“It is done.” The demon vanished, leaving a faint acrid smell of smoke and scorch marks on the ceiling.
Xander rubbed his eyes. Did that really happen? Maybe it was a dream. But the sandwich was gone. He made some toast, and wondered.
In the middle of the night he sat bolt upright. He knew what to paint. He ran downstairs, set up a new canvas, and set to work.
A few days later there was a knock at the door. Xander was loath to stop, he was on a roll, but the knocking continued. He snatched the door open.
“I’m working, Fabian,” he yelled and went back inside.
Fabian strolled in. “That’s good, because otherwise I’d have to ask for the advance back. My little gallery can’t afford – what’s that?”
Xander continued to paint. “Just something from my imagination.”
“It’s very striking. How long till it’s finished?”
“I don’t know, but longer if you don’t leave me alone.”
“Okay, okay. I’ll pop back next week.”