The Devil's Book Club

Chapter 1: The Unfortunate Pronunciation

The First Methodist Church of Pemberton Falls had survived a lot in its hundred and thirty-seven years. It had weathered the Great Flood of 1923, the unfortunate incident with the Christmas pageant donkey in 1987, and three separate occasions when old Mrs. Bellweather had accidentally set the fellowship hall curtains on fire while demonstrating her "improved" flambé technique.

But nothing—absolutely nothing—had prepared it for what Pastor Jamie Hutchins was about to unleash on an otherwise unremarkable Tuesday evening in October.

"I still think we should have gone with 'The Purpose Driven Life,'" said Dorothy Chen, settling into her folding chair with the determined air of a woman who had been outvoted but refused to accept it gracefully. She was seventy-three years old, had taught Sunday school for forty-two of those years, and possessed opinions about literature that she delivered with the force of divine commandment.

"We read that in 2019," said Marcus Williams, not looking up from his phone. He was the youngest member of the book club at thirty-four, and he'd only joined because his mother had guilted him into it after his divorce. "And 2016. And 2012."

"Some books bear revisiting."

"Some books bear burning," muttered Patty Kowalski, who ran the town's only bookstore and therefore considered herself the final authority on all matters literary. She was arranging her copy of "Eat, Pray, Love" on her lap with an expression that suggested she'd rather be handling a dead fish.

Pastor Jamie cleared her throat. At thirty-nine, she was the youngest pastor the church had ever had, and she'd spent the last three years trying to drag the congregation into the current century with varying degrees of success. The book club had been her idea—a way to build community, encourage reflection, and maybe, just maybe, read something other than devotionals and the Left Behind series.

"Let's begin with a prayer," she said, opening the small leather journal she'd inherited from her predecessor, Pastor Richardson. He'd left behind a collection of prayers for various occasions, handwritten in his cramped, spidery script. Jamie had found them charming, if occasionally illegible.

"I found a lovely one for new beginnings," she continued, flipping to a bookmarked page. "It's in Latin, which Pastor Richardson apparently studied in seminary. I thought it might add a nice touch of tradition."

Dorothy nodded approvingly. Marcus continued scrolling through his phone. Patty examined her fingernails.

"Aperire portas novae sapientiae," Jamie read carefully, squinting at the faded ink. "Et invocamus... spiritum... who can guide our understanding." She frowned. "Sorry, the handwriting gets a bit dodgy here. Let me try again."

She didn't notice the way the fluorescent lights flickered.

"Aperire portas," she repeated, more confidently this time. "Novae sapientiae. Et invocamus spiritum infernum—"

The lights went out entirely.

"Oh, for heaven's sake," Dorothy said. "Someone check the fuse box."

"—ad nos venire," Jamie finished, just as a smell like burnt matches and old libraries filled the room.

The lights came back on.

There was a man sitting in the empty chair next to Patty.

Except he wasn't quite a man. He was close enough to pass at first glance—average height, thinning brown hair, the kind of forgettable face you'd see on an accountant or a middle manager. But his skin had a faint grayish tinge, and his eyes, when he blinked in apparent confusion, were the deep red of dying embers.

Also, he was wearing a cardigan. A beige cardigan with leather elbow patches.

"What," he said, looking around the fellowship hall with an expression of profound bewilderment, "the actual heaven?"

Patty screamed. It was a good scream, full-bodied and theatrical, the kind of scream that suggested she'd been waiting her whole life for an appropriate occasion to use it.

Marcus dropped his phone.

Dorothy clutched her pearls—literally clutched them, like a woman in a Victorian novel who'd just witnessed something scandalous.

And Pastor Jamie Hutchins, who had been trained to handle everything from funeral arrangements to marital counseling to that one time someone brought a live chicken to the Easter service, stood frozen with her mouth open and Pastor Richardson's prayer book clutched to her chest.

"This isn't right," the man—the creature—said, patting his pockets as if looking for something. "I was in the middle of cataloging. Section 7-B. The screaming ledgers. Very important work." He looked up at them with those ember eyes. "Why am I here?"

"Why are YOU here?" Patty shrieked, pressing herself against the back of her chair. "Why are you ANYWHERE? What ARE you?"

