One Wish Per Soul

At long last, the day he had awaited has arrived.

Franz crawled around the dirty, unswept floor of his dimly-lit attic, hurriedly scribbling onto it a pentagram with chalk. His hands quivered under the burden of the horrors he committed, and Franz struggled in vain to convince himself that it was merely anticipation that shook him so. Amidst this inner turmoil, he committed foolish errors - errors he could ill afford, for the pentagram’s evil symbols, prescribed by the dark tome that guided Franz for the past decade, required absolute precision, and promised terrors beyond comprehension to those who would not respect them. 

Crawling forward, Franz stumbled into an old, derelict mirror that must have stood in his attic, abandoned, for Devil knows how long. Within its tarnished surface, Franz caught a glimpse of himself, a visage of a pathetic, trembling man, with delirious and despairing eyes, and ugly beyond belief - oh, so, so ugly! No matter, he thought with rage, as hatred of his own reflection suddenly drowned out any other emotion in him like it had so many times in his wretched life. He knew the end was near, and it shall all be different then!

Outside, in the suffocating and oppressive darkness of the Viennese night, the bells tolled thrice - the devil's hour had arrived, and he had little time to waste. Franz redoubled his efforts, only to make triple the mistakes.

His racing mind drifted back to the fateful day that marked the beginning of Franz's descent into the vile darkness he now placed all his hopes upon. Yes, it was a decade ago, back when he spent his days skulking around the twisting streets of the Innere Stadt, desperately alone and bereft of any hope for his life. Franz was hideously ugly, grotesquely twisted as if by a cruel joke of God. His own family disowned him out of shame when he came of age, and he had been left to fend for himself ever since. No family, no friends, no prospects in life - all because of his incomprehensible ugliness, ugliness that went beyond human reason, ugliness that brought forth whispers of curses and divine punishments. 

Even the clergymen who, out of charity, provided Franz with succor, could not bring themselves to meet Franz's gaze. Even those symbols of acceptance, mercy and forgiveness could not forgive him for his hideousness! And so, burdened by dark thoughts and with a heart sick of the injustice of his existence, Franz spent his days wandering the streets of Vienna until his legs could carry him no more and his mind succumbed to an empty, dreamless sleep.

On one such unremarkable day, a chance meeting caused Franz's life to take an irreversible turn. It was a late autumn evening, an hour when darkness waged its final battle against the fading light, conquering Vienna in its grasp. Franz stumbled into the small square before the Ruprechtskirche, the city’s oldest church. Overlooking the Danube and drowning in shadows, the simple, Romanesque shape of the church made Franz feel as if he wandered into a moment outside of time, when Vienna's grandeur had yet to materialize, and only this lonely church stood on the bank of a mighty river. 

Amidst this surreal scene, Franz was startled to see another soul on his island outside of time. A lonely figure knelt in the heart of the square, not daring to enter or even approach the church. It was a man, feverishly praying, smashing his head against the cobblestone with each fervent bow, a picture of madness and delirium. Franz’s instinct was to flee into the comfort of darkness, to avoid the hardship of human interaction that so often led to disappointment. Yet, something in the man drew Franz in; he sensed a kindred spirit, a fellow soul equally scorned by fate.

Franz approached with trepidation, uncertain of how the man would react to his appearance, bracing himself for another scream of fear or snarl of disgust. Instinctively, Franz raised the collar of his coat to obscure his face, and extended his hand towards him. The man, however, abruptly jerked up and spun around. 

“You! Are you a demon or an angel come for me?”, he asked, his voice a peculiar blend of unwavering hope and boundless terror. Before Franz could respond, the man pulled him into the lamplight and revealed his face. He staggered back, studying Franz intently.

 “No, you cannot be either, for no angel could console and no demon could seduce with a face like yours!” he proclaimed, his voice trembling. ”No, you are but a man - a woeful, sorrowful, unfortunate wretch of a man, much like myself.” With that, the man clasped his head in his hands and fell to his knees, overcome with inconsolable wails. 

Franz felt he should go, leave this poor tormented soul to his own devices, and yet he simply could not. Was it curiosity that rooted him in place, or the bizarre acceptance this stranger showed towards him? He could not say, yet his decision to stay would cost him dearly.

With a parched throat and a pounding heart, Franz was on the verge of attempting to console the man, but he seized Franz's hands and began whispering in a hurried, frantic manner, as though fearing an interruption.

