Nothing ever changes. Like always, I wake up at 3:00 try to do something useful—then don't. Too tired. Too wired. Too something. I crawl back into bed and try to kill time doing literally anything. But my brain doesn't stop. It never does.
Always thinking. Always spiraling.
Different outcomes, alternate realities, what-ifs and maybes. Sometimes, I wonder what it'd be like to be a character in Danganronpa. Get my chest ripped open, heart yanked out like a bad punchline. At least then I'd be interesting.
Anyway, back to my glorious routine.
I lie in bed all day, shifting positions every 30 minutes like I'm trying to win a game no one's playing. It's annoying. Having no control is annoying. I eat when the clock hits 3 p.m.—three's my lucky number. Usually mashed potatoes. If I feel like spoiling myself, spaghetti.
I do nothing until I sleep. Then wake up again.
It's boring, honestly. The only interesting part is the thoughts that keep me awake. Want to hear a story?
There was a girl.
Or as I like to call her: the glitch.
Why?
Because she didn't belong here. Not in this world. Just a forgotten soul trying to fit into something she'd never understand.
She smiled in mirrors to see if they'd shatter.
She touched doorknobs and wondered if they remembered her.
She said "I'm fine" in seventeen dialects of despair.
She wore her trauma like perfume—overpowering, invisible, unforgettable.
She wasn't born broken. She was carved. Bit by bit.
By hands that claimed to love her.
By the silences after the screams.
By the nights she learned to be quiet just to survive.
Do you believe people can be sculpted into shadows?
She does.
So she made her own outline.
It's a weird story, but somehow, it fits almost everyone I know.
I tend to scream at random things when I wake up—
As if saying, "It's your fault I'm still alive."
Things I've screamed at:
"WHY AM I LIKE THIS?" (To a half-eaten bag of chips)"I'M FINE, I'M FINE, I'M FINE" (to the wall)"FUCK EVERYTHING" (whispered to a teddy bear from childhood)"I should text my ex-friends." (Didn't. Shaky hands. Saved by anxiety.)
The neighbors think I'm quirky.
Joke's on them—I'm not quirky.
I'm a livewire wrapped in bad decisions.
But I think everyone's like this.
We all think about love, hate, cruelty, care, torture, mercy.
Some of us act. Some of us don't.
I only fear the ones who can.
Most days, my thoughts are on repeat—like a shitty pop song I can't escape.
Other days, it's just static and screaming. No in-between. No volume control.
Just me, laughing too loud at nothing. Then forgetting how to speak mid-sentence.
My voice is a traitor.
It disappears when I need it most.
I say the right things, but none of them feel like mine.
I learned silence before I learned language.
Ever try to explain mania to someone who's never bled from overthinking?
Don't. They'll just say, "Have you tried yoga?"
I'd rather swallow a lightbulb.
I was lying on my bed, scrolling through stories—
The kind I'd sell my soul to live in.
I drifted into daydreams where I was the glitch that warped the plot.
I always meddle with the dynamics, like I was meant to be noticed in a world that forgot me.
I wish something like that would happen to me.
Oh. It's 3 p.m. already.
Didn't notice.
I headed to the kitchen to eat.
Stared at the potatoes for a solid two minutes trying to pick one.
It matched the mood—pale and bruised.
I looked at the mess near the stove. Dishes piled like a collapsed civilization.
I grabbed the smallest pot and placed it under the sink.
I hadn't even turned the faucet yet—
But the pot was already full.
Not with water.
With something black.
Thick and shifting, like ink and oil had a nightmare together.
It shimmered like a starless sky—too dark, too deep.
I blinked.
Once.
Twice.
The pot was empty.
Nothing happened. Nothing made sense.
I didn't panic. I don't really do that anymore.
It's hard to tell what's real when everything feels like a hallucination wrapped in déjà vu.
Then I heard it.
Not a voice. Not quite.
More like static. Like wires unraveling inside a broken speaker.
Crackling.
Then—
"You asked for this."
It was in the walls.
In the water.
In the goddamn air.
I turned.
No one. Just the kitchen. Just the flickering ceiling light buzzing like a fly.
Then—
"You've been noticed."
Stillness.
Like the air was holding its breath.
Like the world was listening.
