The Silence of the Demons

For information about use of this story, send E-mail to thepenman@bigfoot.com

The Silence of the Demons

A short story about the day the devil got the hell scared out of him.

It took a long time for the echoes in the cavern to die down. It had taken a long time for those on the fringes of the party to even sense that the mood had changed, and to fall into stunned and reverential stillness. They milled about, speaking in hushed tones, querying one another as to what had brought on the sudden silence.

No one seemed to know. No one had any answers. They shrugged their leathery shoulders and curled their pointy tails about their ankles as they turned to face the center of the room.

The rage they saw in Satan's eyes made every one of them cower and step slowly backwards in little steps that avoided their neighbors' claws and accommodated the tails that convulsively wrapped tighter and tighter around their legs as the level of fear in the room rose with the temperature

Satan's stance heightened the fear that the fire in his eyes ignited. His feet were planted wide, suggesting power: a pose that took up space, and communicated willingness to move, to seize control of his world. But his arms had become locked in an embrace across his chest--hands on opposite shoulders, holding himself together in a gesture every demon had seen a million times in the terror-stricken forms of humans they had struck with some great loss. His wings, usually held back in proud disdain of anyone who dared approach His Exalted and Evil Majesty, now drooped and seemed even to quiver slightly. Something was clearly wrong, and hell's suddenly-silent hordes were about to find out what it was.

Satan looked at his cowering subjects, turning fully around in slow and measured steps that allowed him to fix each demon's eyes with a long and ominous gaze. While he was turning, the number of demons in the hall was increasing, as devils fluttered in, reporting back to the headquarters staff after completing missions in various parts of the earth. Each one would land at the edge of the assembly, and glance around at cohorts with questioning looks, appealing for some explanation of what was going on, but receiving only silencing eye flashes in return.

The silence lasted minutes, then hours (or at least so it seemed), as the king of evil took the time to look each and every subject in the eye. When he had completed the circuit, his pose had not changed. He was no less angry, but his anger slowly began to transform itself. His eyes became less fiery, and took on a wistful sadness, and some in the crowd wondered if they saw fear there.

No one dared move. No one dared speak, they hardly dared breathe. But the silence had become unbearable. Demons love a party, love raucous laughter, shouts of glee, even screams of pain. But silence eats away at their composure like nothing else. It echoes in their minds, leaving them time to think; time to remember, to once again encounter images of the splendor they left behind: the beautiful and hushed halls known to some on earth as Valhalla, to others as Heaven.

They shifted their weight from foot to foot, and finally, one-by-one they shifted their gaze from Lucifer to Gargoyle, the Devil's first assistant. They stared at him, their collective mind telepathing the message, Do something.

The second in command was not a demon of courage. He hadn't risen in the ranks of the fallen by displays of demonly valor, but by being the most ingratiating, subservient slob in hell. He had perfected the art of cowering before His Exalted Evil Majesty so well that it was only natural for Satan to honor him, and to want him at his side constantly. The other demons appreciated Gargoyle's expertise. They always turned to him when they wanted something from the Majesty. He was a simple demon to deal with, could be easily intimidated, and didn't seem to mind when the Majesty vented his wrath upon him for asking stupid questions or relaying foolish demands from the subjects.

Gargoyle's level of fear was as much higher than the others' as his rank demanded, but his hatred of silence also exceeded theirs. And as the collective mind of all but two of the demons in hell zeroed in on him, he felt his spine turning to jelly, and his wings sagging down to his sides. He appeared literally to melt in the eyes of those who gazed at him, his body taking on odd proportions, shortened, rounded, and wobbly as he took a careful step toward Satan.

The Exalted Evil Majesty's head snapped around suddenly, and his eyes focused all their power on the quivering demon. "WHAT IS IT YOU WANT!"

Gargoyle bent even farther forward, to a posture that demanded that he crook his neck severely to look even as high as his master's neck. In that uncomfortable position, his voice squeaked out, sounding even weaker and more slovenly than usual. "Sir, what is wrong? We thought it was the greatest day in history!"

