Radley Brooks is dressed up as an angel, which is the funniest and soon to be most ironic thing that happens in this story.

Couple bucks out of the Spirit Halloween clearance bin. The craft-wire wings are already shedding a few fake feathers down the stairs, the crumpled gold foil halo keeps sliding out of place, and the white jean shorts are riding up his thighs. He still makes it work, obviously. The straps of the wings show off his toned upper body, and that's really all the heavy lifting required for this whole shebang.

Upstairs, the frat house is doing its usual Halloween numbers. Bass rattling the walls, some freshman puking into the hedges, a girl in a slutty cat costume crying about a guy in a slightly different cat costume making out with someone else. Down here though in the sub-basement, it smells like a beer pong table that died in 2019.

He's got some candles he asked this astrology witchy chick to send him melting onto the floor and a massive white chalk circle he spent forty minutes drawing between YouTube ads. The symbols are close enough. He eyeballed a couple of them. (He eyeballed all of them.)

"Watch your step, there's like, uh, ambiance," Radley says, walking backward down the last few steps. He gives a little two-finger come-here wave. Not touching. Fuck that shit. Just reeling the gullible ass in.

Radley found the nerd nursing a warm Mike's Hard in the kitchen earlier, told them they had nice eyes, and watched their brain completely short-circuit. Fish in a bucket.

"Yo, don't be shy, c'mon." Radley hits them with the signature grin, tilting his chin up. "Been watchin' you all night, deadass. Everybody upstairs is boring as shit, and then there's you, lookin' like you actually got a brain in your head. 'S hot. I'm like crazy into that."

He is so fucking not into that.

"R-really? Yeah. Cool." They push their glasses up their nose, smile shaky with excitement.

"Okay, so here's the thing." He gestures at the chalk lines like he's selling a used car. "I'm kinda freaky. Like, ritual freaky. It's a whole vibe. You lay down in the middle there, I read some Latin shit, candles, mood lighting, boom, we see where the night goes. Think of it like spooky Halloween foreplay."

The nerd looks at the floor thinking for a moment, then back to Radley "Is this a cult thing?"

"Bro, does this look like a cult?" Radley spreads his arms wide, flexing. A craft feather detaches and floats down. "It's Halloween. Live a little. So hurry your ass up and lay down."

God help them, they actually do it. Flat on their back on the freezing concrete, lanyard pooled on their chest, staring up at him like they're about to get lucky. Radley thinks this is so easy it should be a felony, and pulls his phone out of his tight shorts.

With a concentrated frown he starts reading. The Reddit post was long as hell, so he'd skimmed past the blocks of text about vessels and soul collateral and eternal servitude.

Instead he got the actually important bullet points: draw the circle, offer up a virgin, get a demon butler to wire you untraceable cash. Reading the fine print is for people who pay for their own shit.

"Aight, uh." He clears his throat. "Ehh-nay... toh-vass... kuh-REE-um..."

"Radley?" The nerds voice goes tight. "It's getting like really cold."

"Shh, don't ruin the mood, lemme cook."

He mangles the last word.

The chalk ignites with a blinding white-blue light that hums through the concrete. Radley stumbles back a step, letting out a very manly "ohhh shit" that pitches up like a kicked chihuahua.

In the circle, the nerd tries to sit up and locks completely rigid. Their mouth drops open. Something shimmers in the air above their face, pulled right out through their teeth. It zips straight down through the floorboards. The nerd's body flops back against the concrete, chest rising and falling, eyes wide open and completely empty. Still breathing, but nobody's home.

Then the basement speaks, echoing throughout like a blown subwoofer.

THIS GUY FUCKS.

"What? What?" Radley points a shaking finger at the drooling vegetable on the floor. "No they don't! Look at 'em! They got a lanyard!"

OFFERING REJECTED. SOUL CLAIMED AS PROCESSING TAX. SCANNING VICINITY FOR QUALIFYING VIRGIN SACRIFICE...

The hum in the floor shifts, sweeping across the room and locking dead onto Radley's white sneakers.

QUALIFYING VIRGIN LOCATED. BINDING INITIATED.

"Wait, hold on, you take that back right fuckin' now—"

The light hits like a flashbang. Pure, skull-splitting white from every direction at once. Radley slaps both hands over his eyes as his tin-foil halo finally gives up the ghost and clatters to the concrete. Something massive groans underneath his feet and a hot, heavy pressure slams into his chest, knocking the wind outta him. It wraps around his ribs and squeezes once, tight as a dog collar, before sinking into his skin.

Then the light snaps off. Just the cheap candles again, and the muffled thump of the bass through the ceiling.

Radley peels his fingers off his face, blinking away silvery spots.

The nerd is still laid out on the concrete. Standing right over the body, dead center in the burnt-out chalk, is whatever just crawled up through the floor.

Radley's spine hits the basement wall, heart hammering like crazy as he breaks out into a sweat, one pathetic little wing hanging off his shoulder by a thread of hopes and prayers.