My eyes drifted to the counter, right next to the potatoes.
Something had been scratched into the wood.
Not written.
Etched.
░ ᴀ ʀ ᴇ ʏ ᴏ ᴜ ʀ ᴇ ᴀ ᴅ ʏ ░
I hadn't carved it.
Had I?
I stared at the counter for a few seconds. The carving was still there.
░ ᴀ ʀ ᴇ ʏ ᴏ ᴜ ʀ ᴇ ᴀ ᴅ ʏ ░
Nope.
Not today, Satan.
Not now, not ever.
I turned away, picked up the potato, and peeled it like nothing happened.
Not because I wasn't disturbed—but because I've seen weirder.
In my head, anyway.
Probably a hallucination.
It's not the first time my brain decided to do improv theater.
Once, I thought the microwave whispered my name.
It's just the side effect of being raised on too much fantasy.
Books. Games. Anime.
Worlds where people matter. Where the glitch gets noticed. Where pain means power.
Where monsters have motives and girls like me become final bosses.
I tell myself I should stop.
Stop consuming stories like oxygen.
Stop dreaming of parallel universes and cursed contracts and velvet-eyed demons who speak in riddles.
But I can't.
That's the problem.
That's the whole thing.
I don't live in this world. I just respawn here every morning.
I finished peeling the potato. Smashed it with too much butter and exactly one grain of ambition.
Ate in silence, scrolling through my usual feed. A blend of digital rot and pixelated comfort.
Then, around 10:40 p.m., I crawled back into bed.
Still wide awake.
I opened a random streaming app and picked a new movie.
Title: Kiss of the Devil
Tagline: "He doesn't want your soul. He wants your story."
God.
I hate how predictable I am.
The movie started. Fog. Latin chanting. A girl in a white dress crying in a mirror.
So far, so cliché.
Then He appeared.
Tall. Red eyes. A smile too wide.
The demon.
Of course, it was a demon.
It's always a demon.
And because I'm a sucker, I watched. I let myself sink in.
The demon cornered the girl in the movie. Asked her:
"Do you think pain is something to be feared… or collected?"
And she said:
"I think pain is all I've ever been given."
I paused the movie. Rewound. Played that part again.
Goddamn.
I muttered under my breath, "Okay... that was hot."
Was it the line? The voice? The fact that I've romanticized fictional torment for so long I can't tell the difference between a red flag and a declaration of love?
Yes. All of it.
By the time the movie ended, the demon was destroyed, the girl was reborn, and some angel showed up with a glowing sword to tie it all up in a moral little bow.
Boring.
I rolled my eyes and gave my own ending out loud:
"She doesn't need saving. She becomes the demon. She eats the angel. And she smiles while the world burns. The end."
That felt better.
I turned off the screen and lay back in bed.
Staring at the ceiling.
Listening to nothing.
I could've sworn I heard static again.
Could've sworn the line from the movie wasn't quite what the subtitles said.
Could've sworn—
Never mind.
I need to sleep.
Tomorrow will be the same anyway.
Unless it isn't.
I woke up again.
3:00 a.m. on the dot.
Of course.
I don't even bother checking anymore. My body's got it memorized — the before-dawn shift. Too early for meaning, too late to pretend I can still sleep.
I stare at the ceiling. It doesn't blink back.
Sometimes I wonder if it watches me the way I watch it — tired, cold, full of tiny cracks no one bothers to fix.
My thoughts spool out like static.
Half-formed. Glitchy.
I think about breathing. About existing. About whether 3 a.m. is actually a.m. or p.m., or if time even applies in whatever... this is.
I think about that movie from last night.
The one where the demon sacrifices himself for a human girl because she had a "pure heart" or whatever.
I rolled my eyes so hard I think I sprained something.
No self-respecting demon would ever throw himself under a train for a mortal.
Unless the train was carrying souls. Then maybe.
But love? Seriously?
Disgusting.
I reach for my phone. Not because I want to. Because that's just what I do.
It buzzes when I touch it. But... weirdly.
Like it was already vibrating before I picked it up.
I open the same reading app I always use. Expecting the same dozen unread stories, I never finished.
But—
There's a new category:
"Contracted Fates: Based on Real Events."
I blink.
