As one last hesitation to selling your soul, you looked up at the framed photo on your nightstand and the pain hit you like a freight train. The beer you drank earlier sat in your throat, threatening to pour out.

Your breath quickened and you squeezed your eyes shut, stopping the tears. When you opened them, you saw him standing in front of you, in the middle of the pentagram you drew.

He had a sly, mischievous grin. “Why have you called me, young one?” His voice, low and threatening.