The first time Satan came to me, I was fifteen. I’d just had a nasty row with my eldest sister, and I was hiding away in my bedroom, staring down at the moonlit street below. He appeared as if from thin air and beckoned for me to open the window. I hesitated only a moment before acquiescing. He was beautiful, all muscle and sinew and eyes bright as embers. I knew immediately who he was, and yet I wasn’t afraid. When he smiled at me, I smiled back. He extended his hand to my cheek, caressing the spot where tears had freshly fallen.

“What troubles you my child?” His voice was soft, lulling. I closed my eyes, savoring his comforting touch.

“I wish to leave this place.”

“Why is that, my child?” He withdrew his hand and leaned back against the window sill, his expression assessing.

“I don’t belong here, in this house. My sisters despise me, and my parents barely even notice or acknowledge my presence. What torture it is to be among so many and yet feel so alone.”

“But you aren’t alone, my child. I am here.” He took one of my hands in his, and I clung to it like a child does to its mother. “One day, when you are older and wiser, I will come and fetch you. One day, we will leave this place for somewhere greater, somewhere so spectacular you cannot even fathom it.”

“But I want to go now!” I sounded like a petulant child.

“Shh, my child. I will come to you again before then, do not fret. But you must swear to me one thing. Can you do that?” I nodded. “Swear to me that you will always open the window when I call.”

“I swear,” I replied, gripping his fingers tighter. His smile grew, and for the first time since meeting him I felt a twinge of fear.

“Very good, my child.” He released my hand. “Until we meet again.”