The man walks into the pub at midnight, the door
creaking like a wound. The barkeep doesn’t look
up. A halfempty glass sits on the counter, steam
curling from it. The soldier’s hand hovers over
the glass, then withdraws. He’s been here before.
Not in this place, but in this moment.
The ghost appears behind the bar, a silhouette
in a threadbare suit, eyes hollow as a grave. It
speaks without moving its mouth. “You have one
chance. Take it, and you’ll never starve again.”
The soldier’s breath catches. He’s heard this
before. In a field, under a sky that burned.
He agrees. The ghost vanishes. The glass fills
with whiskey. He drinks. The next morning, his
bank account swells with a sum he can’t explain.
The money is clean, no questions asked. He buys
a house, a car, a quiet life.
But the ghost returns. This time, it holds a
photograph—his daughter, lost in the 1970s
during a riot. “You took the deal,” it says.
“Now you pay.” The soldier’s hands shake. He
remembers the day she disappeared, the way he
let her go.
He tries to walk away. The ghost follows. It
whispers in his ear: “Your wife’s heart stops if
you refuse.” The soldier’s pulse thunders. He’s
not the man he was. But the rules are clear: the
bargain cannot be undone.
He goes to the hospital. His wife lies still, a
tube in her throat. The ghost stands at the foot
of the bed. “One more choice,” it says. “Her
life, or yours.” The soldier hesitates. The
ghost’s voice hardens. “You already chose.”
He wakes in a different room. The walls are bare.
His hands are clean. The money is gone. The
ghost is gone. But his wife is alive, sitting by
the window, knitting. She doesn’t know what
happened. Neither does he.
The pub is empty now. The door doesn’t creak. He
leaves without looking back. The city hums
around him, the same as it always was. But
something in him is broken. He walks past the
GAA club, the old stones, the river. The world
feels lighter.
He doesn’t remember the deal. But he knows the
cost.
