The Devil's Due: Chapter I
--E.K. Bradshaw

The Wayside Inn was roughly ten miles from the interstate exit, in a tiny roadside town known simply as Midway. What exactly the small town lay mid-way between was anyone's guess--and frankly, John Bradshaw Layfield didn't give a damn as to the answer. Presently, he was preoccupied with trying to figure out just where the hell he was. The town of Midway was nowhere to be found on his trusty highway map and, somewhere along the way, he knew he must have taken one hell of a wrong turn. Truth be told, he wasn't even sure which state he was in--though he figured he must be at least halfway to New York from Texas by now.

Two days had passed since Bradshaw's unceremonious departure from the WWE following WrestleMania. What had promised to be a gallant homecoming had ended in disaster, in humiliating defeat. I quit. He could count the number of times he had uttered those words in his entire life on one hand. Two days alone on the open road had given him time to think, to dwell on it, and two days' time had not lessened the sting of it. Not by a long shot. A quitter was a failure, and John Bradshaw Layfield was neither. No surrender. Never say die.

Needless to say, this was not something he was handling well.

But while his career as a self-professed Wrestling God was dead and buried, Bradshaw was not a man without options. When most men would have folded, he thrived, shining like a diamond in the face of adversity. It was the reason he was a self-made success, CEO of his own company, the filthy-rich embodiment of the American dream. What did not kill him, he knew, would only serve to make him stronger.

Ultimately, he had a plan already in the works where his future was concerned. He would channel his energy into expanding Layfield Energy, continue to build his considerable fortune, and the world would once again be his oyster. Already, he had several business dealings in line once he got back to the city. For now, though, he was content to play the part of power-broker by telephone as he stood at the open window of his hotel room in Midway.

"Look, Randy, I'm tellin' ya," he spoke into his cell phone. "Layfield Energy is the energy company of the future. Forget national, we're going worldwide. Once this marketing deal goes through, you're gonna want to buy stock in this company. Remember that, and convince as many of our investors of this as you can." The voice on the other end squawked some indignity, and Bradshaw found himself rolling his eyes. "Randy, listen. Have I ever steered you wrong? You ain't helpless, son. All I'm asking is that you hold the fort down till I get back. End of the week at the latest, I promise you. In the meantime, call me if anything goes down."

He snapped the phone shut, putting an end to the call, and to whatever protests his associate might have had.

With growing displeasure, he turned his gaze out the window, taking in the view that, quite frankly, left a hell of a lot to be desired. From his vantage point, there was literally nothing to be seen. Beyond a one-lane, red dirt road, there was a wheat field--tall, golden stalks that seemed to span both horizons. The sun was setting fast, and the field was like a sea of fire beneath the angry red sky. Towering thunderheads loomed over the horizon, and the air was still and heavy, dead silent on the wings of the impending storm.

Gonna be a bad one, thought Bradshaw, as he pulled the window shut. His second thought, unbidden, sprang to his mind. Sweet Lord, this place gives me the damn creeps.

The place reminded him of a low-budget horror film he had seen when he was young--something about a stranger from the city getting hopelessly lost and stopping to rest at a hotel in an isolated one-horse town. In the end, everybody died--hacked to bits with an axe by some deranged sociopath who had come from the cornfields. Naturally, the out-of-towner was the first to buy the farm.

White lightning raced across the crimson sky, and the wind rushed over the plain; the wheat moved as if it were alive. Bradshaw yanked the curtains shut and promptly turned away from the window.

Night came quickly, eternal darkness stretching over the prairie.

Bradshaw busied himself with unpacking, laying his things out on the bed. He was tired, more so than he'd thought. He undressed, trading his polo shirt and slacks for a pair of monogrammed silk pajamas. In the still silence of the room, his every movement seemed amplified. An odd creaking noise reached his ears--what was that?--and he stopped where he was, listening. Probably just a board creaking or something, he thought. Damn place is probably ready to collapse as it is. He was in the process of turning down the covers when the phone rang, the shrill jangling causing Bradshaw to nearly jump to the ceiling. He laughed at himself, recovering his wits before picking up.

"John Layfield," he answered.

"Hey, darlin.'" He recognized the voice of the desk clerk, a grandmotherly woman named Mabel. "Just wanted to ask what time you wanted your wake-up call in the mornin.'"

"Seven is fine," he answered politely. "Thank you, ma'am."

"Sorry to disturb you, dear. You have a nice sleep, now."

"Thank you, ma'am."

He hung up, finding his nerves still a tad on edge, and instantly felt silly for it. Don't you go gettin' all spooked on me, son. It had been a long day, a long drive. Adding to his stress was the fact that he hated this godforsaken town for all it was worth. Which, he was sure, wasn't much. A stiff drink and a good night's sleep was what he needed. Come morning, he could put his heels to this hole in the wall and never look back. There was a small bottle of Jack Daniels in his overnight bag and he pulled it out, opened it and took a swig. That's the ticket. He knocked the bottle back once more for good measure and settled back against the pillows. The alcohol was already starting to take effect, beginning to dull his senses. His eyes fluttered shut and he began to drift.

