“… and French police are still looking into the mysterious deaths of the family of high-profile millionaire James Thaddeus Birchwood, heir to the Birchwood hotel chain and international conglomerate. His wife, Edwina Rose Birchwood, and two daughters, Carrie and Rowena Birchwood, were found dead in their homes. It’s confirmed that there were no signs of forced entry and nothing was taken from the luxurious summer home of the family here in Neuilly-sur-Seine, France.

“Neuilly-sur-Seine, as you all know, is the home to many French celebrities including Sophie Marceau, Edith Piaf and- Well, it looks like Mr Birchwood is emerging from his home now. Let’s see if we can get an interview from- Sir, Mr Birchwood? Any words on the tragic murder of your family for the Guardian UK? Sir, do you have any response to the allegations that you orchestrated this horrible crime? Sir?

“… Truly a man of few words. We will keep you updated with the details of this gruesome crime as it unfolds. This is Genevieve Dubois, here in Neuilly-sur-Seine for the Guardian UK.”

 

The Witching Hour beckoned no one on a particularly dark night down Charles de Gualle Avenue in the quiet village streets, save but one person gliding silently down the paved roads. As his noiseless feet carried him down the road, the dim streetlights poured onto his face, showing a pale, stern countenance.

The smell of the mortal world disgusted him, but even more so as a slight night breeze ruffled through the crimson trench coat that poured over his shoulders.

Walking with an unknown purpose, the man paused only for a second to examine the curious, ancient, ebon pocket watch in his hand – the black hand was frozen at 12 o’clock, but he was more concerned with the other: a long, red hand ticking backwards from 2 o’clock. With every step, the red hand ticked faster and faster until it finally reached twelve.

The Contractor snapped the watch shut and pocketed it, staring at his surrounds only to find his eyes travelling upwards at the Church of Saint Jean-Baptiste.

He raised a fist and pounded on the door, expecting an answer. Moments went by and he, growing more and more impatient by the second, rapped his fists on the door loudly.

‘Mon Dieu! Qu’est-ce que vous voulez?’ came a muffled voice from within.

Faust straightened himself and answered. ‘I seek an audience with the man you are currently hiding!’

Another moment’s silence, until finally the man inside spoke again. ‘Comment tu t’appelle?’

Faust felt an angry tick on the side of his head. He did not have time for stupid questions. ‘Je suis Faust; Nyxanoth Faust. Ouvrir la porte!’

He heard the Frenchman inside the church stumble against the door. ‘Je suis désolé! Oui monsieur, tout de suite!’

The heavy, wooden church doors creaked open slowly, revealing a stout clergyman dressed in cream coloured vestments. He wore an expression on his face that gave Faust the impression he was expecting to see him, but was hoping he, the Contractor, would not come. ‘Suivez moi.’ He said abruptly.

Faust followed the pastor through the door and down the rows of pews towards the front, where stood a large statue of Jesus Christ on the cross. The pastor bowed his head and drew a small prayer before beckoning Faust to the sleeping man in the pew next to him.

Faust stared at the dishevelled man as he snored loudly, sending echoes off the stone walls.

‘Laissez-nous,’ he instructed the pastor and with one last concerned look at the sleeping man, the pastor waddled off, leaving Faust alone.

The Contractor’s blood-red eyes scanned the curiosity before him. The man looked like he could be homeless. He had a thick, uneven nest of hair around his chin and a head of messy, unkempt hair, but he wore an expensive Ralph Lauren Black Label suit and Stefano Bemer shoes.

Faust could not help but shake his head at the opulence of man – only they could place a value so great on such insignificant things. He kicked the pew with his heavy, black boot, causing the sleeper to jerk awake.

‘Qu’est-ce que c’est?!’ the man snapped, sitting up abruptly. But upon seeing the glowing, red eyes of the Contractor, he immediately calmed down. He stared, bewildered, almost as though he thought he was dreaming. But after a few deep breaths, he understood what was happening. ‘You… you came.’

