Twisted: A Collection of Short Horror Stories

Deal

DEAL

Like a foreboding wall of stone, the deadline loomed above him, seemingly marching closer and closer. The phone's ringing was like nails on a chalkboard. With every call that came through, he hesitated before answering, in fear it would be his agent on the other end, ready to chew him out. 

"John... we've been over this already. Miss this deadline, and the deal will be off. You're a smart guy, and I know it. You know what's right. Do it." 

The menacing silence hung heavy after the call had ended. Massaging his temples, John sunk into his seat and eyed his abandoned laptop. His screensaver- rainbow lines- flashed and danced before him, as if taunting him. Come use the laptop. Go on, just one swipe of the trackpad.

Yet he knew his efforts of avoidance were futile. Sooner or later he would have to get on his laptop, and be met with that same glaringly blank word processor screen. Writer's block is a bastard. Forcing air through his teeth, he swiped the trackpad and settled down for a night of abruptly finished sentences and trashed, half-finished ideas. 

If he expected something different, he would be disappointed. The night was empty, and lonely, only filled with the sounds of his guzzling and the chirps of the nocturnal cicadas. He'd left his character in the middle of a treacherous forest. What would happen next? He knew. He'd get out. But he couldn't put it into words. 

Big and bold, the words 'CHAPTER 11" mocked him, a contrast against the stark blank of the page. His story plan was crumpled to the point of almost unreadability as he opened and tossed it over and over again. To say the least, it did not help. 

At approximately 2am, he slammed his laptop shut and plopped down in front of the TV. Perhaps he'd find a little inspiration. It couldn't hurt. He switched over to the news channel, watched it for a while. Hurricanes. Typhoons. Airplanes. The knot coiled in his belly relaxed a little. No news... yet. And no news is good news. 

For one more day he would be safe. Switching off the TV, he tossed the remote on the couch and moved to go to bed. He could sleep a easier tonight, even if only a bit. 

***

The weather seemed to mock him. Cheerful and sunny, the sunlight slapped him in the face: his morning call. He saw the blue of the sky; heard the sound of children laughing, like bell peals. It grated his nerves. Then the fluorescent magenta square caught his eye- it was perched haphazardly on the corner of his nightstand, as if slapped down in a hurry. 

-I'm waiting. It's been over a month. Why do you think you've been having trouble?-

John cursed, swiping up the note and shoving it into his pocket. Had it been a month already? He'd started to think that jerk had gone on over their deal. But in reality, it was he. 

Nice colour pick, he chuckled to himself, shaking his head at the pink scrap of paper. He had a job to accomplish. After showering, and dressing himself, he strolled down the hallway and into the kitchen.

"John."

"Woah... you scared me!" John let out a nervous laugh, leaning on the edge of the counter. 

"As is my intention." 

"Why are you here?" 

"Oh, you know why I'm here. Did you get my note?"

"Certainly did. Don't worry, I'm going out today." 

"You better."

And with that, he disappeared, leaving behind his trademark whiff of rotten eggs. 

John prepared his customary mug of coffee and toast, cursing as he spilled boiling coffee down his shirt. His hands were still trembling as he buttoned up his change of shirt. Within a few minutes he was out the door and cruising down the roads. 

He frowned. The streets were unusually empty. A hand clapped down on his shoulder, and the familiar smell of eggs filled his nostrils. He rushed to pull over. 

"Ah, one more thing, mate."

"Damn. You enjoy scaring me don't you?"

"As always," Satan chuckled, tapping his curved onyx nails on the side of his head. "Anyways, just hear me out. I've got a... proposal."

"What is it?"

"Eager, aren't you. Well, let's just say that I have an ultimate deal. Give me one particular life and I'll grant you your talent for eternity."

"Whose life?"

"My, my, dear boy, you're smarter than you seem. Let's say it's not someone you'll miss terribly."

"I want a name, if you don't mind."

Satan's eyebrows jerked up, and with a leer he revealed the pointed tips of his teeth. "Getting gutsy now. Well, I do mind. I'll tell you only after the deal is sealed." 

Knuckles flashing white, John gripped the steering wheel, chewing the inside of his cheek. Who could it be? He had a girlfriend... His parents were long gone, and he was an only child. He decided that he could off his girlfriend if it meant having his ability for all eternity. 

Sucking in a mouthful of air, he let it go in one whoosh along with his answer: "Deal." 

Satan roared with laughter, eyes curved menacingly and teeth all on display. "I never tire of this!" 

"Name, please?" 

"Alright, alright. But first, here you go. I'll be nice." John felt the cold metal being pushed into his hands, heavy as the weight in the pits of his stomach. "Here's a gun. It's gonna be a quick one." Hand in a gun shape, Satan pressed at his temples and, with a grin, said "Bang!" 

John felt his mouth go dry. 

"You... you want me to kill myself?" He choked on the words, feeling a lump grow in his throat.

"To put it bluntly, yes. You'll go down to Hell with me, and I'll let you write. Forever." 

John peered down at the foreign object in his hand, staring at his reflected eyes, which were wide with terror. 

"And yes, you must do it yourself. You know... it's you, sacrificing yourself to me! So, John Morris, I'd like you to kill... John Morris!" Satan let out a hearty guffaw. "And you have no choice about either, so let's get this over with, eh?" 

"Is there... any other way? I don't know how to use a gun."

"Why, silly, silly me. Hm. Well, I suppose you could crash the car..."

Turning to face the main road, John started up the car and accelerated forward. He was frightened. Not because of the notion of death, but because he realised that he had nothing to lose: the realisation that nothing chained him to his life. The realisation that he could just let go. 

The last thing he saw was the screeching red of a stop sign.

Darkness.

Pain.

Laughter.

The pungent aroma of rotten eggs.

"Welcome, John," accompanied with a leering grin.