The Devil's lease

Chapter three: Late fees may apply

Caleb awakened to the scent of smoke.

For the instant he thought his building was afire, which honestly would have solved many of his woes. No rent where there is no apartment, after all? But when he came bursting through the kitchenette, rubbing his eyes, the smoke wasn't caused by flames.

It was from the folder.

The contract sat on the counter, its pages smoldering slightly at the edges, curling as though they'd been burned too close to the flame. No flame, no heat—just the constant seeping of smoke that reeked faintly of brimstone and, strangely disturbingly, burnt popcorn.

In new ink on top page was written an extra line:

Late charges may cover.

Caleb groaned. "Just great. Even Hell has paperwork."

He closed the folder with a snap, stuffed it in the grocery bag, and hid it between the cushions on the couch. Out of sight, out of mind.

Unless, not exactly.

---

By noon, Caleb was restless. His guitar felt stagnant. His laptop would not work, as the Wi-Fi was literally being suppressed by demons. Even the microwave displayed 666 when he tried to heat up leftovers.

"Coincidence," he repeated to himself, pacing.

But when he came inside the bathroom, the reflection was not with him.

Caleb stilled.

Face leaning over the mirror, toothbrush in front, but the face didn't change—staring, unblinking, with black circles under its eyes as if it had not slept for weeks.

It then smiled.

Caleb shouted, threw the toothbrush down, and shut the door. "No way! No brushing! Gum disease will kill me long before Satan will!"

----emons

That night, he visited the Empty Mug, the rundown coffee house where he sometimes regularly played open mic. He needed distraction. People. Sounds. Anything but deals with demons.

But when he struck the initial chord on stage, the strings broke— all six simultaneously.

The room gasped. Caleb looked at the guitar as though it had cheated on him. He could almost hear it say: Should've signed.

Lena stood in the crowd with arms folded, wearing that face—exactly worried, exactly "why even bother to be my friend."

Following his embarrassing two-minute act, she accosted him by the counter.

"You've been strange, man. Paranoid. mumbling to yourself. And stop playing it cool, you look like a raccoon on espresso."

He tried to laugh it off. "I'm okay. Totally okay. Just… creative burnout."

"Creative burnout doesn't cause the fridge to rumble during the night," she retorted. "I'm next door. I would know."

Caleb went white. "You. how did you hear?"

"A low hum. Sounds like chanting. And lights flashing at 3 a.m."

He took a swig. "That's… uh…

She took his arm. "Tell me. What is it?"

For one horrified moment, he nearly read it to her there. Nearly implored her to read it again. But he recalled the way it had looked blank to her before. The way it isolated him.

But he gritted his teeth. "It's nothing. I swear."

She didn’t buy it, but she let go.

---

When he arrived home, the folder was there. Not on the floor by the couch. On his pillow.

The pages glowed faintly in the blackness, letters crawling across the page slowly, slowly, as insects.

Noncompliance has been found. Fines will.

Caleb shivered all over. "Penalties? What does that even—"

The lights went out.

The room went black. Air became heavy, suffocating, as though he was underwater. Noises came out of the corner: quiet scratching, as claws scraped the board floor.

"Hello?" His voice broke.

There were two reddish points of light flashing through the darkness. Eyes.

The shape drew nearer—slow, measured, as though relishing each pace.

Caleb stepped back fast with his back hitting the wall. His shaking hands went for his phone, but the screen stayed black no matter how many times he hit it.

The scratching stopped. Silence.

Then, right in front of him, the man’s voice: smooth, polite, cutting through the dark.

"Tentative yet again, Mr

The red eyes blinked out. The lights snapped back on.

The man in the suit stood calmly in the middle of the room, folder in one hand, like nothing had happened. He wiped the cover down and handed it over.

"Time is money, Caleb. And you're short on both."

Caleb's throat was dry. "Wh-what will happen when I DON'T sign?"

The man tilted his head, smile razor-thin. “Then the lease expires.”

Caleb whispered, "And that means…?"

The man moved in close, so that the chill of his words pressed on Caleb.

It means you default. And we collect.

He placed the pen right on the folder, smiled graciously to Caleb, and vanished. The folder remained. Waiting. Always waiting.