Old Man Sadeyeh

     This note is about an unassuming old man with a rather peculiar life story to relate, were he to ever tell it to anyone. It was simply never in his nature to do so. As I observe him now, his unkempt hair and long beard along with his wrinkled face clearly signaling his age, I feel uneasy about my own worn self. He was pushing eighty, but he had never required nor accepted any help from others. The piercing green eyes he’d possessed professed of some hidden power, the eyes of a man born to rule, his ever so present crooked smile showing nothing but absolute self-assurance.

     He had been living the same way for about sixty years now, ever since that fateful day when, as a twenty-two years old budding archaeologist working in the Syrian Desert, he had happened upon the single most powerful item I've ever had the pleasure of setting my eyes upon. Simply put, it was a ring. A ring… That stole souls. No, that’s not quite right. Rather, it had captured them. Yes, that’s a more accurate description.

     He had discovered the ring’s power by sheer accident, shortly after he’d found it. There was that girl… Carla, was it? Some student of nineteen, taking part in the excavation thanks to some good words put in by her Professor, that awful, bloated… Never mind. He has been dead for about fifty years now and only bones remain of his abominable existence. The ring held his soul as well. My friend would often tell me that his despairing screams were one of the sweetest to be lulled to sleep by as he rested his weary head against a pillow at nights.

     At any rate, about Carla… She was a sight, that’s for sure; my friend was not the only one who had fantasized about bedding her. Standing in her tent, watching her admiring a ring with both a sense of wonder and jealousy in her wide and innocent eyes, my friend had found her especially tempting. In an attempt to make the situation playful and, hopefully, to play her out of her underwear later that night, he had ceremonially put it on and solemnly muttered the short phrase carved into the inside surface of his newfound treasure, trying hard to keep his giddiness at bay lest he ruin the moment. His desire to laugh, however, had soon diminished.

     ‘كناللغم’ he said, and with that simple utterance had set into motion the events of the rest of his life up until the point of his death. He watched, his mouth agape, as a faint spark had visibly left the girl’s warm brown eyes and her body tumbled to the floor, stirring up some sand as she landed with a soft thud. At first, he was too preoccupied with the girl to notice the burning sensation the ring produced, only glancing at it as it began searing his skin, turning a metallic red before cooling off again in a matter of a few seconds.

     His first impulse was to call for help, but he had thought better of it. He regained his usual cold composition and began examining the girl. The body still had a pulse. It was still breathing and still producing sweat in the unbearable afternoon heat. Yet, the girl inside had disappeared. My friend was always known to seize his chances… Oh, I forgot to mention his name, didn't I? Aging makes a man’s mind funny at times. His name was Sayedeh.

     As I was saying, he didn't hesitate for long. He carefully dressed her down and proceeded to satiate his lust, pleased to observe that the body was still reacting to sexual stimuli as well.  After he finished up, he meticulously cleaned up after himself then calmly put her clothes back on. He let out a few satisfied pants, then changed his expression to that of sheer horror and ran out of the tent, frantically screaming for help. ‘We were just talking and then she just… She just fell over and… She hasn't moved since! Oh, my God, why won’t she move?!’ People heard him say.

     After returning to the United States, he’d continued making use of his newfound gift and never stopped. I was the only one he has ever confided in and visited regularly; otherwise, he was always on the move. We've been close since childhood. Indeed, I think I was his only friend. During the first thirty years of his return, until his desires wavered with age, he’d left more than a hundred young girls, or “husks”, as he liked to call them, in that state, forcing him never to be able to settle somewhere lest he draw suspicion upon himself. Yet, he’d always managed to circle back to me, to stay at my manor for a few days, to drink with me and have cheerful conversations, relaying events of his adventurous life. Sometimes he was angry or even afraid when something didn't go as planned, at other times he was giddy as a child, but one thing I’m convinced of is that he had never felt any remorse.

     He was always an expert manipulator. He’d move from town to town, terrifying their residents into submission, always getting what he desired. He had done this for decades, yet he always spared my own town of his presence, out of respect for me, I believe. That’s why I was utterly dumbstruck when I bumped into him here, just two weeks ago, in the least likely of places; a convenience store.

