It had been seventy-seven years since it had last been used. This was not the first time a lottery had produced more than one number, but it was the first time in seventy-seven years that it had happened. People were ecstatic. A betting table had been opened, with the odds heavily favouring prisoner number One-Six-Three-Three.
Prisoner number One-Six-Three-Three, who would be better known as Jackson Calvin Harris, was six-foot, two hundred and seventy pounds of pure muscle, charged with seventeen counts of murder in the first degree. He had scars from countless fights, at least three of which he had earned Europe on the shores of Normandy. He was also missing an eye.
Prisoner Two-Seven-Three-Zero was considered the underdog in the duel, but then again, she didn’t quite have her opponent’s muscle mass. Or his murder record.
Mary Alice Ogilvie had a total of twenty-nine counts of public intoxication, nine counts of aggravated assault, and four counts of attempted murder. She had been arrested for whatever constitutes “unholy sexual assault” on four men and three women. Apparently, in her own words and not those of the Hawthorne Hills Police, it involved “fucking people with knives. People who needed it. People who liked it.”
Odds were seven-to-two in Jackson’s favour.
The rules were as such: each potential sacrifice would be given a weapon of their choice from the selection available. They could choose two weapons, one for each hand, but they had to be able to carry them. They would fight to the point where one would be mortally wounded, incapacitated, or begging for mercy. At that point, Graves would perform the execution, the mercy blow, and the soul would be taken by the Devil.
Also, minors were not allowed without an accompanying adult.
That was how it worked. Why else would the arena floor have a massive pentagram carved into it?
The crowd roared as the two prisoners stepped into the circle, sizing each other up. Jackson sneered as she saw Mary, going so far as to demand, “Is that it, then? That’s my opponent, or is that just his woman?”
Mary said nothing.
A pair of large racks was rolled out by the hooded figures, one to each prisoner. The racks were seven feet tall, nine feet wide, and covered with potential weapons. There was an organization responsible for curating and maintaining a wide variety of weapons for the arena, in case of such an event as this. The organization also used the arena and its facilities for their own purposes, but they made sure the weapons for arena usage were well cared for.
They also made sure there were plenty to choose from.
Jackson chose a vicious-looking flail for his right hand and a spiked club for his left. He grinned menacingly at Mary, challenging her to choose something interesting. She kept unblinking eye contact as she chose a quarterstaff with a weight at one end and several rows of sharp studs at the other.
The hooded figures rolled the racks away. Graves entered the arena, taking his place in the front row. Before he sat, he motioned for the audience to quiet. They gradually became silent, and once there was no sound to be heard, Graves produced a silver dollar from his pocket and flicked it into the air with his thumb towards the pair of contestants.
It could be heard hitting the stone floor. A starting gun for the fight to begin.
The battle began with Mary whipping her staff out and landing a blow with the weighted end against Jackson’s face. As he spun towards the ground, he lashed out with his spiked club, grazing his opponent’s arm, but failing to do any real damage. He quickly regained verticality and swung at her repeatedly with his right hand, but he kept missing. Mary, however, was more precise with her movements, landing a series of successful blows against Jackson with both ends of her staff.
Within a minute, it looked as though Mary would be the victor. But as she went to smash the weighted end of the staff against Jackson’s head, Jackson countered by smashing her staff in twain, temporarily disarming her and giving him the opportunity to return blows. He wasted no time, whacking her with the spiked club a few times, then lashing at her with the flail. In the span of ten seconds, Mary was covered in puncture wounds from the spiked ball of the flail.
Jackson brought the flail high over his head, sure of his victory. He had forgotten that he had snapped his opponent’s staff.
Mary hadn’t.
She drove the splintered wood into Jackson’s chest as he brought the flail down, only registering the threat far too late to react. At the same time, the spikes shattered Mary’s skull and pierced her brain. The crowd held its breath, wondering which would fall first. The first to fall would be declared the loser. Even Graves sat on the edge of his seat, expectant and anxious.
Jackson and Mary hit the floor at the exact same time, both bleeding profusely from different wounds.
The crowd roared, some in horror, others in either triumph or agony. Those who cheered were excited to see death, while others moaned about their wasted bets, as there was almost no one who betted on a draw (it was considered impossible, given the circumstances). Graves stood and motioned for the hooded figures to check the bodies. Both had passed on. The crowd murmured as Graves sat in apprehension.
An alternate title could be, “What the Fuck Is Wrong With Hawthorne Hills, Part 1.”
The dread crept up Dr. Graves’ spine as he saw the coming date on his calendar. The end of the month was here, which meant it was already time for the semi-annual tithe to be paid. It had been on the last day of April that the Devil came to collect half of his due. That was the deal: one soul on Walpurgisnacht and another on Samhain, no exceptions or refusal ever. But Graves, who had been with Hawthorne Hills since its founding, always made the decision of who would perish somewhat fairly.
