The Constant Sacrifice

I try not to think that life is meaningless, that there is indeed a point to living. I couldn’t understand that concept until I realized that I was living in the past. Dwelling is a curse of its own; then again, I had no idea what the future held.

I became an officer at a large police department after finishing school. I thought that law enforcement was work that had purpose to it. I was quickly mistaken. Don’t worry, it’s not all gloom and doom with me – I’m a ray of sunshine most days. I find happiness in simple things like good coffee and quiet mornings. There’s something refreshing about quiet solitude that calms me down, the feeling that each new day brings a fresh start. I needed that fresh start and I needed to forget the mistakes that I had made. Leaving the city and moving South was the best decision I’d made in years. I tried to view the move as a reinvention of myself, and I figured that a more relaxed lifestyle could help get me back on track.

My new home was Smithfield, Virginia, a small town not too far from the Pagan River. It was historic and picturesque, with plenty of open land for me to have a quarter-life meltdown in private. I was also drawn to a newly-added deputy position at the sheriff’s office. They hired me over the phone and even offered a higher salary than my current position. This would be a significant change from the long hours and strenuous city police work I was used to. I was already falling in love with the place. This town was my new beginning, or at least a temporary break from the chaos I lived in. Maybe I would find a reason to care here.

I arrived during a hot and stormy summer to start as deputy. I noticed immediately that this town was firmly rooted in its established traditions and probably hadn’t changed much over the years. The water was located nearby with several docks and boat-launching sites behind bait and tackle shops. I planned to get some fishing in; I hadn’t gone in years. There were so many things that I missed doing before I got busy with my work, that the thought of getting out and exploring my new home already put me in a better mood.

I found the sheriff’s office near the courthouse with only two patrol cars in the parking lot. The office looked deserted, but so did every store downtown. As I parked I noticed an elderly man walking on the opposite side of street in antiquated Western garb. The man stopped once he noticed me and I waved at him. He tipped his hat, winked at me, and continued alone down the sidewalk. I walked into the sheriff’s office to find the sheriff himself sitting behind his desk sipping coffee and reading the local paper, The Colonial Gazette. Sheriff Dillard was an older, sturdy man who had been sheriff for the past two decades. He stood up as I walked over and extended my hand for introductions.

“Sheriff Warren Dillard. Welcome to our little town,” he stated.

He firmly shook my hand, then, as if he could read my mind, slid another cup of coffee across the desk towards me.

“Glad to be here. It’s a whole different scene for me,” I admitted as I wrapped my hands around the warm ceramic mug.

“Yeah, I reckon it is.” He grabbed a yellow folder with my name on it.

For the next hour, we discussed my duties as deputy and when I should come in again to begin working. The sheriff wanted me to get settled in and not feel pressured to start working right away. He gave me the contact information for a local landlord and recommended a few places to eat.

I took Warren’s advice and grabbed breakfast at the local diner. The food was decent, but the people were… something else. It took only a few moments for all of the customers and staff to collectively notice that I was new here. Thank goodness for Southern hospitality – the wait staff seated me at the counter and graciously talked with me throughout my breakfast. I do love breakfast; however, I am not extremely social. It’s not that I am rude to strangers who want to talk, but I typically don’t have much to say. As my server, Annie, went into meticulous detail describing the big Fourth of July celebration the town has every year, I was suddenly distracted by a loud crashing sound from behind where I sat. I turned to see a frazzled-looking mother seated in a booth by the door, looking around wildly as she proceeded to push every plate, cup, fork, and the napkin dispenser off of her table. The whole diner went silent as the patrons all turned to look at her.

“How can y’all just sit there and watch me like this?!” she shouted.

She was frantically bouncing an infant on her lap as another young child looked around in fear from the other side of the booth. Her dark hair was a mess as she pulled strands away from the side of her mouth. Her eyes were wild and manic, and she had a look about her that suggested she had not had a restful night’s sleep in some time.

Annie immediately pulled out her phone to make a call. The mother stared back at the diner patrons, as if daring someone to say something before she launched into her next outburst.

“Please! I have children. I can’t anymore! I can’t!” she cried.

She looked so helpless and confused. I stood up from the counter and walked over to her. As I approached her, I saw her face in more detail. Her eyes had large dark bags underneath them, surrounded by wrinkles. Her lips and mouth were dry, and the dark hair was starting to gray. This woman couldn’t have been over 30, but she looked terribly unhappy and unhealthy.