     I was eyeing the dairy products when he stepped in; with his hunched back and skeletal figure he was but a mere shadow of his former self and yet, as he casually looked around and met my glance, I was assured that his imposing green eyes radiated that same ominous energy they always had. As he recognized me, a slight curl of the lips, the beginning of that crooked smile I've intimately familiarized myself with over the years couldn't escape him, but he immediately turned away and started for the storeowner.

     It happened just then that a black youth stormed in the door, carrying a pistol of some kind. He rushed to the counter and put the barrel an inch away from the terrified owner’s face, demanding all of the money the counter held. The small Mexican man of about forty immediately complied; with a look of terror on his face, his entire body shaking, he began to scrape out everything up to the last penny into a grocery bag the burglar hastily handed to him. The youth watched him intently, not taking his eyes off him for even a second. I saw Sadeyeh smile; everything was turning out better than expected.

     He slowly crept forward then stopped inches beside the black man. With a calm and quiet voice, he uttered that dreaded phrase ‘كناللغم’ and watched as the man’s body feebly fell backward, his soul already having left him, seeping into and merging with the ring to be imprisoned for what quite possibly was all eternity. The owner froze in mid-movement, his arm reaching out for the next handful of bills to put into the bag. Not wasting any time, my old friend grabbed his arm for a second so that he too could feel the fiery heat of the ring, then looked into his eyes and said, ‘I am the Devil. I’ll stay here for a while. You’ll provide me with whatever I need, whenever I need it. You won’t tell about this to anyone, lest your family share the fate of this thrash.’ He kicked the husk lying on the floor. ‘Also, dispose of the body. Dump him in a forest or throw him in a lake, whichever you prefer.’ He smiled. ‘And you!’ He turned toward me in a quick motion. ‘I hope I don’t have to spell it out that the same applies to you as well.’
‘Y-Yes, sir. I understand.’ I said. I was playing a part in one of his plays. Of course, I understood the need for it. This way, I wouldn't become suspicious. After that, he nonchalantly ripped the bag from the storeowner’s hand and emptied the money on the floor. He filled it with some bread, some cheese and a couple of sausages instead, then left.

     I looked at the cashier and decided on the best course of action. After motionlessly looking at the door for a minute or two while the Mexican was frantically crossing himself over and over again and murmuring some prayer or other, I feigned panic and said in a high-pitched, almost screaming tone, ‘I… I… I won’t become a part of this! I haven’t seen anything! Please, don’t ever mention this again!’ Then I stormed out the door.

     I caught up to him on the secluded road toward my manor.
     ‘The Devil, huh? Well, I guess, in a sense…’
     ‘A cross on the wall behind the counter. A framed family picture on the table. The road to deception is through perception, old friend.’ Other than that, we remained in silence on the short way to my home.

     Ever since we arrived, right until his very last breath, my friend has been enjoying my hospitality. I haven’t seen him in five years; we had a lot to talk about. We also made sure to make use of my dusty old wine cellar. I’m not one to drink alone and I rarely have any visitors, anyway. To my question as to why did he turn up so abruptly, which has never happened before, he only said ‘I feel my end is near. I don’t want to die alone’. He was right. He had a heart attack a couple of hours ago while we were sitting in the hearth’s warmth, smoking our cigars before bed.

     As I pen this down, I occasionally glance up at the dead body of Sadeyeh sitting in the armchair opposite of mine. His green eyes, popped as they are now, are not menacing in the least bit anymore, but rather unsightly. At last, his own soul has also left this world. I’m wondering where to and what it is to endure. By condoning his actions throughout a lifetime, perhaps I’m not any better than he was. That thought is rather unsettling given that I am also not long for this world. I’m writing this to redeem myself to some extent. Soon, I will telephone the police and make sure they read this note, but not before I smash the ring to pieces; whether they believe me or wave this away as an old lunatic’s delusions is not my concern. I have done my part.