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Hands Off

A Horror Fiction

By Jack BatesPublished 6 years ago 5 min read
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"When you shake hands with the Devil, be aware he's already planning to break the deal."

“Let me tell you why you won’t be killing me tonight,” the man behind the desk said. He tapped a pine box he’d placed on his desk blotter. “Or any night, for that matter.”

Bix pointed a revolver at the man. Bix wasn’t there to steal the box. The only thing Bix wanted from Victor Janus was his life.

“Is that what you told my father the night you left him to die?”

“I most certainly did not leave him to die.”

“Yet there you sit. Alive.”

“Sit down, Mr. Bixley,” Janus said. “Hear me out. When I finish, if you wish, you may shoot me. Rest assured, however, I will not die.”

“Then how about I shoot you now?”

Janus scoffed. “That’s the trouble with your generation, Mr. Bixley. Impatience is no virtue.”

“Did you know your father, Janus? Did you grow up with a man in the house? I didn’t because you killed him.”

“On the contrary, Mr. Bixley. I tried to save him.” Janus coughed a bit. He covered his mouth with a kerchief. A yellowish-brown stain appeared on the white linen. “This is my curse. I have a rare lung infection. Fatal in all cases but mine.”

“Because you can’t die.”

“Please,” Janus said. “Sit and listen to my story. You’ll understand why I wish you could kill me. You could use that scimitar hanging on the wall to lop off my head and I’d still be alive.”

“This is ridiculous.”

“No, it’s phantasmagorical. You see, Mr. Bixley, my immortality comes with a price.”

“Let’s find out how true that is.” Bix shot Janus in the chest. No blood spattered from the wound. The only injury Janus displayed was another bout of coughing.

“No,” Bix said. “Impossible.”

In between coughs, Janus shook his head, wagged a finger. He pointed at the chair in front of his desk. Bix sat down.

“You’re flummoxed,” Janus said once he regained his composure. “I understand. If I were in your shoes, I would feel the same way.”

“All right. Tell me why you’re alive and my father is dead.”

“Your mother never told you—”

“My mother passed away with many secrets. Whenever I asked about my father, your name came up. She alluded you were the perpetrator of his death.”

“I am sorry to learn of your loss, Mr. Bixley. Your father and I survived the trenches of the western front only to return to a country that had no need for war-scarred youths. We were angry. Confused. Out of work until we met Mr. Redd. He brought us into his fold. The Nain Rouge.”

“The Nain Rouge?”

“The Red Devils. We ran rum from Toronto down into Detroit. Canadian Mounties. G-Men. Border Agents. Rival gangs. They all thought they could stop us. An impossibility when you have the devil in your corner.”

“This Mr. Redd sounds pretty ruthless.”

“You might say that. Nain Rouge is, after all, another name for Lucifer.”

“Janus, I came here to kill you. I am not going to listen to your folktales. My father did not run rum for the devil.”

“We had no choice. We’d given our names.” Janus coughed.

“The hell does that mean?”

“There was a man. Mortimer Bilge. We knew him as the Chiseler. He hand-chiseled tombstones for Swanton area cemeteries. His work was meticulous. Impeccable. Magical. He took our Christian names and our date of birth and hammered our souls onto marble slabs. As long as Bilge didn’t carve in a date of death, it made us untouchable.”

“Immortal?”

“I can hear the skepticism in your voice, Mr. Bixley. Your father is dead. I am alive.”

“Then you understand why I’m not buying this.”

“Mr. Redd, in his human incarnation, had human desires. He took a shine to your mother.”

“You’re not going to tell me I’m actually the bastard son of Satan, are you?”

Janus laughed then coughed. “Heavens, no. You were just a child at the time. The Volstead Act was waning. The Red Devil Gang was finished. It had been a glorious time for the Nain Rouge to run amok but it ended. Mr. Redd no longer needed his gang of immortals to build his empire. One by one we started dying off. Kratz in a boating accident. Curnow hit by a truck. The Nowak brothers in a derailed train. Leland and Allen in a warehouse explosion. Chernenko struck by lightning at a golf club. We could see what was happening. Bilge was engraving our death dates. He had to be stopped. The problem was we didn’t know where to find him. Mr. Redd had him hidden away to finish his duty.

“Hoping to save your father, your mother made her own bargain with Mr. Redd. All he need do was tell her of Mortimer Bilge’s whereabouts and on the day she died he could have her soul.”

“My mother is buried in St. Jehoshaphat’s cemetery. It’s consecrated ground. Nothing happened the day we laid her to rest.”

“When you shake hands with the Devil, be aware he's already planning to break the deal. He alerted Bilge that we were on our way. The Chiseler waited until we arrived in the old factory he hid in before he put the final cut into your father’s date of death.”

“Why didn’t you shoot this Bilge fellow?”

“It wouldn’t have done any good. He had his own tombstone hidden away.”

“How were you going to stop this enchanted engraver if you couldn’t kill him?”

“By taking away his tools. This box will tell you all you need to know. Open it.”

“Why? So it’ll explode in my face? Or a poison dart will shoot out?”

“Open it, Mr. Bixley. You’ll see I’ve been telling the truth.”

Bixley opened the box. The stench of death escaped. Bixley sat back aghast.

“Impossible…”

Inside a pair of hands blackened and spoiled from years of slow decay reached up to him. The fingers opened and closed before intertwining. Odd as it seemed, the severed hands appeared to be begging.

“We knew we’d never be safe as long as Bilge could engrave.”

“We? I thought my father was already dead?”

“Your mother and I. Mr. Redd told us where to find Bilge. We overpowered him. He was a frail man whose only power came from his black magic. I held his arms while your mother cut off his hands with an axe. I don’t know what became of Bilge. There are days I wish I could find him. Reattach his hands so he can finish my gravestone. I tried to avoid going to hell but now I realize I live in it.”

Bix closed the box. Inside, the hands scratched the lid to be released.

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About the Creator

Jack Bates

My first formal rejection came from a late night comedy show that turned down a sketch for 'religious, ethical, and moral reasons' and I thought, 'Wow! The trifecta of rejection on my first try!'

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