“Ma’am, is there something I can help you with?” I asked.

Her gaze finally met mine and I had to take a step back. She had a stare that was unblinking and cold. She talked to me in a gravely flat tone, making sure to place emphasis on each word.

“You should mind your own business, before someone else does,” she snapped.

I sat down across from her and leaned in so only she could hear me.

“Excuse me, ma’am; I just want to help. You made a big fuss over here and interrupted everyone’s meals,” I calmly pointed out.

No one in the diner was talking. I might as well have yelled my words.

The mother was about to respond when an old white sedan came to a sudden stop outside the diner. A snappy, spry old lady hopped out and made her way into the diner. This must be whom Annie had called. She was dressed in a baby blue crushed velvet pantsuit with her hair cut into a stylish bob. She strutted over to the mother and me, then stood staring at the younger woman.

“Tory, grab the kids and go home. We’ll get together later and talk,” the older woman commanded.

The mother didn’t hesitate.

“Yes, ma’am.” She gathered her children and left.

The diner customers and staff returned to their meals. I was bewildered as to what had taken place.

“I don’t understand what happened here, but thank you,” I turned to the lady.

“Don’t mention it. It’s hard being a mom; I would know. I had four kids, and I have more grandkids than I can count.”

I thought it strange how she referred to her children in the past tense. It was none of my business, though. I was glad the town’s first impression of me wasn’t taking in a belligerent mother.

“I’m Beth, by the way.”

“I’m Mark, the new deputy here.”

Beth turned out to be the local real estate agent whom the sheriff wanted to connect me with. We sat down, and I listened to her talk about her life. Beth was a pleasant woman with the unique ability to tell a good story, and she was quite proud of her town. She recommended that I look at one of her listings, a charming older house on a few acres of strawberry farmland. I had no other plans that day, so we made our way to the property.

As we drove along with two of Beth’s prized terriers in the back seat, I couldn’t help but notice how dated everything around me was. Most of the cars were older but in good condition; buildings had that worn-in feel to them, and people were conversing on the sidewalks and in storefronts. When I lived in the city, everyone was glued to a device or occupied with being anywhere but the present. I’m laconic most days, but being around people and having no interaction at all was unsettling to me. People aren’t meant to be alone, and maybe that’s what hurt the most for me. I snapped out of my existentialist crisis when Beth pointed out the turn-off for the house.

We pulled down a gravel road nestled between forest foliage until breaking through the tree line onto the property. A large white Victorian house sat at the end of the driveway. The house had been built a few decades ago but held up well. Behind the house was a white barn and next to the barn were the strawberry fields. I could smell the fields before I saw them. Beth mentioned that she maintained the produce and that I needn’t worry about harvesting strawberries while I acted as deputy here. She laughed when I asked if I could eat them if I decided to rent the house.

“I think I’ll take it.”

“You haven’t even seen inside the house yet!” she exclaimed.

“I’m sold just on the privacy and strawberries,” I grinned.

The house was well kept. The walls and ceilings were eggshell white, solid oak floors furnished the entire house, and the doorknobs, ceiling fans, and accessories were cast iron. The space was bigger than what I required, but her price for rent was a steal. I moved everything out of my truck into the house later that night.

I awakened in the middle of my first night in the house to a thunderstorm and heavy rain. I already had enough trouble sleeping as it was, and the storm was not helping. I started to walk downstairs to get a glass of water, thinking about going for a run in the morning after the rain stopped, when I noticed a chip in the paint on my bedroom wall. I must not have noticed it on the walkthrough with Beth.

The slower pace of life and work here was starting to grow on me. I even managed to make a few acquaintances around town. Work here was vastly different from the city; the worst incidents I responded to were individuals drunk in public. Although once, there was a possible missing persons case. An older lady that worked at the gas station always asked me if I’d seen her daughter. Sheriff Dillard informed me that the lady had been asking about her missing daughter since before he moved here. Warren told me not to worry about it, but I had become curious about quite a few people since I arrived. Sometimes I found residents wandering through town at strange hours or staring out into the fields next to the highway. I found one gentleman naked from the waist down walking in the middle of a shallow creek, muttering about “how much time there is.” It took much effort from Sheriff Dillard and myself to persuade the man to get out of the creek and put some pants on.