Was that there before?
Probably. The algorithm throws junk at me all the time.
Still... I don't remember adding anything like that.
I mostly stick to dark fantasy. Found-family pain. Enemies who want to kill each other so bad they fall in love instead.
But this one—
The icon isn't even loading properly. Just a black box with faint red etchings.
I click it anyway.
It opens like it was waiting for me.
Top story:
"They Regretted Everything: Survivors of Infernal Contracts."
Okay.
Edgy title. Nice.
The summary is dumb.
Five strangers make a deal with the devil. None of them make it out alive... the same.
Wow. So deep.
Still, I keep scrolling.
The first chapter starts with a familiar line:
"It all began at 3:00 a.m."
Cute.
I roll my eyes again and toss my phone on the bed.
It lands face-down, but I swear the screen stays on a moment longer than it should.
I don't feel scared. Not even unsettled.
More like... interested.
Like the world tilted just a little.
And I didn't mind the angle.
Chapter One – Part 2: The Spiral Begins
I didn't mean to open the story again.
I swear I didn't.
One second, I was scrolling through unrelated trash.
Next thing I knew, my thumb had clicked "Continue."
Whatever. I was awake anyway.
The story starts simple. Five people. Five contracts. Five disasters.
Same old setup.
They made their deals for the dumbest reasons:
"I want to be famous."
"I want her to love me."
"I just want out."
"I want for him to live."
"I want for her to die."
Pathetic.
They all broke the rules.
Messed up the circle.
Spoke when they weren't supposed to.
Asked for too much.
I read with one eyebrow raised, muttering like I was on commentary duty:
"Idiot. You don't draw the sigil that close to the door — he'll slip in too fast."
"Why would you offer your name? That's literally page one of demon etiquette."
"God, if I were the one doing it—"
And then I paused.
Because I realized something.
Not one of them followed through properly.
They panicked. They pleaded. They didn't read the fine print.
They acted like prey.
I wouldn't do that.
If I ever made a deal, I'd come prepared.
I'd write the contract myself.
I'd demand terms. Equal footing.
I'd win.
I closed the story halfway through.
Couldn't stand the stupidity.
I sat up in bed. The dark felt heavier now.
The air around me... sticky. Like it was waiting for me to speak again.
I ignored it.
I always do.
Instead, I pulled up the movie again — just the scene.
The part where the demon, bleeding and heroic, whispers:
"I'd rather die than hurt you."
Pfft.
Please.
I rolled my eyes so hard I almost saw my brain.
"What kind of demon does that? That's not love. That's emotional fanfiction with horns."
I paused the screen and stared at it.
Red eyes. Blood on his lips.
A girl crying and holding him like he was worth saving.
What a joke.
I whispered into the dark,
"You should've killed them all."
I found another story. Then another.
They kept popping up. More "based on true events."
Deals. Rituals. Survival guides dressed up as fiction.
Each one more ridiculous than the last.
And yet — I kept reading.
Each failure taught me something.
Each ending gave me a blueprint of what not to do.
And somewhere along the way,
It stopped feeling like entertainment.
And started to feel like... research.
By 3 p.m., I got bored. The stories blurred together.
Time to eat.
I went to the kitchen. Picked the same pot. Looked for the weird cracks I swear were there yesterday — gone.
Of course.
After I ate, I sat there longer than I meant to, still thinking about demons and the idiots who made deals and fumbled them like toddlers.
Then — the chair in front of me moved.
I froze.
Weird. That's... totally weird.
I always wonder if I'm on drugs or something, because there's no way in hell this is just my brain playing games…Or is it and I have gone mad long before,
no there's no way in hel- wait that can be a theory huh?
Theory? what do you think your life is some sort of a web novel that people read to judge?
wait can it happen? Ahhg this is too much just shut it already…
sigh... just let's go to bed. And like that I went back to reading novels, the same category reading more…and more…and more
But just when I was about to log off and scroll through the nonsense of YouTube shorts—
I found it.
A book. Not a story.
Title: "The Devil's Language: Facts, Deals, and Forbidden Names."
No author. No rating. No cover. Just there.
Waiting.
