Eldritch Experiment

[WP] You sold your soul to an otherworldly being, hoping to gain the powers needed to go on an adventure and maybe even save the world. As your Patron calls in the first of never ending favors, you find yourself at a candlelit dinner with them sitting in front of you in their best outfit.

*****

The room is wide, high, and dark. Red tapestry loses itself in the shadows of the great ceiling, the oak table has been crafted and carved with a skill beyond anything you've seen. The single candelabra enlightens you, your guest, the table, and little beyond. You can't remember how many steps it took to go from the door to your chair, nor where the door is exactly.

Someone brought salad, cherries, and a mahogany box.

It hasn't spoken yet. It sits opposite from you, hidden under a regal dress, head shrouded under a wide hood. It seems humanoid from far away, a voice in the back of your mind screams and begs to not take a closer look.

You blink.

It has finished its meal, and left wide bones and claw marks on the table where there had only been salad and cherries before. it wipes its mouth delicately with a handkerchief.

"Be careful, a lot can happen in the space of a blink," the voice is raspy like a hundred teeth gnashing on a lamb.

Two gloved hands appear in the light of the candelabra, the body remains hidden in the dark. The hands unfold the mahogany box into a chessboard. The board is large, scriptures and paintings line up the sides of it. It depicts the history of earth, your earth, and beyond. The birth of a thief, his odd friendship with a volcanic, well-off woman, her death as she was caught alone and suffered the penitence for two. Or are they insects instead of humans?

The pieces are red, white and dark, you know these at least. Bishops made out of marble, knights carved from quartz, and the pawns. These are ripped from coral, glitter next to the candles in a crude and savage way.

Tentatively, you brush your finger against a pawn, and hastily retreat when a drop of blood falls.

"I only play high stakes."

You blink.

A moment before, the space between guest and host had been wide, courtesy of the great dining table.

You can smell its breath now, but you won't raise your head, oh no you won't. You can't peek in the darkness of its cowl, all is over if you do, you feel it inside your flesh and bones the same way a baby draws breath when it is born. It isn't known, it just happens.

And attention should not be diverted from the game, first blood has already been drawn.

It plays, and wounds its hand. The red spot on your finger widens, but there is no turning back. The contract has been signed, the soul turned over.

It is the first play of many.

The pieces are moved, so are you. It is chess, yet unlike the chess you've known. The pieces have their own plans and envies.

Black King D8.

You feel the dampness of a deep cave, hear the regular plop of water droplets.

Red Pawn H4

The salt on your lips, the sun on your back. The sea must be beautiful, battering the cliffs with loud waves. But attention must be kept on the game.

Black Bishop takes Red Pawn, H4

The cut is sharp and definite, the artery has been severed with a surgeon's precision. The body falls, the victim dead before hitting the ground.

Your host slips, playing so much with the pawns has weakened its grasp, such an occasion will not represent itself.

Black Rook takes Red Knight, E4

But the host is accustomed to the game. On the snowy mountain of E4, an army of red pawns, enraged and more animal than man, assault the tower. They climb, they fall, but with teeth and hand, take it apart. The black queen does not take it lying down, and slaughters them to the last. The hands of your host are bloodied stumps, yours are little more. Check.

In an Italian restaurant, the customers fall dead one after the other, the black queen is strangled by a knight, alabaster white. There's little left, save for an opening. Have you planned it? You can't be certain.

Pawn moves to D2.

Checkmate.

The host leans back into the high chair, mangled hands holding a glass of wine as if blood loss was of little concern. It seems fine, unlike you. You pass out.

The road is cold against your cheek, what is left of your hand is freezing. With pain, you go up, this was the strangest of dreams. Stranger than the cops surrounding you, stranger than the bodies strewn around and the charred houses. You recognize the pawns, your recognize the sea.

The judge has little understanding for your mad story, she won't let a monster plead for insanity. It will be the death-row, the story goes around, nobody complains. Through you, there is now a tacit agreement, a proof that sometimes, death is the proper answer.

The doctors sew your hands together, they heal in time, you even have access to a physiotherapist. She brings life and movement back to your fingers, sometimes you try to speak with her, but she refuses to indulge beyond professional orders, and the guards in the room await any excuse to gun you down.

The day comes, the chair is set. You feel the fresh wind on your renewed hands as you walk from your cell to the execution's block. They won't ever understand, you won't either.

The straps are tight on your forearms, your heart pounds fast. You are terrified, they don't ask for last words, you don't have anything to say.

A flip is switched.

The room is high, wide and dark. Red tapestry loses itself in the shadows of the great ceiling, everything is as you remember. Save for the bandaged hands of your host. You do not dare to take a deep look at its face, but you see your hands, and a discreet sense of kinship with your host.

"You wouldn't believe," it says while two gloved hands pour him a wine, "how long I awaited a worthy opponent to play against."

Another pair of gloved hands puts a mahogany box on the table.

*****

THE END.