I also increased my efforts to get to know everyone in town. I tried to remember names with little memory games like “Fishy Fred” who ran the bait supply or “Hammer Haley” at the hardware store. My favorite was “Toothless Terry”, the local mechanic with no teeth. People seemed to appreciate it when you remembered who they were. I was trying to get better with creating connections. I was trying to care.

After getting settled in here, I still couldn’t seem to sleep through the night. I tried everything except getting a prescription or adopting an aggressive drinking habit right before turning in. My room was comfortable. Beth spent money on a quality air conditioning unit to keep me from having a heatstroke in the middle of night. I should’ve mentioned something to her about the paint flaking off the walls, but it slipped my mind the last time I saw her.

The Colonial Gazette hired a new journalist, Katrina. We talked briefly when I was grabbing copies of the daily paper before going to the station; she was beautiful and smart, to say the least. To my surprise, she was interested in going to dinner with me that night. I wanted the date to be as casual as possible, but I spent all day building it up in my head to be bigger than it was. I hadn’t dated anyone since my break up two years ago.

We met that evening at the Iron Kettle, a dated bar with aged brewing instruments hanging on the walls. Katrina met me there at a high-backed wooden booth with a six-gallon jug of moonshine still hanging as a chandelier. We ordered some drinks and talked about how we came to be sitting across from one another.

“What made you want to come here and write?” I asked.

“I guess I needed to get away. I thought the rural country would offer some interesting writing pieces. For example, how a police officer came to be a deputy and strawberry farmer?”

She broke into a wide, flirtatious smile. I laughed and looked away at the wooden bar with panoramic mirror behind it, so that she wouldn’t see me blush.

“Well, I guess sometimes people make decisions without understanding consequences.”

“Wow, you couldn’t have been any more cryptic. Tell me, Mark, what really drove you down here?”

I could sense our casual date turning into an interview, but I wasn’t going to let that faze me.

“To be honest, I was asked to leave the force after becoming too aggressive on the job.”

I could see by the way she leaned in that this admission made her curious. The idea of a loose-cannon cop would make most people feel unsettled, but Katrina simply sat there, eager to know what I must have done to be released from the force.

“I mean to say that I used to be incredibly difficult to work with. I patrolled the most dangerous parts of town on the worst shifts and I despised most of the other officers. I started telling guys who had been around longer than me that they weren’t real cops. Hell, I told my boss that he had gone soft on repeat offenders. Eventually, this behavior got me in trouble outside of work. The few friends I kept didn’t want to hang out with me anymore, and my girlfriend moved out of our apartment. I realized I was losing my grip. I apologized to my boss and owned up to my shortcomings. He was a nice enough guy to set me up with a transfer down here,” I confessed.

I found it hard to be so open with someone else, but I didn’t want Katrina to walk away because I seemed too self-absorbed.

“I’m sorry it didn’t work out before.”

There was an awkward silence, but then we both relaxed.

“Thanks, I’m working on it. I think getting to know people here and I think that expanding my strawberry empire will make me more empathetic,” I joked.

I smirked, and she smiled, appreciating my attempt at humor. Katrina liked that I wasn’t perfect and that I had an interesting backstory. She was all about a good story. We had a pleasant evening discussing our pasts, our interests, and places to which we’d like to travel. She must have enjoyed the evening because we made plans to go out again at the end of the week.

I got home late that night, put my keys on my dresser and started the shower. I noticed where the paint chip was before had worn down more. Upon further investigation, a small divot had formed in the wall. It looked like it had been sanded into the wall. As I looked closer, a large gust of wind blew against the house frame and I heard a loud slam outside. I thought a window might have broken, so I headed downstairs. Nothing looked out of place, but then I heard the eerie noise again. It was coming from outside.

I walked around the back of the house to find one of the barn doors slamming wildly against the structure. I noticed that there was a faint light coming from inside. I called out and no one answered. Pushing the door open, I slowly peeked inside to see a candle burning. A gust of wind pushed me through the threshold and the door shut behind me. I looked around to see nothing but a wooden chair in the middle of the room with the candle burnt almost to its end. I called out again, this time with less confidence than before. As I bent down to grab the candle from the chair, I heard a scratching noise. I turned around to see where it was coming from, I felt the hair raise on my neck, almost certain that someone was in there with me. Nothing. I thought it had to be nothing. I turned back to the candle and the scratching abruptly stopped. At the top of the chair the word “TIME” had been carved into the backrest. I continued staring at the word like it was a puzzle to be solved. Then in the blink of an eye, I swore something moved from the top of the letter “E”. To my frenzied mind, it looked like a black claw.

