A Fistful of Horror - Tales Of Terror From The Old West (30 page)

The Devil checked his pocket watch and nodded. “As agreed I won’t kill them and eat their souls. It does seem that the earthquake has arrived right on schedule however.”

Pastor John shook uncontrollably as the Devil went over to the bar and calmly poured himself another drink. He looked longingly over at the doorway and then back to the Devil at the bar again. Nat began choking and fell to the floor. A chorus of coughing filled the room.

The Devil sat on the bar stool then swivelled around to face the room again, drink in hand.

Pastor John’s eyes were stinging and watering and his throat felt like it was seizing up. He heard a choking noise from the corner of the room as one of the old gold miners fell to the floor, clawing at his mouth.

The Devil smiled at them all. “Industrious little humans, burrowing down; deep down into the earth for the pretty metal. The mines under this town run deep. Too deep for you, I’m afraid. That entirely natural little earthquake there has broken through into one of the many pockets of poisonous gas below the earth hereabouts. Now it floods up into the town through the mine workings.”

He turned to Pastor John and nodded knowingly. “I did say that I wouldn’t kill them. I didn’t say I would save them from Death now did I?”

Pastor John felt some force drag him across the dusty floor to stand at the Devil’s side.

The Devil raised his glass, toasting the choking room of the dying.

“Chin Chin!”

He downed his drink, tossed the glass aside and then plunged his hand into Pastor John’s chest, fingers clawing around his heart, tearing…

***

“…and you will never guess what happened after that,” the man said as he placed his empty whisky glass back on the bar counter to join its sisters. “I later found out that when I toasted saying ‘chin chin’ that in Japanese I was saying ‘penis’. Ha!” He laughed and slapped the bar with one pale, manicured hand.

Smiling sickly, Brett poured him another whisky. “Far out story, mate. So that’s where you got the scar yeah? When that US Marshal shot you in the head?”

The Stranger rubbed the scar on his forehead. “It is. Every scar tells a story. I decided to keep this one as a memento of sorts.”

Probably a knock on the head that caused that scar, Brett mused. The man was a weirdo.

Brett hiked up his t-shirt, showing a large curving ragged scar across his side. “Check this out. Bloody big shark took a bite out of me back in my surfing days. Mean old bastard, too. Supposed to punch them on the nose I hear – screw that! How the flamin’ Hell are you supposed to punch a shark? Lucky I tasted like crap hey, spat me right back out.” It wasn’t a dirty great shark that did it though, in reality he’d simply gotten caught up in some farm machinery. It was a pretty boring story really. The stranger wasn’t the only one who could tell tall tales. It was just a bit of fun and, after all, he was Australian: people were bound to believe it was a dirty great shark bite.

The stranger’s mouth twitched and he shook his head slightly, looking faintly disappointed. “It’s a shame that you only have physical eyes. I have scars like you would not believe.”

“I can believe that mate. So your name is Lucifer then? The big bad Devil himself, hey?”

The stranger tilted his head. “Lucifer actually referred to a king of Babylon, but the inference is correct. Old Nick, Abaddon, Rex Mundi, Beelzebub…I have been called by many names. I choose to go by Satan mostly. The Adversary has a nice ring to it. I never did like being called Little Horn. I tried and tried to get that particular name removed from that idiot book. We can’t always get what we want however; I’m living proof of that.” He half-laughed then chucked the whisky down the back of his throat.

Brett nodded, trying to look sincere while edging closer to the security buzzer beneath the counter. Lots of harmless drunks liked to ramble and tell tall tales to escape their shitty lives. They came out with all sorts of fantastical stories. Who cared if this man’s story was a crock of shit? His wallet was still stuffed with dollars. Mind you, he was crazy as a loon.

“So why were you in the bar and not in Hell?” he asked the stranger, just to keep the man happy.

The stranger grinned across the bar at him. “Why, this
is
Hell. My domain. Hell on Earth is not just a clichéd expression, Brett. Do you think I wanted to spend eternity confined to one boring mud-ball?”

He sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “I actually do love this world. I always have. Immortality confined to one world is just…wearisome. On that note, I shall try the ‘slippery nipple’ next if you would be so kind.”

The jukebox clicked and the Rolling Stones began playing;
Sympathy for the Devil
.

Brett prepared the cocktail as the man turned to watch Rebekah gyrating against the metal pole on the stage. He was not entirely sure if the man had gone without his medication for too long. A creepy feeling was beginning to steal over him the more he listened to the man’s ramblings. He was just so sincere. He really believed his own crazy story.

The man looked back and lifted his cocktail “Here’s to humans! One day soon you will give me wings again. Woe betide those sanctimonious pricks up there when I get done with humanity! A little nudge here and there and you will be storming the heavens before you know it.”

Brett watched him take a gulp of the cocktail. The man could really handle his drink; this was his sixth drink in an hour.

“So why the bar then?” Brett asked, “I mean if you
are
immortal why waste it in that bar in a nowhere-ville town?”

The stranger toyed with the glass in his hand, his eyes unfocused. “I was there when they buried Gobekli Tepe and Eden turned to dust. I was there at the destruction of the tower of Babel. I stood and watched the crucifixion of Christ. I was there when Rome fell. I walked through empty villages and abandoned fields, amongst the horror of the Black Death as it raged through Europe. I stood and fought knee deep in blood and mud in the trenches of France. I watched rapt as Neil Armstrong stepped out of a flimsy vehicle made from tin foil and metal coat hangers to walk on the moon. I was thrown out of the première of
The Exorcist
for laughing too much…”

His head rose to look at Brett. “When you have been through all that this world has to offer – and even I have loved and lost – it is impossible not be become somewhat inured to pain and loss, yes,
and
love and joy as well.”

