The Devil's lease

Chapter one: Terms and Conditions apply

No fire. No brimstone. No cathedral storm ripping the heavens apart.

Just a doorbell.

Caleb's eyes opened in shock as he froze, his cold pizza slice hovering halfway to his mouth. He lived on cold pizza the way saints lived on miracles—half-starvation, half-denial. His cracked phone screen glowed dimly on the counter, the sole source of illumination in the one-bedroom cell he referred to as an apartment.

The doorbell rang again. Crisp and polite. Wholly out of place in his run-down building, where the standard knock-knock fists and swearing were the accepted greeting protocol.

He wiped greasy hands on his sweatpants and stumbled to the door, tripping over a pile of unopened mail. A flamboyantly lettered notice flapped crookedly on the frame at eye level, yelling its fact in capital letters:

Rent due: $1,200 — 3 days.

He looked at it, throat tight. His bank app might've been a fright novel. Balance: $63.42. In the red, with the overdraft fees hiding in his brain like usurious loan sharks.

His stomach growled, but he ate the last bite of pizza anyway. He'd learned years earlier that you didn't waste food. Not good food. Particularly bad food.

The doorbell rang a third time.

Yeah, yeah," he grumbled, hoping it was just Lena upstairs again. She used his Wi-Fi password sometimes when hers was about to expire. Sometimes came to dinner. Sometimes lingers a little too long in the doorway, as if maybe she wasn't being quite so friendly. But she'd never in a million years be calling like that—proper, insistent, as if she had an appointment.

He opened the door.

The man waiting there wasn't from around here.

Not horns or wings, no, that would have been easy. This man was… too perfect. A suit that looked like glass-cutting. Shoes polished enough that Caleb could see his own shocked face reflected in them. Black magic or an expensive barber tamed his hair back, detail that told a story.

And the smile—God protect him—the smile was tested in a lab and patented, designed to be most enticing with lowest heat.

"Caleb Harris?" the man asked, voice smooth, calm.

Caleb blinked. "Depending on who's asking."

The man's smile edged a little further out. "Collections."

Caleb's heart leapt. "Oh, God—"

"Close," the man chirped. "But no. Try again."

The ceiling light dimmed. The sticky rental reminder wafted to the floor looking shy to be part of the middle.

Caleb stepped back. His apartment complex was old, creaky, bug-ridden. Most days it struggled to tolerate him at all. But this. this was different.

The guy rummaged in the jacket pocket and retrieved a folder. Thick. Heavy. The kind lawyers used to use to ruin people. He opened it, and Caleb's breath caught.

The letters were not full of words, actually. They were more like ants had emerged from an anthill and lined up into letters. Worming, crawling, living. And at the top, where everyone would notice it most, bold and indelible as a tattoo:

HARRIS, CALEB JAMES.

"That's not—" Caleb started.

The man held up a hand. "Mr. Harris, I work for an alternative housing program. No strings attached terms. Instant relief. Low effort. No interest."

Caleb laughed, a spasming snap caught mid-step. "You're… what, a realtor?"

The man's teeth flashed. "Something like that. Except where they do a background check on you, I do a soul check."

Caleb's jaw fell. ".Nice joke."

The man didn't blink. Didn't grin. Just smiled.

The silence stretched on long enough for Caleb's skin to crawl.

He looked at the folder again. The letters squirmed until he swore he could hear them whispering. He rubbed his eyes, but his name burned on the page even brighter.

Caleb’s laugh came out too fast, too thin. “Yeah, no. I’ve seen this movie. You’re either a scammer or a—”

"Yeah," the man answered.

"Yes, what?"

"Yeah."

The one-word answer was decisive, and the hall constricted. The walls seemed to shut in on them, the air heavy with tension as if it contained too much in secrets for Caleb to bear.

The man snapped his fingers, and a pen popped into existence between them. Not just any pen. This pen emitted red, the tip glistening wet-looking as if just dipped into something thicker than ink.

He slid it across the folder toward Caleb.

“One signature,” he said smoothly. “That’s all it takes. Your rent? Handled. Utilities? Taken care of. Food, furniture, appliances—all yours. Think of it as… a lease upgrade. Terms and conditions apply, of course, but you’ll hardly notice them.”

Caleb took another step back, shaking his head like that alone could break whatever spell had crawled into the room.

No one receives rent like that, he declared resolutely. "Not in this economy. That's not real."

The man leaned back. His eyes shone like very well-polished coal. "Right again. It's better than real. It's binding.".

Caleb's throat was dry. His landlord had been threatening to throw him out for months, and his part-time bar work paid only enough to live off of but not enough for rent. The fantasy he still held onto—the one that he was a professional, and not some spent open-mic regular—disappeared every time his bank app flashed like a death notice.

But this? This smelled of trap wrapped in prestige.

Suppose I don't sign?" Caleb stuttered.

The smile widened. "Then your lease is up."

"Is up?"

"Tonight."

The single word hit like a sledgehammer.

The buzzing of the overhead light dwindled, leaving the hallway in blackness. The air was heavy and unyielding against Caleb's chest. His pizza-stuffed belly protested.

The pen snapped against the folder. Click. Click. Click. The sound echoed out, harsher than it truly was, like the entire building held its breath, waiting to hear each click.

Caleb longed to crash through the door, crawl under the covers, and pretend this wasn't occurring. His hand disobeyed. His legs anchored to the floor.

Because there was a piece of him—the broke, weary, poor piece—wanted to. Wanted to believe someone would show up and erase the late fees, the eviction letters, the restless nights lying awake and wondering if he'd ever written a song that anyone'd liked.

"Sign, Caleb," the man said softly, near gently. "Sign, and sleep peacefully. For the first time in your life."

The folder pulsed with light. The pen vibrated Caleb's heartbeat. The walls of the building thrummed with agreement, already planning how to pull up the carpet and install hardwood floors and marble countertops.

He could feel it on his lip. Comfort. Freedom. No longer knife jabs of hunger. No longer fear. Just music and sleeping through nights without escaping into money tallies.

It would be so simple.

Simple had teeth.

Caleb swallowed hard, looking at the contract, the pen, the beast nonhuman but somehow knowing exactly what he needed more than anything.

Outside, the hallway clock ticked.

Inside, his heart pounded.

And the folder sat, as motionless as the grave.