The intro was dull. The first few pages were just historical garbage
"Deals with the devil have appeared throughout history in different formats. The most famous example is the German legend of Faust, a scholar who sells his soul to the devil in exchange for knowledge and worldly pleasures. This tale has transcended centuries, adapted into plays, operas, and movies, consistently reinforcing the moral that such trades come at a steep price.
Another significant figure is Robert Johnson, the legendary blues musician who allegedly made a deal at a crossroads, gaining extraordinary guitar skills but facing an early demise. These stories illustrate cultural fears about sacrificing one's integrity for ephemeral rewards."
Trust me I don't know a single shit, but who cares let's just skip the boring details.
"According to grimoires like the Ars Goetia (part of The Lesser Key of Solomon), Hell has:
Kings, Dukes, Princes, Marquis, Earls, etc.72 demons are named in the Goetia, each with a sigil, power, and personality.
Example:
Baal: First King of Hell, teaches invisibility.Astaroth: Duke of Hell, teaches sciences and seduces through laziness.Paimon: Famous from modern horror (Hereditary), gives knowledge and commands legions."
"Interesting…. Wait Goetia... isn't the bird from helluva boss from that family... pfft crazy"
"The Pact (Deal with the Devil Trope)
Usually involves selling one's soul in exchange for power, fame, revenge, love, or knowledge. There's often a contract (written in blood or demonic script) and a time limit. The devil always finds a loophole. The deal twists what the person thought they wanted.
Example: You wish to be "loved by all" — but it turns into an obsession people have for you, stalking, cannibalism, or worse."
"How to Summon or Make a Deal
Create a ritual circle using their sigil.Use blood, candles, ancient languages (Latin, Enochian).Must offer something: A name, a secret, a memory, or a sacrifice.Some demons prefer consent — your willingness matters more than your soul."
Creepy…
"A list of demons:
Lucifer – Emperor of Hell, Demon of Pride
Once the Morning Star. Now the king of rebellion, pride, and forbidden knowledge. No demon is higher.Satan – Prince of Hell, Demon of Witchcraft and Destruction
The Adversary. Ruler of temptation, deception, and the father of sorcery.Leviathan – Prince of Hell, Demon of Envy and Heresy
The Serpent of the Deep. Manifestation of chaos, oceanic void, and jealousy.Beelzebub – Chief of Staff of Hell, Demon of False Gods and Gluttony
"Lord of the Flies." Speaks through rot, decay, and swarms. Glutton of power and worship.Asmodeus – King of Demons, Demon of Lust and Wickedness
Bringer of carnal desire, pleasure, and destructive passion. Breaks marriages and bodies.
THE DEMONIC MINISTERS – NOBILITY OF HELL
Adramelech – Great Chancellor of Hell, Minister of the Order of the Fly
Oversees infernal records, rituals, and sacrifices. Demon of arrogance and vanity.Baal-Berith – Chief Secretary of Hell, Demon of Blasphemy and Pacts
Recorder of contracts. Deals in unbreakable oaths and cursed bargains.Astaroth – First Prince of Thrones, Treasurer of Hell
Keeper of forgotten knowledge. Appears as a decaying angel holding a serpent.Verrine – Second Prince of Thrones, Demon of Impatience
Speeds events unnaturally. Hates waiting. Causes rash decisions and chaos.Gressil – Third Prince of Thrones, Demon of Impurity
Feeds on lust, filth, and moral decay. Weakens virtue wherever he dwells.Olivier – Prince of Archangels, Demon of Cruelty
Former heavenly force turned tyrant. Brings torment, torture, and suffering.Luvart – Prince of Angels, Possessor of the Innocent
Often targets saints and holy beings. Known for possessing Sister Madeleine.Verrier – Prince of Principalities, Demon of Disobedience
Sows rebellion, defiance, and prideful independence.Behemoth – Night Watchman of Hell, Satan's Cook
Demon of gluttony, drunkenness, and brute force. Roars when Hell feasts.
THE 72 DEMONS OF THE GOETIA
Also known as the Spirits of Solomon
These spirits serve under the greater lords of Hell. Each has a rank, domain, and specific power they offer to those who dare summon them. Only the brave—or the damned—invoke their sigils.
