It was late. The street lamps outside had turned on, illuminating the sidewalks in their brilliant white glow. The neon OPEN sign that hung in the bay window had been switched off, the indirect lights behind the bar already dimmed, and the last large group of patrons had finally left, leaving the pub in near silence compared to the liveliness it was surrounded by just moments before. The only remaining noise came from the jukebox in the corner still emitting soft rock music, the sharp snares and wailing guitars only slightly muffling the conversation between a few straggling college students. I glanced over at what appeared to be the ringleader of the group, watching as he drunkenly slammed an empty shot glass on the table in front of him before swivelling his head dramatically toward me to ask for another.
“Sorry mate, I’m closing up. Last call came and went, it’s time to head out,” I shouted over the group’s boisterous laughter. He offered his friends, two other men and three women, a playful grin before standing up and approaching the bar, empty glass in hand.
“J’st onemore?” he slurred as he knocked his balance on the edge of a stool, causing him to stumble forward and throw the glass, sending it flying across the bar to shatter on the floor behind me. I pinched the bridge of my nose and sighed. Fucking kids.
“Not tonight, mate. You could try across town, I think Charlie’s is still open,” I said, handing him his credit card and the receipt for his tab.
“Come on, girl, it’s just one more drink,” he continued, resting his elbows on the bar and dipping closer to me, causing me to lean backwards to escape his vodka-tinted breath. “Just one more round.”
“Not happening,” I replied, shoving the pen and receipt paper closer to his hands, hoping that he would just sign his name and leave without any trouble. I didn’t want to have to call the police.
“But I’m not done,” he whined, standing up straight again and glancing back at his friends, who were once again lost in conversation with each other, paying no mind to his desperate attempts to extend their evening endeavours.
“Look, mate, I’ve already told you twice now. Pub’s closed. It’s time for you and your friends to leave. I said you could try Charlie’s, but-”
“I’m not going to Charlie’s,” he loathed, his voice suddenly low and threatening, spitting out through gritted teeth, startling me away from gathering the day’s receipts. “I said I wanted another drink.”
I had just opened my mouth to swear at him when the sound of the bells hanging over the door rang out through the pub, followed swiftly by a deep, soft-spoken voice.
“I believe the lady said that you will be leaving.”
At first, I thought it was the December air blowing wisps of ice over the threshold, chilling the room in an instant as the man walked through the doorway and stepped onto the sun-faded oak floors. The cold circled my body, enveloping my senses like tendrils of smoke, snatching the oxygen from my lungs and raising every hair on my neck as the man absorbed his surroundings, his dark eyes scanning every inch of the room, examining all of our expressions. When he approached the bar and removed two leather gloves, revealing long, pale fingers and a multitude of decorative rings, the cold only seemed to move alongside him and further engulf my shivering limbs. Then the young patron began to speak again, attempting to shout over the jukebox that was now just emitting chaotic jumbles of static and warped lyrics.
“Who the hell are you? Pub’s closed, didn’t you hear?” he said angrily, eyeing the man up and down before glancing back at his friends, asking with his eyes, Can you believe this guy?
“May I order a drink, love? Blanton, neat, if you don’t mind,” the man asked. I nodded before I could stop myself, the hairs on my neck still standing relentlessly, feelings of uneasiness creeping through my pores; something was uncanny about his demeanour, and I still couldn’t place where the chill in the air was coming from.
“Oh, that’s just unfair, you’ll make him a drink, but not me? I’ll–”
“Bit annoying, aren’t we? Little prat?” the man interjected, the sound of his voice rolling off of his tongue like the smooth stream of bourbon I was pouring into his glass.
“What did you just say to me?” the young patron gasped, looking startled and taking a step back as though he’d just been slapped.
“I called you an annoying prat. The lady has, in fact, asked you to leave,” the man said matter-of-factly, not breaking his stony gaze from the increasingly flustered young lad’s visage.
“You’re going to regret that, mate. I’ll be damned if some greasy arsehole is going to-”
With a gentle flick of his hand, his silver rings glinting under the dim lights, another wave of cold circled the room, freezing my fingertips against the bottle of bourbon and shattering the lightbulbs in the chandelier over our heads, showering the three of us with shards of hot glass. The other patrons jumped to their feet, startled by the sudden noise, and one of the women screeched something incoherent about a taxi cab before grabbing the other two by their hands and rushing outside. The man stood tall before the three remaining boys, his arms outstretched on either side of him, a wicked smile creeping across his lips. The students looked nervous, yet still seemingly unafraid, and one of them sheepishly revealed a small knife from his pocket. Looking upon the scene nervously, I slid my phone out from under the bar to dial the first 9 when the man suddenly spoke again.
“Don’t do that, love. I’ll take care of it.”
My heart stopped. My intestines could have turned to stone. His words rooted me to the spot, still staring at them all, wide-eyed and unsure. His back was turned toward me, his eyes focused solely on the ringleader and his two friends. How could he have seen me dial the police?
As if in answer, the man flicked his fingers again, and I watched in horror as the ringleader fell to his knees, his eyes leaking tears of crimson while his face contorted in agony. The man only chuckled as the continuous stream of blood burst from the boy’s nostrils and began pooling into his mouth, spilling out from his throat and falling over his chin to drip down his front like a gushing fountain. Within seconds he was dead, slumping over and smacking his cheek against the flooring, skin pale as lavender snow as the litres of blood continued seeping from his orifices. One of the living boys lifted a stool over his head to throw at the man, the other readying his knife at his side, terrified faces searching for a means of exit or triumph. But before they could charge, both sets of their eyeballs burst in their sockets, drenching their faces in blood and the clear, gelatinous vitreous fluid. Only one of them shrieked before the pair dropped to the ground in heaps of gore. All I could do was stare at the scene before me, breath hitched in my throat, unable to move, speak, or make any sound at all. I was sure I would die next, and I couldn’t have screamed if I wanted to.
