Betwixt

“What are you?”

She asks me this as she stands— tall, straight— in front of me, staring intensely— defiantly— at me with cold, unblinking eyes— her graze boring right through me— as her auburn hair a shade closer to brown than to red blows in a non-existent breeze. I stare back at her, blinking slowly, head tilted slightly to the side, confused. No human has ever asked me that before and I’ve been in this horrendously awful job for over a decade. What am I? It is a strange question because I thought it was obvious.

I also don’t know how to answer.

For one, there is no answer that would make sense to human beings. We are on a different plane than you are. We are something you do not have a term for, something you cannot understand. We’ve been called different things by humans of different cultures— demons, jinn, akuma, ọgbanje, etc.— what ever term in their culture best suits the evil spirits they think we are. They are not far off. Calling us that— their word for evil spirit— is the closest thing we truly are to what you can understand. It is not what we are, but we allow them to think that because we cannot explain to them what we truly are. They will not be able to grasp it. You will not be able to grasp it.

For another, I have never thought of that before.

I am just me. I am my kind; we spread chaos and we spread fear in humans. We are evil and malevolent. We are the spirits you face after you die, when you do not go into whatever afterlife(s) you believe in. A purgatory, of sorts, the place you will wander in for the rest of eternity. We call this place Betwixt. Not a creative name by any means, I know, but it gets the job done and besides, a creative name would ruin the whole “wandering around for the rest of eternity” vibe. 

When you die and when you do not go to one place or the other— if you believe in two places— or if you don’t make it to the afterlife you believe in, you meet one of us by one of the thousands of doors that lead to Betwixt, to ask us questions if you have any (you will be stuck here forever, might as well let you ask us a handful of questions), before we send you in with a snap of our fingers and a puff of smoke and light. 

But outside of that, I have no definition. I am just me. 

I have friends I hang out with when none of us are working— whether it’s this horrible job or one of the better ones, like haunting the streets of Earth to create chaos. I have favorite foods— I love to eat and try new foods but don’t ask me what they are, you will not like the answer— and favorite pastimes. I have favorite stories from humans or from my kind. I have favorite songs.

I don’t think this is what the girl standing in front of me wants to hear, though. She wants me to tell her what I am, who I am at my core, and I do not have an answer for that.

I want to match her energy in my response. I want to be defiant, cold, deadpan. I want to stare just as intensely back at her, hiss out wouldn’t you like to know? but that is not me. Not anymore. I am not that so, instead, I stand up taller, straighter, try to exude the confidence I clearly don’t have, as I give her the closest thing we have to your smile.

“A demon, my dear,” I drawl because she is from America. We get some information on each human right before we get them. Their name, their culture, their age, that sort of thing. We do not want to offend anyone. We try our best to speak to your beliefs. We do not care what you believe in. We do not care what you practice. But we will accept your beliefs, we try to speak to them. We are rarely better than humans but we are better than you in that.

“You don’t look like a demon,” she shoots back and if I were different, I would laugh. She is bold, I will give her that, but she is also a fool. Humans always think they know us better than us because of their religion. You do not know what a real, bona fide demon looks like.  You do not know what we actually look like. You know the ones who terrorize the streets you call home, and we only look the way we do when we do that because of you. The form I am in now is our true form and none of you know what that looks like until you end up here and it’s not like you can return to Earth to tell you fellow humans.

“And you know what demons look like?” I am surprised by my confidence, I haven’t been like this for a while. But this girl is pissing me off. I do not like her. She is not scared of me and I need that, I feed off of that. That is the only thing keeping me sane in this detrimental job I have. “Not all demons look the same, human, just like how all humans don’t look the same.”

She doesn’t respond to that and I think that we are in the clear. That she has said what she said and acted the way she did because she was lashing out. Most humans do, when they find themselves at the doors of Betwixt. This is not where they thought they would end up. Some argue, some cry, some beg, some panic. 

Most argue. Or beg.

I think we are in the clear but I should have known better.

“So,” she says after a few minutes of silence, “is this my eternal punishment? Am I in hell?”

At least that is a more common question and one I have an answer to. No, you are not in Hell. You are not in Heaven either. You are somewhere in the middle. You are not in whatever afterlife you believe in. You are nowhere. You are here, at Betwixt.

I tell her that.

She does not like the answer because of course she does not like the answer. I don’t know why I am surprised.

Then again, I am mostly surprised by her reasoning for being upset then I am that she is upset by this news.

It is a reason I have never heard before.

“How is this not hell??”

I stare at her, blink slowly again. Most people get upset that they aren’t in Heaven or whatever afterlife they believe is paradise. No one is ever upset about not being in Hell. Betwixt is better than Hell. They just want something better than Betwixt.