“WHO’S IN HERE?!” I shouted.

The candle went out with my yell. My blood ran cold and I bolted out of the barn, tripping hard on a root in the yard. Everything went dark and quiet.

The next morning, I woke up exhausted, but in my bed. I wasn’t sure if last night had been a dream (or rather, a nightmare). The bruise on my head said otherwise. After a quick shower and getting dressed, I called Katrina. The conversation was slightly frantic on my end, but she agreed to meet me for coffee so I could tell her what happened. There wasn’t anyone else I felt like talking about this with. As I grabbed my keys from the dresser, I eyed the hole in the wall, unsure of whether it was growing or if it had always been deep enough to fit my fist into. I planned to call Beth later about it.

I told Katrina everything that happened after our dinner. She listened intently until I finished, and then I noticed my heart was racing and I was starting to sweat. She took a moment to compose a response that would reassure me that everything was going to be fine.

“Have you ever had anything like this happen before? Vivid or disturbing dreams?” she inquired.

I was momentarily stunned, realizing that she didn’t believe me. I thought the bruise on my head was solid evidence.

“No, this wasn’t a dream, unless I fell and hit my nightstand. Just thinking about it gives me the chills.”

We talked through a few possibilities but ultimately decided on going back to check out the barn. When I parked my truck, we saw no signs that anyone else was on the farm. Katrina was nonchalant as she opened the barn door and stepped through the threshold. I came in quickly after her, in case we were wrong about it being empty. She looked around the rafters and stepped behind old farm equipment before turning back to me.

“I don’t think anyone has been in here for some time.”

“I’m telling you, the chair was right there in the middle of the room with the candle.” I was thoroughly puzzled.

I now realized that there wasn’t even a chair in the barn. Maybe I had hit my head harder than I thought. She walked over and smiled to reassure me that everything was okay.

“Hey Mark, I have to head into work, but maybe you should take the day off.”

Damn it, she thought I was losing it. I shouldn’t have talked so much about my past with her. I eventually conceded to her suggestion.

“All right, I’ll do that. Can we get together later for a drink?” I asked. She agreed to meet up after work at the bar.

After dropping Katrina off, I bought some fishing tackle and then drove to a pier on a small inlet near my house. I cast my line and cracked opened a beer to ruminate over what I thought I saw last night. None of it was making any sense. The idea that my dreams had shifted so dangerously that I was having trouble knowing what was real bothered me. It wasn’t just the bizarre dream nagging at me, but the people here, too. There were the odd residents walking around at obscure times for reasons I couldn’t figure out, then that frantic lady in the diner. As I tried to unravel logic from it all, the clouds darkened and my line went taught. I dropped my beer as I lunged for my pole before it went over the railing. I had the pole in my hands and began to reel and lean back when the line snapped. I fell hard on the pier and I cursed as the clouds opened with heavy rain. As I stood up, I thought I heard the words “so angry” in a voice that could not be my own. Thunder started to roar across the sky as the words repeated, this time louder. The voice was certainly not my own. I turned to look through the marsh. In between the trees that grew in the swampy inlet was a dark silhouette. It looked like a tall wiry man peeking from behind the tree, but I couldn’t see a clear outline.

“Hey! What are you doing!?” I shouted through the maelstrom.

The figure said nothing, and then was nothing. I shouted again and continued to peer through the marsh, but the storm was intensifying. Throwing my fishing gear in the back of my truck, I left the pier in a hurry. I now knew I was being followed. I dialed Katrina and she agreed to take an early lunch to meet me.

When Katrina arrived at the bar, my clothes were still soaked from the storm. I stood up quickly and hugged her. She was confused by my panic, but it was reassuring to have her there.

“What’s going on, Mark? Did you fall into a tub?” she joked.

“No, nothing like that. I got caught in the storm,” I said dejectedly.

She scoffed and looked out the window at the dry streets. I explained to her the events that took place at the pier and that someone was following me around. Katrina listened to my whole story before saying a word. I suggested that we go see the sheriff to get some backup to start searching for my stalker.

“Slow down, Mark. I’m starting to think maybe you need to talk to someone.”

“Yeah, I know. That’s why I am talking to you about this. You’re a journalist and you understand how to investigate. I think you could even make this into a good story once we catch this guy.”

“Mark, I don’t think there is a story here.”

