Chapter three: Late fees may apply
816 Words
Caleb woke to the smell of smoke.
For one wild second he thought his building was burning down, which honestly would’ve solved a lot of his problems. No rent if there’s no apartment, right? But when he stumbled into the kitchenette, rubbing his eyes, the smoke wasn’t from fire.
It was from the folder.
The contract lay open on the counter, its pages smoldering faintly at the edges, curling like they’d been set too close to a candle. No flame, no heat—just a steady whisper of smoke that smelled faintly of brimstone and, disturbingly, burnt popcorn.
Scrawled across the top page in fresh ink was a new line:
Late fees may apply.
Caleb groaned. “Great. Even Hell does paperwork.”
He slammed the folder shut, stuffed it in a grocery bag, and shoved it under the couch cushions. Out of sight, out of mind.
Except, not really.
---
By noon, Caleb was twitchy. His guitar sounded flat. His laptop kept glitching, as if the Wi-Fi was being throttled by demons. Even his microwave displayed 666 when he tried to reheat leftovers.
“Coincidence,” he told himself, pacing. “Pure coincidence.”
But when he stepped into the bathroom, his reflection didn’t move with him.
Caleb froze.
His body leaned toward the mirror, toothbrush in hand, but the reflection stayed still—staring, unblinking, with dark smudges under its eyes like it hadn’t slept in weeks.
Then it smiled.
Caleb screamed, dropped the toothbrush, and slammed the door. “Nope! Not brushing! Gum disease can kill me before Satan does!”
---
That night, he went to the Empty Mug, the dingy coffee shop where he sometimes played open mic. He needed a distraction. People. Noise. Anything but demon contracts.
But when he strummed his first chord on stage, the strings snapped—all six at once.
The room gasped. Caleb stared at the guitar like it had betrayed him. He could almost hear it whisper: Should’ve signed.
Lena was in the crowd, arms crossed, giving him that look—half worried, half “why do I even bother being your friend.”
After his humiliating two-minute set, she cornered him near the counter.
“You’ve been acting weird, Caleb. Paranoid. Talking to yourself. And don’t even lie—you look like a raccoon on espresso.”
He tried to laugh it off. “I’m fine. Totally fine. Just… creative burnout.”
“Creative burnout doesn’t make your fridge hum at night,” she shot back. “I live next door. I hear it.”
Caleb blanched. “You… what did you hear?”
“A low buzzing. Like chanting. And your lights flicker at 3 a.m.”
He swallowed. “That’s… uh… bad wiring?”
She grabbed his arm. “Talk to me. What’s going on?”
For one terrifying second, he almost handed her the folder right then and there. Almost begged her to read it again. But he remembered how it looked blank to her before. How it singled him out.
Instead, he forced a grin. “It’s nothing. Promise.”
She didn’t buy it, but she let go.
---
When he got home, the folder was waiting. Not under the couch. On his pillow.
The pages glowed faintly in the dark, words crawling across the paper like insects.
Noncompliance detected. Penalties will escalate.
Caleb felt cold all over. “Penalties? What does that even—”
The lights went out.
His apartment plunged into blackness. The air turned heavy, suffocating, like he was underwater. From the corner of the room came a sound: soft scratching, like claws dragging along the floorboards.
“Hello?” His voice cracked.
Two red points of light blinked in the dark. Eyes.
The shape moved closer—slow, deliberate, as though savoring every step.
Caleb scrambled backward until his spine hit the wall. His shaking hands fumbled for his phone, but the screen stayed black no matter how many times he tapped.
The scratching stopped. Silence.
Then, right in front of him, the man’s voice: smooth, polite, cutting through the dark.
“Still undecided, Mr. Harris?”
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 hand, like nothing had happened. He dusted off the cover and held it out.
“Time is money, Caleb. And you’re running out of both.”
Caleb’s throat was dry. “Wh-what happens if I don’t sign?”
The man tilted his head, smile razor-thin. “Then the lease expires.”
Caleb whispered, “And that means…?”
The man leaned in, so close Caleb felt the cold press of his words.
“It means you default. And we collect.”
He placed the pen neatly on the folder, gave Caleb a courteous nod, and vanished.
The folder remained. Waiting. Always waiting.
- Writer
