Ace Van Zandt
Possessed Urban fantasy Author
Art by Ellie B.
How I Met Samael: The Confession Of A Demon's Hostwriter
The evening a demon visited me, everyone in my house was long asleep. Like most summer nights, I sat outside listening to the sounds of the deep woods surrounding my property.
A sudden gust of wind blew my cigarette from my mouth. I bent as if to pick it up, but instead jumped to my feet and grabbed the rake my wife had leaned against the house earlier that day. Turning with a jump, I pointed the tined end at the intruder who stood before me. Though shadow concealed him, I made out a man’s strangely dressed silhouette.
Never before had I been snuck up on so skillfully. I felt his tainted magic, like a great weight upon my limbs. I had overcome paralyzing fear many times. This was different.
He had still not moved when he spoke. “You need not do yard chores at such a late hour on my account.”
The velvety voice chilled me despite the clinging humidity. At the same time, I felt an unmenacing intent.
An urge to lower the rake welled up inside me, but I flipped it around instead and said, “You have three seconds to get off my property before I jam this handle into all your face holes until I tire, or until nothing is left.” I was well out of practice with my uncouth threats, which I acquired a lifetime ago as an army grunt.
“You have a strong will. The others lacked that.”
I heard enough and maneuvered around the rocking chair. “Open wide!”
He stepped into the moonlight. The sight of him stopped me in my tracks. A swirling orange mist beclouded his black eyes, which, for a moment, made me lose my sense of time. Staring into those infernal abysses revealed all the darkness within my soul. The features on his moon-gray face appeared to sway back and forth. The skin on his long nose was tight, making the cartilage show through at the tip. Above a pointed chin, his thin mouth curved upward at the ends, giving him a smirking appearance.
He removed his top hat in a wide arc and flattened it, freeing me from my trance. He tucked the hat under his other arm, which leaned onto a gentlemanly cane. His high-collared, black velvet frock coat had flared lapels with crimson accents that matched the vest beneath and the ribbon on his top hat. The discolorations on the velvet were intricate, demonic symbols I had never seen before.
Speaking in a calm voice but feeling the claws of fear gripping my chest, I asked, “What do you want, demon? If it is to take me to Hell, get on with it.” I looked beyond him to see a line of crows perched on a leaning farm fence. With their heads tilted, they watched in silence. The demon bellowed into the night, and the entire murder scattered in a cacophony of cawing. I was sure the affair had woken the house, but no lights came on. I asked him why he laughed.
“Collecting souls is not the business I am in.”
I returned the rake to its leaning position. “Explain the business you are in and what it has to do with me.”
He glided toward the rocking chair my wife usually occupied. Sitting, he leaned his cane against the column. I paused before sitting down, noting the orb-like handle of his cane, which was not quite opaque. I saw or imagined a dark mass moving within, behaving as if it wanted to be free. The cane's striking edge was black and unadorned. The demon looked around for a suitable place to rest his hat, but instead placed it in his lap.
“My name is Samael.” He rocked lightly with his eyes fixed on mine. I could not stand to look at them for more than a glance. “I am in need of a writer with your talents.”
I did not offer my name, for I guessed he knew it. “I’d think you might find more suitable candidates.”
His grin widened so much that I thought the ends might protrude from his face. He flattered me, speaking not of my writing accomplishments, for I had none, but of a unique combination of suffering and love, and the great extremes of both that I had endured. It was my experiences of war, my tragedies in life, and my imagination, most specifically, that he claimed to desire from me. He had seen these things in others, but had felt their minds had not been damaged enough to be tempered as mine had.
An hour went by, and Samael’s words began to make sense as he presented me with a sales pitch for the borrowing of my body. I understood his motivations. I was an unknown but vivacious writer seeking all the accolades and wealth that accompany success. Samael’s motivations differed. He needed to tell a story that he was ill-equipped to tell on his own. I figured as much, since otherwise, why was he sitting on my porch?
With the witching hour approaching, I listened to his fascinating stories about other mortal realms, though he spoke not of Hell. He said that it was a surprise when we began our work. I believed nothing he said and kept my face passive. Who would trust a demon’s word? When he had finished speaking, I saw why Samael needed a hostwriter. He couldn’t tell a story for shit.
I gave him my final answer. No. He regarded me for a moment without attempting to overcome my objection. Thanking me, he left. I sat until I was weary, thinking how fortunate I was to have him depart without confrontation or without receiving a horrible curse.
