He was used to being summoned by mistake. It was partly his name – Nauseous – and partly because the occult sigils that formed it were generally considered quite attractive by the various new age pagans who found them in books. He had had a tiresome Halloween, with no fewer than three “wrong numbers” in a matter of hours, but his well-practised snarl had been enough to make the various groups of young people make hasty signs of the Cross or go in search of their Bibles so he could be released.
On this occasion, though, he was surprised to find himself in a cosy sitting room, which looked as if it was a stage set for a nostalgic period piece. There was a crimson, comfy, somewhat threadbare sofa, with hand-embroidered cushions on which an overfed tabby cat was snoozing. There were photos everywhere in brass frames. There was a mirror (in which of course he couldn’t see himself). There was a fire in the tiled hearth. And there was the aroma of freshly-baked scones drifting in from the kitchen. He stood for a moment or two, trying to get his bearings. This wasn’t a coven, or a séance, or the workroom of an aspiring wizard.
There was a squeal from the doorway. A wholesome-looking little old woman stood there. She looked shocked for a moment, and then she smiled, with a smile which lit up the room.
“Oh, Wayne!” she said, with delight. “You gave me quite a fright just then. Did I leave the front door unlocked again? I’m so pleased to see you, but do you think next time you could ring the bell instead of just coming in quietly?”
“Um …” said Nauseous, trying to make his voice as human as possible.
“Not to worry,” she went on. “After all, it was so kind of you to pop over. And that saves me coming over to your place later with your birthday present. Always a pleasure to see my favourite grandson. I haven’t seen you or your mum for weeks. Happy Birthday, sweetie! Now, where did I put it?”
She started rummaging behind one of the chairs, and finally came up with a package wrapped in black tissue, sealed with silver tape.
“I’m glad you’re still into your black phase … what do they call it? Goth?”
Nauseous was indeed black. Shiny, lustrous black skin, gleaming with blue highlights, and his horns and spikes flashing with the firelight. Not that he had much in common with the word “Goth”, truth be told.
She gave him the parcel.
“I made it from a pattern I found in a rather odd book I picked up at a charity shop in town. I hope you like it.”
She obviously expected him to open it, which was a bit of a challenge with his claws as he didn’t want to damage the contents.
“I hope it fits,” she was saying.
It was a – well, he thought the human word for it was a sweater. It was hand-knitted, black and capacious, with the sigils of his name picked out in lime green wool. She was watching his face intently, and he reminded himself how humans smile, trying to mask his fangs as he did so.
“Thank you,” he muttered.
“Now,” she said, “Perhaps we could have a cup of tea together. I’ve just made some scones, and I have some jam and cream. Would you go and put the kettle on, dear? You know where everything is. I’m having a bit of trouble with my sight these days, as your Mum must have told you.”
This was a new experience for him. Demons from Hell don’t usually get asked to make tea, or receive presents. He knew he should probably give her a nasty scare and get her to release him, but those scones smelled delicious and he’d never tried anything baked by a human, let alone jam and cream.
While the tea was brewing (the kettle had of course taken no time at all to boil) he made a decision, and set a protective ward around the cottage. After all, he didn’t want this moment to be marred by the arrival of the real Wayne or his mother. That would end in tears, he knew.
It was a somewhat stilted conversation, but the little old lady whose name, he discovered, was Violet, seemed quite used to her grandson simply grunting monosyllabic responses. The scones were quite exquisite, and the tea was fragrant and refreshing. She talked and talked. She didn’t have much company, despite her daughter living in the same village. Her beloved husband had died just a few months before after a sudden heart attack. They’d been together for over sixty years, and she missed him terribly. The demon found himself thinking unexpected thoughts, about how if he had been Violet’s daughter he wouldn’t have left her on her own as much as this. About how he might come and visit more often, even without being summoned. About how he might help her around the house. Replace a lightbulb or two. Fix that shelf in the corner, which was looking a bit fragile.
The tabby cat woke up and saw him. She reacted with flattened ears, huge wide eyes, arched back and stiff tail.
“Why, Mrs Tibbs,” said Violet. “What on earth is the matter? It’s only little Wayne – don’t you recognise him? I know he hasn’t been around much recently … all that college work.”
Mrs Tibbs was not reassured, but she didn’t approach Nauseous. She just sat on the sofa and hissed.
“I should go,” said the demon. “Thank you for my present.”
He wanted, uncharacteristically, to give her a hug, but he was aware of his spikes, so he gave an awkward little wave as he left. For the first time in his long lifetime he used the front door. He removed the protective ward. He left the sweater on a bench in the churchyard, still in its wrapping with the label that said “to my handsome grandson Wayne”, hoping the real grandson would find it.
For the first time in his long lifetime he didn’t enjoy the return trip to Hell. He had been surprised to find how much he had liked being treated as a human being who was loved and respected. He had enjoyed hearing Violet talking about Frank. He had found himself encountering new emotions when Violet shed tears – he had no name for these emotions, but he wanted to comfort her, and help her cope with the loneliness and the grief. There was no one to talk to in Hell. He knew no one there would understand.
How long it was in human time before he found his way back to her cottage I can’t tell you. He thought of her often, and wondered how she was. He wondered whether Wayne had ever worn the sweater, and if they had discussed why he had found it in the churchyard. Did Violet ever find out that Wayne hadn’t visited her that day and eaten her delicious scones? Eventually curiosity got the better of him. He chose a February day, when the wind was howling around the yew trees.
Nauseous was making his way up her garden path when he noticed Death standing by her front door. Death’s scythe was shining brightly.
“What are you doing here, young demon?” Death growled disapprovingly. “You surely have no business with this good woman?”
“Oh, no,” said Nauseous. “I was worried about her, that’s all.”
“A demon? Worried?”
“I know. It’s just … we met. Sort of by chance. And she was so kind, and so sad. So I’ve come back to see how she is.”
“She’s quite poorly, in fact. That’s why I’m here. Her daughter moved away because of her work, and her grandson is away at college, so no one has been taking care of her. It’s a very miserable way to go, entirely on her own.”
There was a silence. Then a spark of light flickered in Death’s hollow eyes.
“You could help. If that’s not offensive to you. You’d probably get into trouble with your boss.”
“I’ve been in trouble for a while now,” said Nauseous. “No one understands me any more.”
“Go inside the cottage,” said Death. “You’ll find her in bed upstairs. Here’s an image of her Frank. You’ll know what to do.”
Nauseous was fully aware that this was a job normally entrusted to angels, but he knew he had to do it. He opened the front door – she hadn’t locked it – and looked briefly at the sitting room, and the kitchen. He spent a moment conjuring up the image of Frank, and then climbed the stairs. She was lying in bed, pale and frail, with her eyes closed.
“Hello, Violet,” said the demon. “Hello, sweetheart.”
She opened her eyes.
“Frank!” she whispered. “I hoped you’d come!”
He held her in her arms while Death did his job, and his eyes filled with tears when she took her last breath.
“Well done,” said Death. “That was a tough job.”
He was still weeping.
“You don’t belong in Hell any more, do you?”
He shook his head, unable to speak.
“Come and work for me,” said Death. “I’ve always got room for helpful assistants.”
Nauseous has never looked back.
Dr Anne Lister tours internationally with her songs and storytelling. She tells the medieval Occitan story of “Jaufre” in English.
Telling the Tale of Jaufre. Trivent, Budapest 2023. ISBN 978-615-6405-93-7
The Tale of Jaufre. Trivent, Budapest 2023. ISBN 978-615-6405-92-0
© 2025 Anne Lister