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For today's Fiction Friday feature, I am thrilled to spotlight yet another awesome horror story from none other than the man who got me into horror himself--my dear old dad.
Old Pages Beneath a Casket
by John Kiste
The sharp tang of cider was still on my lips. The wet, musty scent of brown rotting leaves still clung to the crisp night air. Everything was the same as it had been a moment before--the evening was still a cool bright, pumpkin-lit twilight, as common as that eeriest of holidays can be. The only change to the tombstone landscape was that now I was not alone. A demon had materialized on my short-cut path home from the party.
I cannot say how I knew the dark-clad stranger was an envoy from a nether world. His clothes and manner were human enough, and his slight smile was not the malevolent toothy grin of cheap Halloween ghouls that is standard equipment in pulp tales. It may have been the wisp of smoke that curled from his ears; it may have been the shriveled parchment he clutched in a gloved fist--I'm not sure what the tip-off was--but I had no doubt of his identity.
I staggered to a shaky halt before him, shot a glance to the yawning crypts around me, and attempted a smile. "What can I do for you, Mr. Scratch?" I boldly slurred.
His own smile broadened politely. His clear voice soothed. "Why, I am here at your bidding, dear mortal. Remember? At tonight's party you boasted of often beating the devil at his own game. That chance can truly be yours, this night only."
The skin at the back of my neck tried to snuggle under my scalp. I gulped. "My host's cider was strongly fermented. Nor was his vodka weak. You heard my liquor boasting, sir, not I."
The demon shrugged as his patient face fell. "Your choice." He turned away. "But alas, the rewards were so--" In the gloom of that dismal cemetery, a vision crawled into my mind. A vision of warm beaches and buxom females and icy kegs of imported draft beer that flowed forever beside the portico of a perfect domicile. I knew the demon had planted the picture. I also believed this vision was an attainable possibility--this night only.
"What is your game?" I ventured.
His patient gloved fingers produced a deck. "Twenty-one. Blackjack. The stakes: your pathetic life against utter eternal pleasure."
"My life?" I queried. "Why not my soul?"
The demon laughed. "You must be joking. We already have that quite securely."
I shrugged. The cards were not marked, and Twenty-one is my game, too. I eagerly signed his parchment with a finger prick and he dealt onto a marble marker. My hand consisted of two kings; his upturned card was merely a three.
"I'll stand," I chuckled.
"I as well," he whispered.
"Good. I've got twenty."
"And I--" he smiled, "have twenty-one."
I started to say "Impossible", but the word iced on my lips. A gray-green mist shrouded the dealer. Around him stood a multitude of moldy, fetid corpses, fiendishly staring into my brain.
The demon feigned surprise at my terror. "I merely play cards to pass the seconds while my legions assemble. It's now game time. Where are your players?"
"Players?" I stammered.
"Why, for Twenty-one. Blackjack. Count them." The demon purred, gesturing about at the slavering creatures. "There are twenty-one. And this-" He tapped the one next to him on a decaying shoulder--the one charred the color of deep midnight. "This is Jack."
Fear surged through me as advancing claws slashed the air. I shrieked and dashed blindly through the mist into the nearest open vault, barring the great door behind me.
Then I shrank shivering into a corner. Outside in the gray-green fog, corrupt half-rotted faces with empty eye sockets and lolling black and purple tongues still dance about the barred windows. There is no exit. Many hours have passed and daybreak will not come. I shall place these pages beneath a casket corner and pray that if they are ever found, the reader may avoid contact with these unfair and evil demons of October.
My own demon does not look so friendly now. His smile has become that malevolent toothy grin of cheap Halloween ghouls. Nor is he now so patient. His 'team' is pushing the vault door off its rusty hinges. The mist is pouring in...
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