A Soul Was Traded for a Wish—Now the Devil’s Back to Collect What’s Due, and He Never Forgets a Deal

The village of Ashmoor hadn’t seen rain in three years.
Crops had withered into dust. Wells choked on dry air. People whispered about curses, bad omens, and ancient sins returning to collect what was due. They said Ashmoor had been forgotten by the gods themselves—punished for something no one dared speak aloud. But no one expected the stranger to arrive on the hottest night of the year, smiling like he knew something the rest of the world had long since forgotten.

They say he walked into the tavern barefoot, carrying only a cane that had no limp to explain. His eyes? They glowed faintly red in the candlelight—too faint, but unmistakable. No one asked questions. Fear had settled over Ashmoor like a fog, and silence felt safer than any conversation.

He didn’t order food. He didn’t drink. He simply sat in the farthest corner of the room and waited, until a desperate farmer named Elias, hollow-eyed and ragged from the weight of hopeless years, approached him.

Elias had lost everything—his wife to sickness, his land to the drought, and his spirit to a never-ending battle with time. He had given up hope of ever seeing the rain again, and with it, the life he had once known. All he had left was a wish. And the stranger, as though he had been waiting for this very moment, had come to collect.

“What do you want?” Elias had asked, his voice raspy.

The stranger smiled, the corners of his lips stretching unnaturally wide. “Not much. Just a little something you don’t need right now. I’ll take it later. You won’t even notice it’s gone… until you do.”

It was then that Elias realized that he wasn’t talking to a man. He wasn’t even talking to something human. But the weight of his desperation was too great, and he barely hesitated before speaking.

“I want rain,” Elias whispered, almost pleading. “I want my land to live again. Crops to grow. Animals to thrive. I want power. I want respect. I want life back.”

The stranger nodded once. His gaze was icy, unreadable. He stepped forward, and his cold finger brushed Elias’s chest—just above the heart. It was a fleeting touch, but it burned. Then, in a voice that was both distant and yet too close, he said, “Done.”

The next morning, the skies opened.


---

By the end of the year, Elias was the wealthiest man in Ashmoor. His land had come alive, lush and overflowing with crops while his neighbors—those who had survived the drought—watched in envy. His barns were full, and his animals flourished in ways that defied nature. People no longer spoke of curses or omens; instead, they called him “blessed,” “chosen,” even “divine.” He walked into rooms with a newfound authority, his words compelling crowds to hang on every syllable. The weight of his new life pressed down on him, but for a while, it was enough.

Yet, even as he stood above everyone else, there was a gnawing feeling in his gut, something hollow and cold. The days passed, but something wasn't right.

The whispers started small at first. He saw flashes in mirrors—red eyes, blinking just out of focus behind his own reflection. Strange shapes flickered in the shadows. At night, the whispers followed him into sleep, a voice repeating his name over and over. "Elias… Elias… your price is coming." It wasn’t a dream.

His crops began to rot overnight, then return—too perfect, too symmetrical, like something unnatural had touched them. Livestock gave birth to creatures with extra eyes. His dog, once loyal, refused to step foot inside the house. There were signs, warnings that Elias refused to heed.

One night, as he sat in his mansion’s study, reading frantically through old texts on soul-deals and infernal contracts, a suffocating cloud of black smoke filled the room. He couldn’t breathe. Panic seized his chest. There was no fire, no source of the smoke—it was as if it had come from the very air. Then came the voice—deep, guttural, and echoing like a distant thunderclap.

“You’ve had your wish. Now I want what’s mine.”

Elias’s heart stopped. The truth hit him like a physical blow. The devil had come to collect. The deal was never about rain, never about land or wealth. It had always been about his soul.

He scrambled, desperate for salvation. He ran to churches. Sought out witches. He burned herbs, carved sigils, and spoke every prayer he knew. But there was no escaping it. The devil doesn’t do refunds. The price was fixed the moment Elias had made the wish. And it wasn’t money. It wasn’t power. It was far worse.


---

On the third anniversary of his deal with the stranger, Ashmoor held a festival to celebrate the prosperity Elias had brought them. But Elias didn’t attend. Instead, he locked himself in his mansion, surrounded by salt circles, every window sealed shut, and every door marked with ancient symbols.

The clock struck midnight. Every candle snuffed out, one by one, plunging the room into darkness.

A shadow moved behind him, impossibly tall and thin. Elias turned, but the figure was already there. It grinned—teeth far too sharp, eyes glowing like embers.

“Payment is due,” it whispered, the voice like ice scraping across the skin.

Elias begged. Bargained. He offered everything—the wealth, the land, the power. But the stranger only laughed, and the sound echoed, empty and cruel.

“You asked for power. You got it. You asked for respect. You earned it. You asked for life… and now, I’ll show you what’s on the other side of it.”

By dawn, when the townspeople arrived at Elias’s mansion, the walls were scorched black. Not a single window remained unbroken. The house was silent, empty. Elias had vanished—completely, as though swallowed by the earth itself. The only trace of him was a single note, burned into the wood of his bedroom door.

“Wishes have weight. Souls make fine currency.”


---

That’s the story they whisper in Ashmoor… but legends only tell half the truth.
What really happened behind those scorched walls? Elias knows. And soon—you will too.
His version isn’t just darker… it’s damning. Stay close. The devil’s not done talking.