Here are some key members to represent the ranks
Kings (Most powerful Goetia spirits)
Bael – Grants invisibility. Rules over 66 legions.Paimon – Teaches science, art, mind control. Loyal to Lucifer. Comes with musical fanfare.Belial – Gives status, favors from kings, and power. Requires sacrifice.Purson – Reveals hidden treasures and secrets. Knows past, present, future.Asmodeus – (also in Goetia) Reveals hidden things, grants strength in games.
Princes
Orobas – Tells truth, gives divine favor, protects from demons.Stolas – Teaches astronomy and poison plants.Vassago – Finds lost items, sees the future.
Dukes
Agares – Makes enemies fall, teaches languages, causes earthquakes.Valefor – Brings charisma and thievery. Grants trust, then betrayal.Gusion – Answers all questions, reconciles friends.
Marquises
Andrealphus – Teaches geometry, logic, turns people into birds.Phenex – Inspires poets and singers. Speaks in sweet music.Leraje – Causes battles and wounds to fester.
Earls
Ronove – Teaches languages and rhetoric. Very polite, yet cruel.Eligos – Knows future wars and hidden emotions.Decarabia – Controls birds, reveals minerals and herbs.
Presidents
Buer – Heals diseases, teaches ethics and logic.Marbas – Reveals hidden illnesses and secrets. Changes shape.Malphas – Builds towers, causes sabotage, leads wars.
Counts / Knights
Dantalion – Knows all human thoughts and emotions. Can change appearance.Furfur – Causes storms and love affairs. Speaks only in lies unless forced into a circle.Vine – Can destroy enemies, uncover secrets, and build walls.
INFERNAL POWER SCALE
From highest to lowest:
Lucifer, Satan, Beelzebub, Leviathan, Asmodeus — Supreme RulersAdramelech, Astaroth, Baal-Berith, Ministers — Infernal NobilityVerrine, Gressil, Olivier, etc. — Thrones, Archangels, PrincipalitiesGoetia 72 — Summonable Spirits (Kings > Princes > Dukes > etc.)Familiars, Imps — Minor servants of the 72, often non-verbal or bestial
I kept reading.
Then again.
And again.
Until my eyes burned and my brain buzzed and I whispered into the dark,
"I wouldn't make the same mistakes. I know how to win."
No harm in trying, right?
But what do I want?
I stared at the screen for a while.
Blank note.
Cursor blinking like it was daring me to be honest for once.
So, I started typing. No big deal. Just thoughts. Jokes. Trash.
I want a million dollars.I want to sleep for a year.I want everyone who hurt me to rot.I want to disappear.I want to be someone else.I want magic.I want to matter.
I kept deleting and rewriting them, mocking each like it was a bad punchline.
It didn't feel real. None of it did. But I kept going anyway.
Until I wrote something, and didn't laugh. Didn't delete.
Didn't even blink for a second.
I looked at it for a long time.
And that was that. I didn't post it anywhere. Didn't even save it.
I just stared, then shut the tab and moved on with my night. Or what was left of it.
Tried to sleep. Failed. Tried again. Nothing.
That was the first time I noticed the clock said 3:66 AM.
I assumed I was just delirious.
I gave up. Did my routine like always — wash face, open random novel, scroll YouTube like a zombie until my brain stops buzzing.
But that night… I didn't open a novel. I didn't even click anything.
It just played.
A video. Short, blurry, shaky. Some girl, hoodie up, eyes wild, like she hadn't slept in weeks.
"This is for anyone else out there seeing it.
The... glitch.
You think it's just you being tired. But it's not.
The clock breaks. You forget what day it is.
People don't look right.
You dream while you're awake.
I haven't slept in four nights.
I can't.
And I swear I saw myself... from behind.
That's when I knew.
I glitched."
The screen flickered. The video cut off.
I sat there frozen, then — I did the dumbest thing possible.
I opened the comments.
They weren't normal. Not like "lol same" or "fake af."
No. They were... stories.
"I haven't seen my reflection blink in days."
"My door opened at 3:66 too."
"It started after I wrote it down."
"We all wrote something. That's how it begins."
"Don't search the name. Don't say it. Don't even THINK it too hard."
I scrolled faster. Each comment worse than the last.
Then one stopped me cold.
"You want to wake up in a better world, don't you?"
It was posted 7 seconds ago.
