I NEVER KNEW A SIMPLE DRINK WOULD SELL MY SOUL
It all began on an ordinary night in Pretoria. I wasn’t even supposed to be out. A friend had dragged me to a club I didn’t know, tucked away between tall buildings and flickering streetlights. The music was loud, the lights were red, and the air smelled of sweat and smoke. I remember feeling out of place, like I was standing in someone else’s dream.
Then he appeared. A stranger. Smooth voice, sharp eyes. He offered me a drink. I don’t know why I took it — maybe because his smile made it seem harmless, maybe because I was tired of saying no to life. The glass was cold in my hand. The liquid looked normal, but the moment it touched my lips, I knew it wasn’t alcohol. It burned, yes, but not like vodka or whiskey. It was a burn that crawled up my spine and whispered into my head.
That was the night everything changed.
From then on, I could never sleep peacefully. I’d wake up at exactly 3:07 AM, heart racing, drenched in sweat. The house would feel wrong, like something unseen was breathing beside me. Whispers licked at my ears. Sometimes they sounded like laughter, other times like weeping. And then the scratches began — thin, red lines across my arms and chest, as if shadows had grown claws.
Worst of all, I began to see things. I could see death walking beside people, like a shadow that wasn’t theirs, waiting for its moment. A man at a taxi rank, a woman at a supermarket, a child at a park — I’d see the mark on them days before the obituary came.
And always, in the background, Silas. That same stranger from the club. Sometimes across the street. Sometimes leaning against a lamppost. Always watching. Always holding that same glass. He never raised his voice, never chased me. He only said one thing, again and again:
“One drink binds you. Nothing comes free.”
Every Friday, no matter how hard I fought it, my body dragged me back to that club. It was as if invisible strings pulled me through the streets. I would swear to myself that I wouldn’t drink, but the moment I walked in, the glass was waiting, and I would lift it to my lips like I had no choice.
And with every sip, I felt something slipping away. My reflection grew less familiar. My eyes didn’t shine the same. My shadow began to move when I stood still, as if it was impatient to leave me behind. Worse — the dreams I had became real. I dreamt of accidents, fires, deaths. And days later, they happened exactly as I had seen them.
By the time the final Friday came, I was hollow. I had stopped trying to fight. I thought I knew what awaited me, but nothing could have prepared me for that night.
The club was empty. No music, no crowd. Just silence. The only light came from a circle of candles on the dance floor. Silas stood inside it, waiting. In his hand was not a normal drink, but a glass filled with something black and alive. The liquid shifted like smoke trapped underwater.
He looked at me and said, “Tonight, you join us forever.”
And I drank.
The moment it touched me, it was like swallowing fire and knives. My veins lit up, my skin cracked as if something was trying to break through. I screamed, but the shadows only laughed as they poured into me. When it ended, I looked at my hands and didn’t recognize them. They were longer, sharper, darker — more like claws than fingers. I wasn’t human anymore. I was one of his feeders, his creatures.
But here’s the part Silas never expected: I wasn’t just drinking poison. I was learning. Each sip carried secrets. Each whisper carried spells. Each nightmare gave me fragments of his power. He thought he was binding me, but he was also teaching me.
That night, instead of kneeling, I raised my new hands and spoke the words I had heard in my dreams. The candles flickered out. The shadows twisted, no longer his servants, but mine. For the first time, his perfect smile cracked.
He tried to stop me, but it was too late. The circle betrayed him. His glass shattered in his hand. His body broke apart into smoke and vanished, screaming into the dark.
Silas was gone. But his power remained. And it didn’t vanish into nothing — it sank into me.
Now I understand the truth. The Collector can never really die. His role only passes on. The club still opens its doors every Friday night. The music plays, the lights flash, and the drinks flow. People come searching for escape, for fun, for something more than their boring lives.
And I am there, waiting. Watching.
Holding my own glass.
Because the shadows must be fed. Someone has to keep the circle alive.
And now… that someone is me.
Social Plugin