“There’s nothing on the Moon Hill,” my father said, which of course was a lie.
Everyone knew there were lots of things on the Moon Hill: an abandoned barn with a broken roof, slowly rotting away, a rusty carcass of an old van, stuck deep in the grass and mud, a dead tree that crows liked to sit on at night, silent, motionless, and ever observing. Lots of things. And, of course, there was the devil. He wasn’t as apparent as everything else—you couldn’t spot him from the bottom of the hill, from the town, or even from the winding trail leading to the top—but you didn’t have to see him to know he was there. Just like anywhere else, you’d know that if you go to a crossroads at midnight, he’ll meet you there to make a deal. In our area, you knew that for the same thing, you’d need to climb to the top of the Moon Hill and call. He wouldn’t show himself to everyone every time. That depended on your wish, what you had to offer, or maybe just whether or not he liked the way your face looked. But he was still there—everyone knew that—and with the right words and a little luck, you could summon him and have your deal.
So, it was on Halloween night when my best friend, Martin, decided to make his own deal with the devil of the Moon Hill, and of course I had to accompany him. We were fourteen, stupid, and fearless, which is the perfect combination for this kind of thing. Being the good son that I was, I told my father exactly where I was going, and he glanced up from the telly just long enough to shout the lie over his shoulder as I was closing the front door behind me. None of us thought I should stay home.
I met Martin two blocks from my house, and we rode our bikes up to the Moon Hill, avoiding the occasional groups of late-night trick-or-treaters—mostly drunk sixteen-year-olds. The night was clear and chilly. The big, white, and perfectly round moon hung low, directly over the barn at the top of the hill, almost touching its wrecked roof and giving the hill its ridiculous name.
The trail to the top of the Moon Hill was quite steep, so we dropped our bikes at the bottom and began to climb. Martin was too excited to stay quiet. He continued to talk while flailing his arms around like a giant bird trying to take flight. Most of it was pointless speculation. Would the devil show up at all? What would he look like? What if he refused to accept the deal? Martin hadn’t told me what he was going to ask. Apparently, it was a secret.
“I’ll hear it when you tell him, anyway,” I pointed out, stepping over a rock blocking the path.
Martin shrugged. “You will. I’d just rather say it once.”
I didn’t want to argue, so I changed the topic. “What are you going to offer?” I asked.
Martin’s face lit up. “I figured he’d want something really valuable in exchange for what I’m asking. Something important.”
“Not your soul, then.”
“Shut up.” Martin rolled his eyes, and I laughed. “No,” he continued. “I asked around. He usually wants something abstract, like a good childhood memory, or one of your favourite dreams, or…” he trailed off, and I shot him a curious glance. The moon was so bright I could clearly see his cheeks turning slightly pink.
“Or?” I prompted.
He avoided my gaze. “Or your first kiss.”
“That’s pedo,” I said.
“Well, not like that.” For some reason, Martin’s blush deepened. “He’ll just take the feeling of it, I suppose. So, the next time you kiss someone, you’ll feel differently. Or something. I don’t know.”
“What does he do with any of this?”
“The devil knows,” Martin said, and we both giggled.
“So, what’ll it be, then?” I was curious now. The things Martin listed didn’t seem all that important. I could easily part with a few dreams and memories. Even the kiss didn’t bother me unless I’d have to actually kiss the devil himself. That would be way too gross.
“I figured I can offer him the memory of your 6th birthday,” Martin said, suddenly quiet and serious. For a brief moment, there was only the occasional crunch of dry leaves and twigs beneath our feet and rustle of our clothes. Then he added, “It’s my best one.”
“Really?” I was surprised. “The one when your dad left you at my place for the first time?”
Martin nodded, not looking at me.
“Well,” I said. “Can’t blame you. I wish I could forget that drunk-ass magician as well. What was my dad even thinking?”
“Yeah,” Martin agreed after a short pause, and we laughed again.
