapes and sizes, yet they all have one thing in common: they love humans. Love them. Rare, medium, or well done, that is.
    Since we’re taking a break, why don’t you go ahead and peek in the fridge for something to snack on, if you can eat after reading about Sheriff Tupper’s latest headache, or go use the bathroom, if you haven’t already soiled your