Chapter 8: Louis's Proposition

Chapter 8: Louis's Proposition

The knowledge Alex had unearthed in the library wasn't a weapon; it was a tombstone. He now knew the names of the ghosts that haunted this town, and he knew the name of their shepherd. Every time he looked at Jason—who today had struggled to remember how to tie his own shoelaces—Alex saw the smiling face of Nathan Croft from that faded newspaper clipping. He saw a ghost in the making.

Desperation was a kind of fuel. It burned away fear, caution, and common sense, leaving only a hard, reckless core. Alex knew he couldn't run. He couldn't hide. The only path left was to walk straight back into the lion’s den.

He went to the gym in the late afternoon, when the light was slanted and golden, making the dust motes dance in the air. The place was half-full, the usual collection of grim-faced men heaving and grunting. To Alex, they no longer looked like men trying to get strong. They looked like livestock, placidly chewing their cud, unaware of the abattoir in the back. The familiar smell of iron and sweat was now the smell of fear and decay.

Louis Alistair was behind his high counter, making a note in a thick, leather-bound ledger. He looked up as Alex approached, and the practiced, booming smile was already forming on his lips. But then his eyes—his unnervingly clear, ancient eyes—met Alex’s, and the smile faltered. He saw the defiance there, the accusation. He saw the knowledge.

Alex opened his mouth to speak, to shout, to demand answers, but Louis held up a single, large hand, silencing him before a word could escape.

“Alex,” he said, and his voice was not the usual charismatic boom. It was a low, quiet rumble, devoid of all warmth. “We need to talk. My office.”

He didn't wait for an answer. He rounded the counter and gestured with his head toward a small, unmarked door behind the weight racks. As Alex followed, he felt the eyes of every man in the gym on him. Their expressions weren't curious; they were vacant, almost fearful, as if they knew where the boy was being led and were glad it wasn't them.

The office was small and Spartan. A single metal desk, two chairs, and a filing cabinet. The only decoration was a framed, yellowed map of Burberry from the turn of the century. The air was stale and cold. Louis closed the door, and the dull thud of the weights from the gym floor was snuffed out, replaced by an unnerving silence.

Louis sat down behind the desk, his large frame seeming to fill the entire room. He folded his hands on the desk and looked at Alex. The friendly, grandfatherly facade was gone, stripped away to reveal something cold, hard, and impossibly old. A profound weariness radiated from him, the weariness of a mountain that had endured countless seasons.

“You’ve been busy,” Louis said, his voice flat. “At the library. Digging up bones.”

It wasn’t a question. It was a statement of fact. The blood drained from Alex’s face. He had thought he was a detective uncovering a secret, but he had just been a mouse scurrying through a maze whose owner was watching his every move.

“You’ve been killing them,” Alex whispered, the words feeling small and useless in the heavy silence. “All of them. Nathan Croft. All the others.”

Louis didn’t flinch. He didn't deny it. He simply sighed, a long, slow exhalation that seemed to carry the weight of decades.

“Killing is such an imprecise word,” he said, his gaze drifting to the old map on the wall. “This town… do you know what it was, a hundred years ago? Nothing. A patch of mud and a failing mill. It died three times before I got here. The Depression almost finished it. The mill fire in ’58 should have been the end. This place was cursed to fail.”

He leaned forward, his ancient eyes pinning Alex in his chair. “Towns are living things, Alex. They breathe. They hunger. And sometimes, to keep them from starving, sacrifices must be made. A farmer thins the herd to save the flock. Is that murder?”

“You’re feeding it,” Alex said, the pieces clicking together with sickening clarity. “The thing in the locker. You feed it children so the canning plant stays open?”

“So the plant stays open,” Louis confirmed with a slow nod. “So the blight stays off the crops. So Mrs. Gable’s son doesn't die of the fever that should have taken him last winter. So the foundation of this town doesn't crumble into dust and get swept away by the wind. I am the gatekeeper of a pact, boy. A bargain made to ensure survival. It requires… sustenance. A tax. A tithe to an old and hungry god, paid with what this town has in surplus: loneliness.”

He saw the horror and confusion on Alex’s face and his expression softened, but not with pity. It was the look of a teacher explaining a difficult but necessary concept to a slow student.

“It has a taste for you, my boy,” Louis continued, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “When you touched that handle, it tasted you. It felt your anger, your resentment of this place. A strong flavor. And then you brought your friend. It saw what you cherished most. The one thing keeping you from being completely adrift. It’s a connoisseur of despair, you see. It enjoys the process.”

The clinical, detached way he spoke of the horror being inflicted on Jason made bile rise in Alex’s throat.

“Give him back,” Alex demanded, his voice shaking with a mixture of terror and rage. “Make it let him go.”

Louis studied him for a long moment, a strange, calculating light in his eyes. He steepled his fingers. “The ledger must be balanced,” he said softly. “A life is owed. A soul is promised. The entity has fastened itself to your friend. It is… draining him. Slowly. Thoroughly.”

He leaned back in his chair, the metal groaning under his weight. And then he made his offer.

“But it is not unreasonable. It understands a trade.” His voice was smooth as poison, a chillingly logical proposition. “You want your friend back? Fine. Then find me a replacement.”

Alex stared at him, uncomprehending. “What?”

“A name for a name,” Louis explained, as if discussing a simple business transaction. “The locker has been promised a soul marked by loneliness and despair. Your soul, originally. But it found a more exquisite meal in the bond between you and your friend. If you want it to release Jason… you must provide it with another. Someone else. Another lonely child. A new kid in school, perhaps. An outcast nobody pays much attention to. Someone like you were when you first arrived.”

He let the monstrous suggestion hang in the air. He was offering Alex a choice, an impossible, soul-shattering choice.

“You bring me someone,” Louis said, his voice a cold, final whisper. “You get them to open the locker. And I will… persuade the entity to let Jason go. It will have its meal, the debt will be paid, and your friend will be returned to you, whole.”

He stood up, the meeting clearly over. He walked to the door and placed a heavy, possessive hand on Alex’s shoulder. It wasn’t threatening; it was the hand of a farmer on his prize-winning livestock.

“Think about it,” Louis said, his voice once again tinged with that false, grandfatherly warmth. “But not for too long.” He leaned down, his silver beard brushing Alex’s ear. “Your friend doesn’t have much time left. He’s starting to forget how to breathe.”