Interview with the Devil

By Michael Harbron

"Interview with the Devil' is a chilling masterpiece that captivates and terrifies in equal measure. Joseph Banbury's journey is brilliantly conceived, forcing us to confront our deepest fears and beliefs. Truly amazing." - Tom Holland (Fright Night, Child's Play)
Scrubs Magazine's 2024 Top Read: "The Best Horror Book of the Century."

The first in a trilogy series, Joseph Banbury's life takes an extraordinary turn when he's drawn into an otherworldly dialogue with the Devil himself. Tasked with documenting this unparalleled interview, Joe dives into a narrative that blurs the lines between myth and reality, good and evil. As he navigates the complexities of the Devil's tales, Joe uncovers secrets that challenge the foundations of his beliefs and the world's understanding of the celestial balance. Faced with a prophetic warning about a pivotal choice that could reshape the universe, Joe's journey becomes a testament to the power of questions and the search for truth. "Interview with the Devil" is a compelling tale that invites readers to explore the depths of their convictions and the possibility of redemption in the darkest of narratives. Through a tapestry of philosophical exploration and cosmic intrigue, this novel questions the essence of humanity and the intricate dance of fate and free will.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Publishdrive
• Release date: Mar 19, 2024
• ISBN: 9798990402805

Book preview

Prologue

Tucked away in the quiet backstreets of Red Bank, New Jersey, the Banbury family home stood as a testament to humble, enduring Americana. Its exterior, clad in white shiplap, bore the marks of time and nature: a patina muddied by the elements, the wear of years, and the faint touch of industrial smog.

This unassuming, simple dwelling with its middle-class charm served as a canvas for life’s simpler yet starker realities.

Joseph Banbury was a stark contrast to the ordinariness that his family’s home exuded. Born into a working-class family that clung to tradition like a lifeline, Joe’s life was a structured tapestry woven with the threads of routine and expectation.

His father, Tommy, was the epitome of the American blue-collar worker, dedicating his days to the grind of the factory floor.

Joyce, his mother, was a bastion of devout Christian values, her life revolving around the home, the church, and the steadfast observance of family rituals.

In this household, life ticked by with the predictable rhythm of church bells and dinner bells—Sundays were for worship, and dinners were served promptly at 5 p.m., no exceptions.

Joe, the second-born and the only son, grew up in the shadow of his older sister, Amy, yet he carved out a niche for himself. The late ’80s, a time when the remnants of the Cold War still cast a long shadow, were Joey’s beginning years. His sanctuary was his bedroom, a private realm where he could retreat from the world and immerse himself in his thoughts.

Aware of his family’s humble origins, Joe had become all too aware of the challenges they faced and the unspoken tension that hummed beneath the surface of their everyday lives.

This was not the only shadow that he grew up in. There was his older sister, of course, a person whom he not only looked up to but also had to compete with in terms of who was higher up in their parents’ good books. And then there was everything else that was happening around him. The reverberations of Satanic Panic that had distilled a high degree of censorship in the hearts of the American religious middle-class, and the aftershocks of politics that had divided more than it had brought people together.

The pungent aroma of cigarette smoke clung to everything, an ever-present reminder of the gulf between his inner world and the environment he was born into. With a polite excuse, he would escape upstairs, the act of drawing a bath becoming a ritual of cleansing, both physical and mental.

Bath water was scarce, but it really wasn’t the water that was the problem, heating it was; hence sharing bath water was a common occurrence in the family. It didn’t dawn on Joe that bathing in the filth of his parents and sister wasn’t the standard of every other house and was in fact a repugnant ritual. It would, however, return to haunt him later in life every time he took a shower, drenching himself in the downpour for as long as he saw fit.

Tonight, though, bath water and reading books in the sanctum of his room were the last things on Joe’s mind. Tonight, another large shadow was cast upon him and his sister, and try as they did with their meager means, they could not escape it.

1

Old Ghosts

1988

The basement was a necessary evil. Required laundry runs, and the occasional demand for prayer at the makeshift altar, would command a ritual of opening the basement door and reaching for the naked light bulb, before stepping foot inside. Even then, the blackness below was palpable.

The stairwell, old and constructed from wood that appeared damp and weary, suggested the peril that any step might give way during a descent into the darkness, potentially trapping an unfortunate soul in the blackness indefinitely. The windows, positioned beyond arm’s reach, permitted a scant amount of light, with only the moonlight serving to fuel a rampant imagination further. Escape through these windows was certainly not an option.

