Evil Thoughts From Good Men
"Evil thoughts from good men." I wrote this in the morning—thinking it could be a good title of a novel—before having a chilling evening that night, one that is effectively the perfect opening. One day I imagine I write this out at it's full potency, but I figure I will quit procrastinating and get some version of it written (I'm adding this 21 months later, in August of 2026).
My wife and I took a cab to catch a play of The Tempest, but were five minutes late; they closed the doors, and so we wandered into some random bar. After ordering drinks I went downstairs to the bathroom, returning to find an older woman sitting suspiciously close to my wife. She was farmer, from west of Oxford, in town for a labor protest. She beheld a witchly charisma, seemingly able to meander group-to-group in our half of the bar, making each one laugh, before returning back to us. I assumed she was just an eccentric British woman, perhaps archetypal of the culture, until she insisted that she was a demon in her ring door bell—an incredible premise.
She insisted on showing us her footage of the demon, but I refused. Even if it was a glitch, some visual artifact, or CGI, I try not to load my subconscious with paranormal imagery. But she insisted on explaining it—its "black skin... pointy little horns... and beady yellow eyes..." She told the story with solemnity in her face, and keep looping back to this description—"black skin... pointy little horns... and beady yellow eyes—" "Enough!" I cut her off after 3 or 4 loops. It was as if she were trying to hypnotize us.
Later she confessed that she had supernatural powers, that she feels bad about freaking out young couples in bars, like us, causing them to flee from the bar in terror. She asked if wanted to predict our future; I said no, but my wife wanted to see her read her past. After a few minutes, she started recalling details from her childhood, giving her sharp summaries of specifically how each parent treated her. She started to cry. After nudging me again, I agreed to let her tell me future. She asked what I wanted to know—"how will everything work out for me as a writer?" She burst out in hysterical laughter, and wouldn't stop. This went out for five or ten minutes. After she calmed down, she'd like at my with frightened eyes and apologize. I asked her to explain herself, and the moment she tried she just started laughing again. It felt like there was no conversation left to be had, so we signaled to her we were calling it a night. On the way out she said, "I'll see you soon."
Out in the cold air of the street, we confided in each other on how strange the experience was. We oscillated through various paranoias, wondering if she was a witch, if we had been given some voodoo, or if she had drugged my wife. We threw out her business card. But then I checked my phone and read the most mysterious text from my dad, sent around the minute we left the bar—"Your uncle was going through his attic and found this old typewriter. Do you want it?" It included a picture of the scariest looking typewriter I'd ever seen: black paint, it's prongs floating above the keys, looking like two pointed horns, and of course, beady little yellow eyes—it fit the exact description of the demon in the doorbell. The brand was Underwood, but I misread it as Underworld, as if it were a typewriter from hell. My body was pulsating with chills.
Over the next week I'd ruminate on if I should except this potentially haunted object in my home. I consulted my writer friends. One noted that Oxford is associated with black magic, and another said I should consult a shaman, or someone versed in these matters. Another said I should take it and use the occasion to write from my shadow. This calls forth the opening synchronicity—the log I wrote that morning: "evil thoughts from good men." Was this a sign to get that typewriter and write that novel on it? I will save my specific thoughts on the shadow for a future post...
Anyway, I called up Gramercy Typewriters and described them my Underwood, and how it was a "batwing"-style typewriter. They said those are rare and they don't know how to service them. Regardless, my indecision meant I never gave my uncle a definitive yes or no, and so he said he'd bring it to Thanksgiving. In the end, he forgot it, and I never heard about it again.