The creature sighed. It was a remarkably human sigh, full of resignation and mild annoyance.

"I'm a demon," he said. "Obviously. Third class, administrative division. My name is Fergus." He paused. "Well, my true name is Xar'gathoth the Occasionally Unpleasant, but Fergus is easier for humans. Less... screaming."

"A demon," Dorothy repeated flatly. "Named Fergus."

"It's Welsh," Fergus said, as if this explained anything.

Jamie found her voice. It came out higher than she would have liked. "I summoned a demon? With a PRAYER?"

"Technically, you summoned me with a very badly pronounced summoning ritual." Fergus squinted at the book in her hands. "Is that the Codex of Father Matthias? Fifteenth century, if I'm not mistaken. Quite rare. Also quite dangerous, if you don't know what you're reading." He tilted his head. "Which you clearly don't."

"It's Pastor Richardson's prayer book!"

"Ah." Fergus nodded slowly. "Well. Pastor Richardson may have had some... eclectic interests. That particular passage you read? It's a summoning spell. Opens a door between realms and pulls through whatever minor entity happens to be nearby." He gestured to himself. "Lucky you. You got me."

"Lucky?" Marcus had recovered enough to speak, though his voice cracked on the word. "How is this LUCKY?"

"Well, you could have gotten Bartholomew. He's a fourth-class demon who specializes in minor inconveniences. He'd have spent the next three weeks making all your socks slightly damp." Fergus shuddered. "Terrible fellow. No conversation skills whatsoever."

Jamie's pastoral training finally kicked in. When faced with the impossible, she'd learned, the best approach was to treat it as merely improbable and proceed with calm authority.

"Right," she said, straightening her spine. "Right. Okay. So I've summoned a demon. Accidentally. With a mispronounced Latin prayer. In my church's fellowship hall." She took a deep breath. "How do we send you back?"

"Excellent question." Fergus stood up—he was shorter than Jamie had expected, maybe five foot seven—and began pacing. "The reversal ritual requires the exact words of the original summoning, spoken backward, during the same phase of the moon, in the same location." He paused. "You DO remember the exact words you used, don't you?"

Jamie looked down at the prayer book. The page she'd been reading from was now completely blank, the ink faded to nothing as if it had never existed.

"Oh dear," Fergus said.

"Oh dear?" Patty's voice had reached a register that probably only dogs could hear. "OH DEAR? That's what you have to say? OH DEAR?"

"I mean, it's not ideal." Fergus sat back down, crossing one leg over the other with the casual air of someone settling in for a long meeting. "Without the exact wording, I'm stuck here. Bound to this location, more or less. Can't go more than about a mile from where I was summoned without experiencing excruciating pain." He smiled. It was not a reassuring smile, mostly because his teeth were just slightly too sharp. "Looks like we'll be spending some time together."

The fellowship hall was silent except for the buzzing of the fluorescent lights, which had developed an ominous flicker.

Dorothy was the first to speak. She set her copy of "Eat, Pray, Love" on her lap, folded her hands over it, and fixed Fergus with the same look she'd used on forty-two years' worth of misbehaving Sunday school students.

"Well," she said. "I suppose you'll need a chair with better lumbar support if you're staying. Those folding ones are murder on the back."

Fergus blinked his ember eyes. "I... what?"

"And you'll need a copy of the book." Dorothy turned to Patty. "Patricia, do you have any extras in stock?"

"I'm not giving a book to a DEMON," Patty hissed.

"Don't be ridiculous. Everyone deserves access to literature." Dorothy's tone brooked no argument. "Besides, if he's going to be stuck here, he might as well participate. Idle hands and all that."

"I don't think that applies to—" Marcus started.

"It applies to everyone." Dorothy turned back to Fergus. "Can you read?"

"I've been literate for approximately six thousand years," Fergus said, sounding slightly offended. "I've read the original Epic of Gilgamesh. In Sumerian."

"Lovely. Then you shouldn't have any trouble with Elizabeth Gilbert." Dorothy smiled. It was the smile of a woman who had made up her mind and would not be moved by anything short of divine intervention—or, apparently, demonic presence. "Welcome to the First Methodist Book Club, Fergus. We meet every Tuesday at seven. Don't be late."