The Halloween Project 2026 – Story 7: One More for the Road

The Bushmills in his glass was drained when Callum ordered, “One more for the road, Declan, if you please.”

“You mean the walk, don’t cha?” the reply came.

“Yeah, the walk. I may be old, but I still know the way with me eyes closed. Half past the post office, turn right at the third stone wall. Up the hill until you can see the moon over the hilltop, assuming there is a moon, two fields to the left, and there I am. Now pour me that whisky and don’t be bashful.”

“Better drink up. We’ll be needin’ a lot more of this if they can’t get that war under control,” Declan declared, shaking his head.

It was October 1915. The war had been on for over a year. The island, Cahirsiveen by name, hadn’t really been touched. A few young lads had gone off and enlisted in the British Army, but as far as anyone knew, they were all right so far. Reports were ugly, and it looked like this might last. Most of the 1,700 souls who lived on the island were concerned with fishing, sheep, peat, eggs and whiskey. That’s what Callum thought about every day, save for his books.

Callum was the most well-read old man on the island, probably the best educated too. Went to university at Trinity in Dublin and then stayed on for another 20 years teaching literature in a comprehensive school, preparing the students for their Leaving Certificate exams in the Senior Cycle. But when his father died, he packed up his books, carted them all back to Cahirsiveen and took over the farm. It was a life he loved, and he never looked back.

That was 30 years ago, and although those years seemed to have moved along faster than a gannet diving into the sea for fish, he loved the land and the seasons. He was grizzled, keeping both hair and beard long. He wore patched but serviceable clothes and spent little money on extras, except for the books that came wrapped in brown paper once every week. He had correspondence with several booksellers in Dublin and was able to keep up with published books, both new and old.

The land was harsh and windswept, hilly without many trees but with a crosshatch puzzle of stone walls. He loved it that way. The people were polite, but generally distant, except for his cronies down at the Saltwater, Declan’s pub. He cooked for himself, provided his own food and marketed what he needed. And he had his books. And a fireplace. And the pub when he wanted human discourse and folks to down a glass with.

“All right, Declan, I’m off. See you tomorrow!” he called as he flapped his hat onto his head and donned his jacket. This October, it didn’t matter if the wind was onshore or offshore; it still carried quite a bite, but his heavy coat and the Bushmills fortified him for the half hour it would take him to get to his thatched-roof cottage. The dark made no difference to Callum.

He walked and thought about his latest book, Dubliners by James Joyce, which had arrived in the post two days ago. It was a fine collection of short stories and quite the hit in London and Edinburgh. He couldn’t wait to return home to crack it open by the fire despite the lateness of the hour. Lost in thought, he passed the third stone wall, and a voice called out.

“Hey, there, you must be Callum. Live up the road a bit,” a man announced.

“Do I know ye? Voice not so familiar as I can recall,” Callum responded.

“Nah, you don’t know me, but I know you. Known you for a while. Your whole, entire life, in fact. And now’s the time,” came back.

Callum, not the least bit fearful, said, “Being that there’s no light and I canna see ya, why not strike a match and we’ll have a smoke?”

“That sounds like a sportin’ idea,” the man said, and they did. In the light of dual matches, the man was not quite young, nor old. Sporting dark raven hair turned to curls on his neckline, he wore a chiseled face, handsome, yet somehow timeworn. They each lit up and took a moment for a few good inhales.

“So,” Callum began, “you know me, ye say. What can I do for you on this fine autumn evening? It’s half ten, and I don’t usually find someone just perched on a stone wall waitin’ for the sunrise. Are you lost? Visiting? Comin’ or goin’?”

“None of those, to be certain. I’ve come to see you. We’ve got business,” the man said.

“Hmmm.” It came out as a low grunt. “Afraid I haven’t made your acquaintance, son, so it’s doubtful that we’d have much business to conduct.”

“But we do, so we can do it here or at your house where it’s a good bit warmer,” the man offered.

“Here will do just fine, but what if I decide to just move along? Or run? Or perhaps somethin’ else? You can never know what an old man is capable of.” It came out not as a threat, but a warning of sorts. Callum was not a man to be trifled with, not in body or mind.

“You could do that, sir. But it would do no good. The inevitable happens, whether we like it or not. But here’s the rub tonight. It’s what you do that’ll make the difference in all this,” the man countered.

“In all this, you say. Well, since we’re sharin’ a smoke, let’s get on with it. What have you got for me?” Callum asked.

“Well, you’ve come to the end, if you really want to know. Your heart’s a bit on the weak side, and all that work you do doesn’t really help. So I’m here to cash in your check, in a manner of speakin’.”

“That doesn’t sound like much of a deal to me, but go on,” Callum said.

“It’s kind of like a game. Perhaps a contest, you could call it. I might be the last person you ever see. Or you could have another 10, maybe even 20 years.”

“Like chess? Or maybe a simpler game, checkers?” Callum asked.

“Nah, nothin’ like that. You’re a smart man. It kind of tests your knowledge,” the stranger said.

“I like that, and I’ve liked my share of games over the years. Have a go of it,” Callum tossed back.

“All right then, I’ve got five questions for you. You need to get them all correct. Not four out of five. No second chances; your first answer counts. And there’s only one correct answer for each question. Oh, and you only have ten seconds to answer. Eleven seconds and yer done.”

“Only one correct answer, you say. Let me think on it. Can I ask questions?” Callum queried.

The man hesitated for a moment, seemed to look up toward the moon, which began to glisten, half-faced above them.

“For clarification, yes,” he said.

“Well, let’s light up another fag and get to it,” Callum suggested. And they did. “First question, send it to me, lad.”

“How many spots are on a pair of dice?”

“42,” Callum said immediately.

“How many vertebrae in a human being?”

“At birth or grown?” Callum asked.

“Clarification, huh?”

“Exactly,” Callum said. “I know either answer, so I’m two for two already.”

“Birth.”

“33. Next.” Callum laughed and coughed a plume of smoke into the night.

“How many apostles were there?” the man asked.

“Clarification. Good ’uns or bad ’uns?”

“Good ones, please.”

“Eleven. Can these questions get any easier?” Callum joked.

“When was the last time you had your confession heard?” the man followed.

“There’s a good one.” Callum frowned.

“Ten seconds,” the man countered.

“1871, that’s my best figurin’,” Callum answered.

“Four out of five,” the raven-haired man, rubbing his chin, returned. He peered hard at Callum. His eyes darkened, and a shimmer appeared around his face. Callum looked hard and tried to discern something beneath the flesh, and although he felt something, he couldn’t make it out.

“All right, Callum, here it is. On this black night, sharp wind from off the sea, cold hard moon peerin’ down at us, sittin’ on a rock fence on a giant rock floatin’ through space… where is your God tonight?”

“Well, son, there’s a question, ain’t it? I know exactly where he is. He’s right here, inside of me. Next to my heart.” And Callum tapped his chest.

A half hour later, Callum was seated in his big chair, the fire stoked at his feet. He was nodding off slowly, and in his lap was his copy of Dubliners.