As a young girl, I was taught three rules when dealing with demonyos:
We have learned to live with demonyos generations ago when we learned that salt and circles did nothing to stop them. Demonyos are difficult beings. You never really see them coming, but you can sense them. No one can be sure whether a passerby is one of them until a low-pitched whistling reaches one’s ears. The sound isn’t really a tune, nor is it a song. Just a low-pitched whistling. Like a bird call or a gust of wind. If I close my eyes right now, I’d be able to hear the sound echoing in my brain.
Demonyos now loiter the streets. Follow the rules and if you’re lucky, nothing will happen. No one knows where they disappear off to, or where they come from, but you’ll always run into one or two wandering about no matter what time it is. We usually give them a wide berth when we encounter one but the smell always manages to reach us anyway. It usually smells like ash, but it’s mixed with a pungent sourness at noontime. I still find it funny how, despite that, most of us still commute on foot.
On that day, I was sent home early after a classmate ratted me out for something I didn’t even do. Unfortunately, it was still early in the afternoon. The school service starts bringing students back after 3PM. This meant I had to walk home. Alone.
A 14-minute walk doesn’t feel short when the sun is beating down on you. I wove through crowds of people and avoided stray cats. Sweat was dripping down my forehead and soaking my hair. My headband felt like it was digging through my skull. I turned the corner onto Calvary Ave, the highway next to my house, and then I heard it.
A drawn-out, low-pitched whistle. Several actually. The sound went straight into my ears and bounced around inside my head.
Don’t stop walking.
Don’t respond.
Don’t make eye contact.
I continued walking. I kept putting one foot in front of the other, my eyes looking straight down, and my arms stapled to my sides. I started tearing up. I’m not sure whether it was from fear or the distinct smell of smoke getting stronger. There is no extra rule that guides you through dealing with several demonyos at once. You just pray.
I know that they are looking at me. A mere gaze from a demonyo can cause ice to crawl on your skin. Goosebumps started lining up my back, where my sweaty uniform clings to my bra. I bought it at the mall during the weekend. It was a cute one. You know the ones where the straps overlap and cross on your shoulders? At that moment, I had never regretted a purchase more.
Don’t stop walking.
Don’t respond.
Don’t make eye contact.
I kept walking because that was the only thing I could do. Demonyos can weave phrases into curses that force you to look at them. Root you to the ground. Bring you into their clutches. They will feed off your fear, your shame, and your guilt. Everything you have— just to fuel their satisfaction.
That was not going to happen to me. Not again.
I rummaged through my skirt pocket until my hand clasped around a small, sleek bottle. We had learned to live with demonyos generations ago when we learned that salt and circles did nothing to stop them. However, there is one thing that causes them to suffer almost as much as I did.
Pepper spray.