Meeting Satan At The End Of The Line

“The boomers who thought Eric Clapton was a bluesman never understood that the compact at the crossroads is older than America.”

“Half-steps never win the prize, Jake. If you compact, you must compact completely.”

“When men cling to lies, I appear as terror. When men seek truth, I appear as mentor.”

Jake’s phone buzzed. No number. Just:

“Cockfosters. 8pm. Walk to Trent Park.”

He boarded the Piccadilly Line, rattling north. The carriage grew emptier the further he went, until he was the only one left, staring at his reflection in the darkened window.

At Cockfosters, Satan was waiting on the platform. Impeccable as ever: coat perfect, eyes bright, posture calm. Without a word, they crossed the silent car park and entered Trent Park. The night was damp, the trees skeletal against a dim moon.

They walked the winding path in silence until Satan spoke.

Satan. “Robert Johnson. The Americans have their myths. A crossroads in Mississippi. A bluesman’s guitar. They call it folklore, but it is borrowed cloth.”

He paused, looking up at the bare trees.

Satan. “The boomers who thought Eric Clapton was a bluesman never understood that the compact at the crossroads is older than America. Here in Blighty we have had it for centuries. You’ve heard of Berney Brograve?”

Jake nodded vaguely.

Satan. “A Norfolk squire. Eighteenth century. Called on me for aid when his affairs went sour. Nearly lost his soul in Worstead Church. His family motto — fittingly — warns against summoning me. But the truth? He faltered, he doubted, and so his bargain rotted before it bore fruit. Half-steps never win the prize, Jake. If you compact, you must compact completely.”

They came to a clearing. Trent Park was utterly still, the air heavy. Satan stopped, his gaze shifting toward the darkness under the trees.

Satan. “Do you know of Black Shuck?”

Jake shook his head.

Satan. “A hound. A shadow. The people call it a death omen. Bungay, 1577. Storm night. The creature burst into the church, tore men apart, and left scorch marks on the door. They say it was a ghost dog. But it was me, Jake. Not a dog at all. The hound is merely the mask. The truth is this: when men cling to lies, I appear as terror. When men seek truth, I appear as mentor.”

His eyes caught the moonlight, gleaming.

Satan. “So ask yourself: do you want me as the hound at your throat, or the hand at your shoulder?”

Jake felt the air tighten in his chest. The trees seemed to press closer, shadows bending toward him.

He swallowed hard. “The hand. Always the hand.”

Satan’s smile was thin, approving.

Satan. “Then remember. Brograve failed. Black Shuck was only fear given form. You will succeed if you master fear. And at the crossroads — which you will come to soon enough — you must choose without hesitation.”

They walked on through the park, the silence broken only by the crunch of wet leaves.

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🔗 Devil’s Pact
🔗 Petition to Lord Satan
🔗 Demon Summoning Ritual

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