Devil's Kettle

The Pact.

Zachary sits in the drivers seat of his chocolate brown 1984 Mercury station wagon dragging on his Malboro so hard he is basically chewing the tobacco. The bitter smoke stings the dull air in the vehicle and dangles listlessly around him this windless night. He can't roll his windows down, he tried that five minutes ago only to be bitten by the harshest cold he's ever felt in his life. He thought the fall weather up in Washington was bad, but Devil's Kettle seems to be stuck in perpetual winter degree weather just without the snow, only this chill is different, it seems to Zach that the cold is alive, biting and searing those it comes to contact with, as if invisible talons break and slice its victims with its eternal chill. He can't feel his toes anymore inside his camel colored Clarks. He turns on the engine, hoping to turn on the heat. The radio comes on a little loud so he adjusts the volume down to a low hum. A distinct male presenter's voice on 78.5fm advertises some country beer to him, before playing a song from "a rock band thats been rocked with tragedy."
Zach smiles. The presenter had to have thought of that one before saying it. The familiar guitar chords chime in the first verse of Low Shoulder's hit single Through the Trees sang by the lead Nikolai Wolf. knowing that he's dead now, it feels eerie hearing his voice so wistful and uncaring, his cheerful strums now sound to James a drone of terror; his lyrics now carry a ringing ominous tone
All alone in the empty room
Nothing left but the memories of when...
Zach considers it a cruel twist of fate that Wolf and his bandmates went on to die alone in their empty hotel room, he wonders what memories they had during those final moments before death carried them all away. Maybe its art imitating life. He thinks there's no way Wolf would've thought the lyrics would manifest him and his bandmates being stabbed in the chest in what the media reported as a gruesome and puzzling murder, right? Some part of him, and this part he is too ashamed to admit, feels that Wolf and his gang of desparados probably had it coming. Zachary shakes his head and takes another long drag off his Malboro. The tobacco hot and sour, just the way he likes it. Thats what they get for messing with the devil.

When he first noticed Wolf on the Spellwock: community of magick and dark arts website a six months ago looking for Satanic spells, he thought the guy was just some loser kid looking for a thrill, or to scare his friends. Maybe he's being bullied and wants to feel like some tough guy. The way he asked about it so...openly, casually, like he was ordering a black coffee with a creamed donut to go from Dunkin'. He dismissed him entirely. Then one Monday night he heard the ding notification alerting him a message has been sent to him. He opens it casually while browsing his Mackbook, stirring on his brown leather couch in his living room. The message was from Darklight66, a moderator for the Satanism forum of the website and a good buddy of his. He opened the message, thinking it was about something trivial as it had been between them.

Darklight66: you need to kick out the noob from the forum since you're the admin.

He replies, Zachattach490: What noob :(

Darklight66: shoulderonthelow365. Hes been harassing each of us nonstop asking for spells. Tank him. Then he sent an emoticon of a mushroom explosion.
This is when Zach made what he thinks back now as the biggest mistake of his twenty seven year life and felt sorry for the guy. He thought instead of banning him, he could tell him to stop acting so goddamn noobish if he wants anyone to take him seriously. So he did, in a nice way at first and out of curiosity asked him what he needed a Satanic spell for. Wolf replied in less than five minutes and told him

shoulderonthelow365: Got a band called Low Shoulder. Trying to get famous.

When Zach read this he let out a hefty, bitter laugh that rang the air around him a bell of warning.

Zachattach490: cool story. Get a publicist.

shoulderonthelow365: C'mon Don be a spoil sport, hail stain!... Or whatever