Katrina put her phone in her purse and signaled the server for the tab. I didn’t understand where she was going. I thought we had established that I was in danger.

“I think you’re a nice enough guy, Mark, but I also think you have some issues to work out before we can continue this.”

I was blown away. Why couldn’t she understand that something was going on here? Someone was coming after me – I’d seen them!

“Katrina, I’m not crazy. There is someone following me. Please, help me figure this out.”

I was begging her at this point and I hated it. I didn’t realize when I said this that I had put my hand over hers.

She yanked her hand away and stood up quickly to leave.

“Please get some help, Mark,” she snapped and walked away.

I put my head into my hands, unable to think of a solution. The one person I had gotten close to thought I was losing it. I had a headache forming behind my eyes when my phone rang. It was Beth asking me if I had someone else staying with me at the house. She explained that she stopped by to check on the place and saw someone walk from the fields into the woods. I left he bar immediately to go pursue my stalker.

It was almost dark when I pulled into the driveway. I turned my high beams on to see across the field, but there was nothing there. Katrina could be right – this could be a mental breakdown. I steeled myself to that thought. I knew I was sane, I just needed some proof.

I turned the lights on in the foyer then walked through the house towards the kitchen for dinner. The paint was really falling apart; hand-sized divots were scattered on all of the walls. I thought those would be a project for later. Right now, I was more focused on how to catch whoever was watching me. It felt like so much had happened so fast that I was spinning out of control. Some sleep would help me think.

Another storm began to roll in, pushing the humid summer air away into the night. I stood over the sink, staring out the window as I finished my beer. The wind blew open the barn door; I watched it swing wildly back and forth. I didn’t like going out to the barn, but I also didn’t want to replace the door if the wind ripped it off its hinges. I sighed heavily at thought of being in the barn again, then grabbed my rain jacket.

The rain started to come down hard as I ran across the yard. I was pulling the door shut when a strong gust pushed me inside down onto the straw floor, slamming the door behind me. There was no light inside the barn, and I didn’t care to stay in there any longer. As I started to get up a bolt of lightning ripped across the sky and from my periphery I could see a large silhouette crouched down in front of me. I moved my eyes up slowly and stopped at a set of long black claws on wrinkled black hands. The air around me became stiflingly hot as fear began to fill my veins. I dashed out the barn door, sprinting to the house, away from the demonic creature in my barn. Another bolt came across the heavens, illuminating the strawberry fields. I could have sworn there were people standing out there watching me. I knew there was no time to look; I needed my gun from the bedroom.

I pushed my way back into the house, leaving the front door ajar. When I started running up the stairs I saw that the walls were even more hollowed out then when I left to close the barn door. I practically ripped my bedroom door off as I opened it frantically to get inside. I stopped at the threshold and it seemed like the rest of the world stopped as well. I could no longer hear the storm; it was dead silent, and the air was full of static. I saw the holes in the walls were worn down so much that I could crawl into them. More terrifying than the state of the walls was the immense amount of writing on every surface of the bedroom. They were all gibberish – twisted words, except for the largest statement scratched into the headboard: “YOUR TIME IS MINE.” As I read the last word, the wind whispered it harshly into my ear. I started, ripped my pistol from the duty holster on my nightstand then darted for the door as it slammed shut. I didn’t know how it had closed, but it would not open. I ran through my bathroom to the adjoining room which led out to the hallway. Furniture crashed, and my bedroom window exploded with glass everywhere. I could hear a figure move behind me. I ran into the next room to find it empty except for every inch being scratched with more wretched writing. I broke through the door and froze as I turned towards the stairs. The creature was blocking my way.

My brain couldn’t process this dark figure between me and my escape. The outline was like popping static, there were no sharp outlines of shoulders or hips or legs. It looked like all the light and space around it was absorbed into a rough humanoid figure. The only contrast to this blurred image were the glaring unblinking yellow cat eyes and fierce sharp teeth pulled into a sadistic grin. I choked as I realized I had been holding my breath, trying to take it all in. This monster seemed to be enjoying my panic until I returned to my senses and raised my gun. A long skinny arm stabbed its clawed hands into the wall, dragging against it. The sound was so painful and piercing I felt like my eardrums would explode. The creature started moving faster towards me; I grabbed my head, screaming, as I fired my pistol until the chamber was empty. The beast continued, unthwarted, towards me. I could feel all of my fear and hate boiling inside me, and now I just wanted it to end. The creature was about to be on top of me; I saw it staring down with its evil eyes and its claws extended towards me. I thought this was my end, then I heard dogs barking.

