Page 17 of I Hope This Email Finds You in Hell

I drop the sheets on the floor, stepping over them to peer into the drawer. Past Me’s type-A tendencies have fallen away, and I’ve never regretted it as much as now. I have no idea if anything’s missing. It’s as messy as it is every day.

Maybe I forgot. I haven’t been Past Me for months. I never used to keep food so long it grows fuzzy friends, or the blanket on the living room couch in a heap. Clearly, more than closing my drawers has fallen to the wayside. This is no cause for concern.

A breeze makes me shiver. The window for the fire escape is open. I’m positive I left it locked. I don’t open it because it doesn’t have a screen, something I’ve been bugging management about.

I move to close it, but what’s on the sill makes me pause. What used to be on the sill.

The iodized salt I trailed in a neat line over the weekend is now only a few scattered crystals.

The hair on the back of my neck rises as the distinct feeling that someone’s been here washes over me. Maybe not someone. Something.

I snap pictures of the open, screenless window with its broken salt line and my underwear drawer. Shuffling to my work email, I pull up the most recent one from Luke. At the bottom is his signature with not only his office phone number, but also his cell, because he’s just that kind of stand-up guy. Personally, I’d rather get carted off to hell than give everyone at Curated Care direct access to me outside of work hours.

His mistake, not mine. I type his number into a new text thread, then attach the two pictures and write: Does Beliar have a penchant for stealing women’s underwear?

My thumb hesitates over the send button. Sending someone I share a printer with a picture of my underwear drawer feels like crossing an HR line I can’t return from. Not to mention the mess of it, with granny panties and thongs and hipsters all battling for center-stage dominance. Maybe he’s already halfway to hell. I don’t know how long it takes to get there, or what the cell reception is like.

Another breeze slips through the open window. The cool air brings the severity of my situation to the forefront. If it really was Beliar, maybe this is his way of marking me. I wish I had asked Krystal if anything strange was happening to her. There might have been a sign we missed.

I hit send.

Only a few seconds later, my phone buzzes with a response.

Address?

And then, before I can reply:

Stay where you are. Don’t open the door for anyone.

I want to make a joke about him being a double-texter, but my hands shake too badly to type more than my address and hit send. Luke responds with the thumbs-up emoji.

I stuff my sheets in the washer because what else am I supposed to do with myself while waiting for a demon to abduct me? Twenty minutes later, my door buzzes. Luke made it in record time. I hold down the intercom.

“Hello?” I ask.

“It’s me.” Luke’s voice is gruff. “Let me in.”

“Sorry, I was given strict orders to not let anyone in.”

I wait for a responding quip, but nothing comes. “Hello? Can you hear me?” Still nothing. “I was just kidding. I’m on the third floor, apartment 307.”

I hold the unlock button for a few long drags, giving him enough time to slip through. I release the button and turn around.

Only to stuff down a scream. A head emerges through my still-open bedroom window. Luke steps in, and the ease of his entrance makes a fresh bout of dread flush through me. If Beliar really was trying to get to me, it’s not like it’s hard.

“I let you in downstairs,” I tell him as he inspects the sill before going to my dresser. Seeing him in my messy room with my dunes of discarded clothing feels like one of those weird dreams where you present to the class only to realize you’re in your underwear. Except I’m fully awake and this is more like a nightmare.

“Beliar shouldn’t have been able to cross the salt line, right?” I ask, needing to fill the empty air.

“Greater demons play by greater rules. The same things don’t always apply,” Luke says, seemingly unfazed as he inspects my still-open underwear drawer. “Is anything missing?”

“I don’t know,” I admit. My meager cleaning spree hardly made a dent. Opposed to Luke’s tidy home, mine looks like a hurricane tore through it. Before the drop-by demon. “That’s my clean underwear. Wouldn’t he take something from my hamper?”

“Not exactly.” Luke closes my drawer and leans against my dresser. “Fresh laundry still carries your scent. But maybe this isn’t Beliar. Have any unrequited lovers whose hearts you’ve broken?”

“Not exactly,” I echo him.

“Stalkers? Angry exes?” he pushes with a raised brow.