After all, the Devil asked only for a soul on each night. A living soul, that’s all, one tainted and spoiled by the sins of man. And to decide, Graves would find the worst of his town’s sinners and criminals and enter them all in a lottery. The name drawn on the mornings of April 30th and October 31st would die in a public execution, and their soul would be sacrificed to the King of Hell. The townspeople had decided since the first tithe that this was the way it would be.
It worked well, at least during times of desperation. When the town was aching for money or goods, dark deeds filled every heart, meaning many more names for the lottery. But when things were good, so were the people, which meant fewer names to draw. But no one sacrificed in the town square was ever innocent. Everyone was guilty of something.
Everyone.
It was never easy for Graves himself, though. He felt every death in the town, whether or not he wanted to. He was the town. If he clenched his fists hard enough, the ground shook. When he laughed, the town rattled. And should he die, the town would perish entirely. And he was not above purposely ruining aspects of himself to drive up the numbers of possible sacrifices.
Desperate times, desperate measures.
The 1930s were particularly easy for the town.
He sighed, looking over the prospective candidates. Out of an approximate population of fifty-three thousand, almost four thousand were eligible for the tithe. He sifted through them over and over, constantly flitting mentally between the two sides of the argument. On one hand, he would always be the one to execute the one who died for the town. Their blood was on his hand. He laid them to rest afterwards as well, as the town’s only operating funeral home, so he faced them both before and after their death.
It was never an easy choice.
On the other hand, the town would perish without a sacrifice. The people who died for the town, they were criminals. Rapists, murderers, drug dealers. They were given the gift of life, and they either squandered it, or they willfully destroyed the lives of others. Two people, unfit of the precious gift of life, died for others to flourish.
It was the easiest choice in the world.
And so he debate in his head went on and on, neither voice in his head really winning or losing any ground. He wished so much to just be rid of this life, this miserable existence. He wished he could have died all those years ago. He begged the angel of death to come for him, for any god of the Underworld to take him. But to no avail.
The dead only left Hawthorne Hills on Witches’ Night when a sacrifice died.
And they would return on All Hallows’ Eve when they had a newly-minted guide.
Graves checked the calendar again. Today was April 30th.
Tithing Day.
He sighed heavily and walked onto the balcony adjacent to his office. Already a crowd had gathered in the town square below. A pair of hooded figures approached a stage with a cage full of numbers upon a hastily constructed podium. Each number was a criminal, condemned to life in prison. Within twelve hours, they would be brought to the town square and their life would end in a public execution. What happened after was unknown, aside from the body would be taken by the same hooded figures who brought the cage every six months. Their identities were unknown to all but Graves himself.
He cleared his throat and called to the crowd below, “Peoples of Hawthorne Hills. Today is Tithing Day.” Over the enthusiastic cheers of the crowd, he continued. “Today is a day of mixed blessings. A day when one of you will die for your town, for your people. You will be chosen because of your sins. You will be chosen because you deserve it. You will die because it is asked of you by a greater power than we know better than to deny.”
The crowd held its breath as the hooded figures rattled the ancient cage. Round and round it went, hundreds of lottery numbers rolling over each other inside. Hundreds of different possible sacrifices, hundreds of lives waiting to be ruined, altered…
Saved.
After a minute, a clanging sound resounded across the town square. Something had gone wrong. Something had stopped or stuck. One of the hooded figures gave the cage a good smack, and out dropped two numbered balls. The figure took both, looking to his companion for help. They shrugged and turned their heads upwards to Graves.
Graves inhaled sharply. “Put one of the numbers back in the cage,” he instructed.
“No!” boomed a voice like a gunshot. From the midst of the crowd, a tall man with a black travelling cloak and a goat’s skull as a mask strode towards the platform. He took both numbers from the executioner and read them aloud. He looked at the number in their right hand. “One-six-three-three and two-seven-three-zero,” he called out. He dropped the numbers back into the cage and hopped off the stage.
“What happens then?” Graves asked from his balcony.
“The sacrifices shall fight to the death,” the goat-skull man replied. “Winner gets their freedom. Loser comes with me.” And the next moment he was gone, lost in the crowd. The citizens looked up expectantly at Graves. He was the savior of the town, after all. He wasn’t mayor, but he had lived here longer than anyone else, and he dealt with the unnatural occurrences that took place in Hawthorne Hills.
Finally, he declared, “So let it be done. As soon as the moon begins to rise, the prisoners one-six-three-three and two-seven-three-zero shall duel to the death. The victor shall be granted clemency for their crimes, and the victim shall be added to the memorial of those who gave their lives for this town.”
The crowd cheered as the doctor ended his speech. They went away at once, chattering about bets and opening the arena again for the first time in almost eighty years.
Graves sighed and sat at his desk. He removed his glasses, rubbing the space between his eyes. When he looked up he saw the goat-skull man standing at his desk expectantly. “What do you want, devil?"
The man grinned behind his mask. “I want blood. And I want my sacrifice. I came to talk terms in case something goes wrong…”