Two little terriers ran to the top of the steps to bark and howl at the creature. The creature turned and shrieked at the dogs as Beth clamored up the stairs. She stared down the creature, shaking her finger back and forth in a tick-tock motion.

“No decision has been made – be gone for now,” she ordered.

The creature howled with rage, and then a gust of wind blew through the house and it was gone again. I fell against the wall and passed out.

I came to at the bar, sitting in a booth across from Beth. She put her hand on top of mine and asked how I was feeling. I didn’t know how to respond, nor did I remember how I got there.

“Listen, Mark, you may have noticed that our town is a little different and I don’t want you to be afraid.”

“Please tell me that I’m not crazy, that there was someone chasing me through my house,” I begged.

“Oh, you’re not wrong, but it isn’t a someone who has been after you,” she replied.

Beth explained that the town was special because it attracted those who were lost and searching for fulfillment and answers. Particularly troubled souls found their way here. She had no idea when or how but that something else was attracted to these weary wanderers, and there had been an agreement between the two parties ever since she could remember.

“You see, Mark, in order to keep that entity you saw at bay, some of us have had to make sacrifices.” Beth sadly shook her head.

I looked around the room at all the people sitting there calmly with no worry that a monster was lurking through the town trying to kill everyone.

“Not everyone here is aware of what you saw, but they know this place is different. You’ve probably noticed there isn’t much crime, poverty, or any real heartache going on here.”

I nodded, still half paralyzed with fear and confusion.

Beth stood up and walked me over to the bar. Others made room so that we could both stand there. She wanted me to look at the mirror on the other side of the bar. At first all I saw was our reflection, but then the reflection became distant. It was like I was looking at another bar with fewer customers, all dressed in black. I looked to my right and saw that some of the people in black were seated next to us, but in different attire. I saw the mother, Tory, from the diner in the mirror wearing all black and raising her glass as a toast to me. Beth noticed the confusion on my face. She told me those who I can see in the reflection have paid a price so that the town can be at ease. What I experienced has been happening for decades here, if not longer. Beth told me that if the price is paid every so often, then only a few must suffer. I was quivering at this information.

“I can see it on your face. You want to know what the price is?”

“Yes.”

I gripped the countertop so hard that my knuckles turned white.

“Time.” She started to chuckle.

“What kind of time?” I asked.

“Now that is an excellent question.”

She said that everyone in black has offered their time to serve the town and bring in new sacrifices until it is deemed that they have fulfilled their duty. The creature that haunts this place decides when that person may leave.

“What happens then? When someone gets to leave?” I asked.

“Well, they die. It’s not as horrible as it sounds. Typically, people in this situation live for many generations and age slowly. The only ones who notice anything are the others who have sacrificed.”

“What if I don’t want to age in this town forever?”

Beth said that sometimes people take that route. However, the creature will come back soon to claim the sacrifice early instead of many years from now.

“Some of us carry heavy burdens through life, Mark. Everyone has their demons, but those who dwell heavily on them need the time to set everything right before they may pass on. I consider it more of a gift than a curse.”

I could feel the horror build in my throat at the thought of that beast killing me in my house. There was no other way around this. I nodded my head in acceptance of this unworldly fate.

“Okay, good choice. There is one more thing. You need to pick the next person to offer their time. This is the way things are.” Beth said.

I didn’t understand these rules of giving time. I think there was something deeper that this creature wanted. I looked around the bar, this decision felt like it needed to be made sooner rather than later. No one looked familiar or in possible need of renting their soul out for a few generations until I saw her. Katrina was having a drink with one of her coworkers and clearly aware I was in the same room as her. She was obviously avoiding looking in my direction. I wish I could say that the decision was nothing personal.

“That one over there.” I nodded in Katrina’s direction.

“She will do.” Beth bowed her head.

I sighed heavily, ordered a beer, and watched the parallel bar scene in the mirror.

My reflection joined the crowd in all black. Everyone was content with the same deal that I had just struck. They were drinking and laughing with one another as the tall bartender cleaned a glass with his back to me. I almost glanced over him. He was very tall, thin, and familiar. Then like a shock to my eyes I saw it; his long black claws stopped cleaning a glass. He knew I was watching him, and he slightly turned his head back towards me. The creature gave a smirk with his sharp teeth and then winked.

The end.