The sound of a yawn broke the thick silence. 

You jolt, your fingers seizing and dropping the jar of salt. It clatters against the ground swishing as the salt pours out. 

You fall to your knees, scooping the salt back into the jar from the dirty tile floor. It sticks to your sweating palms. Not much time, not much time… 

“Mom? What’re you doing?” Another yawn. “Can I help?” 

You give a breathy chuckle, but the pitch is uneven. You blink hard. The floor is spinning, spinning… 

“N-no, baby, I don’t…” 

You turn around. 

David stands barefoot behind you, clad in his rocket ship pajamas you got him for his birthday. He’s rubbing his eye with the heel of his palm. His shaggy brown hair is barely rumpled, almost as smooth as when he combed it before bed. He’s always been a calm boy - even when asleep. 

You must’ve woken him up with your frantic movements around the house. You lick your lips, quickly, then again. Not much time, not much time… 

“Yes!” The word comes from your throat like a punch. Why can’t you think straight? “Please, baby, put the salt around the edges of the house, even the windows. Don’t miss a spot, okay?” 

Pulling his hands away from his sleepy blue eyes, David nods and takes the jar from your hands. “I’ll be careful. What’s it for, Mom?” 

He kneels down and continues the task, while you jump to your feet and begin searching through cupboards. Your hands shake so badly, so badly - where’s the olive oil, the olive oil?

You knock over a case of multivitamins, and it bounces off the counter onto the floor. 

Olive oil, olive oil…There! You smooth your wild hair out of your face and grab the large plastic container. It shakes in your grip, so you hold it against your body to steady it as you unscrew the cap. You’ve read the articles, olive oil should help protect you…

David pauses his salt lining to reach over and grab the case of vitamins. “Forgot to take mine this morning!” He says, popping two of the gummies into his mouth and setting the case back on the counter. 

“Ah!” As the lid finally comes unscrewed, the container jerks. You clench it - and don’t drop it. 

David stands and takes the olive oil from your hands. “Mom, what is all this for? What are you worried about?” 

You set out the crystals earlier, and the other oils…silver! He hates silver! Or was it aluminum? 

Just to be sure, you run to the silverware drawer. A handful of forks, and there’s the container of aluminum foil… 

This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

You grab it, and turn to face your son. 

He cocks his head at you, frowning slightly. Those pajama pants are getting a little short for him…You smile. You can see his ankles and calves peeking out from beneath rocket ships and stars. He’s only ten, but it feels like a lifetime. How gentle he is, how careful…he’s everything you aren’t. 

Your grip on the forks grows tighter, your palms burning and knuckles going white. You can’t afford to lose him…

“Mom,” he says again, stepping forward. “What’s wrong?” 

You blink, and something seems to break. His eyes, so blue and wise, in the still slightly pudgy face of a ten year old. 

You exhale. “Someone’s coming, David. I…I’m …” 

You look at him, at your little house. Yellow lights, plastic kitchen table. Drawings taped to the wall, dishes in the sink. Reminders on the fridge, an intricate lego castle in the living room. 

Scared. A shock runs through your gut, and you hold your breath to keep from sobbing. Scared he’s going to take this away from me. Take - you away from me. 

Another deep breath. “He’s coming. If he gets inside, it’ll be very bad. These things -” You lift the forks and foil, and nod towards the olive oil in his hands - “Will keep him from being able to come in.” 

David blinks. “Okay. Got it. How much time do we have?” 

You swallow, and look at the clock on the oven. 10:47. 

“I don’t know,” you admit, setting the forks down and beginning to wrap your child in foil. “He could be here any minute. I’m not letting him…”

You squeeze your eyes shut. 

“Mom, is it demons? This seems like something out of those witch books you make fun of.” 

He holds out his arms for you to encase in the flimsy metal. 

You shake your head. “No, more than that. The one the demons follow. It’s actually the devil himself.” 

David frowns. “Oh.”

You chuckle, grabbing his shoulders and turning him so you can wrap his chest, back, and belly. “He’s really not as cool as he sounds. He’s greasy and manipulative, just angry, like any idiot you’d meet in a bar.” Somehow, saying the words out loud makes the world go still around you. Your hands aren’t shaking nearly as badly, and the floor has stopped spinning. 

“Why does he want you, Mom?” David sits on the floor so you can wrap his legs. 

“Well…” You hesitate. “Well…I made him a promise. Several years ago…” 

“How long is ‘several’, in this case? It seems to vary every time I hear it.” 

Again, you give a light chuckle. “Actually, it was more than ‘several,’ it was almost fifteen years ago. I wanted beauty, I wanted fame, and I wanted it easy. I made a deal with someone who I thought could give it to me - and he did. But he asked for…for my firstborn.” 

David stands up, reflecting the light in his foil armor. “That means me, doesn’t it? He’s come to harvest my soul?” He’s worried, because he’s pressing his lips together, but his tone is even, as if he were asking a question in school. 

You smile at him. “Yes. But I’m not going to let him have you. I’ll kill Satan and run a coup over heaven before I let anyone else touch you.” 

That makes him smile. “That sounds fun. Can I help?” 

You hand him two forks, and grin. “Heaven and Hell alike can cower at the fury of a mother - and her son. Stab him with these.” 

He grins, showing teeth. “Awesome! That’s cool, Mom, like Anglo-Saxon poetry!” 

You stand and take the container of olive oil, pouring a stream of it along the bottom seam of the front door. “Yeah, I guess it is.” 

David goes back to the line of salt along the floor. After a moment of silence, he begins to speak, his tone careful. “Do you think we could get cinnamon rolls, in the morning? Like the ones from last week? I noticed you liked them.” 

You laugh, remembering what it was like to be a child ploying for treats. “Yes. Yes, we can.”