BY A. F. STEWART
Author’s note: This bit of flash fiction is a sequel, of sorts, to the short story, “Conversation in the Country Club”, which appears in my book Passing Fancies.
Jonathan Kellar poured the wine into the crystal decanter and smiled as he surveyed the table. Succulent oysters, the finest pâté, brie with wedges of apple, and sliced baguette with a herbed butter. Yes, a delightful midnight repast for his expected guest, Mr. Abaddon. As he stood there, taking pride in his creation, the doorbell chimed.
“Wonderful, he’s here.” Kellar crossed his spacious and lavish condo to answer the door and ushered in his caller. “Welcome, sir. I’ve prepared a late meal in anticipation of our appointment. If you would follow me.”
Kellar led his visitor to the table, saw that he was seated and poured them both a glass of wine. Then he settled into the chair opposite his guest.
“You set a lovely table, Mr. Kellar.” Abaddon sipped his wine. “And a fine vintage.”
“Thank you.” Kellar spread a bit of pate on a slice of baguette. “You must be curious as to why I invited you.”
“I will say, I am intrigued. Your invitation was, well, surprising. I am not often surprised.”
“You were referred to me by some members of my country club. They said you were good at removing life’s obstacles for a certain price. I am in need of such a service and willing to pay your price.” Kellar grinned. “If you can deliver what I want, you are quite welcome to my soul.”
“Well, Mr. Kellar, you truly are an astonishing one. Rarely am I approached, usually I make the offer.” He sipped his wine again. “Why, may I ask, did you believe your friends story? Generally a confession of selling one’s soul leads to doubt in the person’s sanity, not recruitment.”
Kellar laughed. “Let’s say I’ve done some extensive research which opened my mind to possibilities.” He reached out, picked up an apple wedge, smearing a chunk of brie over the fruit. “So can we do business?”
“A pity, but I cannot accept your contract.” Abaddon leaned in, a wicked smile on his face. “For you see, your nephew and heir already engaged my services. His soul in exchange for your death, Mr. Kellar. So he can inherit your sizeable fortune.”
“What!” Jonathan Kellar sputtered, swallowing the piece of brie and apple.
Mr. Abaddon laughed and snapped his fingers.
Kellar felt his throat constrict, as the food lodged in gullet, choking off his air. He gasped for breath, his face reddening. His fingers scrabbled against the tablecloth, pulling at it, spilling his glass of wine. The liquid soaked into the fabric, staining it crimson, as Jonathan Kellar collapsed to the floor, dead.
Mr. Abaddon rose, and waved his hand over the table. His wine glass, his place setting, all evidence he had been there disappeared. Then he vanished, in a waft of smoke and sulphur.
A. F. Stewart was born and raised in Nova Scotia, Canada, and still calls it home. She has always had an overly creative mind, and an active imagination. She is fond of good books (especially science fiction/fantasy), action movies, and oil painting as a hobby.
Stewart’s short story, “Our Man Fred”, appeared in Mechanized Masterpieces: a Steampunk Anthology in April, 2013.