Descending into the shadows was always a slow, cautious process, in anticipation of whatever might be lurking below. In contrast, ascending took on an entirely different meaning: it became a frantic race to safety, as if superpowers were ignited with the urgency to escape. Upon reaching the top, with one foot already outside the basement door, a backward glance was almost obligatory—a final check for any demons before slamming the door shut.

The Banbury children knew well the punitive measures should one of them misbehave. One hour of prayer before the crude basement altar. Positioned so that one’s back was exposed to the unseen dangers of the room, it instilled a unique, paralyzing fear in Joe and Amy. Yet, on this foreboding night, no backs were turned; they were united in the realization that every ounce of fear they had about the family basement had become a reality.

I think it’s watching us! Amy whispered to her brother. A shapeless blackness wove in and out of the basement, pooling in the shadows where the overhead lamp’s light did not dare reach. It was just the one lamp, old, flickering, covered in dust and cobwebs. It stood no chance against the deluge of darkness that had this cold basement in its grip.

Joe clung to his sister’s arm, standing behind her as he peeked all around the cobbled walls, realizing one damning thing. They were trapped.

The creature, if it could be called that, now stood barring the way to the stairs, its glowing eyes considering its surroundings, its breath the cantankerous stench of some deep pit of hell, reeking of death and decay. It hadn’t noticed the two kids cowering behind the makeshift altar, kneeling right under the maple wood cross their father had made in his workshop and their mother had hung.

Joe was just as aware of his sister’s voice as he was of the cold dampness spreading down the seat of his pants. There was a knot of pain stuck in his throat, preventing him from telling her that the thing would hear them even if they so much as whispered. So he pinched her arm instead, and when she indignantly stared at him, he lifted his finger to his lips.

Her indignation gave way to understanding, and she nodded as she put her finger to her lips, signaling to her younger brother that she got it. No more words. No more breathing.

Despite their resolve, their foggy breath escaped their clasped mouths and wincing nostrils, rising from behind the altar.

They had come down here seeking their mother, who had told them she and their father were going to buy the week’s groceries and hadn’t returned since. It was nearly late, and neither parent had returned yet, a departure from tradition. Rituals and routines were the two cornerstones of the Banbury house, and tonight, in the absence of both ritual and routine, there was nothing to save Joe from the hell-fiend that lurked in the basement.

He shot a look up at the cross and locked eyes with Jesus. Jesus, with his crown of thorns and his limbs staked into the cross.

Won’t you help me? Joe pleaded, staring into the bronze statue’s eyes.

Another thought stealthily made its way into his mind, a self-critical thought that ridiculed Joe’s belief in Christ. He doesn’t seem to be doing all too hot there himself, hung and starving and all. Play stupid games. Win stupid prizes.

His heart sinking, Joe peered from behind the altar, the stink of his own piss perfusing in his nostrils. The demon did not seem to be there any longer, but there was still darkness, and in Joe’s eight years of life experience, he knew that wherever there was darkness, trouble was close by.

Let’s go, he whispered in Amy’s ear.

Just as both of them got out from under the altar, they came face to face with the hellion, which had been standing right behind them.

Amy screamed at the top of her lungs, leaving Joe for dead as she ran in a straight line toward the stairs. Joe had the opposite reaction to fear. He stood petrified, looking up at the eight-foot-tall effusion of dread, eyeing its claws, staring at his wingspan, and watching as what was once just a formless darkness that had followed them into the basement now had a well-formed head with curling horns and a pair of pale, glowing eyes.

What was it Father O’Hara had said? Stalwart is the pure-of-heart soldier of God, unwavering in his faith, standing strong against the forces of darkness that have pervaded our world! He gives his toughest battles to his strongest soldiers!

While it had made his mother weep in church, now it had Joe wondering why God couldn’t have picked better soldiers than mere children.

But, as he stood there, his arsenal of solutions depleted, he only had one thing left to do.

Just as the demon reached his hand out slowly, eager to wring this young boy’s throat and take him to the depths of hell, no doubt, Joe closed his eyes, crossed his fingers, and spoke the soft and sure words his mother had ensured he memorized lest he embarrassed her at Sunday mass.