‘You were expecting someone else, James?’ Faust replied casually.

‘No… I…’ James Birchwood rubbed his eyes some more, almost to check one last time that this was real. ‘Th-thank you for answering my call.’

‘Don’t thank me. I’m not here for a visit.’ Faust sat himself down at the end of the pew, kicking both his feet up against the wooden seats as he stared at the human. ‘What the fuck did you do, James?’

James shifted his weight uncomfortably. ‘W-what do you mean?’ he replied, staring away from Faust’s intimidating eyes.

‘Never in the eons of this job, have I seen Satan so pissed off. He’s so angry that his brother’s had to bind him to Hell for a bit. Otherwise, he’d be here to personally hand you your own innards.’ Even though he was here on business, it almost appeared that Faust was amused by this anecdote. ‘To which I must ask, why did he send me to personally un-fuck what you’ve just done?’

‘I-I’m sorry,’ Birchwood stammered, inching further away from the Contractor, ‘but I didn’t know what I was getting myself into. I needed a foot out the door. You know, just in case.’

Faust snorted out of annoyance. ‘When dealing with the Wrathful Prince, you don’t have a foot out the fucking door, Birchwood. You make a decision and you commit to it.’

James sat in silence, almost as though he were petrified, and the Contractor knew that he was not going to speak of his own volition.

‘Under Section 71 of the Pacts of Hell – Ante Bellum,’ he continued to the mute human, ‘the Pact Maker may alter parts or all of the agreement should they have signed under false pretences. So, I ask again,’ he leaned closer towards James and spoke his next words emphatically, ‘what the fuck did you do?’

James wrestled with his emotions, but ultimately decided it was unwise to lie to something that just crawled out of Hell. ‘I asked him to help me uncover the truth and… and he agreed.’

‘Only a moron would,’ said Faust, running his hand through his jet-black hair, ‘go on.’

‘I-I asked him for the truth and he… he sent this… thing… to me.’

‘Where is it?’

Birchwood stood and unbuttoned his off-white and dirt-stained, custom-made Georgio Armani business shirt, exposing an emerald blue pentagram engraved onto his chest.

Faust leaned closer, inspecting the engraving on James’ chest. ‘Has it said anything to you?’

Birchwood shook his head.

‘Well, of course it wouldn’t.’ said Faust, half in amusement, half in annoyance at how stupid Satan could possibly be. ‘It doesn’t know what it’s supposed to be doing! But you knew it wouldn’t, didn’t you? You knew that you made an ambiguous pact.’

‘Like I said,’ the human shrugged, ‘foot out the door.’

‘Then allow me to pull out the other foot.’ In the blink of an eye, the Contractor swept from lying at the end of the pew, to towering over Birchwood. ‘Answer me, human! What do you want to uncover? The Truth about what, Birchwood? Say it!’

Stiffening his upper-lip, Birchwood took a deep breath and forced an answer. ‘I want to find the person responsible for killing my family – and I want them to face justice!’

Faust’s eyes narrowed – he hated doing such deals, but the Law was iron and his hands, tied. Wordless, he rubbed his fingers together, feeling the heat permeate through his hands until a ball of fire burst onto his open palm. The Contractor then reached his hand into the flames and extracted a worn piece of parchment from the nether, inscribed upon which were glowing infernal letters. ‘This,’ he said, waving the parchment in front of Birchwood’s nose, ‘is your new pact with Satan.’ He leaned forward so that the human understood the gravity of his next few words. ‘No loopholes. If you commit to this pact, there won’t be any more do-overs. Do you understand, James?’

Calling upon all his years of experience with law and legal compliance, James Birchwood stared at the contract, at the glowing red letters that spelled his name in full. ‘I… I sign this contract and you’ll get me whoever killed my family?’

‘Yes. Once you sign, that water demon on your chest will finally have a purpose. It’ll seek out the person responsible and drag him back here.’

