The Debt

I’ve made plenty of decisions in my life—most of them wrong. I don’t make excuses for them, though. Excuses are for the weak. Every choice I’ve made has led me here, and if I could do it all over, I’d probably make the same ones. Survival doesn’t wait for ethics. I’m Anthony Ross, and I’m not just another thug—I’m an enforcer, a collector. The guy you hope never darkens your door.

But even the wolf has to bow to the lion. My problem? I love to gamble. Cards, dice, the track—you name it. I gamble like I breathe. And that’s how I ended up owing the Russian mob more money than I could repay in a hundred lifetimes.

They could’ve killed me—and believe me, they would have—but I’m useful. My skills give me leverage. They let me live as long as I work off the debt. It’s a deal with the devil, but what other choice did I have?

The Cemetery Job
I thought I was prepared for anything, but this job was different. I was supposed to pick up a package at a cemetery—a graveyard pickup in the middle of the night. Even for me, that’s unsettling.

“Anthony, are you scared?” Patricia’s voice broke my brooding.

Her wide brown eyes locked on mine, soft and pleading. I hated that look. She didn’t understand.

“No, Patricia. I’m not scared,” I said, but the words rang hollow. “It’s just—something feels off about this one.”

“Then don’t go,” she said, gripping my arm. “We can leave. Run away together.”

I scoffed. “Run where? Do what? This is my life, Patricia. I made it. I chose it. I’m not going anywhere.”

Her face fell, and for a moment, I almost reconsidered. Almost.

“I’ll be back in the morning,” I said.

The drive to the cemetery was an hour and a half of silence. The road stretched on endlessly, black as pitch, lit only by the faint glow of my headlights. Every mile deepened the pit of unease in my stomach.

By the time I reached the cemetery gates, I felt like I was walking into my own grave.

The Groundskeeper
“Hello?” I called into the night, flashlight in one hand, my 9mm tucked in the waistband of my jeans.

“Quiet, boy,” came a rasping voice. “You’ll wake the dead.”

I spun around, nearly pulling my gun. The man who spoke looked ancient. His skin sagged like wet paper, and the stench of whiskey and decay clung to him.

“Who the hell are you?” I demanded.

“Just the groundskeeper,” he said, his thin lips curling into a grin. “You’re here for the package, yes?”

“Yeah. Hand it over, old man. I don’t have all night.”

He chuckled, a low, wheezing sound. “Not so fast, Anthony. First, you help me with my rounds.”

“Rounds?”

“No rounds, no package.”

I clenched my fists, biting back my anger. Something about this guy made my skin crawl, but I couldn’t leave without the package.

“Fine,” I said through gritted teeth.

The old man led me deeper into the cemetery, stopping at a grave surrounded by lilies. He pulled a stuffed bear from his jacket and placed it delicately by the headstone.

“Who’s buried here?” I asked, despite myself.

“Elizabeth Ross,” he said, his voice soft.

My blood ran cold. The name clawed at memories I’d tried to bury.

“Why are you telling me this?” I snapped.

“Because stories matter, Anthony. This little girl had a father—a liar, a drunk, and a criminal. He smuggled women, drugs, and weapons, but he got greedy. Stole from the wrong people. They put a bomb in his car, waited for him to pick her up from school, and…” He trailed off, staring at the headstone.

“Enough!” I barked.

“You’re right,” the old man said, his voice turning sharp. “You don’t care about stories. You’ve made your choices, Anthony. Now, clean the dirt off her tombstone.”

The Revelation
As I wiped the tombstone, the name stared back at me: Elizabeth Ross. My hands trembled. The memories surged forward—jobs I’d done, lives I’d ended.

“You know them, don’t you?” the old man said, his voice echoing now, layered and unnatural. “Timothy Bryant. Cassandra Flanagan. All those ‘debts’ you collected. They’re all waiting for you, Anthony.”

Panic gripped me. I yanked out my gun and pointed it at his head.

“Enough of this bullshit! Give me the package, or I’ll blow your brains out!”

The old man didn’t flinch. He simply smiled, a cruel, knowing grin.

“Follow me,” he said.

He led me to an ancient crypt. Inside, the package sat at the center, wrapped in brown paper. I tore it open, my hands shaking.

It was empty—except for my name scrawled inside.

“What the hell is this?” I shouted.

“It’s your receipt,” the old man said, his eyes burning crimson. His voice grew deeper, reverberating through the crypt. “Your soul has racked up quite a debt, Anthony. And now, it’s time to pay.”

Hell to Pay
I ran. I didn’t look back. The cemetery stretched on endlessly, the graves shifting, the trees twisting. My lungs burned, my legs screamed, but I kept running.

When I finally stopped, laughter bubbled out of me—wild, manic laughter.

“Not today, old man! You’ll have to do better than—”

The ground shook. Arms burst from the earth, clawing at me, dragging me down.

“No! No!” I screamed, kicking and thrashing, but it was useless.

The old man appeared above me, his face twisted into something monstrous.

“A few days ago,” he said, his voice like thunder, “you died, Anthony. A car bomb, courtesy of the Russians. You’re already dead. This is your reckoning.”

The last thing I saw was his burning eyes as the ground swallowed me whole.

Epilogue
The cemetery returned to silence. The crypt stood empty, the headstones untouched. Somewhere, deep below, the screams of the damned echoed.

The old man lit a cigarette, his crimson eyes fading back to dull gray.

“Debt paid,” he muttered, and disappeared into the night.