Chapter 1:

Your Friend, the Devil

Don't have Debt with the Devil

      "It's done," said the person over the phone. "W-What?" The caller ended the call. George didn't want to believe that it was related. He laid down on his bed and contemplated what he'd just heard. "Was it related? Are they actually dead? Did I do something wrong?" All these thoughts ran through his mind. He said to himself out loud, "No, I did nothing wrong, Dad was a horrible person. Dad tortured me. Dad hurt Mom. And now Dad's dead. Jay deserves what he got. Why? What did he achieve by saying those things about Mom? This world is utter hell. Innocent people suffering because of the heartless." That night he fell asleep with tears sliding down his face. 

     George woke to a call from an unknown number. "Hello?" He said in a groggy tone. "Hi, is this George Wood who I'm speaking to?" replied the person on the phone. "Yes, that's me." "I'm Detective Rodriguez from the NYC police department." George's blood ran cold as he remembered his call from last night. "H-how can I help you o-officer?"  asked George."Do you think you could come into the station today?" Asked the detective. "Yeah, I'll be there in an hour." "Great, thank you." With that the detective hung up. 

      George freshened up and headed down to the New York City police station. When he got there the detective brought him into his office and handed him a cup of water. "Have you heard anything of your father's death?" George froze,  his cup of water falling through his hands and stood there like a statue. After a second he came back to his senses. "Oh, I'm so sorry," said George. "No, no please, Mr. Wood it's ok. This is a lot to take in so, please, sit down." The detective started explaining what happened. "This morning at 6:32am, 911 received a call from the Wood Estate. Your maid Marta made the call claiming she found her masters body laying on the floor. When the police got there they found your dad, Steven, with his throat slit. However, the disturbing part was the killers calling card. He stuck goat horns to your father's forehead and carved 'The Devil' into his chest. It's presumed that your father is the 15th victim of the elusive serial killer, The Devil. I'm sorry for your loss". George stood up, "I don't feel like answering any questions," murmured George as he was leaving. The detective asked one last question, "Do you think your dad's murder and the disappearance of Jay Wilson,  are linked?" George pretended not to hear him and walked out. 

      When George got home he took a shower. He couldn't hold back his tears any longer. As he held his head in-between his legs his tears mixed with the running water of the shower. "W-where did I go wrong? Why am I like this? Why can't I just die?" 

      Getting out of the shower, he saw a text from his friend Chris. The text read, "Hey, I heard about your dad. Why don't you come on down to the bar and I'll buy you a few drinks?" "Ok," replied George. 

      George put on his coat and walked to the bar right down the street from his apartment in Queens. The sun was nearly set when he was getting to the bar. All of his friends were there and Chris bought a round of beers. They drank the night away watching football on the tv's, and eating more french fries than 10 starving families could consume. At 2 am George stumbled out of the bar. As he was slowly walking home in his drunken state, something flew past his face.  

      He immediately sobered up. A drop of blood fell to the ground below him. Looking up he saw a shadowy figure disappearing down a side street. He ran to the nearest trash can and threw up all the fries and drinks he had. Walking back over to see what it was that had flown past his face, he pulled the projectile out of the ground. It was a knife, a throwing knife. There was a note attached to the letter. It read, 

                        "You have 3 days to pay me the money you owe me.                                                                                                                                                            

                                                                          Your friend, the Devil."

      He now realized who he was dealing with. A mass murderer who was deadly accurate with a knife. Purposely missing a drunk stumbling on the street while still trying to graze him is no easy feat. George ran to side street where the shadowy figure had disappeared, but he saw nothing. Whoever it was, was gone. George ran home to go to bed. He had some money to inherit in the morning. To be continued...