The Delta sprawled like a fever dream, a steaming sprawl of muck and cypress draped in Spanish moss that hung like funeral shrouds. The night pulsed alive, thick with the drone of cicadas and the sour reek of stagnant water. At the crossroads—where two dirt veins bled into each other under a sky black as tar—Tommy Lee stood, clutching a warped guitar he’d patched together from driftwood and wire. His bare feet sank into the mud, and his breath fogged in the unnatural chill seeping from the swamp.
“You’re dumber’n a sack of hammers, Tommy,” his sister Callie muttered, perched on a rotting stump a few yards off. She gnawed a thumbnail, eyes flicking to the shadows. “Folks say this is where Old Scratch plays his games. You think he’s gonna hand you a song and a pat on the back?”
Tommy wiped sweat from his brow, smearing mud across his face. “Ain’t lookin’ for a pat, Cal. Just three days—long enough to taste it, to make ‘em holler my name. Tommy Lee, the Delta’s own devil of the strings. Then I’m done. Back to scrapin’ by.”
Callie snorted, a dry little laugh. “Three days, huh? Sure. You’ll be beggin’ for an encore by supper tomorrow. Hope he throws in a biscuit with your damnation.”
Before Tommy could snap back, the air curdled. The cicadas fell silent, and a stench like burnt hair and molasses slithered in. Something moved at the edge of the crossroads—a shape too tall, too thin, unfolding from the dark like a spider stretching its legs. Its coat was a patchwork of shadows, flapping wetly, and its hat sat crooked over a face that didn’t fit—too many angles, too little flesh. When it smiled, Tommy froze. Teeth gleamed, pearly and sharp as a cottonmouth’s fangs, framed by lips that weren’t there.
“Well, ain’t you a sight,” it said, voice echoing like a choir drowned in a well. “Another mud-caked kid with a dream and a death wish. What’s your price, boy?”
Tommy’s throat bobbed, but he stood tall. “Three days. That’s all I want. Music so fierce it’ll make folks weep and holler, burn it into their bones. Then I’m out.”
The creature cocked its head, red eyes flaring like brake lights in the gloom. “Three days, huh? Cute. That’s a teaser rate—soul’s still the ticket, though.” It tapped a claw against its chin, musing. “How’s your sister feel about sweetenin’ the pot?”
Callie bolted upright, nearly toppling off the stump. “Oh, hell no! Tommy, you tell this bony bastard I ain’t no bargaining chip!”
Tommy waved her off, eyes fixed on the creature. “Leave her be. Just me. Three days, then you collect.”
The thing’s grin split wider, cracking its face like a busted melon. “Fair enough, fair enough. I do love a short-term lease.” It reached into its coat, pulling out a guitar—sleek and black as a panther’s hide, strings glinting like they’d been spun from moonlight. “Play it, boy. Show me you’re worth the ink.”
Tommy took it, hands trembling. The wood thrummed under his fingers, alive and ravenous. He struck a chord, and the sound ripped through the Delta like a banshee’s wail—raw, jagged, a howl that peeled bark off trees and set the swamp water trembling. Callie clapped her hands over her ears, cursing, but Tommy laughed, wild and ragged.
“Lord almighty,” he rasped. “That’s it. That’s the fire.”
The creature floated back, blurring into the dark, leaving only those red eyes and that gleaming grin. “Go show your friends,” it purred, voice dripping like sap. “Go show the world!” It laughed, a sound like glass shattering in a coffin, loud and long until the eyes winked out.
“Three days, boy,” it called from the void. “Then we settle up. Don’t be late—I hate cold leftovers.”
Tommy meant to stick to the plan. Three days, he’d told himself, just a taste. But the first night, he played a juke joint ‘til the walls shook, and the crowd roared his name like a gospel hymn. The second, he strummed on a porch, and the notes swirled him up into a trance—his body spinning, hair whipping, eyes rolling back. Around him, shapes flickered into being: pale, gaunt creatures, vampiric and grinning, their red eyes gleaming like coals. They danced, swaying to his rhythm, licking cracked lips with tongues black as pitch, claws twitching like they could taste his soul already. The crowd didn’t see them, lost in the swoon, but Tommy did, and it only fueled him.
By the third day, he was hooked. The screams, the tears, the way folks threw coins and begged for more—it was a drug sweeter than moonshine. “Three days ain’t enough,” he muttered, clutching the guitar tighter. “I’ll ride this ‘til it kills me.” He ignored the deadline, kept playing—years rolled by, and Tommy Lee became a legend, the Delta’s dark prince of the strings. The vampiric shadows followed, a growing chorus of red eyes and hungry grins, circling closer each night.
He made it to 27, gaunt and wild-eyed, still picking that devil’s guitar. One muggy night, under a moon fat and yellow, he staggered into a crowd, mid-solo, when the strings snapped—one by one, like gunshots. The air split with that coffin-glass laugh, and the creatures lunged, tearing into him as the audience screamed. When the dust settled, Tommy lay in the mud, chest clawed open, heart gone, the guitar silent beside him.
Callie found the scene, kicking the instrument away. “Dumb as a bag of hammers,” she muttered. “Told you three days was plenty. Devil don’t like folks overstaying their welcome.”
Word spread—Tommy Lee, the genius who burned too bright, dead at 27. Folks whispered he’d sold his soul, and he’d laughed off the rumors ‘til the end. Now, some swear they hear him in the swamp, late at night—those mournful notes, the swirl of his ghost, and a faint chuckle weaving through, like the devil’s still grinning at the fool who thought he could outrun the bill.