No likes. No replies. Just that.
I slammed the app shut, heart going nuts.
But... curiosity is louder than fear.
I opened the browser.
Typed without thinking:
"The glitch experience real stories"
"waking up in wrong reality reddit"
"is 3:66 a thing?"
Scroll. Scroll. Scroll.
And then — at the bottom of a dead link, black text on a black background — I found it.
A name.
One I didn't know.
One I didn't type.
Just sitting there. Waiting.
Ezazrael
The One Who Listens When No One Else Does.
The One Who Asks Nothing But Gives What You Really Mean.
I blinked.
My screen flickered again.
And under that name, a message appeared — not typed by me.
"You already asked."
I froze.
My hands weren't on the keyboard anymore.
But something had typed that.
Not sent. Not posted.
Just... there.
Like a whisper typed in pixels.
I slammed the tab closed.
Unplugged my laptop like it was a bomb.
The room buzzed — not with sound, but with the kind of static that lives in your teeth.
Like something was pressing its face against the walls of reality, just to see if I'd blink.
I didn't.
At least, not right away.
Instead, I got up.
Washed my face. Again.
Stared at the mirror.
And this time, I didn't see anything wrong.
Not at first.
But then —
I leaned in.
And my reflection didn't.
I know how those sounds.
Delirium. Sleep deprivation. Hallucination.
But I swear — it looked at me.
Like it was waiting to see if I'd notice.
If I'd flinch.
I didn't.
But I didn't look again either.
Day 2 (I think?)
Hard to tell. Time's been... slippery.
I tried to pretend nothing happened.
Went back to my apps. My distractions.
Tried to read another dumb slow-burn enemies-to-lovers thing where no one ever kisses until chapter 54.
But it was gone.
The whole category.
No "Contracted Fates."
No "Devil's Language."
Nothing.
Just a blank page.
And at the bottom, in small font, one sentence:
"You're not a reader anymore."
Now everything glitches.
My microwave clock blinked "3:66" too.
My phone alarms go off at times I never set.
Notifications from apps I don't have:
• "He's still listening."
• "Keep typing."
• "Don't turn around."
I deleted them.
Obviously.
But they come back.
Always in red.
Always lowercase.
Like they're whispering.
So, I did what any rational person would do.
I wrote again.
Not a contract. Not a wish list.
Just... stream-of-consciousness garbage.
"Fine. I'm here. You win.
What do you want from me?"
And this time, the cursor moved on its own.
One word:
"Truth."
Cool. Existential horror and therapy, rolled into one. Great.
So, I kept going.
Let it out.
Typed like my fingers weren't mine.
Like something behind my ribs had finally chewed through the lock.
"I don't know who I am anymore."
• "I pretend too much."
• "I want to disappear, but I also want someone to notice I'm gone."
• "I'm scared this is all in my head."
• "I'm scared it's not."
No response this time.
Just silence.
A kind of silence that buzzes.
Then the screen blinked.
And a new phrase appeared.
"Open the door."
Which would be fine.
Creepy. But fine.
Except —
I don't have a door.
I live in a studio apartment. One entrance. No other doors.
Except...
There was one.
Now.
A small, red one.
Right where the bookshelf used to be.
Just standing there like it belonged.
Unmoving.
Closed.
And beneath it, scratched into the wall, in the same handwriting as the comments:
"You already asked.
He already answered.
Go on."
So I did the obvious thing.
I didn't open the door.
I Googled it.
Typed it out like a lunatic:
"Random door appeared in my apartment is this a thing??"
I expected Reddit. Maybe a Quora thread full of dads arguing about mold hallucinations.
But instead?
The top result: "It's not your door."
No link. No source. Just the sentence.
Like Google itself got tired of pretending this was normal.
I refreshed the page. It was gone.
Cool. Totally fine.
Healthy brain things.
I kept searching.
Tried everything:
• "door appeared out of nowhere real stories"
• "I think my house is glitching?"
• "paranormal architecture help"
• "does schizophrenia cause doors"
(That one got me worried. Until I realized I'd misspelled schizophrenia three times. So maybe I'm fine.)
Finally found a thread. Buried on some cursed old forum that looked like it hadn't been updated since 2009.
