The Devil's lease

Chapter two: Desperation Clause

Caleb didn’t sleep.

Not due to caffeine—he couldn't afford to buy coffee. Not due to the mice scratching in the attic—he'd grown accustomed to his furry little roommates.

No, it was the folder. The thing sat on his counter all night like a glowing wound, humming softly, daring him to open it again.

Whenever he closed his eyes, he would see it: his name slithering down the page as though it were animate, the pen trembling on its own. And looming over all of it, that voice—velvet, smooth, like the pitchman for his worst nightmares: Sign, Caleb. Sign.

At some point he got up, shoved the folder into his fridge, and slammed the door. Like that would help. It only made the milk curdle faster.

By morning, his flat reeked of rotten milk and poor decisions.

---

Caleb sat on the futon playing an unstrung high E guitar. The song went nowhere. All the notes sounded thin, empty, as though his fingers no longer believed in the music.

He grumbled to himself, "So who would know? I sign? No one would even be breaking down doors to listen to Caleb Harris on Thursdays at the Empty Mug."

The guitar buzzed angrily in response, like it disapproved.

There came another knock.

Neither the landlord's booming fists, nor Lena's gentle knock—this one was just the same as the previous night's doorbell, accurate and respectful, as if copied and pasted.

Caleb's chest constricted. "No. Not opening. Nope, no

He set the guitar down and tiptoed across the room as though the man on the street hadsuper-hearing. He set his eye to the peephole.

Nobody.

He breathed a sigh of relief. Until the refrigerator door snapped open.

He turned around. The folder was back on the counter, an orderly-looking thing, as if it had just walked out. The pen was lying on top, its crimson tip sparkling.

Caleb whispered, “Oh, come on…”

The contract had changed overnight. New words insinuated themselves across the page in spidery ink:

First installment waived. Sign now for immediate relief.

His stomach dropped. He hadn’t told the man about his landlord’s three-day ultimatum. He hadn’t told anyone.

And yet the contract knew.

---

By noon, Caleb was pacing. He attempted to eat cereal, but the flakes melted away to gray mush before the spoon reached his mouth. He attempted to nap, but whenever he shut his eyes, he envisioned eviction notices stacked so high they suffocated him.

Finally, he lost it. He snatched up the folder and stormed down the corridor to Lena's flat.

She replied in sweats and tousled hair, carrying a mug of coffee that had the scent of heaven. "Caleb? You haven't blinked since the day after Christmas."

"Can you… read it for me?" he stammered.

She frowned but took the folder. The moment her eyes hit the page, she squinted. “There’s nothing here. It’s blank.”

Caleb blinked. "What

"Empty. White paper. Caleb, are you—" She raised an eyebrow, concern mollifying her tone. "Are you all right?"

He snatched it back. To him, the words were bold, pulsing:

DIAMANT SIGN, OR LEASE.

But all she saw was paper.

The realization hit him like a sucker punch. Whatever this was, it was his problem alone.

He muttered a shaky, “Thanks,” and fled back to his apartment before she could press further.

---

The man came back that evening. No knock. There he was standing in the living room of Caleb as he waited all along.

"Decide on something?" the man asked with nonchalance, brushing imaginary specks away from his immaculately pressed suit.

Caleb's voice broke. "You can't just—how are you even in here?"

"Door was open," said the man with smoothness.

“It wasn’t!”

The man just smiled.

Caleb hugged the folder to his chest as if it were a shield. "Why me? Why my soul? I'm not even unique. I couldn't pay rent, my music career is a laughingstock, and my fridge is literally conspiring against me."

The man's smile grew sharper. "Exactly."

Caleb froze. ".

The man leaned closer, and for the first time his charm peeled away, revealing something colder underneath. His voice dropped low, resonant, like every wall and window carried the sound:

"Desperation tastes better than talent. And you, Caleb Harris, are starved."

The lights flashed. The pen moved across the counter top and settled beside Caleb's palm.

“Sign,” the man whispered.

Caleb's pulse thudded in his ears. The folder beat with the pulse of his heartbeat, louder, faster. He could feel the signature taking shape before he even picked up the pen.

But then—BANG BANG B.

The landlord’s fist on the door.

“Three days, Harris! Three! After that, you’re out on the street!”

The voice faded, footsteps stomping away.

Caleb stood frozen between two devils—one in a suit, one in a sweat-stained undershirt. Both wanted the same thing: his signature. His surrender.

The man's smile grew larger, impossibly so, stretching towards something inhuman.

"Time's running out," he whispered.

And just like that—poof—he was gone. Only the folder remained. Waiting.