The Devils Watch

Untitled Part 1

The dimly lit bar exuded an air of mystique as I walked in, its patrons lost in hushed conversations that seemed to vanish into the dark corners of the room. Shadows danced to the soft jazz playing in the background, creating an ambiance that was both enchanting and unsettling. 

Deep red leather barstools lined the aged mahogany counter, each one bearing the marks of countless elbows and glasses.

A faint aroma of musty wood and aged spirits lingered in the air, battling the stench that still hung in my nostrils from outside.

I stepped around a few odd looking individuals that were deep in conversation, my nervousness palpable in the way my fingers clung to the strap of the purse hanging by my side.

This wasn't my usual scene.

Places like 'Hell's Door' weren't places I often visited, and the first impressions were making me feel a little uneasy.

I preferred to stay at home with a glass of well aged whiskey and a cigarette, much to my father's disapproval. He felt that my smoking habit was disgusting and that it wasn't right for women to smoke.

But his opinions no longer mattered to me.

I had moved out at least a decade ago to live on my own, far from him and the new woman he had decided to keep by his side.

The woman, who was in fact barely older than I was, disgusted me. I wanted nothing to do with her or the household the two of them had decided to create, so as soon as I turned eighteen I was gone like a bat out of heaven and left the two of them to their own devices.

As I settled onto a barstool and scanned my surroundings, I couldn't help but feel out of place. My nervousness had transformed the typically cheerful demeanor that always seemed to seep like sap out of me into one that felt slightly askew.

The air was foggy from cigarette smoke, casting a ghostly glare over the room. Candles lined the walls and sat atop the antler chandelier hanging from the ceiling, casting their long shadows that danced to the rhythm of the jukebox in the corner.

My mood dropped even lower when I saw that the particular bartender I had come to see wasn't at the counter. Someone else was working that I didn't recognize, nor did I have any inclination to meet.

I debated leaving, because if he wasn't here then there was no point for me to be here as well.  

The man I had come to see was a friend of a friend, and he had something that I desperately needed to acquire. Something only he could make and no one else on the planet had the ability to do so. 

Or at least, that's what my friend Ashley says.

My thoughts wandered as I waited patiently for the other mans attention, wanting to get something small to pass the time and ask him where the Nathan was.

I tried to remember what Ashley had said, and remember the description of the man I had come here to see. I thought of her, and the complex relationship we both had. One that had never been without its share of tension or hardship.

I mean, that's what best friends do right? They fight and bitch about literally everything, but also somehow always patch things up and move on like nothing ever happened.

She would be surprised to see me here, sitting at a bar on the shady side of a deep southern town, waiting for the somewhat attractive man at the counter to give me some cheap whiskey.

She would have found it humorous. 

A deep voice with an almost sickening amount of rasp to it cut into my thoughts like a machete.