I heard this one quite a bit growing up. There was no shortage of Devilskins in my family. I think the saying probably came from devil's kin, but the idea of a devil skin intrigues me greatly. It sparked an idea for a rather experimental story.
He found it on that path through the graveyard. At first he thought it was an old coat someone had left behind. A crumpled leather coat in the middle of the path. He picked it up and saw what it really was – a shriveled skin. It was like a person suit with no person inside.
Quick as a wink he put it on. It smelled like burned matches, but it was smooth and soft. It hugged around his body and his head so only his face was his own. He liked it.
The story is sitting unfinished right now, because it started down a path I didn't like, one that lead away from that graveyard path where it started. I've gone back to try and find my way. I won't be surprised if I'm led astray again.
It's what Devilskins do best.
My A to Z Challenge on Writing Away