Page 12 of I Hope This Email Finds You in Hell

Annoyance burns me. I should have known that Ted’s offer wasn’t for free. I haven’t been at the company long enough to accrue paid time off or sick time, so leaving early means a cut paycheck. Something that will dig into my carefully construed budget.

But that’s a concern for after I find Krystal, and Poppi, and Madeline. I could be their only hope. After all, I’m the only one who knows Luke might be a demon.

With a quick abuse of my receptionist search powers, I know just where to find him.

Five

The breeze ruffles my curls as I stride up the driveway toward Luke’s house. It’s a quaint, two-story home sporting slate paint planted on a rural edge of town that’s more field and forest than anything else. There’s not a single other house on the road for at least a five-mile radius. On the porch, a single rocking chair sits, swaying as if someone just got up and left. Warning bells ring in my skull.

I knock on the door, but when no one answers after a full minute passes, I try the knob. It turns, making me wonder if Luke is expecting someone or if this is merely how single men live, never concerned about who might try to break into their houses. Meanwhile, back at my apartment, I have a door lock, dead bolt, and chain. And I’ve been thinking about getting one of those poles that get propped under the door, especially now with the missing women.

“Hello?” I call, stepping into the house. The hardwood is worn beneath my feet, but the space I walk into is surprisingly tidy. A brown leather couch sits on the far side of the room and the coffee table has a smattering of old books on it, a few opened.

“Luke?” My voice rings out into the empty space. Poking my head through the nearest doorway presents a kitchen-and-dining-room combo. It’s dated, the floral wallpaper peeling at the seams. But like the living room, it’s well-kept, with an old-timey gas range and a silver teapot sitting atop it. The counter’s mostly clear save a block of knives that gleam in the afternoon light spilling through the window over the sink.

The only other thing on the counter is a cookbook opened to a page with a recipe for chicken and dumplings. I peek at the cover and Martha Stewart stares back at me. My mom had this same cookbook. It was probably sold with a box of others at one of our annual garage sales.

Surely, demons don’t eat chicken and dumplings. If Luke’s life is as normal as it appears, that means I’m trespassing right now. I could lose my job, or worse, get arrested.

Dread swamps my gut as I notice something beneath the book—this morning’s paper, the Tarrentown Tribune, with the headline:

Missing women tally ticks higher as bizarre disappearances mount

I drop the cover of the cookbook so it covers the newspaper again, letting poor Martha smack the countertop with a thud.

Past the sliding glass door, there’s a small deck, a stretch of grass, and then the forest. But peeking through the trees is another building. It’s not a barn, exactly, but half cylindrical and partially rusted. I’ve seen them before in my small hometown on the outskirts of Miami. A Quonset hut with the large garage-style door partially up.

It’s a quick walk across the freshly cut grass to the trees. The scent is soothing, reminding me of when I’d sit on the swing on the set my dad built and play outside while he mowed the lawn. I’d beg him to make shapes in the grass, and the most he could do were blobs, which my mom later scolded him about. She didn’t want the neighbors to think we were summoning aliens with crop circles.

I shake the memory away as I break the tree line. The Quonset hut is even bigger up close, an all-steel structure that’s out of place among the flora. A strange smell comes from it, like something herbal burns inside.

I duck under the partially opened door. Large lights hang from the ceiling, but their glow is minimal at best since less than half are on. Unlike Luke’s sparsely furnished home, the hut is full of old farm equipment, blocking my view of the entire space. I carefully step around protruding metal arms and tires bigger than my body, thankful for the cracked concrete muffling my steps. The strange scent is stronger here, nearly overpowering. I bring my shirt up to cover my nose.

“I was hoping you might show up.”

I’m startled by Luke’s voice. I can’t see him, thanks to a decaying tractor separating us. There’s a chill to his words, and they’re accompanied by a metallic zing. It strikes a shudder down my spine. He’s sharpening something.

“There’s no use hiding from me,” he continues. “It was bound to come to this eventually.”

My heart races. I could run, but I’d never make it through the maze of mechanics separating me from outside. Not to mention the hundred yards from the woods to my car. No, I have to stand my ground. I might have walked into his trap, but that doesn’t mean I have to die in it.

My frantic gaze catches on a rusty rake leaning against the wall. An unorthodox means of self-defense, but it will have to do. I grab it, treating the pronged end like that of a spear. God, I seriously should have minded my own business. I should have forgotten all about demons and Debra and shoved off every inkling that We Are Not Alone.

But then I remember Krystal, who could be dead right now or eaten or getting her soul sucked out, and a fire warms me from the inside.

“Not in the mood for talking? Me, either.” The words are lethal and low, a voice I would have never associated with Luke a week ago. “Let’s get this over with.”

His shadow moves across the wall, my warning that he’s coming around the back of the tractor. I raise the rake, cursing the tremble in my arms. It’s fucking heavy, and its length makes it cumbersome.

Panic cleaves my chest as Luke lunges into view. In his hands is a weapon similar to mine, in that it’s not really a weapon at all. It’s a farmer’s pitchfork, but while my many prongs are rusted and dull, his three gleam in the faint light, deadly as blades. A scream erupts out of me as I wildly swing the rake, but I’m too early and it misses Luke to smash into the window of the tractor. Shards of glass fall like snow as the edge of the pitchfork nears, tips pointed straight for my throat.

“The fuck?” Luke yells, twisting at the last second to divert the pitchfork’s path. Instead of it skewering me like a kabob, it impales the steel wall behind me, close enough to flutter my hair.

“I know what you did,” I tell him, breaths short as I tug my rake from where it’s caught on the door of the tractor. “You kidnapped Krystal.”

Luke glowers. “What are you talking about? What are you doing here? You’re supposed to be at work.”

“So are you,” I fire back. It would hold a lot more oomph if I wasn’t still battling the tractor for the right to my rake. “As soon as Ted announced that he was taking over while you’re on a mysterious leave of absence, everything clicked into place. Only a demon would put Ted in charge.”