.The Contract.

When it rains, it pours...

So the old saying goes.

The rain had been pounding down from a bleak, stormy-black sky for several miserable days and, to be honest, it was starting to get on peoples' nerves.

If he had ever had had the chance to meet the dick who had coined that particular phrase then he would have gladly kicked his damned teeth in.

What he wouldn't give for something, anything to happen to give his life direction.

He was bored out of his mind.

Mark Lords was drunk and in a foul mood.

It was his fifth beer and the extra alcohol hadn't improved his temper at all.

It was the fourth day in an altogether unexpected vacation; parties in the sun, the beach, babes...working on his tan...fat fucking chance of that now. The news reports gave shitty weather for the next eight days or so. His plans were well and truly screwed.

The reason for his vacation, and the last minute drinking party for one? Unemployed.

He still couldn't believe it had happened. Up until four days ago that had not been the case.

Then along came Jerry.

What kind of name was Jerry anyway? A yuppies cocktail-drinking ass-hole's of a name, that's what! He had swanned into the office, manicured and coiffed and, just like fucking magic, Jerry was in and he was out.

No 'thank-you', no handshake... just a last wage and a boot print in the ass as he was shown the door.

He drained the last dregs from the can he was holding and threw the empty vessel across the room. It hit the wall and landed on the wooden floor with a crash. It spun crazily for a few moments until it came to rest in amongst the others already there.

He had thought that someone...anyone would speak up for him, any of his 'so-called friends'. But, no, not a single damned one of them. Not a peep, not a squeak from anybody. He had been marched from the office the few possessions that he had grabbed from his desk grasped in his arms. The last thing he had seen was the broad grin on his bosses'...ex bosses'...face as he pumped the hand of the new guy, as he had left the place he had called work for the last ten years.

Even the receptionist, the smart piece of ass he had been building up the courage to ask out, even she had smirked as he walked past. Even adding a little sarcastic wiggle of immaculately painted nails.

What he wouldn't give to get even with all those office shits, his so-called colleagues. He had spent the last four days thinking up ever-more ingenious ways of wiping those smug looks from their faces, some of those thought even scaring him at times.

Damn, he would sell his soul to get even given half the chance.

Mark reached a hand down and grabbed the last can from the six-pack he had placed there. He tore the plastic loops from the top and threw that towards the small pile of tins across the room. He popped the tab and drained the can in several deep swallows. It also founds it way from his hand to its empty brothers. He got unsteadily to his feet, lack of movement and beer making him sway. He reached out and grabbed the arm of the chair he had been in. He missed with the first lunge and only just managed to stay on his feet. He leant against the wall and made his way towards the kitchen. Having started drinking early on, and having nothing else to do, he may as well carry on. He had another two sixes in the fridge and, if it turned into a proper party, a bottle or two of ten year old scotch in one of the cupboards.

Marks smile was lopsided as he fumbled in the darkness looking for the light-switch he knew was there. His groping fingers slapped uselessly against cracked plaster and finding... nothing. He tried another minute before giving up and trudging over to the fridge. He pulled the door open harder than he had intended the door slamming against the wall, the sound echoing through the dark, empty house.

The weak light from the appliance threw light on to what he knew to be there; two sixes, unopened... inviting... begging to be drunk.

He reached in to grab the first of many more dead soldiers.

'Can you spare one of those? I'm parched.'

Mark spun at the first word, shrieking like a scared child having been caught doing something he shouldn't. His fogged brain saw a figure, a man, sitting just outside the light at his dining room table. The cans fell from his hand and hit the floor, one springing loose and rolling across the floor coming to rest between the man's feet. He leaned down slowly and retrieved the errant can, placing it upright and unopened on the wooden table ahead of him. Where he touched the can it smoked, whether from heat or cold Mark wasn't sure. He sat back into the darkness and folded his arms across his chest.

Mark recovered quickly, at least partially, in record time.

'Who in the name of Christ are you? And how the hell did you get in my house?'

The figure sat as still as rock but Mark was sure there was just the hint of white in the darkness as his lip twitched into a smile.

Mark couldn't see much but instinctively knew, even past the long coat he was wearing, the man would be tall and wide if he chose to stand. The light from the fridge just stopped short of illuminating any specific details as if it were unwilling to get any closer to the seated figure. He felt himself take an involuntary step backwards. There was something not quite right about this whole encounter, something... off.

He tried again, trying to force more authority into his voice.

'Mister... you got three seconds before I call the police on your ass for trespassing.'

The stranger move ever so slightly, a small tilt and forward angle of his head.

Mark took another step backwards, his ass brushing the wall behind him now. He hadn't been aware of backing up so far.

'I came with a business proposal... maybe I was wrong. Maybe you don't have what it takes to accept my offer.'

The stranger started to stand once more, the light starting to dim even further, allowing the darkness to inch its way towards where Mark stood.

He held out a pleading hand, instantly aware that nothing he could do would save what was to come.

He did the only thing his booze-soaked brain could come up with...

'Wait, please.'

In an instant the figure was back in its seat, the light a little brighter once more.

He was obviously a kook, but a dangerous one, and Mark had no intention of being left beaten, possibly dead in his own kitchen.

If it meant he had to listen to some bullshit spiel, then so be it. The sooner he could get the loon out his house the better.

He pulled a chair out from the table and sat facing the stranger. He left the small light on because, even if he could find the light switch in the dark, if he could even remember where it was, he knew that it would refuse to work.

Even that small light would be enough if it meant not being in the dark with the other.

'Okay... I'm all ears.'

The man's hand reached into his jacket, further and further, deeper than it had any sane right to.

This was it, the nutter was going to pull a piece on him and blow his brains out in his own home. His mind screamed at him to get up, to get the hell away, to get out... but his body refused to respond.

He had to see...

Had to know what would be in the man's hand.

A small, carved wooden box sat on the table between them, Mark wasn't even aware the man had pulled his hand from his jacket.

His eyes where drawn to the box, there was only the box.

Every surface was carved with images; faces screaming in agony, mouths opened in silent screams. As he watched they seemed to move and shift, he had trouble keeping his eyes on one picture at a time.

Carvings constantly shifted form defying all reason.

His eyes roved from surface to surface never lingering on one for too long.

'You like?'

The man's voice was at once as smooth as silk and quiet as a whisper coming from nowhere and everywhere all at the same time.

Mark was aware the light had gone, but he could still see the box in front of him.

'It can give you whatever you want... ANYTHING you want. It can grant your dreams.'

The voice seemed to echo around the room.

'Aren't there some people who just need a lesson? People who you don't like?'

Mark found himself answering, wanting to answer.

Needing to.

'Yes.'

'Just one thing... I need an... offer... of good-will, a small token from you, a thing you won't be needing when the party starts. Do you accept my proposal?'

Mark felt his head bob once in agreement even as his hands reached for the screaming trinket.

The voice was impossibly deep when it spoke again.

'A DEAL IS STRUCK!'

He felt a bottomless cold and a furnace heat as his hand was grabbed by the stranger. Everything spun and the darkness swept in to surround him, deeper than he could ever imagine.

The last thing he saw as his soul was ripped from his body was a yawning cavern of a mouth. It was smiling but there were too many teeth; too many, too long... too sharp.

Blackness claimed him.

At the final moment he knew he had made a terrible mistake...

And that he was damned.