Payson’s Succubus

by Charles C. Cole

Payson Menville’s gentle, long-suffering wife, Amelia, had been “gone” to cancer for two years. They had been together for four decades. He still missed her. He was profoundly lonely, especially in the dark. In fact, he sometimes left the lights on at bedtime and slept on the couch in front of the TV.

One day, in the strip mall near his local grocery store, Payson noticed a new business, one that sold “antiques” on consignment. The grocery store had been out of his favorite frozen waffles, so Payson decided he deserved an alternative treat.

The aisles were narrow and the displays haphazardly organized. There was everything from furniture to jewelry to coffee-table sculptures to ornate mirrors, but what drew him was a sealed ceramic bowl. It looked like something that belonged in a museum. It had worn writing on the lid. He brought it to the bored young girl at the register. “I have to ask, do you know what it says?”

She shrugged. “I just know it’s old.”

“Do you know if it opens?” asked Payson.

“Mister, this is my second day, and I can’t remember the owner’s first name. This is not how I expected to use my college education. Do you want it? I’ll take five dollars off for senior citizen’s discount.”

At home, Payson shook the bowl. It felt empty, so why was he so compelled to open it? He found a large adjustable wrench and box-cutter knife in the garage and broke the seal with muscles he’d forgotten he once had. There was nothing inside. He put the urn (that’s what it was!) on the coffee table and drifted off.

That night he dreamed of darkness and a woman, who smelled of exotic oils, climbing on top of him and having her way with him. She was invisible, no matter how much he squinted, but he could hear her moaning and feel the weight of her. Once he’d reached up for her smooth shoulders, but she quickly held his arms down.

In the morning, Payson showered. He was tired. The evening’s events had been so real, embarrassingly. In the bathroom mirror, he thought he could just make out faint bruising on his arms. At first, he was “objectively” curious, then the whole thing became laughably ludicrous. He quickly dressed and left for coffee with his fellow retiree, Stanley.

From their small table against the front window, Payson noticed the coffee shop was filled with nubile young women in tight leggings. Was that new or had he been too dead inside to notice?

“They’re gonna kick you out for staring,” said Stanley.

“Sorry,” said Payson, turning to his companion. “I forgot how much I liked the female form.”

“We’ll stop at the bookstore and get you a magazine; you can get reacquainted.”

“I had ‘one of those’ dreams last night.”

“Lucky bastard,” said Stanley.

“If I’m being honest, I think it was a succubus,” said Payson. “I woke up exhausted.”

“For God’s sake, take tonight off. Send her to my place. I’ve got nothing planned.”

Payson had said enough. He didn’t mention the antique urn. He must have freed her! Or maybe it had been a very vivid, very amorous dream.

That night Payson climbed into bed and, in his words, dozed with one eye open until he drifted off. In the middle of the night, his invisible she-demon returned, and she was not gentle. He wanted to resist, but he found his body and her unseen body had other ideas.

In the morning, Stanley knocked on Payson’s front door, holding two cups of coffee. It was almost ten. Payson had slept through his alarm.

“Sorry,” said Payson. “Come in.”

“Rough night?” asked Stanley, then he smiled and nodded like they were sharing a secret. “Of course, it was.”

“Let’s sit on the back deck,” said Payson. “I need to get out of the house.” Then he explained.

To his surprise, Stanley took it all seriously. “You look washed out. If you were a fit man in your forties, you could probably keep this up for weeks, but you’re not. She’s killing you. That’s what they do, while they’re having their way with you; they drain your life energy. I did some reading on the Internet. If she’s been in that urn for as long as you think, she’s probably starving.”

“She’s very... utilitarian,” said Payson. “She gets the job done, but there’s no tenderness or finesse. I feel used. What do I do?”

“Get rid of the urn. Her energy is attached to it.”

“I can’t just throw her in the trash,” said Payson.

“Give her to me.”

“You said it: she’ll kill you.”

“There are worse ways to go,” said Stanley.

“She’s dangerous.”

“I’ll try her for a week. What’s the worst thing that can happen? They find my shriveled corpse with the biggest shit-eating grin since those cannibals dined on Michael Rockefeller.”

“Fine. Take the thing. God knows I don’t want it.”

Payson’s phone rang just after midnight. He grabbed it on the first ring. “Stanley?”

“She’s everything you said. I don’t think I can keep up.”

“Are you okay?” asked Payson.

“She’s dragging me back to bed. Gotta go.”

“Don’t hurt yourself.”

“I’m going for an all-nighter, like I used to do at college. Talk tomorrow.”

Stanley didn’t show in the morning. Payson called the police for a welfare check. Stanley was found in his bed. Payson didn’t ask for details.

A few days later, the manager of Stanley’s retirement community let Payson do a walk-through, collect a few things he had loaned Stanley, like his cribbage board and chess set. The urn was nowhere to be seen. Instinctively, Payson went back to the antique store, but it wasn’t there.

Payson did some online research. Some she-demons can temporarily “rematerialize” to physical form if they’ve ingested enough life force. One morning, as Payson entered the coffee shop, a beautiful Mediterranean woman brushed past him. She smiled. She smelled of familiar exotic herbs.