“Do you want to be in Hell?”

“Of course not,” she bristles. “I just don’t understand how this isn’t hell.” She nods towards me, scoffs. “You feel like you should be a punishment.”

I want to beam but I know that she does not mean it as a compliment. I haven’t said or done anything to make her suffer and she isn’t scared of me.

I don’t think I want to know what she means. She tells me anyway, because clearly she is even worse than me and she has no hesitation against being an asshole to someone she barely knows.

“You’re boring,” she explains at the confusion I must be radiating. “You have no confidence, you are not scary.”

“Oh I am terrifying when I want to be,” I whisper and she laughs.

“I seriously doubt that. You’re a meek little thing who can’t even answer a simple question. Give me a break. I couldn’t have been that bad of a person to have to deal with you for eternity."

I want to hit her. Or strangle her. Hurt her in some way. Kill her, really. I don’t because here, at the doors to Betwixt, we are not allowed to touch the humans. I break this rule more than I should but it is to comfort the crying ones. Some part of me feels bad for them. I like scaring people, yes, I like feeding off their fear, but I do not do well with tears. And besides, it’s no fun scaring people here; it is much more fun on Earth but I am no longer allowed to do that.

I am no longer allowed on Earth, I am forever stuck in this job, because a decade ago, I had fallen in love with a human. I was sent to haunt and torment her and somewhere along the line, I fell and I fell hard. I stopped haunting her, we became friends. We would’ve become more if I hadn’t been caught slacking. And when they sent someone to give me a warning, it was found out that I liked the human and had stopped tormenting her.

Falling for a human is Treason and this job is my punishment. It is an awful punishment but it is better than being Banished, which was what had almost happened. The only reason I wasn’t was because of my mentor. She fought for me. She did not— she does not— approve of what I had done but she approved of me being Banished even less, and because she is such a popular figure within our kind, she won and I wasn’t Banished.

I hate this fucking job but I remind myself every day that it could be worse.

I tell you this because I need you to understand I have a soft spot for humans. Not all humans— just a few really— just ones who remind me of the one I had fallen in love with. She was kinder than most. She was sensitive, the type who cried when she saw a dead animal on the side of the road. Maybe that is the reason I fell for her. 

Now I have a soft spot for humans like her. Sensitive and caring. The ones who cry, the ones I comfort with a gentle pat on the head or a quick hug, are that type. These are the types of humans I like. The only humans I like. They are far and few in between. I hate most of your kind. You cannot blame me, can you? We have heard the horror stories of what your kind has done. We are evil but you have horrified even us. But there are some humans I do like and it is these humans that I touch to comfort, give them a pat or a hug. But I do not want to pat this one gently on her head or give her a tight hug. I want to strangle her, I want to kill her even though she is already dead.

I want to but I won't because I am not that evil and besides, I can get away with a quick gesture of comfort. I cannot get away with the killing of a human. I'm already on thin ice after falling in love; if I get another strike against me, my mentor wouldn't be able to save me this time. I will surely be Banished.

I am saved from responding by a quick ding only I can hear. Our session is over, our time is done. Into Betwixt she shall go. 

Thank you I think to no one in particular because I do not believe in gods and higher beings, about damn time.

She looks ready to ask me another question but I don't give her the chance. Her time is up and she is going into Betwixt. I normally tell the humans goodbye before I send them in but she doesn't deserve that. I snap my fingers without a word and in a puff of smoke and light, she is gone.

The day goes by, my shift drags on. I get more humans after her. Many humans. This is normal. She was at the start of my shift (of course she was) and all the humans after her were scared. They argued or screamed or panicked or begged. They were the ones I could deal with, they were the ones I fed off or comforted, but she stayed in the back of my mind, haunting me like she was a spirit instead of a human.

She had asked me who I was and I didn't have an answer for her. I still don't. 

I am disgraced because I fell for a human. I am stuck in a job I hate. I have friends and I like to read and eat and terrify the humans out of their minds. But, beyond this, I don't know.

What am I?

About the Author

Laurel Bailey is an English Major with a Creative Writing Minor from a small town five minutes from Arcadia (no, she will not tell you the name of the town, you stalker) who typically writers longer form stories but also enjoys dabbling in short stories and poetry. She enjoys experimenting with form and narrative choice and her writing style leans more toward stream of consciousness. Laurel would like you to know that she does not control her stories, it is her characters, they can be very demanding and very annoying. Her favorite genres to write are mystery, horror, fantasy, or a combination of the three. She cannot write anything happy. She blames this on the fact that she sold her soul for cold brew coffee, better writing skills, and a lifetime supply of Phillies tickets, the latter of which she is still waiting for. That is probably a good thing because they lose whenever she goes (she pinkie promises it's not her fault).