Our Father, Joe began, not remembering the words all that correctly but still persisting. Who lives in heaven. Must be nice, living in heaven, away from misery, while the rest of us go through hell. Har-harrowed…hallowed be thy name.

The ground shook beneath Joe’s feet, his ears picking up the rattling sounds coming from all over the basement as jars shook on shelves and the doors creaked in their hinges.

He could not remember the rest of the prayer, but he kept on going. Listen. I don’t need your daily bread. My mom gives me that. I don’t know nothing about temptation either. But deliver me from the evil one!

There is strength in a child’s prayer, even if the child does not know whom he’s praying to or what his prayer means. It’s the faith behind it, that not-yet-dimmed spark of belief, that drives the words and puts them into effect. Joe would come to that realization many years later and write these very words in the epilogue of his first book.

The ground stopped shaking, the jars ceased their clinking, and the doors that had been creaking in their hinges finally became quiet.

Joe hazarded opening up one eye to see if he’d made it through this demon drill or not. He did not know how many more of them he could go through. This one was not the first, and he knew in his heart of hearts that it was most definitely not the last.

The demon was not there anymore, nor was there any imposing amount of darkness reaching out with its tendrils. The bulb had stopped flickering, and all seemed right with the world for now.

After going back upstairs, looking over his shoulder again and again to make sure that the demon wasn’t playing some mind games with him, Joe closed the basement door behind him and directed his attention to his first order of business.

Change his pants.

Once he’d put on a dry pair, he went around the empty house, his heart still hammering, tears running down his face, seeking his sister. She’d have hell to pay for abandoning him like that. He’d see to it.

But in the time it took him to get his bearings and change his clothes, his parents had finally come back. When he made his way to the first floor to find Amy, he saw that she was in Mom’s lap, her arms wrapped around Mom’s neck, and her wails no longer subsided but long and painful.

His dad wordlessly glared at him, thinking that this was somehow Joe’s doing, but Joe stared insolently back, conveying that he had diddly squat to do with it. His dad’s scowl hardened, and he even took a step toward Joe to indicate that he better cut it out, otherwise, there’d be a whupping he’d have to look forward to, but Joe didn’t look away. Compared to staring into the eyes of a literal demon, looking at his father’s was not hard at all.

Joe! his mother interjected. What were you thinking taking her down to the basement?

We were looking for you, Joe said, finally breaking his gaze away from his father. That seemed to do the trick. Instead of coming up to him, his dad went to the kitchen to get himself a can of beer.

What would make you think I’d be down there?! she snapped. Oh boy, it looked like it was cold shoulders all around for him tonight.

Because you pray down there at night, Mom.

Amy lifted her head from her mother’s bosom and assailed Joe with her reddened eyes, as if telling him that she’d snitched and laid the entire blame on him. That was strike number two in Joe’s eyes. First, she abandoned him in the basement, and now this. Especially after the whole thing was her idea to begin with.

How… how did you even get into the basement? The door was locked and I have the key with me, his mother asked, setting Amy aside and getting up from the sofa and striding toward the basement door to see. She turned the knob, and when it gave easily in her hand, she gasped. What in the…

I don’t know, Mom. It wasn’t locked when we went down, Joe said.

What more could he tell her?

Later that night, when he and his sister were back in their room, tucked in their beds by their mom after the nighttime prayers, Joe lay staring at the closet door and at all the strange shapes the moonlight was making on it. Shadows of the gnarled tree branches. Moving leaves. It was like the world’s most boring projector screen, showing only black and white shapes, but for Joe, there was a meditative quality to them.

I hate you, he said, without turning in bed. I hate you so much.

Don’t, Amy said. I feel bad as it is.

You didn’t have to leave me alone like that.

I told you, I’m sorry. I don’t know what happened to me.

But you did see him? The demon? I wasn’t imagining it?

Joe, you always see them better than I do. I can only see darkness. You can see…more.

But it was just standing there after you ran away.

Did you say the Lord’s Prayer?

Duh-uh, what’d you think?

I think that you are brave and that I am a bad older sister.

Damn right.

Shh! Don’t you go around saying that. If Mom hears, it’s ass-whupping time for the both of us.

Then you better not say ass either.

Amy giggled.

Joe couldn’t help but grin a little too.

Ass.

After a long pause during which he did quite a lot of contemplation for an eight-year-old, Joe finally spoke. Ames. What do the demons want anyway? Why do we see them?