After searching the page for any form of a loophole he could exploit, Birchwood conceded that the Contractor was indeed correct – there was nothing in the contract he could use. He pulled a small safety pin from his pocket and pricked his index finger, watching a small droplet of blood splash onto the new pact.

No sooner had his blood touched the page, the entire parchment glowed a hellish orange glow before disappearing in a plume of flames on the Contractor’s hand.

‘What now?’ he asked, sucking his injured finger.

‘Look down at your chest, James.’

The blue pentagram engraved onto his chest radiated a bright, burning blue light. He let out a scream of surprise as a Prussian-blue head, poked out from the emblem. James could not describe the horrible thing that came crawling out of his chest – it was a horned, blackish-blue imp that looked like a mix of a decaying mess of animal bones, held together by nothing but sinew and sallow skin.

The demon’s head twisted around to stare at its host and bared its fangs in a twisted smile upon seeing the horror on the human’s face. With a mischievous cackle, it leapt out of Birchwood’s sigil, landing on the ground and licking its chops.

‘Vocasti me?’ it asked, staring at Birchwood hungrily.

Faust marched over to the demon and beat the smirking imp over the back of its head. ‘Now you hear me, you disgusting piece of shit,’ he ordered, ignoring the demon’s quiet yelp, ‘you will search the aether for any signs of what happened to the Birchwood family. Find the one responsible and bring him back to us. Do you hear me?’

‘Iterum dico,’ it replied, feigning ignorance.

Faust grabbed the imp by its neck and brought its face close to his. ‘Don’t get cute with me. Get your ass into the aether and don’t come back until you find what I’m looking for.’

The demon’s bravery suddenly lapsed at the sight of the Contractor’s glowing red eyes – it thought better than to try its luck.

Faust cast the demon aside with his inhuman strength and glowered at it, almost daring it to say or do something stupid. But the demon, apparently smarter than it looked, cowered under the Contractor’s gaze.

It walked around in small circles, much like a dog does before resting, and spat on the ground, creating a large puddle of water on the dusty church floor. With one last fearful look at the Contractor and one last hungry look at Birchwood, it leapt gracefully into the air and into the puddle, completely disappearing from sight.

 

Faust and Birchwood sat for hours in complete silence as they awaited the demon’s return. James had taken to rocking back and forth on his pew with both his arms stuck deep into his jacket pockets, mumbling incoherently under his breath. Every so often, Faust would catch small sentences like ‘it’ll be over’ and ‘for them’, but ignored them all the same. He spent the hours staring at his black pocket watch, which he left sitting on the pew as he stretched his legs. At this moment, both the black and red hands were sitting idle at 12 o’clock, but there was a new hand, a yellow one ticking steadily backwards from 7 o’clock onto six.

The silence was finally broken as Birchwood found the courage to speak. ‘Do you… do you think it’ll come back?’ he said sheepishly.

‘It has to,’ replied Faust, still staring at this watch, ‘you have something it wants.’

Birchwood ran his hand across his chest, feeling around for what he thought would be his soul. ‘So, why… why is it a water demon? I mean, I thought everything in Hell was supposed to be fire, you know?’

The Contractor’s eyes moved from the chronometer to Birchwood with a look of boredom – he hated making small talking and even more so when it came to humans. All they wanted to know was easily found in a bible or on Wikipedia, but instead, they chose the most puerile of topics upon which to dwell. ‘Satan sent a water demon because you asked for clarity – the water’s there to make everything clear to you, revealing the truth and whatnot. Sending an earth demon to give you strength or a fire demon to deal with your emotions won’t do shit. You get me?’

Birchwood was taken aback by the Contractor’s snappy nature. ‘It was just a question,’ he mumbled, digging his hands deeper back into his pockets.

‘Here’s a question for you,’ Faust began, ‘after you find whoever did this, after the demon brings him back here, then what?’

Birchwood stared Faust dead into his red eyes, a look that did not sit well with the Contractor – a crazed ambition that, from Faust’s experience, meant that the human was to do something drastic or stupid. He stared Birchwood’s shaking hands that dug deep into his jacket and, almost as if the human was watching his eyes move, saw the hand clench under the fabric.