"GREATEST DAY IN HISTORY . . ." the Majesty's voice roared then broke, showing signs of hoarseness. Just minutes, (or had it really been hours?) earlier, he had been laughing, shouting, partying with all the others, occasionally taking time out of the revelry to fly to earth and shout a new temptation or a new challenge into some bearded, self-righteous pharisee's ear. Earlier in the day the chant had been issued from hell "Crucify Him! Crucify Him!" and willing subjects down in Palestine had eagerly taken up the refrain.

That was when the party had started. Everyone had sensed that this was going to be the greatest day since Satan had succeeded in seducing the woman in Eden. Excitement had grown by the minute among the headquarters staff, and among the demons who made regular circuits between there and earth, carrying orders, temptations, and slogans to the humans who served as Hell's loyal cadres. Today, they sensed, would be the day when they would finally get revenge on Michael the Mighty, whose need for dominance had led to their being cast out of heaven. Today would be the day when they would humiliate him, force upon him the realization of what it is like to be humbled, seized by the scruff of the neck, and cast into outer darkness where no one cares--where you are all alone, friendless, engulfed in eternal, compassionless silence.

They had launched into their myriad tasks with enthusiasm and fervor, like men who had waited a thousand years to eat, seizing upon the feast they have dreamed of twenty-four hours a day for three-hundred sixty-five thousand-and-twenty-five days. Activities at Headquarters Hell had moved to a feverish pitch, with high-fives and shouts of congratulations echoing off the cavern's blackened roof, mingled with chants of derision and the flash of orders passing form demon to demon, on their way to be relayed to Field Command Central at the foot of Skull Hill, down on Earth.

Things had gone so well! Better than even the evilest of demons could have hoped. In the planning sessions that had gone on ever since Michael had mysteriously taken on the form of a tiny baby, recognizable only by the imperviousness of his spirit to demonic meddling, the multitude of suggested methodologies for securing his capitulation had finally condensed themselves down into one simple strategy. One they felt sure would not fail: Attack him at his weakest point. His only weak point. His humanity.

Ever since the day when Michael had cast them out of heaven, he had been unassailable. Evil Majesty was allowed back into the throne room from time to time, to report on his activities, and discuss the fate of people like that egregiously faithful fool Job. But no demon had been allowed to lay a claw upon Michael's person. For millennia they had had to content themselves with maleficent misdeeds aimed at Michael's loyal angel force, and of course at the humans Michael had created.

In those years the demons had mastered the techniques of driving men, women, and even children insane, forcing them over the brink, until they would capitulate the power the creator had given to them, and become loyal minions of His Exalted Evil Majesty, doing whatever he bid, even giving their vocal cords over to speak with his voice. But such domination was only for extreme cases. For the most part the demons were satisfied to simply insinuate themselves into some tiny little corner of a man or woman's mind, and to sit there, pushing pleasure buttons, or anger buttons, or jealousy buttons, or pride buttons, or greed buttons, whenever the situation warranted--whenever they needed to sidetrack the subject human from a path that might lead to devotion to Michael.

Through the years they had encountered some humans who staunchly resisted every attempt at spiritual corruption. Job had been one of those. Satan's great experiment on Job had not proven one-hundred-percent successful, they realized. But they had learned something from the failure in that lab. Something that made Satan himself smile whenever he thought of it. It was kept in the back of his mind and shared only with his most-trusted deputies. Shared then only because of the glee it generated, the sense of camaraderie it engendered, whenever they spoke of it in quiet, conspiratorial tones that soon erupted into engulfing peels of laughter that rattled the halls of Headquarters Hell, sending hot pebbles plummeting from the crumbling ceiling, making lesser demons jump and yelp with pain.

The lessons of the Job lab would be applied this day. The high day of Hell.