It seemed that Joe wasn’t the only one lost in thought. Amy took her time to answer his question, but when she did, she spoke with certainty. I don’t know, Joe. Demons are demons. Who the hell knows what they want? They lie and haunt and do the Devil’s bidding. But we have to keep them away. As we always do.

I didn’t remember the prayer tonight, Joe confessed.

What?! Amy gasped, propping herself up on her elbows.

Yeah. I didn’t even remember it. But I don’t think God cares about the words.

Hush, now, don’t you say that. If Mom hears you talk like that, she⁠—

What? She’s gonna what, Ames? She’s gonna whup us?

"No, Joe. It will hurt her."

He didn’t want to hurt his mom, not even on the off-chance.

Promise me you won’t leave me alone next time, Joe said, stifling a sob as it all came back to him, the cold basement, the darkness, the bronze eyes of Jesus, and the towering shadow, horned and clawed.

I promise, Joe. Cross my heart, hope to die. Then, before she fell asleep, she said in a slurred voice, Demons are afraid of the pure of heart. We’re good, Joey. They can’t hurt us.

It was what he needed to hear, and upon having heard it, Joe fell asleep shortly after, unencumbered by his waking nightmares, too tired after a long day of church, chores, and the small matter of holding his own against an agent of darkness.

Thankfully, the morning brought with it some much-needed clarity. As the first rays of the sun shone through the kids’ bedroom window, Joe had begun forgetting about what had happened last night as a bad dream.

As quaint and nondescript as the house was during the day, at night, it became a place where his vivid imagination, catalyzed by his mother’s overzealous religiousness, often conjured images of demons.

So often that he and his sister had devised a game known to the two of them as demon drills, such as the one they failingly performed last night.

Years later, when the secular sanity of the rest of the world would prevail upon him, he’d reason that the nightmares he had grappled with were the result of childhood trauma and a consequence of parents introducing their children to religion too soon and too fast.

2

1991

It was hard for him to sleep knowing what awaited him in the morning.

Ever since his dad had gotten him the Schwinn in September on his birthday, it was always hard for Joe to sleep on Friday nights, knowing that come first light, he could just get on his bicycle and pedal away till he reached Keansburg Beach. It wasn’t the amusement park that he was interested in. Even if he was, he never had money for it.

It was the Verrazzano-Narrows Bridge that he’d be able to see on a clear day, all the way on the other side of the ocean, looming large like the colossal gates of some high fantasy city straight out of a Dungeons and Dragons handbook. Beyond that, the towering spires and buildings of the Big Apple held more allure for this eleven-year-old boy than any amusement park ever could.

The fact that after a fifty-minute bicycle ride he would reach the beach and just look at the waves as they splashed on the sand, and then look further to where the bridge was, where the skyline of the greatest city on earth was, made it hard for any sleep to come by, if at all.

Joe no longer shared the room with his sister.

Once Amy had stepped into the precarious domain of puberty, her parents deemed it fit to separate their rooms. The spare bedroom, which had previously served as a makeshift storeroom, was evacuated, its contents moved to the attic, and repurposed to serve as Amy’s room, giving Joe complete reign over the priorly shared bedroom.

It was his first taste of unsupervised independence, and he found it strange. Now, whenever he had a thought he wanted to vocalize, there wasn’t anyone in the bed next to his to hear it.

He’d have to get up, walk over to her room, and knock twice. And then he’d have to contemplate whether or not to say his piece, depending on how busy she was.

Sometimes, Amy would be reading her magazines, contraband that she’d figured out how to smuggle and hide in her room right under her mother’s nose. On other occasions, she would be doing girly things like braiding her hair, putting on copious amounts of makeup, or looking forlornly at the dolls she once used to love playing with but could no longer bring herself to touch on account of she wasn’t exactly a child anymore.

The gymnastics of sharing his thoughts with his sister more often than not stopped Joe from making the simplest of observations such as, Hey, I saw a katydid on the beach today. Did you even know that there were katydids on the beach?

Instead, he’d turn his attention to contraband of his own, books that he’d figured out how to stow in the floorboard. It wasn’t anything blasphemous, per se. Still, it was what Father O’Hara had deemed as the snide temptation of Satan, and Joe did not want to find out what’d happen if his mother discovered that her son was being led unto the same temptations that she had sought so hard to keep him away from.

