Some Are Worthless Souls
(based onBlack Sabbath's Lord of This World)

That was it, the ritual completed. Fisher had requested his audience with the Devil, it was now merely up to the Outcast to appear. So he waited, and waited. All the time the nagging doubt at the back of his mind sang ever louder in his skull. Was this a good idea ? He was no Satanist, yet he had called upon the worlds nemesis to hold conference with him. It had occurred to Fisher that he was not a good man, nor was he particularly evil. Although, given the license he would like to show some inclination to the shadow side. Hence, he had convinced himself that Lucifer was the key to his ambition, the power source that he craved. His life, one long setback following another, had driven him from God, to this, kneeling in the centre of a star drawn in blood (a dogs), awaiting an new epiphany. Perhaps it was not to be.

And yet, something was happening.
A feeling, something at the back of his neck, a feather-like touch. Before he could reach up to his neck, the touch became a sudden icy grip, an invisible claw, thrusting his face down into the blood on the floor. There it held him, the taste of blood on his lips and the cool liquid about his chin. He tried to push himself upwards, but the grip was too strong, and deathly cold. He could feel a fingernail, of some length, scratching his throat, back and forth, as he lay.
Then he felt cold, the room, the floor, everywhere, ice cold. The candles at each point of the star, began to die. Taking with them the light, and what little warmth remained. Soon, the room was in complete blackness. He was afraid, for himself, that he had dabbled in area's where he did not hold sway, where control was no longer on a human level. Something deeper, and deadlier was now in control.
Then he heard a wind, a whispering wind. It was focused on one point, directly ahead of him. He fought to raise his field of vision and gasped at the sight. In the darkness was a wraith, dancing around in a spinning, swirling pattern, trailed by red mist, dissipating as quickly as it formed. In the midst of this wind, motionless while the mist moved ever quicker around them, were two blazing red eyes, mesmeric and wholly evil. He could feel them drilling into his skull, then the very core of his being.
Then came the voice. It was calm, quiet, almost reverential. Speaking low in volume, but every word more audible than the loudest shout.
"Who are you, that would call me ?"
Fisher made to answer but the icy claw pushed him hard into the floor, and he tasted his own blood as he bit hard on the edge of his tongue.
"Who are you, that would deal with me. What manner of human would fear evil so, and yet call forth the purest source ? I have minions that work for me in this existence, they do not summon me so. And yet, a pitiful, God-fearer like you, would dare to."
The words were spoken with menace, and shook Fisher into tears. Then, more words,
"ANSWER ME !" A boom, Fisher heard objects in the room shatter, the very walls rattled. He body convulsed, as if shocked by a lightning bolt.
"I wish to serve you." He stammered in reply, his lips moving where they could, against the bloody floor.
"Serve me. You are not useful. You serve no purpose. I have servants already. You would bargain with me, not serve me. I see what is in your heart, and it is ambition. You would seek reward, for you service. Little do you know of the price."
The mist moved forward, the eyes downward, until they were almost at his forehead. He could feel heat, intense heat.
"In return for success, greed, ambition. You would barter your soul, to me. And I would aid you, as I have others, that truly serve me, while you search for what you want, at my leisure.
And what then of our bargain ? How you call me in haste to aid you. But will you call me when it's your turn to perish ?
You may believe now, of your true innocence here. That you have erred, and the path back to your God is not far away, that you know not of me, and my ways. You would be wrong. Your choice is made.
I could take your soul and your God would not miss it. It is worth little more to him than it is to me. I have souls already. Weak, pathetic souls, such as yours. They are nothing, as worthless as yours. You have nothing to bargain with."
Fisher was shaking hard, tears flowing freely now. His tongue bleeding in his mouth, and the heat scorching his face. He felt the heat move, up, over his head and down to between his shoulder blades. He felt another icy claw, scratching at his clothes, ripping them, and his flesh. He made to cry out, but his breath was stifled. The first claw was tightening around his neck, crushing his windpipes. As his lungs fought for air, the claw at his back dug opened a long wound, across his shoulder blades.
"Yet I will take recompense for travelling here."
The claw snapped his spine, and moved into his body. It's fingers closed around his heart, and took it from him.

It surprised Fisher that he could feel even though his body was lifeless. He was conscious in his death, yet imprisoned behind his eyes, seeing only the floor.
Feelings, blood on his lips, face, and still trickling from the wound across his back. Heat, from the residue of the entity that had killed him, and cold in the room. Cold in his limbs, in his skin, and a feeling that the icy grip on his neck, although gone, had not faded.
A feeling too, of loss, not just of life, but of soul. As he lay, decomposing, he knew he had lost.
Eventually, they came for him. Police, relatives, scientists. He saw it all through his lifeless eyes. They turned him over, he saw the room, then the zip on the bag they rolled him into. He saw the roof of the mortuary, felt the cold slab at his back. Felt the saw open his ribcage for the autopsy. Screamed in agony to a deaf audience. Felt every stitch as they sewed him back up.
He felt the clothes they dressed him in, saw his parents identify him, the tears in their eyes. He saw the coffin lid, as it closed over him. Then he only heard.
Heard the coffin hit the bottom of the grave, and the soil over the lid. He thought he heard the worms beneath him too, until the time came.

Heat, a red mist in the coffin with him. An icy claw in his rotting corpse, a grip on his soul.
Then he felt nothing, because He no longer existed.

Please direct all comments to