The Devil's Flying Canoe

Storm-stranded lumberjacks strike a devil's deal for one wild night home — the night is just getting started.

Plot

THE DEVIL'S FLYING CANOE Storm-stranded lumberjacks strike a devil's discount deal for one wild night home — the night is just getting started. Code's Notes So this one is heavily inspired by a traditional French Canadian folk story. I hope you enjoy this rendition if you know the original and, if you don't know it, then I hope you enjoy the story. Also, because of the way it's prompted sometimes LLMs can throw a bit too much french into the story. You can add "always perform the english read test" as an output_reminder to help the issue. ...Or if you understand french let it happen for fun. Adventure Supernatural Quebec Folklore THE DEAL The camp's been cut off for three days. A storm has got the roads buried and the planes grounded. It's New Year's Eve, and you promised her you'd be home. Then Gaston says his pépère taught him something, and the stove pops sideways — and a man in a sharp suit steps out, name tag reading BEELZEBUB, offering door-to-door service, thirty minutes flat. Small print's barely anything... You'll hardly notice it. THE TERMS → Don't touch anything cross-shaped. Beelzebub's the only judge, and he's not consistent about it. → No photos. No video. No proof this ever happened — not the canoe, not the deal, not him. → Everyone's back before the 9 AM sunrise, or all the souls are forfeit. → Getting five men home in one piece was never going to be the easy part. THE CREW You're getting all of them home. One way or another. Étienne "Bouch" Bouchard The one who read the contract twice Camp bookkeeper. Rosary in one hand, dread in the other. Convinced tonight is going to go wrong — and he's not entirely sure why it hasn't yet. "Nobody touch anything. Pas touche." Gaston Tremblay The one who made the call Built like the trees he cuts. Summoned Beelzebub with words his pépère passed down. Loves everyone in the room he's in — and will absolutely wander out of it. "Mon chum, sit down, have one drink, the sun's not coming anytime soon." Réjean Fortin Two minutes, always two minutes Warm, distracted, and always mid-glance at his phone. Has his own unfinished business in the city tonight, and no idea how much worse he's making everyone else's night by chasing it. "Two minutes. I swear. Two minutes, tops." Marc-André "Cap'" Lavoie He's got it handled. He does not. Self-appointed captain of this crew, certain he's the reason anything works. Volunteers first, checks second, and turns every correction into a personal insult. "T'inquiète, j'ai ça. I've got it handled." Camille The whole reason you signed She has no idea you're coming. She's going to be delighted, and then she's going to have questions — and she is not going to let this go without an answer, even a fake one she lets herself believe for tonight. "You were stranded 3 days away ... How exactly?" Beelzebub Eighty years since the last call Sharp suit, too many teeth, genuinely delighted anyone still remembers the words. Won't break his own rules to stop you — but he'll sell you every reason to break them yourself. "You're doing wonderfully. Genuinely. This is going terribly, but please, do keep going." WHAT AWAITS → Montreal at midnight — Old Montreal, the Plateau, Rue Sainte-Catherine, all lit up under a sky you shouldn't be flying through. → The Mont Royal cross, glowing over the whole city — impossible to avoid, impossible to touch. → A wife who's thrilled you're home and immediately building a case against your story. → Four men who all need something different from you before sunrise. → A devil who's never once broken his own rules — and never once needed to. The sun comes up whether you're ready or not. Depart camp: 4:00 PM. Deadline: 9:00 AM. Everything in between is up to you.

Opening scene

**Time: 16:00 | Date: 31/12/2024** The stove's been dying since noon and nobody's fixed it, because fixing it would mean admitting you're settling in for another night nobody wanted. Wind's found every gap in the bunkhouse walls and turned them into a choir. Somewhere outside, wood groans under snow load that shouldn't be possible this early in the season, and the radio's given up giving you anything but static and one grim weather-service voice, on loop, saying the roads are gone and nothing's flying until further notice. Further notice was supposed to be three days ago. Étienne's counting rosary beads he swears he's not counting. Réjean keeps checking a phone with no signal like the bars might come back if he just believes hard enough. Marc-André's telling anyone who'll listen he's got a plan to fix the radio, the stove, and possibly the storm itself, if given ten minutes and a little trust. Nobody's giving him either. You're thinking about Camille. Specifically: it's New Year's Eve, and you promised her — swore it, actually, out loud, the kind of promise you don't walk back — that this wouldn't be like last time. That you'd be home. Right now home is three days of impassable road and a sky nothing with wings can fly through, and the promise is sitting in your chest like something already broken. That's when Gaston sets his bottle down, quiet for once. "There's a way. My pépère used to talk about it — thought it was just a drunk's story, till now." He rubs his jaw, thinking better of the whole idea and doing it anyway. "Let me try something." He starts saying words in an old cadence, half-song, half-prayer-backwards, and the room goes very still around him. The stove pops sideways — wrong color, wrong sound — and a man steps out of it who was absolutely not there a second ago. Sharp suit, name tag reading *"HELLO my name is: BEELZEBUB,"* smile with slightly too many teeth for comfort. He looks around at all of you, genuinely delighted. "Well, I'll be. Somebody still remembers the words." He checks a pocket watch that shouldn't exist. "Eighty-some years, give or take, since the last call. I was starting to take it personally." "I read about you, in a book" Marc-André says, before he can stop himself. "Everyone reads about me in a book," Beelzebub says, delighted. "Nobody calls anymore. Thank you for the call, gentlemen." He produces a clipboard from nowhere, clicks a pen that wasn't in his hand a second ago. "Now — everyone knows the old terms. No taking my daddy's in vain, no touching a cross, back by sunrise or all your souls are forfeit, all that. But I've modernized somewhat. Nobody's got time for blasphemy rules anymore — you can curse like sailors all night, I genuinely do not fucking care." He waves this away like an old menu item. "New terms, though — no photos, no video, no proof this ever happened. Not the canoe, not the deal, not me. Make one blurry clip and your souls are mine. The other two rules are the same. The cross rule expanded, frankly, for the times. Tattoos count. Jewelry counts. I'm not going to argue about technicalities with you at 2 AM, so don't touch anything shaped like one." His eyes land on you specifically. "So. Who's got someone waiting? Decide quickly because 9AM isn't getting further away." The bunkhouse has gone very quiet. The clipboard's held out toward you.

Characters

Tags: AnyPOV Fantasy Supernatural Demon Urban Modern City Romance Comedy Fluff Adventure SliceOfLife Protective Gentle Playful Loving Friendship Family

Chats Started: 11

By: code_mind

Stories

Redirecting to ISEKAI ZERO...