Slowly at first, systematically always, the lessons had been applied to Michael. First there was the threat of pain. Then pain delivered, starting on the psychological level with taunts, curses, and threatening gestures. This was far better than what they had used on Job. They had hit that sickeningly saintly old fool head on--delivering what they had thought would be a knockout blow in the first round: killing all his children and robbing him of all his possessions in a single day. But that puissant punch had only knocked the man closer to Michael. They had had to move to physical pain as a secondary assault, and they had made a mistake there as well, choosing the most painful of maladies, and casting it full force on their subject, all at once. It hadn't fully worked, but it had accomplished one thing.

It hadn't been enough to allow them to proclaim victory that time. But--and this was what made Satan smile every time he thought of it--this was his secret weapon. The secret known only to himself and his closest confidantes. The secret he believed he had kept from heaven itself. This time it would be enough.

Headquarters Hell had issued the orders one by one, in the sequence carefully laid out and tested over time on countless unfortunate humans. A manual had been written and carefully reviewed by the chief demons--the ones who would personally (actually demonally) oversee Hell's most important project since Eden. The manual laid out the steps as follows:

First, psychological pain: ABANDONMENT--make sure Michael's closest associates turn their backs and run. Make sure Michael is aware that even his staunchest supporter is cursing and denying him. Thoroughly discourage the heavenly emissary--force him to realize that all the teaching he's done is about to be forgotten because no one will stand with him when the chips are down.

Next, turn on the real, physical pain. Make sure he doesn't get anything to eat or drink. He'll no doubt deprive himself of sleep by spending the whole night praying. These factors will weaken his human flesh, making it almost impossible to endure physical pain without striking back--or better yet, tapping into his divine reserves to retaliate. Even better, he may decide he's blundered and back away, calling the whole operation off. We've seen him back away before when crowds turned mean, disappearing and "getting the hell out of there!" Laughter peeled through headquarters at Satan's carefully-chosen words.

Start with a simple slap. A spit in the eye--the kinds of things that really jolt human nature, niggling pride until it erupts in anger. See what sort of reaction divinity mixed with humanity has to that sort of insult. Remember, this is the same being who drove us out of heaven simply for questioning his dominance. He won't take kindly to being treated like a worthless slave. Wait for him to strike back, and if he doesn't, then strike him harder. Bring on the cat o' nine tails and break his flesh. He'll be dehydrating badly already in the desert air. Bleeding will heighten that effect, weakening him, making him easier prey to what we have in store.

The physical pain will probably bring about the desired results. On the Job job it caused the subject to begin to question and argue with God, rather than simply humbly submitting to God's will. And in experiments repeated thousands of times since then, it had always worked. Make a person feel abandoned, then throw enough pain at him or her, and without fail they begin to question and argue with God.

And that was Satan's great secret. The one that made him laugh every time he thought of it. Because he didn't have to get Michael to curse God or abandon his faith entirely. That had been the goal with Job, but with Michael, all that would be necessary would be to drive the wedge in far enough that he would do exactly what Job had done. As soon as Michael would begin to argue and accuse God of injustice, the very Godhead itself would be split. Divided and conquered!

The physical pain hadn't done it though, and they had had to go beyond the deignings of the oft-reworked manual. Finally they had had to begin to improvise strategies one after another. The threat of death had been introduced early on, but now it was made more real by the introduction of hard, physical evidence. A cross was brought and presented before Michael, evoking in his mind images of other slaves he had seen slowly dying tortured deaths under the glare of the hot Jerusalem sun. If the thought of pain and death wasn't enough, surely the prospect of being regarded no higher than a menial servant would speak volumes to the heart of the one who was accustomed to having even angels bow in reverential servitude.

The sight of the cross wasn't enough, so it was laid on his bare shoulders, becoming real in its weight and roughness as he carried it out of town and up a hill. When that didn't turn him from his steadfastness, the fattest demon in hell had been dispatched to sit on the cross. Oh, how they had laughed when Gluttony had pushed with his full weight on the cross, and Michael had fallen down--the creator of the universe unable to carry even one tiny piece of one of the trees he had made!

That move was part of the larger strategy of making sure Michael knew he had been abandoned by heaven--that he was totally on his own now, relying only on his physical human powers to get himself through and out of the mess he was in.

