The Devil's Workshop

I. Arrival

Some people speculate that he likes small towns the best, for it's a lot easier to make an entrance. But the opinions vary so, that the tale gets murky the more one tries to pry out the specifics.

It was hot and it was noon, that's the one detail every settler could agree on. The wagon was travelling at a very slow pace, yet every time someone looked for it on the horizon, it felt like the the distance between them had shortened more than it should have.

At first it was but a brown spot in the far ends of the valley. As it grew closer, they could almost make out a horse hidden in the heat haze.

Once the wagon was upon them, the few women that were still outside had nearly forgotten to pretend to swipe their floors; the kids that were caught ogling were rushed indoors; windows were shut, doors barricaded. Brave men, as they often do, stood very still in their places; smart men were nowhere near to be found.

The Devil paraded onwards, past the small multitude, acknowledging no one and no thing on his path. The settlers were almost relieved to watch his cart trot right out of their settlement when he stopped dead in his tracks. Before him was an old abandoned cottage, that for years had stood unclaimed at the farthest end of their lonesome town.

The Devil mounted off and the people watched as he silently loaded off a single wooden chest off his carriage that he promptly rushed inside the cottage.

Soon night had fallen,  but the only other indication that they hadn't imagined his arrival was the black smoke coming out of his chimney and the candlelight that burned throughout that entire first night.

The first few days went by rather fast, with no credible sightings of the foreigner. The settlers' curiosity quickly started to dissipate the more the demands of the every day stayed present, and the more the Devil stayed absent. By day five they had almost completely forgotten he had been there at all.

And thus the sixth night came, (or the seventh depending on whom you'd ask), and the Devil made his first public appearance.

Some people claim the musicians stopped playing, but others insist that they did not, and are instead convinced that it was simply the oppressive feeling that had invaded the saloon once he'd walked in, that had made it feel like it had suddenly fallen silent.

The Devil calmly marched towards the bar and waited patiently as the bartender poured a drink for him. Slowly everybody felt comfortable enough to pretend to go back to their usual sins; be it gambling, smoking or drinking, one thing was certain: he surely couldn't be there to cast judgement.

The Devil finished his drink and left behind a single gold coin that stayed guarding a black card. As soon as he'd walked out the door, everybody left in there had gathered around the bartender to intrude; this time, everybody agrees, the musicians did stop playing. 

The coin was hefty and had a curious skull-shaped design. On the back of the card was a silver inscription:

Mr. L's Workshop

Antidotes and Repairs 

What the card could possibly mean or encompass, most people did not dare guess. They passed the card around from hand to hand, jokes were told, bets were made, and then the card had to go and make it into the hands of one Hamish Beckett: an old man who had lived in that settlement since before anybody else had.

"I've seen one of these before." He said gravely.

Horrified shrieks and groans of frustration followed as the old man proceeded to tear the card into pieces. The old man remained unbothered by his detractors.

"Watch." He silenced them.

After a few seconds of resting lifeless on his table, the bits of the card started to reach for one another. Before the audience could blink, the card had come back together and showed no signs of harm.

The old man flicked the card to show there was no trick.

People started whispering to one another.

"So what does it do?" Someone asked.

Beckett smoked from his pipe and shrugged.

"It's supposed to fix problems." He said.

"What kind of problems?"

"Any problems. Mortal problems."

There was a pause. The entire saloon seemed deep in thought.

"Can it fix John Borland's tiny problem?" Someone joked.

John Borland pulled out his gun on the jokester, but the people around him dissuaded him from starting a confrontation.

"Yes." Beckett interrupted the conflict "Anything you can think of. Although..." He trailed off.

His audience waited patiently for him to finish the sentence.

"I say it ends up creating more problems than it's worth. You'd be best off losing this card." He said as he got off to leave.

***