“Listen to me and listen well, and ask no questions of me, for I shall not ask any of you. Know this - I am a miserable man, persecuted by jealousy and unrelenting ambition. I resorted to cheating and deceit to advance, casting aside friends and forsaking family to achieve my own ends, and I see today that I am the architect of my own undoing. Yes, that I am! I sank lower and lower, yet it was never enough. No, never! I searched tirelessly for a way to attain everything I desired, and, God curse the day, I found more than I ever bargained for," he whispered, producing a menacing black tome from somewhere underneath his coat. “Yes, I found what I was seeking, may God have mercy on my soul. Here, take this. No, no, take it, I beg you! I believed I was prepared to do anything, but this - oh, this I cannot do, this is not worth all the success in the world. In the end, I am a weak man, I admit, with limits I cannot surpass”, he muttered, his eyes locked onto Franz's. “You! You appear to be a man willing to do whatever it takes for even a fleeting chance at life. I see it in your eyes, and I bow to your resolve. Take this vile book, please, God, take it away from me, for it whispers in my head and compels my hands. I am afraid, but, worst of all, I am exhausted. Take it, and may the Devil grant you the strength to do what I am too weak to”. 

With those words, the man abruptly turned round and rushed away. Before vanishing in the darkness of Vienna’s streets, he froze in his tracks and glanced back at Franz, who stood transfixed where the man left him. The man took a step back, hunger in his face, and then another, pain in his eyes, and then he screamed like a cornered beast and fled into the darkness of Vienna like a lunatic escaping his keepers. And Franz was left alone, clutching the sinister tome that would bestow upon him the poisoned gift of purpose.

The feverish months and years that followed are but hazy recollections to Franz. He retains only a vague memory of the first time he read the black tome, and the cacophony of emotions its pages unleashed on him - the initial shock, then revulsion, disgust, and confusion, all culminating in bright, unrelenting hope. And then it was all a blur, whole years during which Franz ceased to be a man and became an automaton instead, with a single, unwavering purpose: to secure a life for himself, be damned the cost. For the promise of the tome was clear, its instructions absolute - 

In days of yore, a darkened pact was made,

To seek a wish from devil's dreadful shade.

The hearts once bound in love's embrace,

A sacrifice, the devil's toll to face.

An offspring born of love, with innocence pure,

Their blood to quench the devil's thirst, ensure.

During those tumultuous years, did Franz ever contemplate the dark path he tread? Did he consider the terrible price he was willing to pay? Did the memory of the deranged and tormented soul before the Ruprechtskirche not serve as fate’s dire warning?

Franz himself could not answer these questions, yet one must ask themselves this: does a mother-bear, ensnared in the relentless grasp of hunger, harbor doubt as she consumes her own cub? Or would a drowning man not willingly sacrifice a thousand souls for but one breath of air?

The answers matter little; with terrible purpose spurring him on, Franz did not hesitate in what he had to do. To father a child of love, he needed a woman who could love him as he is, and for that he needed much to offer. With naught to lose and a life to gain, Franz turned to a place where appearances mattered little and all could find disfigurement at any time - the army. Oh, the taunts, oh, the bullying Franz was victim to! No man could survive such torment with his sanity intact - yet Franz was not man but hellhound, with nought but a distant goal. His mad bravery and utter disregard for his own life won him respect from all, and he rose through the ranks, whispers of devil's luck trailing in his wake.

In less than a decade, Franz turned from a worthless wretch to a General revered and feared by all, with ample means at his disposal. And in his pursuit, he attained the prize he truly longed for - love. It took the form of a widow, spouse of fallen enemy, whom Franz saved from the ravages of a rampaging army - a selfless act that earned him her love in spite of his hideousness. Was Franz in love with her? Perhaps not, but he was in love with being loved. Leaving his newfound wife at his home in Vienna, he once again went off to war. Soon, word reached him as he campaigned - a daughter, born of him. A man who knew no lows in life would find it impossible to comprehend the high that Franz felt then. 

As the campaign dragged on for months and years, as Franz risked his life and awaited the moment of his return home, a simple yet elusive question lingered in his mind - what was he to do? He was now a General, respected by all; he had a wife, and now a child awaited his embrace. What more did he demand of life? As sweet letters from his wife poured in with news of his daughter, his mind grew clearer, and darkness backed away. The vile allure of the black tome waned, and Franz began to dream of a happy life with the blessings he already had. 

The day had arrived; he was home. Free at last, with gifts aplenty, he knocked on his door, ready to leave behind his past life of misery and step into a new life of happiness. His heart fluttered in anticipation of seeing his wife and daughter, now three years old. Yet, fate had a different plan for Franz, and all his beautiful dreams were destined to crumble into nothingness, like ashes scattered by the wind.

As his wife opened the door and caught a glimpse of him, her face convulsed in shock and disillusionment. Her mind, no doubt, had played a cruel trick - the memory of Franz’s ugliness softened and erased by time. The moment he had awaited for so long had turned from sweet to bitter, and Franz’s heart sank, yet worth was yet to come. 

