The payment

Journal Entry – October 28, 1871

The last of the men stumbled out with the rain, leaving only the echo of their laughter and the stale perfume of whiskey. I wiped down the bar in silence, watching the candle burn low, the wick curling like a dying thing. The storm outside had softened to a whisper, but the air inside still trembled — as if waiting.

That’s when he arrived. Not the stranger — not quite. This one wore the look of a man carrying someone else’s message. His hat dripped on the floorboards, his gloves spotless despite the mud outside. “A delivery,” he said, voice calm and steady. He slid a small pouch across the counter, the fabric damp and heavy. I asked from whom, though I already knew.

He smiled — or something close to it. “Payment,” he said. “In advance.”

When I untied the cord, the candlelight caught the edge of the coins inside — gold at first glance, glinting like salvation. But when I touched one, it was warm. Too warm. The metal felt almost alive, the way flesh does just before it cools. I looked up to ask what they were.

He was gone.

The door hadn’t opened. No sound of boots. Only the pouch on the counter, and the faint smell of myrrh that now clings to everything I own.

The coins have changed since. They’re dull now — gray, leaden, carved with marks I recognize from the clasp the stranger left me. Each sigil is the same, but no two are shaped alike. They seem to shift when the light falters. I tried to throw them in the hearth, but the flame hissed and recoiled, as though it refused them.

I should have known better. Nothing freely given ever comes without a claim.

When I finally closed my eyes, I dreamt of digging — hands raw, dirt beneath my nails, the smell of wet soil thick enough to choke on. Something whispered my name through the dark earth, slow and patient. When I woke, my palms were streaked brown. The marks looked like soil. Smelled like it too.

I scrubbed until my skin burned. It didn’t come off.

-K