The Devil s Due

The sterile scent of the hospital choked Frank, a smell he was starting to associate with despair. He slumped in the plastic chair, his face a roadmap of sleepless nights and worry lines, watching Miriam sleep. She was a shadow of her vibrant self, her once fiery red hair now dull and thin. The cancer was eating her alive, slowly, meticulously, and the doctors, those overpaid wizards in white coats, had given her a death sentence wrapped in medical jargon: six months, tops.
He ran a hand through his thinning hair, a sigh escaping his lips. "Six goddamn months," he muttered. "For the most beautiful, most incredible woman in the world."
A gruff voice broke his reverie. "Heard that, Frank. Ain't right."
It was Big Tony, Miriam's brother, a bear of a man with a heart as big as his biceps. He lumbered over, offering Frank a lukewarm cup of hospital coffee.
Frank took it, the bitterness mirroring his own mood. "It's bullshit, Tony. That's what it is. We prayed. We donated. We did everything right. And what did we get? Nothing. God's deaf, blind, or just doesn't give a damn."
Tony squeezed his shoulder, his face etched with pity. "Now, Frank, don't talk like that. You gotta have faith. Maybe... maybe there's still a miracle."
Frank snorted, a harsh, humorless sound. "Miracles? This ain't a goddamn Disney movie, Tony. This is real life. And in real life, good people get screwed every single day. God's on vacation, sipping margaritas, while Miriam rots."
He spent the next few days in the hospital with Miriam, trying to make their last days as enjoyable as he could, but it was proving to be a struggle. He told her jokes, even though he could barely manage a smile himself.
"Hey, Miriam, guess what? I saw a man at the grocery store fighting with a lobster. I thought, 'What's that shellfish about?'"
Miriam, pale and frail, managed a weak smile. "Frank, your jokes are getting worse. Are you sure you're not the one who's sick?"
Frank chuckled, relieved to see her spirit hadn't completely given up. "Just trying to lighten the mood, honey. You know me, always the comedian."
As the days turned into weeks, and Miriam's condition worsened, Frank grew more desperate. He visited every church in town, lit every candle, and whispered every prayer he knew. But nothing changed. He started neglecting his work, spending all his time by Miriam's side, his despair deepening with each passing day.
One evening, alone in his study, the TV flickering with static, the idea hit him. An idea so insane, so blasphemous, it made his blood run cold. He knew about the risks but at this point, he didn't care.
"What if… what if I made a deal?" He whispered the question into the empty room, the words hanging heavy in the air.
He spent hours researching, scouring the internet for answers, for rituals, for anything that could help him contact the one being he’d always been taught to fear. Late that night, armed with a book he found on the dark web and a bottle of whiskey, Frank stood in the center of his living room. He drew a pentagram on the floor with chalk, lit black candles and began the incantation, the language alien and disturbing on his tongue. A chill filled the room, the air thickening like cold soup. The shadows danced and writhed, and a low growl echoed through the house. Then, a figure materialized before him, tall and gaunt, with eyes like burning coals.
"Well, well, well," the figure said, his voice a rasp. "Seems someone's been trying to reach out. What can I do for you?"
Trying to appear calm, Frank spoke "“I want my wife to live. I will do anything, pay any price."
The figure tilted his head. "Anything?"
Frank hesitated, his stomach churning. "Anything."
"Very well," the figure said with a sly smile. "Her cancer will be cured. In exchange…" He paused, his eyes gleaming. "…your soul."
Frank closed his eyes and said "Agreed"
And that was that. A deal was struck. A pact made in desperation.
He found her sitting up in bed, looking remarkably better.
"Frank," she said, her voice stronger than it had been in weeks. "I feel… better. A lot better."
The doctors were baffled, running test after test, finding no trace of the cancer. It was gone. Vanished. A miracle, they said. But Frank knew better.
Miriam made a full recovery. They celebrated, laughed, and started living again. The joy was intoxicating, a drug that masked the growing dread that gnawed at Frank's insides. Frank was a nervous wreck, wondering when the Devil would come to collect. Every day was a tight rope walk.
One sunny afternoon, they decided to take a picnic to their favorite spot in the mountains. The top was down on their old convertible, and they sang along to the radio, enjoying the simple pleasure of each other's company.
As they rounded a sharp bend in the road, a semi-truck careened around the corner, its brakes squealing in protest. The truck jackknifed, its trailer swinging wildly. There was no time to react.
The impact was deafening. Metal screeched, glass shattered, and then… silence.
Frank and Miriam were killed instantly.
The aftermath was a blur of flashing lights, sirens, and shocked faces. But somewhere, beyond the chaos, a different kind of transaction was taking place.
Miriam, free from pain and suffering, ascended. Her soul, pure and untainted, soared towards the light.
Meanwhile, Frank's soul, bound by the terms of his desperate bargain, was dragged kicking and screaming into the darkness.
Down below, in a realm of eternal torment, the Devil smiled. Another soul harvested. Another deal fulfilled.
As for the "tragic accident"? Well, the Devil never said he'd orchestrate Frank's demise. He simply made sure Miriam was healed. What happened after that was just… collateral damage. A cosmic shrug of the shoulders.
The Devil, after all, always gets his due. And he always has, with glee, a twisted sense of humor.