Samael returned the following night and the one after that. We spoke for long hours. At my request, he used an illusion of mortal eyes, and he shared only the secrets he swore would not drive me insane. In exchange, I found myself complying with his requests to vividly describe the horrors I had seen and the passions I had felt. He seemed most fascinated by the way I presented them.
The fifth day was much the same, and little had changed in my life. I was, for the most part, a happy man. We talked until he had worn me down on a mutually beneficial arrangement. He emphasized that certain details of our deal must not be shared with any mortal. He highlighted them in bold on each page of our contract. I agreed because who would I tell? Certainly not those I loved. In keeping with our arrangement, I was to disclose little. And though I was treading the line with what I had already written here, I will mention one more item. A ring.
With our deal nearly concluded, minus the object that was meant to bind us, Samael and I sat side by side at my computer desk, scrolling through online auctions. I searched for rings that met his strict specifications. The most important was that the previous wearer must have been recently deceased, and the ring must have been worn at the time of death and removed postmortem. I did not ask how he could tell this from my computer screen. I grew tired of searching, and we switched places. I was not sure how long I had slept when I was awakened by an “ah-ha!”
Startled out of my chair, I discovered a showy gold ring on the screen. “Could you not find one less…” I searched for the right word. “Bulky. Flamboyant. That thing looks to have fit on the fat finger of a pinstriped wise guy.”
He glared at me as if I had insulted him.
Unable to stand his saddened look anymore, I gave in. “The ace of spades is a nice touch. Probably owned by a gambler who paid their debts with a horrible death.”
His chin rested in his hand, ogling the ring. “Lucky guess.” He sat up, his eyes shifting to match the gem’s color. “Buy it.”
While silently reproaching him for his ignorance of digital mortal currencies and for having to use my own money, I went to retrieve my wallet. When I returned, he pulled three hand-stamped gold coins from his coat pocket and let them fall high enough above the desk to clink dramatically. I said nothing more about it.
Once I bought the ring, Samael wrote down the seller’s address and gathered his hat and cane. “I will return shortly.”
“Shortly? That’s halfway across the country.”
He left without explaining and forgot to close the door behind him. Ten minutes later, he returned, placing the ring on my desk. “I conjured a duplicate and left it in its place. When the false ring arrives, use it as a decoy if needed.”
I picked up the lifeless chunk of gold. Turning it over in my hands, I found the band was simply shaped and tapered. Two rows of tiny diamonds ran along either side of an ocean-blue opal, shaped into a rounded rectangle with the gold ace of spades set flush within it. Samael held out an open hand, and I dropped the ring into it.
He squeezed it, pressing his fist against where his heart should be. His hand turned as black as his hat. As though his fist was inhaling, the fabric of his jacket, the chain at his vest, and other objects around my desk slid toward him. The spell was so silent that I could hear the friction from the dragging pack of cigarettes. The smell of sulfur filled the air, and I wondered why the ritual wasn’t performed outside. I kept that to myself. Samael sighed in relief and relaxed.
“What did you do to it?” I asked, wishing he’d open his hand and let me see. I felt an urge to pry his fingers open and strangle him.
“I absorbed the residual soul’s remnants into myself, the dark and nasty parts of its previous owner, and I filled the space with a portion of my power. When you place it on, we will be bound for the contract’s duration.” He opened his hand and held out the ring, now polished to a shine.
As I took it, the opal behind the ace glowed.
He grinned mischievously. “What shall we call ourselves?”
I had no idea a new name was needed, but Samael urged that my mortal identity stay secret, as he foresaw himself being stalked by a pack of demonic groupies seeking forbidden knowledge and wanted no interruptions to our work.
As I looked at the ring, still too nervous to put it on, he touched my shoulder. I knew he looked deep inside my soul.
“I see a calm bay busy with ships and a wooden dock where mortals jump into the chilly water. The place is central to much of your happiness. What is its name?”
“The Van Zandt Pier.”
He looked from me to the ring. “Ace Van Zandt.”
I nodded my approval.
“Excellent. Put the ring on and sign the contract.”
I did.
Rubbing his hands together, he gave me a wicked grin. "I shall call our work Demonic Tales from Beyond the Veil," which begins with an old friend of mine named Aniel."
Art by Djimdave
Aniel’s Plight© Copyright 2026 by Ace Van Zandt. All Rights Reserved.