‘You know, it’s funny,’ said Birchwood, coincidentally arranging himself so that Faust could no longer see his hands.

‘What is?’

‘It’s not like we’re going to die tomorrow,’ Birchwood replied, staring upwards at the large statue of Christ, ‘that’s the last thing I ever said to her. She was getting on my case about always missing the girls’ dance recitals or music lessons.’ His eyes became misty. ‘Looking back, I wish I made time for them like normal dads are supposed to… you know? Read Harry Potter with them or watch Disney with them or something.’

Faust closed his eyes and shook his head – he could not believe he was about to indulge the human’s small talk. ‘Then why not take that regret and live your life for something better? Why go looking for their killer instead?’

‘You have kids, Faust?’ Birchwood asked, offhandedly.

‘You’re joking, right?’

The human let out a soft chuckle. ‘You’re right. Stupid question.’ He clenched his fists harder in his pockets. ‘When you have kids, all you ever want is for the world to do right by them. Even though you know, that you should be wishing for them to do right by the world.’

‘So, what do you want now?’

‘I want justice, Faust,’ Birchwood said firmly. The same blaze of ambition in his eyes roared again, making Faust uneasy about what would happen next. ‘I wasn’t always the best husband and father, but… I could always change. Whoever killed my family robbed me of that chance to change. They need to look me in the eyes and know what they have done to me and they will need to face the punishment for their actions.’

‘Now, that’s a load of shit.’ Faust remarked casually. ‘You weren’t going to change, James, you would’ve just stayed the way you were until the day you died and the only memory your girls would have of you, was how you were more concerned with business than with them.’

‘That’s not true!’ James defended, ‘I could have changed for them at some point in the future. I mean… I’m giving up my afterlife for them so that they may have justice!’

The Contractor could not believe what he was hearing – a stupid mortal, talking back to him. Him, of all people. ‘You’re going to argue with me? I’m older than the concept of time itself and you want to fucking argue with me?’ Faust stood straight up, knocking the black pocket watch off the backrest and onto the seat of the pew – this idiot was about to get a lecture. ‘Do you know why people sell their souls to Hell, James? It’s because they’re lazy, greedy, horny, angry, selfish little shits who believe that their grand gesture of sacrifice is noble – that the world should see them as some special little snowflake for being brave enough to stand up to the engines of the damned. If you really wanted to honour their memory, James, and I mean really fucking honour them, then you’d live your life how they wanted you to.’

James shot up and matched the Contractor’s anger. ‘And how would you fucking know? You don’t know them!’

The Contractor shut his eyes for only a moment, almost like he was meditating and folded his arms as his eyelids shot open. ‘You were pissed off at Rowena because on one of her birthdays you bought her an expensive Stradivarius but she wanted to use the violin her grandma gave her.’

Birchwood’s jaw dropped.

‘The last thing Carrie ever said to you was she thought Bruce, the fat shark from Finding Nemo, sounded like your Uncle Bert when he laughed – he does, by the way.’ Faust spat onto the ground angrily and Birchwood swore that he saw a red plume of flames escape the Contractor’s lips. ‘How would I know, James? I make it my business to know. I’m the fucking Contractor!’

James did not know how to react – his hands trembled in their pockets. The Contractor wasn’t done.

‘You reckon you were a good man, James? The last nice thing you ever did for your wife was have your VP pick out some jewellery for her from Cartier and deliver it to her for her birthday on your behalf. That was three years ago. Three! I know everything, James, and I know that if your family still drew breath, you’d still be the same unloving, uncaring, negligent little asshole that you were.’

Birchwood slumped against the pew, unable to contain the cascade of tears that ran down his cheeks.

‘The sooner the water demon comes back, the sooner I’ll be done with you. You humans honestly make me so mad that, if I could, I would off myself!’

Birchwood attempted to stammer a response but was cut off by a small chime coming from the black pocket watch on the bench. Faust scooped it up and stared at it – all three hands, red, black and yellow, now sat frozen at 12 o’clock.

