The air was thick with the sound of metal grinding against
metal as Steven Henderson worked on the haunted chopper. His hands, calloused and steady, adjusted the rusted gears with precision. The garage was his sanctuary, the one place where he could drown out the noise of the world. Yet, even here, in the safety of the familiar, something felt off. The old Harley Davidson had been here for days now, and no matter how much he tinkered with it, something about the bike gnawed at him.
His eyes kept darting to it as if the machine itself was watching him, waiting.
As the hum of the tools buzzed around him, the door creaked open. Steven didn't bother looking up at first, assuming it was Jim or maybe his uncle Larry stumbling in, but the faint sound of uneven footsteps gave him pause. A chill ran down his spine as the old man entered. The figure was hunched, draped in a dark, tattered coat, a wide-brimmed hat shadowing his face.
The atmosphere shifted. The garage, once filled with the comforting smell of gasoline and oil, now felt stifling, oppressive.
The old man's feet made no sound on the concrete floor, yet he left dark patches in his wake. Each step seemed to taint the ground beneath him, like ink spilling onto a clean page.
"Nice bike, right?" the old man said, his voice a rasp that scrapes the air. Steven glanced up, narrowing his eyes at the stranger.
"Yeah, it's a project," Steven muttered, wiping his hands on his shirt. "Don't think it's anything special."
The man took a slow step forward, his head tilting as though he were studying Steven with a gaze that pierced through the dim lighting of the garage. "You think this is all there is?" The old man's tone was low, almost soothing, like a whisper of a forgotten memory.
Steven chuckled nervously, unsure whether the man was some kind of wandering eccentric. "What do you mean? It's just a bike."
The old man smiled, but it wasn't a comforting smile. It was an unsettling one, as if he knew things that Steven couldn't begin to comprehend. "It's more than that, young man. Just like you are more than what you think."
"Okay, well... I don't know what you're talking about," Steven said, a little unnerved now. He wiped his brow and tried to focus on the work in front of him. But the man wouldn't stop staring.
"You're out of control, boy. You feel it, don't you?" The man stepped closer, his voice dropping lower, wrapping around Steven's mind like a heavy fog. "The rage. The fire. It's there. It's been there all along."
Steven froze, a knot forming in his stomach. He could feel the man's words worming their way into his mind, stirring things he hadn't wanted to acknowledge. He was still distracted by the old man's presence, but now the words were sinking in. He did feel it, that rage. That dark burning.
"I… I'm not sure what you mean. I don't—"
"You will," the man interrupted, his voice now sharp like a blade. "And when you do, you'll wish you'd listened."
Steven's heart thudded in his chest, the weight of the man's words sinking deeper into him. He didn't know why, but something about this felt... familiar. Dangerous.
The old man chuckled, the sound hollow and cold. "You think it's all a joke, don't you? That this is some twisted game? Let me show you what it truly means to make a deal."
The garage seemed to darken around them, the lights flickering as the man's eyes flashed an unnatural, burning red. Thunder rumbled in the distance, shaking the ground beneath their feet.
"Give me your soul," the man's voice dropped to a chilling whisper. "And I'll give you power, happiness. Control."
Steven blinked, his breath catching in his throat. The words didn't make sense. Power? Happiness? What kind of deal was this?
He scoffed, nervously laughing. "You're... you're insane. What kind of offer is that? My soul for happiness? You think I'm that dumb?"
The man didn't respond. Instead, the air around them seemed to change, and in an instant, the temperature dropped, the garage's walls stretching and warping. The old man's form shimmered, his skin peeling away like burnt paper, revealing the true shape of his monstrous form—a devil, towering and drenched in darkness. The shadows clung to his body as though they were alive.
Steven's blood ran cold. His heart pounded in his ears as a sense of dread flooded his body.
"I never said you had to be smart to make a choice," the devil spoke, his voice now thick with malice. "You've already made it. You just don't know it yet."
Before Steven could respond, the man—no, the devil—reached out a long, clawed finger, and a dark mist began to swirl in the air. A contract appeared out of thin air, the words written in a language that felt both ancient and foreign. The smell of sulfur filled the air.
The old man—Mephistopheles, though Steven couldn't yet know him by that name—smiled again, his eyes glowing red. "Sign it," he commanded. "And your soul is mine. In return, you will have everything you've ever wanted."
Steven stared at the contract, the offer tugging at something deep inside of him, something primal, something hungry. The words danced before his eyes, calling to him, tempting him. The storm outside roared louder, as though the heavens themselves were warning him.
And yet, despite the warnings, despite the doubts, something within him stirred.
He reached out with trembling hands and signed his name.
The moment the ink touched the paper, the air exploded with a deafening crack of thunder. Lightning struck down from the sky, and the figure before him disappeared into the shadows.
The contract was his. The deal was made.
And just like that, the man—Mephistopheles—was gone.
The storm outside ceased.
The garage was silent once more, the only sound the echo of Steven's heartbeat pounding in his chest.
He stood there, alone, staring at the contract in his hand. The weight of the decision began to settle in, but it was too late to turn back now.
Something had changed. Something inside him had shifted.
And it wasn't over.
Not by a long shot.