They had turned up the physical pain step by step, degree by degree. Nails driven through flesh hurt worse, deeper down, all through the bones and muscles--far worse than Job's boils. The lacerated back thrust against the splintery cross--oh, that was a good one. It made them all feel so good to see their rival tormented! But he still hadn't argued with God. The godhead had remained united.

Satan himself, watching it all, had gotten so involved that he had ceased sending minion couriers to Golgotha. He had gone there himself, enshrouding the place in a darkness that was palpable and struck fear into the hearts of even his most loyal subjects. He had whispered, then shouted in their ears the taunts they should use to cause Michael to doubt, then question, then argue with God. "Use the IF word" he had screamed in the ears of pharisee, scribe, and commoner alike. And he had reveled in the challenges hurled at the cross "If you are the Son of God, come down off the cross."

"Drive that wedge in. Drive that wedge in! DRIVE that wedge in! DRIVE THAT WEDGE IN!" he found himself chanting over and over again as he paced about, glaring from time to time up at the man on the center cross.

Near the end, Michael had opened his mouth, summoning the last ounces of strength into a cry heard above the thunder, taunts, and revelry that a million demons concentrated on a single tiny patch of earth had inspired. "My God, My God, why . . ."

At those words, Satan's ears had burned. His eyes had glowed. He had turned toward the cross and waited, knowing his secret longing was about to be fulfilled. Knowing that his secret weapon was finally going to work. Knowing that as soon as Michael argued with his father, the Spirit would depart from him, and Heaven itself would crumble into warring factions that would never again be able to resist the onslaughts of Hell.

But the expected words had not come. There was no argument. Only a question. And then, instead of the Holy Spirit fleeing the scene as Satan had expected, only Michael's human spirit escaped, and went wafting off into the Father's care as faithful human spirits had done every day for generations.

Satan himself had fled the scene--rocketing at far beyond warp speed back to Headquarters Hell. Back to the place where his demonic staff were throwing the wildest party in the history of demonry. And Satan had stood there in the very center of hell, glaring. Until the party had died, and the demons had shrunk back to the farthest reaches of the Cavern of Depravity.

Now his Evil Majesty roared, spitting fire at Gargoyle, singeing the cringing demon's feathers in a gesture not seen since the day it had been announced that this demonic horde's heavenly entrance passes had been canceled.

"YOU THINK THIS IS THE GREATEST DAY IN HISTORY?" he roared. "IT'S THE WORST! It's the . . . it's the last." His voice had shrunk now from roar to little more than a moan as his eyes turned downward to gaze for a long time at the floor.

Finally his head snapped upward and the fire returned to his eyes as he gazed about the room, staring down anyone who dared to look at him. "Don't you see what's happened?" he shouted. "You IDIOTS! Don't you see what's really happened here?"

No one dared to speak.

"You think you've won the greatest victory in the universe because you killed him, don't you?"

A few of the braver demons managed to nod their heads ever so slightly, without looking at him.

"You're idiots! All of you! You didn't kill anyone! Don't you realize that? All Michael gave up was his human spirit. He didn't need that. He never had it before he went to earth. You didn't kill a thing. He's still alive. He's still just as much united with his Father as he ever was!"

Satan turned then, and strode toward his private quarters, forcing his way through the crowds that fell over themselves to make way for him. Throwing the door to his chambers open, he turned and thrust one more scornful gaze over the assembled, silent multitude of Hell, then flung himself through the door, slamming it with such force that pebbles, rocks, and boulders began tumbling from the aging, cracked, and crumbling ceiling. A thousand demons were grievously wounded by the hot projectiles, but none of them dared so much as move or let out a cry of pain. Everyone stood in stunned silence for several minutes, then gradually little whimpers of pain began to seep out, filling the room with the sort of sense of trauma that usually brought glee to demons' hearts, but today only left them feeling disoriented and distressed.

They stood there for hours, waiting for someone to tell them what to do. Finally, Satan emerged from his reclusion, and stood on a balcony far up the wall. He gazed out over his defeated army for several minutes before speaking again. "You heard the last words of Michael on the cross, I assume?"