He was just on the verge of sleep when the phone shrilled again, startling him wide awake. Goddamn it. His hand found the receiver blindly.

"Layfield," he said groggily, but no answer came. "Hello?" An audible click, followed by a dial tone. Wrong number, he guessed, and hung up. He flipped the bedside light off and turned over in bed, his body finally and completely succumbing to sleep.

* * * * *

He woke again some few hours later to the sound of thunder rumbling overhead, and the staccato sound of rain hammering on the rooftops. He groaned and rolled in the direction of the window; as he did, a spray of raindrops splattered cold against his face, blowing in through the wide-open window he was sure he'd closed.

Hellfire, shit and damnation.

Begrudgingly, he turned the light on and rose, padding across the bare wood floor to shut the window--firmly this time. Maybe now I can get some damn sleep.

He had just turned from the window when a blinding flash of lightning struck right overhead. The resonating crack of thunder was deafening, rattling the walls, threatening to bring the building down. It was in that same instant that the lights in the room flickered and died. The dense, all-encompassing darkness that ensued was quite possibly the blackest that Bradshaw had ever experienced. Christ, I can't see a damn thing. To make matters worse, the phone was ringing again. Blind in the dark, he staggered toward the source of the noise. He tripped over his boots and banged his shin hard on the nightstand in the process. A colorful stream of profanity shot from his mouth as he hopped on his one good leg and snatched the phone off the hook, fully intending to give whoever was on the other end of that line a piece of his West-by-God-Texas mind--

"What, goddamn it?" he answered unpleasantly. The line crackled and remained silent, and Bradshaw lost what little remaining composure he had left. "Listen! I don't know who the goddamn hell this is, but if you don't speak right the hell up, right now, I swear with God as my witness, I'm gonna come over there and shove my fist so far--"

"Beware." The way that one word was spoken made Bradshaw stop, mid-rant. Unnerving silence ensued, and the back of his neck prickled.

"Who is this?" he demanded. "Who's there?"

"A man reaps what it is that he sows." The voice was shrill and piercing, and Bradshaw couldn't help but think he might have heard it somewhere before. "But beware, thou, he who is the reaper of men. For it is he who will drag away the souls of sinners, screaming, into the flames of eternal darkness."

"Is this some kind of joke?" The entity on the other end laughed, a high-pitched, dreadful sound.

"Your hour of reckoning is at hand. A man reaps what he sows, Bradshaw." A chill ran, unbidden, down Bradshaw's spine.

"How the hell do you know my name? Whoever you are, I ain't afraid of you--"

"You shouldn't be afraid, Bradshaw. No, you should be terrified." A gleeful cackle came through the receiver, resonating with madness. Bradshaw dropped the phone and took a step backward, then, after a second thought he grabbed the whole thing, yanked it from the wall and threw it across the room. A sick dread was overtaking him like a slow burn, twisting his stomach into knots. You're freaking out, boy. Get a grip on yourself. Pull it together.

Somewhere in the back of his mind was his rational self, telling him that this was rigoddamndiculous, that a grown man shouldn't be afraid of the dark, that a few weird phone calls were nothing to be as scared shitless of as he was at present. He fought to regain his wits even as the storm raged out of control directly overhead, and the pale lightning brought jagged, menacing shadows to life along the dingy walls, and dear sweet Lord, is that a person at the window--

He froze dead, heart racing, his nagging dread kicking into a full-blown panic.

Light, his mind screamed. Need light. Flashlight. Candle. Anything.

He found the nightstand drawer, where he recalled having seen a box of emergency tapers and a box of matches. Rummaging blindly, he found them--thank you, God--and struck a match, lighting one of the tapers, and then a second. The tiny, quivering flames did little to ward off the heavy darkness, but light was light and Bradshaw was thankful for it. Still a bundle of raging nerves, he stood and paced, back and forth between the bed and the window.

"There's nobody here," he told himself aloud. The tone of his own voice was by no means reassuring. "There's nothing else here. Just you, son. Just you and the dark."

Darkness there and nothing more.

The voice Bradshaw heard in his head then was deep and foreboding and not at all his own. He heard it loud and clear, within and without, the ominous baritone taking hold of all his senses at once. Is it the wind ceaselessly knocking, knocking at your chamber door? No, no, dear Bradshaw. It is I. Reaper of men. Chaser of souls.

Bradshaw's heart sank to his toes. He could have placed that voice anywhere. That raw fear, that primal terror was back and it screamed at him now--out out get out--though he knew by now that it was far too late. He could feel that unmistakable presence at his backside, black as the Ace of Spades.

He didn't want to turn around, but he found himself doing so nevertheless, compelled by a power far stronger than his own. He knew the sight that awaited him would make his blood run cold in his veins.

And it did.

When John Bradshaw Layfield turned, he found himself face-to-face with one of the most evil entities to ever walk the earth.

The Lord of Darkness.