A loud splash followed by a frightened scream from Birchwood indicated to Faust that the demon was back. He pocketed the watch and stared at the large puddle of water under the statue of Christ.

Held in its rotting maw was a man dressed in a grey, custom-tailored Versace suit. He was unconscious, but alive.

‘That’s… that’s Frank!’ Birchwood spoke, pointing an accusing finger at the unconscious man.

The demon lowered the human gently onto the ground and crept to a spot under the statue, eagerly licking its talons and staring at Birchwood like a juicy piece of meat.

Francis Gorman, Vice President of Birchwood Hotels International, stirred as Birchwood approached him and as he slowly opened his eyes, Frank found himself staring down the barrel of an old Smith & Wesson 36LS revolver. He recoiled, burying his face into his arms. ‘Take anything!’ he screamed, ‘just, please don’t hurt me!’

‘Why did you do it, Frank?’

Gorman opened his eyes. ‘Jimmy?’ he asked, smiling a fake smile, ‘Jimmy, what are you –‘

But his words were drowned by an echoing click as Birchwood pulled back the hammer. ‘Why did you do it?’ he asked again, his eyes burning evermore dangerously.

Frank Gorman slowly stood up, holding both his hands in front of him in surrender. ‘Jimmy,’ he said slowly, ‘I know what you’re going through, man, but you’re acting irr-‘

Bang! The loud blast sent deafening echoes through the church and Gorman recoiled back into the ground, staring at the smoking barrel that pointed upwards at the ceiling and the soft cloud of dust that fell onto Birchwood’s shoulders.

‘J-Jimmy… just… relax, okay?’

‘Why did you do it, Frank?’ Birchwood asked one last time, pointing the revolver straight into his eyes.

Gorman, unable to think of a way to weasel himself out of this situation, finally came clean. ‘She was going to expose me, Jimmy!’ he yelled, dipping his head onto the floor at Birchwood’s feet. ‘I was going to lose everything! I couldn’t let her! I just… I just didn’t know what else to do, man. I panicked!’

Faust stared at the two humans before him – one executioner and one criminal. Although he shared no love for anything in this world, there was something about the situation that stirred his interest, although only mildly. Humans spout justice and equality for all, but they knew nothing: whether you’re a kindly monster or a fearsome creature, you are all the same in the eyes of the reaper. Death, as Faust had always known, was the only thing in the world that was fair.

‘What was she about to expose, Frank?’ said Birchwood, the barrel of his revolver shaking.

‘You’ve got to understand, Jimmy,’ Gorman stammered, ‘my wife, she holds everything. If she found out, I’d be ruined!’

‘Found out what, Frank?’ The hammer fell back again, followed by a loud audible click that chilled the air.

‘The… the affair, James. We… we were together a lot while you were off on business and it… it just sort of… happened.’ He got back on to his feet, again holding his hands in surrender. ‘But, Jimmy, you and me… we’ve been friends for years man… we can talk this –‘

Bang! Frank Gorman, Vice President for James Thaddeus Birchwood keeled over, clutching the burning wound in his chest as his blood spilled onto the church floor and under the pews – his widened eyes transfixed on Birchwood as the light died from his irises.

Birchwood’s trembling hands finally stopped. He stood there, taking several deep breaths as though he had just run a marathon. Slowly, he turned to face Faust and raised both hands in the air, adopting the same pose as the statue of Christ behind him.

‘I’m ready,’ he said calmly.

Faust turned his head at the water demon still slobbering on its talon like a rabid dog. ‘Do it,’ he commanded.

The water demon let out an unholy cackle as it kicked its hind legs and leapt off the foot of Christ, charging towards Birchwood.

The human closed his eyes and braced himself as he heard the scratching of sharpened talons on stone get nearer and nearer. The demon bounded through the air with its talons outstretched, heading straight for Birchwood’s chest. He expected to feel some sort of pain, but instead James felt a burning, yet familiar, sensation around the pentagram.

