The circle was drawn and candles were lit. Gordon started the incantation. He tried to keep his voice steady, but fear and anticipation made it difficult.
“Renich Tasa Uberaca Biasa Icar”
The candles flickered. Gordon heard a low rumbling. From within the circle, ornately drawn with esoteric symbols, a shadow grew. Gordon felt a chill growing from within him.
A voice, deep and horrifying poured from thick blackness contained by the spell.
“Who summons me?”
“Lord Lucifer, by command of this spell, I bring thee forth to offer fair trade!” Gordon shouted, wide-eyed.
“What is your desire?”
“I… I want to be a famous rock star. Money, women… I want it all.” Gordon stammered.
“And what do you offer in return?”
Gordon paused. Once uttered, there was no going back. He clenched his fists in resolve.
“But there’s a condition…” Gordon continued. “You cannot take my soul until I’ve had a number one hit.”
A long silence followed. Gordon feared his caveat may have come too late.
Gordon smiled. Eternal life! he thought. Gordon had no intention of ever writing a number one hit. His soul was safe forever.
Ten years later Gordon Hershowitz, a.k.a. Blaze Axeton sat sipping champagne in his penthouse while numerous young women in various states of dress pranced about, entertaining his band mates.
“This is the life, eh guys?” he yelled as AC/DC’s song “Highway to Hell” blared loudly.
Jeffrey, the assistant to Thomas Mann, the record label exec burst into the room holding a magazine.
“Turn the music down!” he shouted.
Once everyone could hear him he made his announcement, grinning.
“Great news guys! Just got the advanced copy of Billboard. You’re never gonna believe it. The new single, “Devil’s Due” came in at number one!”
Cheers erupted in the room. Everyone was toasting except for Gordon. His eyes were wide and his hands trembled. In a daze, he grabbed his guitar, which was never far from him. He held it tightly.
The cheers faded away as a dark, deep voice filled his head. He felt a chill from within.
“Payment is due!”
Gordon screamed as he burst into flames. His clothes, guitar and flesh all were consumed by Hell fire. Everyone in the room backed away in horror as the number one songwriter turned to ash before them.
As his band mates shuffled from his funeral, Marco commented, “They’re gonna have one heck of a band in Hell.”
[This is my entry this week into the Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers challenge, hosted by Priceless Joy. A photo prompt is given and writers are encouraged to create a short story of 100 – 150 words, + or – 25 words. My apologies for once again going over the limit.]