If you were to ask him, though, he’d say that there was nothing satanic about Frodo’s quest to Mordor, nor was there anything remotely devilish about the Hardy Boys using every trick in the book to solve their latest puzzle.

But both siblings had learned long ago that it was impossible to reason with their mother. A no could never be turned into a yes, so it was better not to ask. Better to ask for forgiveness than ask for permission—the credo of every child with helicopter parents.

Tonight was like any other, with Joe propped up in his bed reading The Princess Bride, his ears perked and tuned to the sounds of the radio singing For He’s Our Father coming from his parents’ bedroom and the muffled hum of the TV coming from the living room downstairs.

Good.

This meant his mother was probably knitting away in her bedroom while listening to the radio and his father was knocked out cold in front of the TV, empty beer can in hand, the stub of a dead cigarette stuck between his fingers. No one was going to barge into his room anytime soon, which meant that he could read a few more pages before going to sleep. He wanted to see what Inigo Montoya was up to, and if he’d get around to finding the guy who killed his father. So far in the book, there had been far too many shenanigans and far too little plot progression, but Joe wasn’t complaining. Reading the shenanigans tickled his mind, and it had been some time since his mind had a good tickle.

Click.

The radio was no longer playing.

Joe didn’t even think about it. He hunched over to the side of his bed, picked the loose floorboard up, and tucked away the book before his mother could get a chance to come in and see him.

He could hear her footsteps growing nearer.

Phew. Close call.

The dull hum of the TV also quieted down. Joe cast his glance at the wall clock, counting the hours to morning. His mind was still enraptured by the vivid visions of a world filled with pirates, princesses who needed saving, and swordsmen bent on revenge. He cast a longing look at the floorboards, wanting to know more, read more.

Mmmm.

Was that his mother? No. It couldn’t be. An adept tracker of footsteps, Joe knew that she was still downstairs. This could not be Amy either. She was always quiet in her room. Besides, this sounded deeper, a moan that belonged to neither his mother nor his sister.

Hello?

Mmm.

The sound seemed to be coming from the floorboard.

No. That could not be right. He had just put his book in there, and there was nothing else in it other than a couple of other books. Joe focused harder to locate the source of the sound, his eyes darting from the window to the closet.

Lying there in his bed with his blanket all the way up to his chin, Joe knew that there was nothing much to do other than stay tucked in there. If you so much as poked a foot out of the blanket, it would get you. It didn’t need to have a name to have a presence. Whatever that thing was, whether it was the boogeyman lurking in his closet or the monster under his bed, it could not touch him as long as he was snugly tucked away in the warmth and comfort of his blanket.

In what little light that his bedside lamp afforded, Joe peered harder to make sense of the sound, this low, mournful wail that had now become louder, muffling the rest of the noises in the house. Where his mother was now, Joe did not know anymore.

Maybe it was the wind, he tried to tell himself. It was a vital part of the demon drills, ascertaining that the source of their terror was just some ordinary thing playing tricks on them. A door could swing because of wind pressure. Eaves could creak under the weight of the roof. And sometimes, just sometimes, if there was a draft, the older parts of the house sounded like a woman moaning. Maybe it was just that.

But the tone of the voice, the sudden tremulation in the otherwise monotonous wallowing, eliminated the possibility that it was just the sound of wind. Wind did not sound this conniving. Wind never bore this much malice.

As the sound turned into an eerie shrill, the closet doors began opening and closing with brute force like the maws of some gaping beast, the clothes lined within akin to long teeth, the folded blanket beneath looking like a bloodred tongue, wagging, lolling.

Our Father, Joe began, closing his eyes against the sheer horror of the sight, who art in heaven. He had learned his lesson from the last time something this terrible had happened, and as a result, had memorized the Lord’s Prayer by heart. Hallowed be thy name.

Hallowed be thy name, Joe! the voice viciously mocked in its cackling tones, and now it was clear to Joe that it wasn’t the closet that resembled the face, but the sentient shape of the darkness within it that had taken the appearance of the pale-eyed watcher, staring, laughing, growing bigger in size till its entire face filled the inside of his closet.

Now it shifted, as if getting ready to move forward. A shuffle forward. The grin from ear to ear dominating the darkness.

Joe’s heart pounded like a jackhammer in his chest, a surreal mixture of fear and fascination gripping him.

Another shuffle forward.

Joe wanted to call out to his mother

(or call