Carefully, he opened his eyes to see that he was unscathed – nothing. Just the same pentagram burning on his chest like some glow-in-the-dark tattoo.

‘Wh-what’s happening?’ he asked.

‘Can’t you tell? Your contract isn’t complete yet.’

‘But, I don’t –‘

‘What was your pact with Satan – with me?’ Faust interjected, finding himself lacking patience for this particular human. ‘What were the conditions you just signed?’

Birchwood thought for a moment. ‘That… the person who is responsible for my family’s death die by my hand.’

‘So, if the pentagram is still on your chest and your soul still intact…?’

Birchwood paused. Could the water demon have brought him the wrong person? No, he thought, it was impossible. It was from Hell – he had a binding agreement with Hell. So, if the demon brought the correct person, yet he was still here… ‘There is more than one person responsible for killing my family.’ He said finally.

‘Bingo.’

‘Well, then call it back!’ he demanded, thumping his chest with his fists, ‘get it to go find the person –‘

‘Shit load of good that’ll do you,’ Faust retorted, unable to hide the derision in his voice. ‘Don’t you get it? It’s you! You’re the other person responsible for their deaths.’

‘But… I don’t understand.’

‘By neglecting your family, your wife, you put them all on the path that would lead them to their eventual death. Can you see why you’re full of shit? If you gave a damn like you were supposed to, they’d still be alive today. You may not have killed them yourself, but their blood is still on your hands.’

Birchwood could not believe what he was hearing – he stared down at his hands, at the revolver in between his shaky palm. ‘But… my soul…’

‘Well, congratu-fucking-lations! You’ve managed you weasel your way out of yet another pact with Hell. So long as you still draw breath, your soul remains with you.’

‘I… get to keep my soul?’

‘Yes, you do,’ Faust spat, unable to contain his anger, ‘but, you know what? All you’ve told me about justice, about making it right for your dead family, that was all just bullshit after all. You wanted to kill the person whose responsible and yet you still get to live a happy and fulfilling life. Don’t you love the irony, Jim? Don’t you?’

Birchwood did not reply. He simply stared at Faust, completely bewildered by what he had just heard.

‘You know what?’ the Contractor continued. ‘You can keep your fucking soul. It’s painful as shit spending an eternity in Hell, but I’m guessing it’s just as painful to live with your fucking hypocrisy.’ His crimson trench coat snapped in the wind as he turned for the door, kicking them open with his unholy strength. ‘The day you die, James Thaddeus Birchwood, is the day I come back for your soul.’ With his back still turned to the mortal, he straightened the lapels of his coat and stared over his shoulder. ‘In the meantime,’ he spoke, one last time, ‘go fuck yourself.’

And with that, the Devils’ Contractor walked back up the darkened streets of Charles de Gualle Avenue in the quiet town of Neuilly-sur-Seine.

He reached into his pocket and produced a black cigarette, bringing it to his lips. He ran his index finger along the palm of his other hands, striking it like a match until it combusted into flames on his fingertip, illuminating his blood-red, albeit tired, eyes.

The Witching Hour was eerily quiet. Eerie to some, but soothing to the Contractor as he heard the soft patter of his footsteps echo across the street. But something else pierced the night.

Bang!

Faust turned heel and stared down the street towards the Church of Saint Jean-Baptiste, straining his ears in the darkness.

And then he heard it.

The unmistakable sound of clawed talons upon the pavements as the sounds grew louder and closer. Through the darkness, he saw the disfigured silhouette of a water demon, bounding through the streets towards him. It screeched to a halt upon reaching him and lowered its head at his feet.

Faust bent over as he heard a small chink hit the ground – it was the soul. Birchwood’s soul. He examined the sphere carefully, getting lost in the swirling haze of radiance it emitted, before sliding it into his pocket.

He continued on his way down the road, the loyal water demon trotting alongside him obediently. ‘That’ll do, imp. That’ll do.’

And so ends the tale of the Widower… and the Contractor.