We stopped laughing once we reached the top of the hill. The place was flooded with pale moonlight, and the silence was so great that I could hear us breathing. Nothing—not a single blade of grass or leaf—was moving, except for the crows perched atop every branch of the dead tree, who collectively turned their heads to stare at us. I could feel their piercing gazes on my skin. There was a larger, heavier presence than a simple flock of birds. Someone else was watching through their black eyes, and suddenly this whole thing didn’t seem like a good idea anymore. Maybe, I wasn’t as fearless as I thought after all. I shifted my weight from foot to foot, ready to ask Martin to go back home, but he was already making his way toward the barn, past the sunken corpse of the van. I had no choice but to follow.
As far as I knew, there were no rules about where the devil would appear or the appropriate standing position to summon him. I was afraid that Martin would walk into the barn, risking the remains of the roof falling on our heads, but he came to a stop about halfway between the van and the barn. With a moment of hesitation, he looked down at a few empty McDonald’s milkshake cups at his feet. I could tell he was having second thoughts as he nudged a plastic straw with his toe, but before I could say anything, he started talking.
“Hear me, Devil of the Moon Hill. I came to you to make a deal.”
Although the words were spoken at a normal volume, they rang out like a shout in the quiet surrounding us. It made me shiver.
For a long time, nothing happened. Then one of the crows suddenly cawed, startling us, and soon they all opened their beaks, shattering the silence with their discordant cries. It was deafening. I had no idea birds could be so loud. We backed away from the tree, expecting the angry flock to charge at us. Instead, they just stopped cawing—as abruptly as they’d begun. We heard the sagging barn door creak open behind us.
The devil had arrived.
Everyone has an idea of what a devil should look like, usually based on religious imagery and the media. You’d expect horns, hooves, and red skin—that kind of thing. The devil of the Moon Hill was nothing like that. The first thing you’d notice would be his belt, a heavy chain made of dark metal with numerous hooks and smaller chains stemming from it. There were dozens of masks hanging from those hooks: sad, happy, and agonising faces made of chipped porcelain, wooden animal heads, weird metal and pearl creations, things vaguely shaped like humanoid faces that glistened in the moonlight and made you sick just looking at them. They swayed and clinked against each other as he moved. The next thing you would notice was the large hood of his long black cloak, which completely concealed his face. Bizarrely, it appeared thick and thin at the same time and moved on its own as if it were made entirely of shadows. His hands with very long—too long—fingers were covered by gloves.
The ground vibrated beneath his feet as he bowed considerably to squeeze through the barn’s doorway and started walking towards us slowly. A wild thought surfaced in my mind. Maybe it wasn’t yet too late to run. I stumbled backwards, but Martin caught my hand and squeezed it. We stayed put, watching the devil approach.
Finally, he stopped, his huge figure towering over us. The moon shone behind his head like a pale halo. He was clearly studying us, his face still hidden. I got the same heavy feeling as from the crows’ eyes earlier. It almost hurt to stare into the swirling darkness of his hood. I lowered my gaze to the masks on his belt—the less dizzying porcelain ones—but quickly realised my mistake when the overly cheerful mask appeared to wink at me. Nothing in the devil of the Moon Hill was safe to look at.
“You’ve come to make a deal, child,” he said, and his voice sounded like the wind hissing straight into our brains.
I felt Martin tense next to me. He nodded even though it wasn’t a question.
“What is it that you wish for?” the devil asked.
Martin took a moment to respond. His hand trembled slightly in mine as he licked his lips. “I want my mum to stay home.”
I frowned. Martin’s mother travelled frequently for work, sometimes being away for weeks at a time. He didn’t like it much, what with his dad spending most of his waking hours in the pub. There’d been months when Martin would hang out at my house more than at his own. Nevertheless, his mother always came back in the end and everything went back to normal. It had been like this for years. Martin seemed to be well used to it by now. I couldn’t understand why he would decide to make a deal with the devil about it now.
The devil, on the contrary, seemed to understand very well.
