By Brianna Tibbetts
Jamison chuckled and released a handful of dice. He didn’t bother watching the table, instead casting his gaze around the room. Young men filled the space, drenched with sweat.
Some couldn’t stand the humidity.
Most couldn’t stand to lose.
The android heading the table announced Jamison as the winner. Again. The first few times could have been luck. Ten in a row was just boring. Jamison, dry and cool, waved the table off as he got to his feet. A chill grew beneath his flesh any time he settled for too long. It was time to take a turn around the room.
This house, buried in the depths of New Orleans, had been gutted by an ingenious soul and stuffed full of all manner of gambling games. To Jamison, the true accomplishment was successfully trapping so many men in here. He wished he could shake the hand of the mastermind.
“Please, sir, how do I leave?”
Jamison pulled his arm free from a teenager’s grasp. “Why?” His lips twitched upward at the corners. Who would leave this place? Good times were always on the rise.
The teenager retracted his hands and ran his fingers through damp hair, eyes darting back and forth. “I can’t be here. I won’t be my pops. I won’t. I don’t even know how I got here!” He wiped his hands on his blue jeans. Handmade, by the look of them.
“I imagine by hover-train.” The words fell from Jamison’s lips in a lazy drip. Pivoting, he searched the walls of the house. The doors were invisible against the dark paint. He’d seen a few young men dragged in before, but they always stayed.
Or, they always came back. Either way.
“I ain’t built for this kind of sin, sir.” The kid began wringing his hands. “I can’t let it ruin me. I gotta get outta here!”
Jamison pursed his lips. “Calm down, son.” His own high was dying under the kid’s urgency.
“If you can’t help me, I’m going to dig through that wall with my bare hands!” The kid’s fear tainted the air, but the firm set of his lips was almost impressive.
With a heavy sigh, Jamison snapped his fingers. As a needle slid from the center of his palm, he reached out to grasp the boy’s shoulder. The teenager’s expression went slack in an instant, a glazed look in his eyes.
“Whoa,” the boy said, all inflection gone, “this place is incredible.” He turned left and shuffled away, looking just as intoxicated as anyone else in the room.
Blissfully alone once more, Jamison snapped his fingers, retracting the needle. A quick scan of the room confirmed no others coming out of their stupor. His hand pulsed a little, warm with the promise of power he kept concealed beneath his skin.
A grin slid into place, and he began to pace through his kingdom once more. He wasn’t merely impressed by this house. He was proud.
New Orleans should be honored. He could have set up shop in any city, but this was home.
The home that ruined him.
No one nodded to the master of the house as Jamison strolled through his creation. They were too focused on their misery to recognize its cause. Intuition told him the sun would rise soon.
And these boys would never notice.
Can you guess which song from the 1960's inspired this story? Share in the comments!
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Great story, you set the atmosphere just right! I’d say “House of the Rising Sun” is your inspiration.
Thank you! You’re right on the money with the song.
Ooooh, this is just nasty.
In a good way!
And I wasn’t in time to say House of the Rising Sun first! Oh well.
I’m going to listen to it now, though
I’m glad you enjoyed it! It’s a great song.
Nice job keeping the story tightly focused on this specific moment. Conveys such a sinister tone despite the short length.
I really appreciate it, Michael!