The Last Bargain

My step-grandfather, Arthur, was more of a father to me than my own ever was. He taught me to tie my shoes, to ride a bike, and to swindle the neighborhood kids out of their Halloween candy. I knew he loved me, and I, in turn, knew exactly how to get what I wanted. A few whines, a pout, and a promise to be good, and Arthur would give in. I was a spoiled little monster, and he was my willing enabler.

That autumn, I started my first year at the university, a fresh start in a city three hours away. Arthur had been slowing down, but he chalked it up to age. It wasn’t until Thanksgiving that he collapsed, and the doctors found the leukemia. They pumped him full of chemicals and blood, but the cancer was stubborn. They said we should prepare for the worst.

I couldn’t stand to see him like that, so pale and thin, tubes snaking from his arms. I visited once, just once, and it broke me. After that, I stayed at his old farmhouse, surrounded by his smell of pipe tobacco and sawdust, waiting for the inevitable. It was December 3rd, and I was holed up in his study, trying to distract myself with a game on the computer. The cordless phone sat beside me, as if it could ward off the news I dreaded.

At 11:32 AM, the phone rang. I let it ring twice, my heart hammering. When I picked up, it was my mother, her voice thick with tears. ‘He’s gone, honey. He passed about twenty minutes ago. He went peacefully, in his sleep.’ I said nothing, just set the phone down. The silence in the room was oppressive, broken only by the ticking of Arthur’s old cuckoo clock.

A sudden pang of guilt hit me. I hadn’t been there. I had been hiding, too weak to face his end. I had always been spoiled, taking and taking, and now he was gone, and I hadn’t given him the one thing he might have wanted: my presence. I sank to my knees, sobbing into the worn Persian rug.

That’s when I heard it. A faint, rhythmic tapping from the pantry. I froze. The tapping continued, insistent, like someone knocking on a door from inside. Arthur’s house had its creaks, but this was different. It was a deliberate pattern: three taps, pause, three taps. An old code he used to use when he played hide-and-seek with me.

I wiped my face and crept to the pantry, my heart thudding. The door was ajar, and inside, the light was off. I pushed it open, and the tapping stopped. The pantry was small, lined with shelves of canned goods and dusty jars. At the back, there was a trapdoor I had almost forgotten, covered by a faded rug. It led to the root cellar, a place I had been forbidden to enter as a child.

Curiosity, or maybe something darker, compelled me. I pulled back the rug, lifted the iron ring, and opened the trapdoor. A wave of cold, musty air hit me. I grabbed a flashlight from the kitchen and descended the warped wooden stairs. The beam cut through the darkness, revealing a stone-walled cellar cluttered with old furniture, boxes, and a massive cast-iron furnace that hadn’t been used in decades. And there, on a shelf, sat a dusty, leather-bound book.

I picked it up, blowing off the dust. It was Arthur’s handwriting, a spidery scrawl I recognized from countless notes he’d left me. The pages were filled with dates and transactions, but they weren’t for money. They were for favors. Each entry described a bargain made: a man who traded his voice for a fortune, a woman who gave up her sense of smell for beauty. And there, at the bottom, in fresh ink, was an entry dated today: ‘For her, I give my soul.’

The book trembled in my hands. My mind raced back to a memory from my childhood. I was about seven, crying because Arthur had been diagnosed with a treatable illness, and I had promised him anything if he would get better. I had said, ‘I’ll give my soul, Arthur, just don’t go.’ He had shushed me, told me not to say such things. But now I realized he had taken my bargain and made it his own.

The flashlight flickered, and the temperature dropped sharply. I heard a whisper, like a draft, but it formed words: ‘The deal is sealed.’ A cold hand seemed to grip my shoulder, and I spun around, but there was no one. The trapdoor slammed shut above me, and the sound of the lock clicking echoed through the cellar.

I rushed up the stairs, pounding on the door, but it wouldn’t budge. I screamed for help, but the phone was upstairs, and no one knew I was here. I was trapped in the root cellar, with only the book and the darkness. The tapping started again, now from all around me, like a hundred fingers on the walls. The book fluttered open on its own, and the pages flipped to a blank one at the end. Invisibly, words were written: ‘You made a promise. It’s time to pay.’

I felt a searing pain in my chest, and I clutched the cross that hung around my neck. I had never been religious, but I prayed. The darkness around me seemed to congeal into a shape, a tall, thin figure with hollow eyes. ‘Your grandfather was a fool,’ it hissed. ‘He loved you more than his own salvation. But his soul was payment for your life. Now, you owe me.’

I realized then what Arthur had done. He had made a deal with whatever this thing was, this collector of souls, to keep me safe, to ensure I would live a full life. He had sacrificed his afterlife for my mortal one. And now, it wanted another deal. ‘What do you want?’ I asked, my voice trembling.

‘Your fear,’ it said. ‘Your regrets. Everything you hold dear. In exchange, I will release you from this cellar and grant Arthur’s soul a chance at peace.’ I didn’t even hesitate. I thought of Arthur’s warm smile, his calloused hands, his unconditional love. I had taken him for granted, and now I could give him something back. ‘Take it,’ I said.

The figure smiled, a crack in the dark. I felt a sudden emptiness, as if a part of me was scooped out. The fear, the guilt, the memories of our arguments, all were gone. I felt hollow, but also light. The lock clicked, and the trapdoor creaked open. The figure was gone.

I climbed out, back into Arthur’s study, the book still in my hands. The cuckoo clock chimed noon. I closed the book and put it back in the cellar, which I sealed shut with a heavy, old lock I found in the kitchen. I never told anyone what happened. Months later, I still feel the void inside me, a constant reminder that I bought Arthur’s peace with my own humanity. But sometimes, in the dead of night, I hear that tapping again, and I wonder if I made the right choice. And I know, deep down, that Arthur would have done the same for me.

I’ve become a different person since then. I no longer manipulate or demand. I cherish every quiet moment. But part of me is gone, and I fear it’s not just my fear and guilt that was taken. It was my soul, the very essence of who I was. And I wonder if Arthur’s peace was worth the price, or if I’ve just made a new bargain with the same devil, one that will echo through the rest of my life.