“You wish your mother to remain with you,” he hissed. “What do you offer in return, child?”
“The memory of my best friend’s 6th birthday,” Martin responded as he shot me a quick glance.
The devil was silent for a moment, considering the offer. Then he simply said, “No.”
Martin’s face fell. “No?” he repeated numbly.
“No,” the devil confirmed. “This is not a fair equivalent.”
Martin and I exchanged looks. It was my turn to squeeze his hand in reassurance.
“What do you want, then?” Martin asked.
“Something really valuable. Something important.” I couldn’t help but shiver as the devil’s words slithered through my mind like snakes. “A life for a life, child. Your mother will remain with you. Your best friend will leave.”
I didn’t like the sound of that.
“I’m not going to leave!” I said at the same time as Martin stammered, “W-what?” and wriggled his hand from mine. We both stared up at the devil, struggling to glimpse anything through the black hole of his giant hood.
“A life for a life, child,” the devil repeated, unconcerned. “Or no deal.”
“No deal then,” I said. Martin remained silent. “Martin?”
He turned his head to face me, blinking rapidly as though he was waking up from a dream. “Y-yeah. Yeah, of course. No deal.”
The devil watched us.
“You know where to find me, child,” he said, and he disappeared even before his final words hissed through our minds.
We didn’t speak until we were half a mile from the Moon Hill, riding our bikes through the sleeping streets of the town proper. Under the soft glow of the street lamps, I finally managed to shake off the cold feeling of the devil’s heavy gaze between my shoulder blades.
“Your mum,” I said quietly. Martin and I were riding side by side. He didn’t look at me. His profile was sad and thoughtful the whole way. “What’s going on?”
“She’s leaving,” he said.
“She always does. I don’t understand.”
“No.” He blinked a few times and wiped his face with his sleeve. “It’s different this time. She’s leaving for good.”
“What? Why didn’t you say anything? We could’ve come up with something. My dad could’ve—”
Martin shook his head. “I don’t want to talk about it. Let’s just go home.”
The following days were relatively normal. We went to school, hung out in my backyard, behind the mall, or by the dry pond—our usual spots. Martin seemed a bit too quiet at first, but slowly got back to his usual, easily excited self. We never talked about the devil of the Moon Hill again. We never talked about Martin’s mother, either. I didn’t see her around, but I didn’t want to pry. I was happy to leave it all behind us.
Then, one grey Wednesday morning, it all began to happen.
I was a little late for school, having spent half an hour circling our car while my father cursed and poked around in its guts. All students should’ve been inside by now, but a group of boys was still crowding on the back porch. This was never a good sign, and what made it worse was that I could easily tell who they were even from a distance. The dirty blond curls of their leader were unmistakable. This lot was usually to be avoided. The thought of having to walk past them made me want to puke, but it was too late to hide. They’d already noticed me, and if I changed my path now, the whole school would know me as a coward by lunch. Then I saw who they were surrounding, and my stomach dropped.
Martin was half-lying on the stairs, his light jacket askew and dirty, his shirt collar torn. His left eye had already started to bruise. Blood glistened on his lower lip. His school bag lay open a few feet from the stairs, with books and pencils scattered on the ground.
I began to run, yelling, “Hey, get away from him!”—
—Or that was what I intended to do because my casual pace never quickened and not a sound came out of my mouth.
My body just strolled up to them, calm and relaxed, all the while I was trying to process what was happening. Panic rose inside me, but none of it even showed on my face. To my utter horror, I felt I was smirking.
One of the boys whistled nastily. “Here to help your mate?” he sneered.
Martin looked up, and our gazes met. I put everything I could muster into making myself speak, move, do anything. My body didn’t react at all. I made a desperate attempt to communicate with my eyes, but judging by the look of shock and hurt on Martin’s face, I failed at that either. Then my mouth opened on its own, and I heard myself laugh.
“Who told you he was my mate?” my voice said as I tried and failed to stop it. “I have nothing to do with this twat.” Then I spat on the ground, turned, and walked away.
