It was over by Agatha. He could have sworn it was next to his plate not ten seconds ago.
He could also have sworn that he had seen out of the corner of his eye, a dim red flash—across the table.
It was after supper. Walter was sitting in the front room, reading his paper and wishing he dared smoke a cigar.
“Walter!”
He looked up. Agatha was standing in the kitchen doorway. Her face was white.
He got up slowly, went into the kitchen. “Look, Walter.”
He looked. The dishes were all washed and shining and stacked neatly into place.
“Very good, dear,” said Walter vaguely, searching for some new compliment. “Very fast, too—”
“You fool! I didn’t do these dishes!”
“Huh?”
“No. I was standing over by the icebox, putting food away, and wishing that I—well, I was wishing that I had a husband who was considerate enough of his wife to do the dishes for her. And I thought I saw something red.”
“Red?”
“Yes. Behind me. A—a flash, sort of. I turned around, and there they were. Done!”
“Oh,” said Walter weakly. Then he caught sight of the ring on Agatha’s finger.
It was glowing like ruby fire.
* * *
About four o’clock the next morning, Walter Simmons was quite rudely awakened. Beside him, Agatha was screaming over and over in a shrill falsetto. Screaming, and still asleep.
Abruptly she woke, and clung, trembling, to him for a good five minutes before he managed to soothe her.
“Walt,” she sobbed hysterically. “Oh, Walt! I had a bad dream.”
She had not called him Walt for almost ten years now.
“I dreamt,” she whispered, “that this ring had a funny little red man inside, and he was laughing at me and hiding. I wanted him to break the crystal, and let me see him, but he wouldn’t.
“Then, all of a sudden, he did show me his face. Oh, it was… awful.” She sobbed shudderingly. Then she was silent.
She gazed dreamily into the ring.
Walter Simmons moistened his lips. He said, “Agatha.
“Agatha!”
She gave a little jump, and turned on him. “What?”
“Look, Agatha. Why don’t you sell the ring?”
“Sell it?”
He gulped, took a firm hand on his courage. “Yes. After all, you said you were afraid.”
Agatha looked at the ring. She was smiling strangely.
“I know. But I—I’ve changed my mind.”
Walter Simmons left for the office next morning with a sickening apprehension gnawing at his insides. His fears were not relieved by the sight of Agatha, after breakfast, sitting on the sofa, staring at the winking bit of rosy crystal on her finger.
She did not even bid him good-bye.
That evening, Walter did not go home. He went instead to the library, and spent a good hour and a half browsing through the section marked “Demonology” before he found what he wanted.
FAMILIAR—he read. A demon given to a sorcerer or witch as part of his compact with Satan. In the olden times they inhabited usually the body of a toad or black cat. Of late, however, it has been found more convenient to use for the dwelling-place of the familiar some more personal object—such as a bracelet, a necklace, or ring—
“Ah,” said Walter very softly. He read on.
…And if the owner of the familiar dies, or his compact with Satan runs out, then the imp should be buried with him. In the event another human comes into possession of the familiar, it owes him temporary allegiance—though it can, perforce, commit whatever mischievous pranks it will. Should the name of God be mentioned in the familiar’s presence—
Walter Simmons gulped as he read the next few lines. He jumped up and went out of the library hurriedly, his short fat legs pumping, eyes wide.
He knew now who the impeccably dressed stranger had been.
He knew about the ring.
And—he had a very good idea what would happen should Agatha wear that ring to church tomorrow.
When he arrived home, Agatha was huddled over on the sofa, staring into the ring. She looked up as he came in, gave him a dreamy smile. “Oh, are you home already?”
Walter blinked.
“Look, Walt! Look at my coat.”
He glanced briefly at the new fur wrap, and nodded. “Yes, dear. Very nice.”
“Just wait ’till they see me tomorrow with it at church. And with this ring.” She smiled in anticipation.
Walter blinked again. There was something odd about his wife’s behavior.
“Agatha,” he whispered numbly. “You’ve got to listen. That ring. You mustn’t wear it tomorrow to church.”
Agatha looked at him. “Why not?”
“Because. It’s evil. Look, dear. Do me a favor, will you?”
She nodded, absently.
“Make a wish. Wish that, oh, that supper would be ready. Right now.” Agatha’s lips moved. For an instant the crystal on her finger sparkled with unearthly brilliance, and Walter thought he saw something red streaking toward the kitchen—and then back again.
“Now,” he managed. “Come into the kitchen.”
Walter had half-expected to see what he did, but the sight was still rather frightening.
The roast was done. The table was all set. The potatoes had been mashed and the salad was made. Everything ready to go on the table.
“There,” he said weakly. “See that?”
Agatha was smiling. “Of course. It’s the ring”
Walter fought down the black wave of panic that closed on his insides. “Then you’ll get rid of it? Sell it, or—”
“Of course not. I rather like this ring now. Sort of… fascinating.” She kept staring at it.
Walter argued and pleaded all through supper, but to no avail. Agatha liked the ring. She would wear it tomorrow morning to church and nothing Walter could say or do would change her mind.
That was that.
* * *
At church services next morning, all their neighborhood acquaintances were properly awed by Agatha’s new coat. They oh’d and ah’d, as Agatha smirked, and displayed it to her heart’s content.
A dull, fatalistic feeling had fallen upon Walter. He did not even respond to his wife’s most barbed insults, paid no heed to her hisses of “Walter! Sit up straight. Everybody’s looking at us!”
But as the service slowly dragged through the next hour, Agatha stopped prodding him. She was staring into the crystal on her finger, as if hypnotized. Walter closed his eyes very tightly as he remembered what he had read…
Somehow he couldn’t stop trembling.
At the conclusion of the hymns, the pastor turned to the congregation and lifted his hands for the blessing.
This was it. Walter held his breath. The minister’s voice thundered out.
“In God’s name, may peace reign!”
As the pastor uttered the words, Walter felt Agatha stiffen beside him.
Then she screamed. Horribly.
Everywhere there was commotion, a babble of excited voices, people shouting and demanding to know what had happened, ushers exclaiming and hurrying forward.
Very slowly, Walter Simmons turned. He looked at Agatha’s face.
Her eyes were wide and staring, and at the expression in them, he felt the short hairs bristle at the nape of his neck.
He looked at the ring.
He was not surprised to see the dim red glow gone. Instead the crystal was white and lusterless, as if—whatever dwelt in it had fled forever.
Walter wondered briefly how the familiar had looked to Agatha, as it came out of the ring.
There were no complications. Heart failure, the coroner said.
At the funeral, many were the strange remarks at Walter Simmons’ strange apathy.
“Don’t look a bit sad,” one of his friends whispered. “Well, that’s not surprising either, if you knew how Agatha treated him. A regular shrew, she was.”
The good neighbors of Walter Simmons might have been a great deal more concerned than they were, had they seen him the next night—seen him in the cemetery, digging furtively in a grave which could not have been over a week or two old. A grave with the name “Jonathan Miles” inscribed on the headstone.