Donald made a deal for fame and fortune. Now his time is up.
|My Soul to Reap
By Lisa McCourt Hollar
The cat was sitting on his couch when he got home, a large pile of money lying next to it. In the corner, Donald saw his wall safe was open, painting he used to hide it tossed to the side, as though it weren’t a Picasso that had cost him a quarter of a million dollars to buy, but a cheap knockoff fit only for the garbage. Closing the door to his penthouse, Donald stared down at the creature pawing at his money. He hated cats and his instinct was to sling the beast against the wall, but he suspected this feline was more used to two legs than four.
The cat stretched, yawning. Jumping off the couch, the creature transformed into a two legged beauty… the image of his ex-wife. Donald’s breath no longer caught at the illusion. He knew the truth of her beauty, knew that it was a deception meant to lure men and some women to their death. She was a soul sucking succubus, one that he’d once happily bedded, but now his dick hung flaccid at the thought of fucking her. He waited patiently for an answer.
“Your contract is up. I’m here to collect.”
Ignoring the threat she posed, Donald reached past her, picking up his money and counting it.
Serena snorted, “You know that’s not the kind of payment I want.”
“How many people have I killed for you over the years? Hundreds… thousands, I’ve done my job well.”
“You have,” Serena agreed, curling snake like on the couch. Her eyes, glowing yellow, watched him. “You are the best, but alas, all good things must come to an end.”
“Ah, but not yet. I have plans. Remember when I had all of London terrified? Jack, they called me. If they only knew I was working the case, covering up clues… and bringing you souls.”
“Those were good times, friend. Speaking of souls…”
“Remember New Orleans? Glasgow… or more recently, Ciudad Juarez. I’ve traveled the world for you, slitting throats, dismembering bodies, disemboweling those that you and your friends choose to dine on. Their souls have kept you young. You owe me.”
Serena sat up, her eyes black as coal. How dare he… “And we paid you, as agreed upon and you have lived for over two-hundred years. It is time to move on.”
Donald flashed a knife, slitting open his wrist, “Then let’s make a new deal. Give me the paper, I’ll sign again. There is so much left to do.” He pointed out the window to a playground across the street. “Hear them laughing? I can turn their joy into terror, send their screams to the Heavens where their pleas for mercy will go unheard. Their blood can spill into the streets, drowning the innocent while you and all of hell go on a feeding frenzy.”
Serena stared at the blood, dropping onto his white, Persian rug. Why did they always have to make it so hard?
“I am more interested in hearing your screams.” She shifted again, this time her face hideous. Worms and maggots worked their way out of wounds that lay open on her face. Donald, famous, though his true name was never spoken, his work imitated over the years by would be killers, none as competent as he was. He inspired Manson, Son of Sam… Dahmer cried out his name in his sleep, never knowing he’d said it, the man that came to him in his dreams fading when he woke. He inspired… but lately he had grown soft. Sitting in a board room, sucking souls out of wealthy old men… souls that left a bitter taste in her mouth. It was time to find someone that had the passion he had lost.”
She rose, the conversation done. There would be no negotiations. “Donald, it is time.”
“No, you promised…”
“Fame and fortune; you have both.” Pushing her hand into his chest, she pulled the thin thread, releasing his soul.
Word Count: 664