My feet moved. My head was high. My hand holding my school bag was firm. I screamed and screamed, trying to claw myself out of the cage that my mind had become, but nothing came out, and I didn’t stop smirking. Somewhere to my left, in the nearby park a few crows cawed loudly. They were laughing.
I walked back home without stopping. By the time I ran up onto our porch, I was exhausted, despite my body brimming with energy. I didn’t know what to do. I felt helpless. Stepping through the front door, I nearly bumped into some boxes.
“Ah.” My father came out of the kitchen with another cardboard box in his hands. “You’re back. Good.” He placed it on the floor next to the others and smiled at me. This big, happy smile was even more shocking than his words. “Go pack your things. We’re leaving.”
He disappeared back into the kitchen. I wanted to ask what he meant. I wanted to ask where we were going and why. My body didn’t seem to care. It walked up the stairs to my bedroom and began to pack.
As it scooped my socks out of the drawer, I threw all the mental strength I had left towards moving a finger. I would’ve settled for a barely perceptible twitch—anything that would indicate that I could still regain control. All my senses were focused on my pinky. It didn’t move. I felt the smirk on my face going wider, and there was nothing I could do.
A few hours later, it was over. Boxes and bags had been stuffed into our car, the house had been locked, and my father was driving us both away from the only home I knew. When we drove past Martin’s house, I saw his mother’s car in the driveway. She was taking grocery bags out of the trunk. My body made sure to keep her in sight until we turned a corner.
I felt numb. My fatigue finally took over. My eyes were open, but I kept fading in and out as if I were about to fall asleep. The last thing I remember before losing consciousness is my father turning to me. There was such a happy, big unfamiliar smile on his face. The shadow of something we were driving past fell on his forehead, and for a split second it seemed that he had a dark spot there. Like a small crack in a porcelain shell.
Next, I woke up in the body of a 34-year-old man with all its aches and worries. It happened about a year ago.
I was freaking out for what felt like hours. At first I thought my mind had been transferred to another body, but the more I looked at the man in the mirror—with a network of wrinkles at the corners of his eyes, his short stubble, and his greying hair—the more I noticed the similarities with my fourteen-year-old self.
It was my body. I could move its fingers, twirl its toes, and turn its head. I was in control, but it didn’t feel like I could control anything.
Apparently, I lived in a big city in a one-bedroom flat that I rented. I had an office job downtown, and I had no idea how to do it.
A few people called me their friend, and I didn’t know any of them.
I didn’t know if I’d ever had a partner. I found pictures on my phone of several girls kissing me on the cheek. I didn’t remember them. I didn’t remember their kisses.
It turned out my father had died seven years ago. I didn’t know if I was with him when it happened. I didn’t know what his last words had been.
I spent weeks trying to figure out how to live the life I apparently had. I don’t think I did a good job of it, and I’m still trying.
A few months ago, I went back to the old town. It was mostly as I remembered it, just aged. My school was there, my house, the mall. But not the Moon Hill. They had levelled it and replaced it with a car dealership. There was no longer a ruined barn, a rusty van, or a dead tree where the crows used to sit. And of course, there was no devil.
Standing in the parking lot and watching through the window as a bored salesman fiddled with his pen, I wondered why I’d come here in the first place when I caught movement out of the corner of my eye.
A man stopped a few feet away from me. He looked about my age, but he was haggard. His shoulders were slumped, his hair dishevelled. Still, his features were familiar—a shadow of the excited fourteen-year-old boy I remembered so well.
I took a step toward him. “Martin?”
He fell to his knees and began to cry, burying his tired face into his hands.
“She died,” he managed between sobs. “I wondered if you… I kept coming here in case…”
I watched his shoulders heave as he cried. Then I turned around, walked back to the cab waiting for me at the curb, and told the cabbie to drive.
I doubt I’ll see Martin again. I doubt I’ll ever want to.