The man sighed and drained the last of his cocktail. “I wear this meat-suit for a reason, Brett. I seek to bear the ennui and apathy of immortality by experiencing emotion: the pain and the loss, the joy and love that humanity brings. Angels are cold as ice. All rules, duty and ‘thou shalt not’. I am fire; adventure, freedom and passion. Think, then, what cruel punishment they inflict on one such as I – to confine me to this one single world when once I strode across galaxies, though glorious nebulae and bathed in the fires of stars. What chance have I, when friends or lovers die in a paltry century? I simply cannot repeat it all again and again, loss without an end, hope without a beginning.” He indicated the bottle of Scotch again and his glass was quickly filled.

“Still, it is good to feel something.
Anything.
Good or bad. It is the yawning abyss of emptiness that I fear. You may call me a slave to sensation. So be it. I am just so damn bored!”

Brett swallowed and pressed the security buzzer under the bar. He had heard enough. “Hey mate, I think you’ve had enough drink. Time to drink up and leave.”

The man grinned and lifted a black metal box from his pocket. He placed it on the bar and flipped the lid open. “Have a heart, Brett! Pastor John’s to be exact.”

Something fleshy and pink was in the box, still pulsing slowly.

The Devil roared with laughter as Brett stumbled back, causing some glasses to shatter on the floor. There was a thump as Rebekah coughed and fell from the stage.

All the glasses behind Brett began clinking and rattling. A glass tottered and fell from the bar, shattering across the floor. He grabbed onto the bar and held tight as the floor shook beneath him, causing a torrent of glass to shower over him. A growing dread made him look into the man’s eyes.

The Devil nodded and raised his glass. “I probably should have told you earlier. This town once had another bar, lifetimes ago for your kind. I see this as an anniversary of sorts.”

“Chin chin!” He threw back the tequila and sat back to watch as Brett began choking, his throat burning.

The Devil licked his lips. “I am hungry today.” He smiled.

The door squealed as somebody entered the bar. Brett spun around, looking for help. Anything!

A grizzled old man with one eye, wearing a tan trench coat, limped into the bar, looking like he had the weight of the world on his shoulders. He clutched a battered old leather bible in his one remaining hand.

The Devil’s smile faded and he scowled at the stranger. He sighed and drew out a pack of cards from his pocket, tossing them down on the bar counter. “Last Chance Saloon indeed. Keeps it interesting I suppose. Why do you make me do this? Why do you sacrifice more of yourself each and every time?”

A hint of sadness flickered across the Devil’s face.

The Devil sighed. “Blackjack?”

The man nodded gravely.

The Devil turned back to Brett as he struggled to breathe with lungs full of gas, his eyes stinging. “Let me tell you another, better story, barman. A preacher man walked into a bar…”

ABOUT THE AUTHORS

A.R. Aston

A.R. Aston is a science-fiction and horror author from Derbyshire in the Midlands. His previous work includes the
Stone Mind
series, currently available on Amazon, as well as a number of anthology appearances. A graduate from Nottingham Trent University, A.R. Aston particularly enjoys writing horror tales set in the past and the dark and uncertain future.

Lisamarie Lamb

Lisamarie Lamb has written various short stories, plays, poems and novels in different genres, including romance and children’s books, but she believes that horror is where she is at her best. Her novel,
Mother’s Helper
and a collection of short stories,
Some Body’s at the Door
, are available now.

Donald Jacob Uitvlugt

Donald Jacob Uitvlugt lives on neither coast of the United States, but mostly in a haunted memory palace of his own design. His short fiction has appeared in a number of print and online venues, including the
Wily Writers
podcast,
Necrotic Tissue
and the
Journal of Unlikely Entomology
. His work has appeared in numerous anthologies, including Cruentus Libri Press’ own
100 Horrors: Tales of Horror in the Blink of an Eye
. He writes small stories with a big impact and you can find out more at http://haikufiction.blogspot.com

John Hunt

A busy father of four, John Hunt is a published writer who started writing in late 2009. Most of his writing is done during his spare time. He lives and works in the city of Guelph, Ontario, Canada with his wife, four children, a dog and two cats.

Paco

Paco lives in Washington with his wife, Etta, two children, Dominique and Raquel, six cats and a beautiful baby named Audrey. He earned a Bachelor’s degree in English from American Military University and is working towards an MFA in Creative Writing. His short story ‘Dining In’ will appear in the forthcoming anthology,
A Quick Bite of Flesh
, from Hazardous Press.

Allen Jacoby

Allen Jacoby has appeared in past and forthcoming anthologies from Cruentus Libri Press, Dead Avenue Press, Wicked East Press and Rainstorm Press. He created and manages the website http://terriblygoodstuff.com, which posts horror flash fiction, book reviews and other horror elements from around the Internet.

Roxanne Dent

Roxanne Dent has sold eight novels and just finished her ninth,
The Poison Pen Murders
, a Victorian mystery. She has also appeared in a number of existing and forthcoming anthologies. She is currently working on her tenth novel,
The Janus Demon
, a paranormal fantasy.

David Thomas

David Thomas spends his time looking between the rain, the word and the pub for the story and, for his sins, he sometimes finds it.

Kevin G. Bufton