My storyteller marched into my room this afternoon on his way to the bus. No hello, hi, or how are you doing?
"Do you know el diablo?" he blurted out.
"I don't know him...." I said slowly, wondering where this was going. "But I know who he is."
"He's so bad. He's evil. He made monsters, and witches, and goblins, and death, and black things like black cats, and monsters, and horrible things. He's horrible and awful. He lives down below, down there. And he's so bad. He's evil. He's the davel. The DAVEL. And if you kiss his wife he'll kill you and drink your blood. Your blood."
I couldn't help myself. "Whose his wife?" I asked.
There was a long pause. A confused, yet irritated look. I was interfering with his drama.
"You know, the davel wife. But he's SO evil. And he made Halloween. So that's why you can't eat candy on Halloween. You have to go to church instead."