“Now then,” the man announced, clasping his hands together and pulling a chair directly across from me at the bar, not even taking a second glance at the battlefield he had created. “My drink?”
“Uh, yeah,” I muttered, handing over the Blanton, trying to keep my hands from shaking as he took it from me. His fingers felt like liquid nitrogen as he brushed them against mine, steadying my hand while sending an electrifying shock through my body, as though preparing me for a similar kind of death.
“I won’t be long, I know you said you were closing,” he said kindly, not breaking his gaze from mine.
“No worries… though I should probably lock the door, yeah?” I replied, glancing at the expanding puddles of blood surrounding the three patrons lying dead on the floor. The man just smiled and said softly, “I’ve got it.”
I watched the top deadbolt slide into place, followed by the one below it, finishing with the small latch on the door handle. The man studied my expression just as I studied the lock’s movements before turning back to face him, and I couldn’t be sure if what I was feeling was something like awe, curiosity, or terror. The man was stunning; his features were sharp and prominent, and his dark hair cascaded down around his neck like smoke from a chimney, etching his jawline in dancing shadows. His dark suit coat looked expensive and tailored, hanging open over a silky button-down, outlining his broad shoulders and slim waist with a defined structure. And still, handsome and kind as he was, he had somehow just slaughtered three college students in front of me, all while only lifting a finger.
“How did you do that?” I blurted out. Immediately overcome with regret and fear, I restrained myself from clasping a hand over my mouth, convinced I had just sealed my fate with this mysterious, unsettling man.
“Are you sure you want to know?” he asked with a smirk, downing what was left in the drink and placing the empty glass in front of me, silently asking for another.
I shivered under his glances, the iciness in his stare not overlooked by the devious smile on his lips, inviting me to ask as many questions as I’d like, and then some. I just shrugged, attempting to keep the anxiety that was coursing through my veins hidden from his advances. Who IS this guy? I wondered as I began pouring him a second Blanton.
“The question is not only who, dear, but what.”
Okay, I’m definitely fucked. Is he reading minds now? He was certainly baiting me. Trying to get me to delve deeper into his lore of the unknown, possibly trying to unnerve me by hinting that he could be something of a what rather than a who, something completely foreign or even otherworldly. Unsure and nervous, but still determined to keep my composure in front of him, I decided to take the bait, but only after pouring a double Blanton for myself. Fuck it, I thought, he’s probably going to kill me just the same.
“Just who are you then, sir?” I asked with feigned confidence.
“They call me Lucky.”
“Who does?”
“Friends, family, colleagues. Same as any other man with a nickname, yes?”
“Sure, yeah,” I replied, biting my lip nervously and observing his reaction. He just smirked again and raised an eyebrow, prompting me to continue.
“Never seen any regular man do that before,” I said, nodding toward the dead students sprawled across my floor, their stained extremities lying limp atop the broken glass and their eye sockets and gaping mouths still emptying themselves of blood. Lucky just chuckled.
“I’m similar enough. What’s your name, love?”
“You’re telling me you don’t already know it?”
“Well, I don’t know everything,” he drawled, grinning wide and taking another sip of his bourbon. I pondered for a moment before deciding to answer truthfully; I assumed he might know if I lied.
“It’s Marla.”
“Marla… that’s darling, I like it. Tell me, Marla, what is something you’ve always wanted in life? Something you’ve always desired?”
“Oh, I don’t know. I’d like to be rich or something, maybe have a beachfront cabin. Or a man to love,” I said with a chuckle. “I like my life, though. I don’t think about it much.”
“That’s… almost pathetic.”
“Coming from a serial killer, I think I’m going to have to disagree.”
“I am certainly not a serial killer, Marla,” Lucky said, grinning maniacally again in anticipation of my next question. I realised I had backed myself into a corner and was about to ask this bizarre man what he was, as if he were some sort of creature.
“What are you then, Lucky?”
A flash of silver danced across his eyes instantaneously, quick enough that I thought it may have come from a passing car’s headlights reflecting in the bay window. But as I observed him, waiting for his answer, I knew it hadn’t come from a pair of lights when his irises just… disappeared. The whites of his eyes enveloped the entirety of the gorgeous hickory brown, so white against his pale skin that they appeared nearly glowing. With my pulse increasing, the Blanton in my stomach threatening to resurface, I watched long, snake-like tendrils of this horrendous, slick black, slimy substance begin pouring out from his mouth, his ears, the palms of his hands, and out from underneath his suit coat. He was surrounded by these vile things, reminiscent of tongues lapping viciously, whipping and snapping at everything around him, leaving streaks of nightmarish ooze in their midst, and swirling a dreadful chill that was colder than his skin, colder than the harshest winter.
I wanted to scream but found no voice. My thoughts were racing against each other, trying to rationalise what I was seeing to no avail. Those ghastly things still flailed around him, multiplying by the second as I stood there staring, unable to yell, run, or even look away from the heinous thing that stood before me. The tendrils were nearly painting the pub black with their hellish, foul-smelling goo, smearing it across the walls, the bar, the floor, the corpses. Though redundant, I wondered who would end up killing me first; the monster here now, snowy eyes wide with power and glee, or my manager, who would certainly fall ill upon first sight of this mess.
By the time I had found my voice, ready to risk either speaking to him or screaming aloud for help, I was quickly halted; it was Lucky who opened his mouth first, his voice no longer velvety and soothing, but harrowing, warped, and demonic.
“I am Lucifer, though most just call me The Devil.”