Gossip, the demon who saw to it that everything anyone ever said or did was carefully recorded for later telling in distorted form on earth, felt compelled to step forward. "Michael's last words were 'It is finished,' sir," he said before melting back into the multitude, hoping to escape Gargoyle's pitiable fate--it could take millennia for a demon's feathers to grow back after a royal singeing.

"Does anyone know what he was talking about?" His Exalted Evil Majesty glared out across the trembling masses. "Anyone at all?"

Not so much as a whimper came from the demon corps.

"He was talking about us! We are finished. Today was our last day. Once word of today's events gets out, there's not a place in the universe where we'll be welcome, except down on that despicable pit called Earth! Everyone else in the universe who saw what happened today knows now, how we would treat them if Michael would just step out of the way and let us have at them! Worse yet, they know that Michael and the Father and the Spirit are totally united in love for their created beings. Love so deep that it fears neither pain, nor separation, nor desolation, not even death. They have seen God's love demonstrated on a cosmic level today. And they have seen our raw underbelly of hate. We will never fool anyone again, except those fool humans whose eyes we can blind, whom we can make forget what happened at Calvary." He paused and looked over the hushed assembly for a long time. They knew he didn't care about them, never had. They had all worked together only out of desperation, out of a last-ditch hope that somehow their mutual loathing could form a unity strong enough to overthrow the love of Heaven.

Still, care or not, some of them sensed that there might be a bit of thought for them in the sadness that engulfed His Exalted Evil Majesty--perhaps a touch of nostalgia niggling at his callused heart. He seemed to struggle to say something, but stopped short, then peered imperiously down his long and pointed nose at Gargoyle. "I want a full report of the day's activities," he said. "I want to know who was responsible for killing Michael." He seemed to gather fire and steam as he spoke. "Things will not go well for that demon!" For a moment he had sounded like his old, vengeful self. But then he sank back into the quiet tones of a funeral director. "But, my comrades, things will not go well for any demon from here on out," he said. "What was supposed to be our day of ultimate triumph has turned into our worst and final defeat."

With that, Lucifer turned and walked back into his room.

If this story has touched you, or you would like permission to use it in some form, please send E-mail to the author at thepenman@bigfoot.com

Historical background to the story and its imagery.

While there are many imaginative elements to the imagery of this story, the events are based on historical fact as recorded in the Bible. The name Michael, used for Jesus Christ, is based on Revelation 12:7-9, which describes a war in which Michael and his angels cast Satan and his angels out of heaven. Michael is elsewhere called the archangel (Jude 9), and in 1 Thessalonians 4:16 we learn that at the second coming of Jesus Christ, it will be the "voice of the archangel" that will raise the dead. Jesus Himself, while living on earth, made it plain that it would be His voice that would raise the dead (John 5:27-29). The term archangel (literally first angel) does not imply that Jesus is a created being, but simply that He is the commander of all the angels, just as the President of the United States is Commander in Chief of the armed forces, even though he is not a soldier himself.

The descriptions of the demons and Hell are not accurate by biblical standards--for there is nowhere that they are described as having pointy tails or leathery skin. They are angels just like Gabriel, but they are in rebellion against God. The Bible does not say that Satan and his angels are currently living in a hot cavern, either, but the images for the story were drawn from popular conceptions as well as the Bible.

The idea that Satan's horrific underbelly of hatred was revealed at the cross, while God's love for all creation was being demonstrated by Jesus, is central to God's plan for saving people. Those who understand and accept what happened at Calvary receive Jesus as their Saviour, and he moves into their hearts in the form of the Holy Spirit to drive out Satan's hatred and loathing, which has been dragging them down to Satan's level. The Spirit replaces the hatred with love--for self and others--that uplifts not only the individual, but everyone he or she comes in contact with.

If you would like to experience this growth of love in your own life, please consider that Jesus is the source of it. Surrender your pride and through prayer invite Him into your heart. Ask the Holy Spirit to guide you into all truth. Study the Holy Bible, which reveals the truth that Jesus came to teach.

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