His beautiful daughter, eager to see her father for the very first time, bounded toward the door with enthusiasm. But when her eyes met his, a wild cry erupted from her as she experienced fear for the very first time in her young life. “Monster, mommy, it's a monster!”, she cried, and Franz’s world came crashing down. What a fool he had been, nurturing such futile hopes! Had he forgotten what he was? The ominous tome he harbored beneath his heart seized his soul with renewed vigor, whispering sinister counsel in his ear, reminding him that this meant nothing, for his true dreams remained within his reach. No hope or love in him remaining, his hands compelled by darkness, his saber sharp and deadly, Franz did what he was always meant to do - harvest the blood of offspring born of love, for the devil hungered. And as his wife fell lifeless to the floor, his daughter tasted fear for the second time - her last.

The pentagram was finally finished, and Franz smeared his daughter's blood atop. All that remained was chant the unholy words and call upon the Devil. His dream was now within his grasp, and he cared not for the price he had to pay. Or so he told himself, at least.

He chanted. The dark and unlit attic grew darker still, and candles flickered and surrendered to the darkness. Sickness washed over Franz, his body revolting against the evil that he channeled. His consciousness wavered, his mind begged him to cease, for the pain and stress were too much to bear. Yet, cease he did not, for he had suffered and sacrificed too much for it to be in vain. 

As the last accursed words parted from his lips, a blinding flash of light seared through the attic, hurling Franz backward into the wall. As he regained his senses, a figure now stood where the blood had once been smeared.

The Devil appeared mundane. A bland and unremarkable figure, the kind you could find a hundred of in any crowd. He eyed Franz slyly, with a crooked smile that seemed engraved upon his face. A fleeting memory brushed Franz’s mind, as if he saw this smile a long, long time ago. He dismissed it, and knelt instead before the Devil, and begged. Oh, how he begged! He laid bare the misfortunes of his life, and pleaded the Devil to take his ugliness away. He asked not for beauty; of that much he could not even dream. A normal face, a normal life - that's all Franz wished.

The Devil listened to this impassioned plea, and as Franz finished, burst into laughter. He laughed, and shook the walls around him; he laughed, and all of Vienna seemed to groan; he laughed, and whether it lasted for a minute or a century, Franz could not say.

"Do you mock me?" he rumbled abruptly, a wicked fire burning in his eyes. "Dare you to waste my precious time? If you had bothered to peruse that paltry tome, you would be well aware of the rule - I grant but one wish per soul, and not one more. And you've already had yours as a child."

Franz paled; there wasn't air enough for him to breathe. “What say you, Devil? I had my wish in childhood?”, Franz screamed, delirious. He thrust his hands, still stained with blood, toward the Devil. “Look here, observe what I have done! No child could muster the strength and callousness required for such a deed!"

“Quiet, worm. Your hysterics tire me”, the Devil grumbled. “Why would a child need such trifling formalities? Their souls are pure, freshly descended from the Heavens, and they believe sincerely like no adult believes.” The Devil regarded Franz with a glint of curiosity. "Surely, you must recall? The pond, the willow’s shade, that worthless book torn to shreds…” Before the Devil could finish, an inhuman roar shattered the room, a sound unparalleled even within the depths of the nine circles of Hell. Franz screamed, ripping his own hair out, and battered his head against the floor. Life drained from him, his sanity - crumbled. In that haunting moment, Franz remembered.

Near a tranquil pond, beneath the shade of an age-old willow tree, a child sobbed. His angelic head, adorned with a cascade of golden hair, hung low, and his once-rosy cheeks were damp with tears. In front of him lay his mother's cherished Bible, as ancient as the willow that sheltered him. He had taken it without permission, and now it lay in tatters. Oh, he pleaded with the world, if only by some miracle there was a way to mend it, so that his mother need not weep, and he need not face her scolding!

“Good morning, child. What troubles your young soul?”, a man had asked. From whence had he appeared? Who was he? The child scarcely cared, for there was a sympathetic ear to confide in, and so he did.

The man erupted into laughter. A nasty, eerie laugh. “Oh, my dear child, you have amused me! Believe me - you’d done nothing wrong, and I can mend this trinket as you asked. But, in return, you must offer me your most precious possession."

The child’s face lit up with hope. He found solution to his woes! But what could he offer in return? What did he possess that was truly precious? “Well, sir, I'm not quite sure what I can give, but mommy always tells me what a pretty child I am, and how blessed I am to be so. Could you take that from me?"

The man eyed the boy slyly, with a crooked smile that seemed engraved upon his face. “Are you certain? You’d trade your beauty for this book?"

The boy was young, untouched by hardship or rejection. He knew nothing but love and care, with everyone in the world his friend. He smiled, delighted that the man seemed pleased. "Of course I am. What need have I for it?"