The Devil’s Bargain

What would you do to protect your birthright? Not just a stretch of land, but the culmination of generations’ worth of toil and sacrifice. My family’s farm had stood for over a century, 240 acres of dry, stubborn soil, an old barn leaning under the weight of time, and a house built with bare hands in 1920 by my great-great-grandfather. To a passerby, it was nothing but a dying relic, but to me, it was a kingdom—my inheritance, my legacy.

My father used to say, “Family and tradition. That’s what keeps a man grounded.” He’d spin tales of how he and his parents had weathered the Great Depression on that very land, eking out a living through grit and God’s mercy. “If we could survive that, boy, we can survive anything.” But standing there in my barren fields, the sun beating down on cracked earth and failure, I wasn’t so sure.

I worked myself to the bone. Up before the sun, I repaired fences, patched the roof, plowed the fields, and planted seeds, hoping the rains would come and life would return to the soil. But hard work wasn’t enough; it never is. Bills piled up, creditors circled like vultures, and my pride—already fragile—began to crack.

When the bank offered me a loan against my land, I told myself it was just a stepping stone. I’d use the money to rebuild, to breathe life back into the farm, and I’d pay it back before they could think about taking what was mine. My father’s voice echoed in my head: “Quitting ain’t in your blood. We’re fighters.”

But after months of relentless labor, the fields remained lifeless. No rain, no crops, no money. The weight of my failure settled on me like a stone. I began to wonder if my father’s stories of resilience were just that—stories.

It was in this pit of despair that the black car arrived.

I remember the moment vividly. The air grew thick, humid, like the aftermath of a storm, though the sky was cloudless. A faint, acrid smell wafted on the breeze, as if something had burned. The car rolled to a stop in front of my house, and out stepped a man. He wasn’t dressed like a banker, but there was something about him that set my teeth on edge.

“Relax,” he said, his voice as smooth as the dark leather briefcase he carried. “I’m not here to take your land. I’m here to help.”

His words were honeyed, but his eyes were cold. He claimed to be in the business of assisting men like me—men who had nowhere else to turn.

When I told him I had no money, he smiled. “I’m not interested in your money,” he said. “I want something more valuable.”

I laughed nervously, but his expression didn’t change. “A soul,” he said, matter-of-factly. “Not yours, of course. Your child’s.”

The words hit me like a slap. “I don’t have any children,” I stammered.

“Not yet,” he said, his smile widening. “But you will.”

Despite the chill that ran through me, his offer was tempting. He promised me not just survival, but success. My fields would thrive, my debts would vanish, and my legacy would endure for generations. All he wanted in return was something I didn’t even have yet.

Desperation clouded my judgment. I signed his contract with a trembling hand, barely registering the weight of what I’d done. He left as suddenly as he’d arrived, and within weeks, everything changed. The rains came, the crops flourished, and my fortunes soared. I bought more land, expanded my operations, and became a man of stature in the community.

Six years passed in a blur of prosperity. My wife and I welcomed a daughter into the world, and for the first time in my life, I felt truly whole. But then, one night, as I checked on the horses in the barn, I found him waiting for me.

“Congratulations,” he said, his voice as smooth as ever. “It’s time to settle our deal.”

The joy of fatherhood turned to cold dread. “No,” I pleaded. “Take me instead. Take anything else.”

He shook his head. “A deal is a deal.”

Desperation drove me to bargain. I begged him to leave my future children alone, but his smile turned thoughtful. “There may be another way,” he said, his words slithering into my ears like smoke.

“What?” I asked, clutching at hope like a drowning man reaching for a rope.

“I’ll spare your children,” he said, “if you bring me others.”

“What do you mean?”

“You know the desperation I feed on,” he said. “You’ve seen it in your neighbors, in your friends. Bring them to me. Convince them to make their own deals, and for every soul you bring, I’ll spare one of your children.”

The horror of his words was matched only by the dark temptation they carried. “You want me to... what? Sell out my neighbors? My friends?”

He smiled. “I want you to offer them what I offered you: a way out. Their choices are their own. You’ll merely… guide them to me.”

I wanted to scream, to rail against him, but the image of my daughter’s face stopped me. “How many?” I whispered.

“Three,” he said. “One for each child you might have.”

And just like that, I became his harbinger.

Now, as I sit here with you, telling you this story, I see the same desperation in your eyes that I once felt. I know your struggles—your wife has left with the kids, the bank is closing in, and you’re drowning under the weight of it all. I’ve seen it before—in others, in myself. But there’s a way out.

I visited your neighbors last week. You’ve noticed their sudden change of fortune, haven’t you? Their fields are thriving, their debts are gone, and their smiles have returned. I told them the same thing I’m telling you now: I know a man who can help.

So, let me ask you—how far are you willing to go to protect your legacy? Because once you make the deal, you’ll find yourself right here, just like me, sitting across from another desperate soul.