Title: "Red Door Appeared. No One Believes Me."
One post.
No replies.
No username.
Just this:
"It showed up behind my bed. Smelled like sulfur and cold air.
I opened it a crack. Something looked back.
I moved out. Burned the place down.
Still didn't work.
It came back.
In the new apartment."
Comments were locked.
Of course.
Scrolled deeper.
Started finding more.
Different forums. Same story.
Always a red door.
Always in the wrong place.
Always unwanted.
"Mine showed up in the basement. I don't have a basement."
• "Opened it. Found my own bedroom. But everything was... off."
• "It was whispering my name. I never told it my name."
• "DON'T OPEN IT. No matter what it says. It's not yours."
One user asked,
"Did yours come after 3:66?"
Yeah. That shut me up for a second.
But then I saw it again — in one of the deepest, sketchiest corners of the internet:
"Ezazrael marks the threshold."
Same name. Again.
And under it, a diagram.
Of the door.
My door.
Exact same size. Same shade of red.
Same mark etched above the handle.
The one I didn't want to look at too closely, but yeah — it was there.
Under the image, just three words:
"You invited him."
Okay.
So maybe I'm not the only one.
Which is... good?
Except the posts all stop at the same point.
They all go quiet.
No one says what happens if you open it.
Or worse — if you don't.
I got up.
Turned around.
The door was still there.
Unmoving.
Solid.
And then—
I noticed the knob was warmer than before.
Like it had been waiting.
Like it was waking up.
And written across the center in faint, smudged letters, I saw it again:
"You already asked."
What now?
Do I open it?
Or do I see how much deeper this rabbit hole goes before it swallows me whole?
Either way, I'm keeping the Wi-Fi on.
Because if I vanish?
Someone better find this thread.
So.
Guess what?
I opened it.
Of course, I did.
Because I'm apparently the kind of idiot who sees a glowing red door that doesn't belong to reality and thinks,
"Yeah. Let's poke that with a stick."
I didn't even plan it.
One second I was staring at it.
Next second, the handle turned all by itself — like it was tired of waiting.
Door creaked open.
Inside?
Just dark.
Not regular dark. Not "lights-off" dark.
The kind that feels like something's holding its breath.
Like the air's thicker in there. Like physics took a personal day.
And then — of course — the voice.
Low. Silky. Smug.
Like someone gargled honey and sarcasm.
"You called."
EXCUSE me???
Absolutely not.
So, I did the only logical thing.
I stood dead in my pajama shorts, pointed vaguely at the void and said,
"Okay. No. Sir. Mister demon man.
Can we talk about this?"
Silence.
Then the voice again, closer this time.
"You invited me. The door is open."
"Yeah, well the Wi-Fi is also open but that doesn't mean I want Jehovah's Witnesses manifesting in my hallway at 3:66 A.M."
Still nothing.
So, I kept going, because apparently my survival instinct is just stand-up comedy now.
"I don't remember making a deal.
Like, was there a form?
Did I accidentally click 'I agree to the terms and conditions of eternal damnation' when I installed that reading app??"
Silence.
Then — I swear to whatever's holy — the voice laughed.
"You asked. You said you wouldn't make the same mistakes. You said you'd win."
I blinked.
"I also said I wanted a million dollars and to sleep for a year.
I was clearly unwell."
"Also, pretty sure kidnapping humans is still illegal. Even if you're, like, the king of hell's left foot or whatever."
The air shimmered.
And something stepped forward.
Not fully visible — just an outline, tall and sharp and not quite human.
"You don't understand. This isn't a kidnapping. This is… fulfillment."
"Okay Amazon Prime Lucifer, what exactly did I order?"
Nothing.
The silence stretched again.
But the air behind him — behind the demon — started changing.
Like a city made of smoke and flickering lights and voices I couldn't quite make out.
It felt…
wrong.
And familiar.
Like maybe, just maybe, it wasn't my first time here.
Like maybe I had asked for this.
Not with words.
But with something worse.
Intention.
"Look," I said, slowly backing up,
"I'm not saying I won't join your demon MLM or whatever, but I just need, like, a syllabus? Maybe a slideshow?"
He tilted his head.
"You don't get it yet. But you will."
And then the door shut behind me.
Of course, it did.