Chapter 1: The Devil's Handshake

Chapter 1: The Devil's Handshake

The silence was the first sign something was wrong. Not the peaceful quiet of a suburban Sunday, but a dead, hollow silence that seemed to soak into the very siding of the house. Arthur ‘Art’ Vance sat in his immaculate Ford F-150, the rumble of the engine a low growl of impatience. His calloused hands, maps of a life spent raising structures from dirt and dust, gripped the steering wheel. For three months, the rent from Pastor John Albright had been late, then sporadic, then non-existent. For two weeks, his calls had gone straight to voicemail.

Art was a patient man. His faith, a bedrock of his existence, taught him grace. His business, built on firm handshakes and the integrity of his word, taught him to trust until given a reason not to. A pastor, a man of God, surely deserved the benefit of the doubt. Illness in the family, Art had thought. A crisis of faith. A financial shortfall he’s too proud to admit. He had imagined a dozen reasonable explanations.

But as he stared at the overgrown lawn and the single, sad-looking newspaper yellowing on the porch, a cold knot began to tighten in his gut. This wasn't neglect born of crisis; it felt like abandonment.

He killed the engine, the sudden quiet amplifying the deadness of the house. Stepping out, his boots crunched on the gravel driveway with a sound that seemed too loud. He walked up the path, his practiced eye catching the small things—a crack in the porch step he’d need to fix, a loose piece of vinyl siding. He’d built his fortune in construction, and though semi-retired, he could never fully turn off the part of his brain that assessed the world in terms of structural integrity and cost.

He rang the doorbell. The chime, a cheerful two-note tune, echoed faintly from within, a ghost of the home's former life. He waited. Nothing. He knocked, his knuckles rapping a sharp tattoo against the solid wood. Still nothing.

Sighing, he pulled out his phone and dialed the pastor’s number one last time. Straight to voicemail. "Pastor Albright, it's Art Vance. I'm at the property. Please give me a call as soon as you get this." The words felt pointless even as he said them.

Enough was enough. Patience had its limits, even for a man of faith. From his keychain, he selected the master key. It slid into the lock with a familiar smoothness. He turned it, the click of the tumbler loud and decisive in the stillness.

He pushed the door open, and the smell hit him first.

It was a foul, gag-inducing wave of sour milk, rotting garbage, and the sharp, unmistakable stench of urine that had soaked deep into the carpet. It was the smell of decay. Of betrayal.

Art, a man who had worked on dusty construction sites and in grimy crawlspaces his entire life, took an involuntary step back, his hand flying up to cover his nose and mouth. His intense blue eyes, usually calm and assessing, widened in disbelief.

The living room was a war zone. Garbage bags, torn open and spilling their putrid contents, were heaped in the corners. Greasy pizza boxes and fast-food wrappers littered the floor like fallen leaves. A dark, ugly stain, the ghost of some spilled liquid, marred the center of the once-beige carpet. The elegant mantelpiece he’d installed himself was chipped, and above it, scrawled in what looked like black marker, was a crude drawing.

He stepped inside, his boots sticking to the floor with each step. His gaze swept the room, his mind, the mind of a builder, automatically tallying the damage. New carpet, at least three thousand. Drywall repair and a full repaint, another two. The cost was adding up, but it was the violation that truly angered him.

He remembered the day Pastor Albright signed the lease. The man had a soft, doughy face and a beatific smile that seemed permanently affixed. He spoke of community, of his flock, of building a place of peace for his family. He’d pumped Art's hand with vigor, his grip surprisingly firm. "A man's word and his handshake are his bond before God," Albright had said, his eyes radiating a practiced piety. "You can trust me, Mr. Vance."

Art, a man who lived by that very code, had believed him. He’d even given him a discount on the first month's rent. A fellow believer, a leader in the community—what could be safer?

Now, that memory felt like a swindler's trick. The hypocrisy of it all burned hotter than any financial loss.

He moved through the house like a detective at a crime scene. The kitchen was worse. The stainless-steel refrigerator he’d bought new for the property stood open, its empty shelves covered in mold. The sink was piled high with filth-caked dishes. But it was what was missing that struck him. The microwave was gone. The space where the high-end washer and dryer should have been was empty, leaving only raw plumbing connections and scuff marks on the wall. They hadn't just left a mess; they had plundered the place.

He walked into the master bedroom. The mattress was slashed, yellowed stuffing erupting from the wounds. The light fixtures had been ripped from the ceiling, leaving behind dangling wires. They had stolen everything not nailed down, and what they couldn't take, they had destroyed out of pure, unadulterated malice.

He stood in the center of the wreckage, the cold knot in his gut now a solid stone of fury. This wasn't just a tenant skipping out on rent. This was a calculated act of destruction. It was a personal insult, a desecration of his property and his trust. The pastor's gentle smile and talk of God were nothing but a mask for a petty, grasping thief. The devil, Art thought with grim irony, truly could quote scripture for his purpose.

His phone buzzed in his pocket, a sudden, jarring intrusion. He pulled it out, half-expecting it to be Albright, perhaps with some pathetic, sniveling excuse.

It was a text from the pastor's number.

Art’s thumb hovered over the notification, a sliver of his earlier patience hoping for an explanation, an apology, anything. He opened the message.

It contained a single sentence, followed by an emoji.

Good luck getting your money 😂

Time seemed to stop. The stench of the room faded. The sight of the destruction blurred. All of Arthur Vance’s focus narrowed to the glowing white letters on the black screen. The laughing-crying emoji seemed to mock him, a tiny, digital face contorted in absolute derision.

It wasn't just a theft. It wasn't just vandalism. It was a boast. It was the gleeful, arrogant pride of a man who believed he had gotten away with it, who believed his position and his charade made him untouchable. A man who felt so secure in his deceit that he had to rub his victim's face in it.

In that instant, something inside Arthur Vance shifted. The patient landlord, the forgiving Christian, the man who believed in second chances—that man died in the ruins of his rental property. The warmth in his blue eyes extinguished, replaced by the hard, cold glitter of glacial ice. His grief over the betrayal and the financial loss evaporated, burned away by a pure, clarifying rage.

It was no longer about the money. The money could be replaced. Drywall could be hung and floors could be laid.

This was about pride. It was about principle. It was about the arrogant smirk behind that laughing emoji.

Pastor John Albright had made a terrible mistake. He thought he had swindled a simple landlord. He had no idea he had just shaken hands with the devil and then spat in his face. Arthur Vance wasn't just going to get his money back. He was going to dismantle the pastor's life, piece by piece, with the same methodical precision he would use to rebuild this house. He would strip away his flock, his reputation, and his sanctimonious pride, until all that was left was the sniveling, pathetic man behind the mask.

Albright sought his penance from God. Arthur decided he would deliver it personally.