Monsters to Servants

Chapter One: The Mesmer

It was night, and dark clouds loomed over the house, swirling in the sky as if to say "Look here, evil shit about to happen." A man by the name of Mac in a brown leather jacket with fur lining kicked the gate with his muddy work boots. The road passed through here, and the gate was chained up and padlocked. The gate clanged in response but didn't budge. He turned around and casually leaned against the cobbled stone pillar bearing the hinges as he pulled out a cigarette and lit it. As he did so, an old black car rolled down the dirt driveway. Its driver, Demetrius, said it was some kind of fancy car, Mac didn't know what. Or maybe he said it wasn't a fancy car, and that made it fancy.

The car of Shroedinger's Fanciness came to a stop in front of the gate. Mac took a drag and a few steps towards the car as a thin, pale, red-haired man in a tight black suit jacket over a Metallica t-shit and tighter jeans than Mac thought most girls wore stepped out. Demetrius took spun wildly around, looking at the forest for a bit, then back towards Mac. He began staggering towards the gate, steps crossing in front of each other several times, and Mac rolled his eyes.

"How are you drunk right now?" Mac growled in a deep-voiced, light Irish accent.

"Onleh a lehttle," Demetrius responded, his own Scottish voice further slurred by alcohol.

"That wasn't my question."

Demetrius stuck out a hand to lean on the pillar and almost missed. He scratched his head and finger-gunned at Mac's cigarette. "Tha's not vahry hyealthy, MacDooodlydoo. MacDaddy. MacDoggy. Heh."

Mac crossed his arms and raised an eyebrow, and after a half-second's consideration blew a steady stream of smoke into Demetrius's face. Demetrius didn't flinch. "You've never once taken care of yourself, Demi, yet after showing up to do a job dead drunk-"

"Not funny."

"-you tell me that smoking's bad for my health?"

There was a silence between them for a moment. Demetrius nodded and looked askance, apparently considering his actions and his position. Then, with another finger-gun, said, "There's been studies."

"Christ on a cracker..."

"Anyhoo, why'd ye park ye bike so far up tha road?"

"I can't talk to you when you're like this." Mac flicked his cigarette aside and walked over to the chains of the gate. He gripped the padlock in one clenched hand and ripped it off along with a few links of the chain before shoving the gate open. He dropped the broken lock on the ground.

"Ah mean, ye 'ad to walk all tha way 'ere..." Demetrius blinked for a moment and then leaned over with his hands on his knees. "Oh, gettin' dizzeh..."

"Right, perfect." Mac walked back over to the stone wall where he'd been standing and picked up his shotgun from the grass. "Well, I'm going in. When you've managed to sober up and take this job seriously, you can follow."

As Mac walked away, Demetrius's last input was to raise a finger and call out, "Not a job! Not gettin' paid..."

Mac came to the front porch of the large, old house. People in the town said this place was haunted, but based on their own investigations it seemed unlikely. Someone or something was using this house for dark magic; that magic had seeped into the surrounding woods making animals aggressive and defensive of the house, the shadows were darker, and people more often got lost. It was only a matter of time before someone got hurt. Or worse, before they found the truth.

Mac pressed down on the door, which had a thumb lever rather than a knob. Sure enough, it swung open and he stepped into the main hall. He inhaled deep through his nose. Immediately he could smell the dust, the cobwebs, the rat feces. He also smelled sweat. Maybe fear.