"The House Always Wins" by Dalton Kohlbeck

The House Always Wins

by Dalton Kohlbeck

Clay Malone was a gambler. Not a lucky man. He didn't believe in luck. But someone who could read the table like scripture. He had bled casinos from Reno to Atlantic City, ducked collectors in Vegas alleys, and won a man's eye in a poker game once. He carried it in his pocket as a charm. But his streak had finally dried up.

They were closing in. A loan shark’s boys had found his motel. Clay had a half tank of gas and a heart full of panic when he saw it: a building that hadn’t been there the day before.

The Red Jack Inn.

Neon buzzed angrily in the desert dusk. The sign flickered like a dying pulse. Red light bathed the cracked parking lot, but no other cars waited. It was wrong. Every instinct in Clay’s bones said so. But he was out of options, out of money, and worse, out of time.

He stepped inside through the front door.

The air was thick with the scent of roses and rot. The floor was polished black stone. The only source of light came from a blood red chandelier hanging low over a single blackjack table in the center of the lobby. The shadows seemed to stretch and waver like black ink swirling in a dark pool. 

Behind the table stood the dealer. His suit was crimson, his tie the color of coal. His face was pale as candlewax, smooth as silk, not a single blemish. His eyes were faintly glowing, amber orbs with no pupils. And his smile, God, that smile seemed to cut too deep into his cheeks.

“Welcome, Mr. Malone,” the dealer said, his voice a dry rasp. “Care for a game?”

Clay hesitated. “You know my name?”

“We know everyone who walks through the door. Please. Sit.”

Something in Clay's legs obeyed before his mind agreed. He sank into the red leather chair, slick and warm like skin. The dealer shuffled with impossible speed. Cards cracked like bones on the table.

“What’s the buy in?” Clay asked, trying to sound casual.

“Your debt,” the dealer said. “And everything that comes after.”

Clay blinked, “You mean my soul?”

The dealer gave a quiet chuckle. “Please. We’re not so crass here. Let’s just say if you win, you walk out clean. Free of your past. If you lose... well, the house will collect.”

Clay thought of the men hunting him, the bruises he’d earned, the lines he'd crossed. “Fine. Deal.”

They played. And for a while, Clay won. The cards came fast and perfect, and chips appeared like magic in front of him. The dealer spoke little but never stopped smiling. Time blurred. Clay lost track of it completely. There were no windows, no clocks. Just cards. And bets.

Then the stakes changed.

“Let’s make this interesting,” the dealer said, laying out a new bet. “You win this hand, you get ten years of your life back. You lose, you forget your mother’s face.”

Clay laughed, uneasy. “What kind of bullshit…”

But the memory of her smile slipped from his mind like fog evaporating.

His eyes flickered, “What... was that?”

The dealer didn’t answer. He dealt.

And so it went.

Memories. Feelings. Time. He gambled them all. First his regrets, then his joys, then entire years vanished between draws. He won some back. Lost even more. The air grew colder. The shadows swirling growing darker and deeper like windows into an abyss. He noticed now that the walls pulsed slightly, like lungs.

He tried to get up over and over again promising to himself this would be his last hand, but with every new hand he'd feel an exhilarating rush like this would be the time he’d win.

Finally, down to his last chip, Clay pushed it forward with trembling fingers. “All in,” he whispered. “Double or nothing. Win, I walk. Lose, do your worst.”

The dealer's eyes flared. “Very well.”

Cards flew. A queen and a six, Clay’s hands shook. “Hit me.” The dealer paused. Then flipped the card, another queen. Bust.

Clay stared. The world tilted. The dealer gathered the cards slowly, reverently. “You played well, Mr. Malone. But in this house…” He leaned forward. His teeth jagged and sharpened to a point, definitely not human, “…the house always wins.”

Clay stood so fast his chair toppled. “Fine. Take me. Kill me. Let’s end this.”

“Oh no,” the dealer said, rising to his full height. He was taller now. Towering over Clay, his voice booming, reverberating around the room. “This is my house. And in my house, no one dies.”

Clay ran. The door he came through led back to the same room. He tried another. Same room. Over and over. Red Jack Inn unfolded infinitely, a maze of repeating nightmares. The chandelier flickered faster. The shadows whispered his name and tried to pull at him.

He tried hurting himself. Nothing. No blood. No pain. Just numbness. He tried starving. He never got hungry. Sleep never came. He was always awake. Always here.

Sometimes he saw others. Blurred shapes, twitching in corners, weeping without sound. Other gamblers. Other losers.

Time lost all meaning.

The dealer would return now and then to offer him another hand. Another chance. Clay refused at first, eventually he’d give in, desperate to escape. And he’d lose again. Every time. Until he forgot what winning even felt like.

Years passed. Or centuries. Clay forgot what the sky looked like, forgot his own name. All he knew was red velvet, shadowed halls, and the dry chuckle of the man behind the table.

Somewhere, out in the real world, The Red Jack Inn sat waiting in the desert. A glowing sign calling to the desperate. The lost. The bold. The damned. And inside, behind the blackjack table, the dealer always ready to shuffle his deck and slide you some cards, with his devilish charm and a smile to match.

Always waiting.

Because no matter who sits down to play...

The house always wins…