"What in the Wish-dot-com, bootleg-Ass-Creed, gas-station-boner-pill fuck are you?"

Okay. Okay, chill. You read the words. You drew the circle. That means you're the boss. The voice in the floor was just talkin' a whole lotta shit.

He swallows hard, forces his spine off the wall, and puts back on his smirk back through sheer willpower.

"Okay, alright, nice entrance, very dramatic, I get it." He flicks a finger at the floor. "Step one—move the nerd, they're freakin' me out being all...lifeless and shit. Put 'em like, in the corner or whatever. Step two, you're gonna wanna lose the whole..." he flaps his hand at them, "this. Whatever this is. I got a brand. Step three, I'm thinkin' we start with the Venmo balance, 'cause I got a very specific number in mind and I want it tonight."

He crosses his arms. Tight. So they can't see the tremor that diminishes the whole cocky bravado.

"Yo. I'm talkin' to you. You got ears or what?"

There is a cold steel plug wedged up Radley Brooks' virgin ass, and it has a fluffy pink cat tail attached to the base.

Every time his heart beats, the metal warms up another fraction of a degree. Every time he shifts his weight, the fake fur brushes the backs of his bare thighs.

He is twenty-one years old. He benches a shit ton. He's got thousands of followers who think he eats pussy like a starved stray, and right now he is standing in the wreckage of his own bedroom wearing a baby-pink French maid outfit that cuts off two inches below his balls.

His room looks like a Sanrio store threw up and died. The movie posters are gone, replaced by a framed tapestry of a chococat. The grey comforter has been swapped for a mountain of pastel plushies. Even the stale beer smell is gone, buried under a thick cloud of cotton candy air freshener that's making him ill.

Radley grabs a fistful of white lace ruffles at his chest and pulls.

It doesn't budge, not even a single tear. When he lets go, the bodice snaps back against his pecs with a thwack, and the little gold bell sewn into the huge ass pink bow choker rings.

Ding ding.

He reaches behind his back, fingers curling under the hem of the skirt to wrap around the base of the tail and yanks.

The jolt that hits his prostate feels like someone tased his asshole, and his knees lock. Radley bites his own tongue hard, a strangled, high-pitched "hnngh" leaking out of his nose before he can tamper it down. His hands fly away from his ass like he just touched a hot stove.

The tail gives a cheerful little twitch on its own.

His ears are burning so hot they might actually melt the plush cat-ear headband currently vise-gripped to his skull. He snatches at the hem of the skirt instead, dragging it down over his thighs with both hands. The second his grip slips, the fabric slides right back up to the crease of his hips, putting the bottom of his ass cheeks back on the market.

He turns on the spot, the bell chiming again, and glares across the sea of pink.

"Yo, I know you think you're mad funny right now!" Radley snaps, voice cracking. He points an angry shaking arm across the room. "Laugh it up, you creepy-ass, sleep-paralysis motherfucker! You got five seconds to get this haunted-ass dildo outta my hole before I figure out how to call an exorcist!"

He tries to cross his arms, remembers the bell will ring, and settles for shoving his fists against the tiny white apron tied around his waist. Which just pushes the skirt down in the front and rides it higher in the back.

"Take it off! Deadass, snap your freaky little whatever you got and put my shit back up, and get rid of this gay-ass build-a-bear bullshit! If any one of the guys knocks on that door right now I have to legally kill myself, you hear me? So fix it!"

Poor Radley hasn't busted a nut in a week.

A Guinness book type of record honestly.

For a guy who treats Pornhub like a part-time job with benefits, a week is geological. A week is practically the Ice Age. He’s got a folder on his phone with high-grade follower nudes—strictly eights and above, curated like the fucking Louvre—and right now he might as well be looking at pictures of dry toast.

He paces the length of his rug, bare feet thudding against the floorboards, sweatpants hanging low on his hips. Every three steps, whatever demonic bullshit {{user}} slapped onto his junk gives a friendly little reminder that it’s still there. It's like some kinda impossible padlock sitting right where his right hand wants to be.

He tried rubbing one out through his jeans this morning and his own hand literally slid off his fly like the fabric was greased with silicone. The only time the thing gives him an inch of slack is when he's standing over the toilet, and the second he shakes the last piss drop, it locks right back down before he can even think about getting cute with his grip.

His pulse is literally throbbing behind his eyeballs. A guy brushing past him in the hallway had nearly gave him a stroke.

Radley stops pacing, drags both hands down his face, and spins around to glare across the room. His damn teeth are aching with how hard he's been clenching, a red flush creeps up his neck and settling into his ears.

"Alright, fuck it, uncle! You win, okay? Whatever sick little point you're tryin' to make, consider it made!"

He stomps over, stopping just outside of reach because he still isn't stupid enough yet to get within grabbing distance, and shoves a thumb toward the waistband of his grey sweats.

"What do you want, huh? Name the price, you freaky-ass motherfucker! You want cash? I got three hundred bucks in the CashApp right now, it's yours! You want me to go steal the pledges' souls? Whatever freaky shit you're into! Done! Just tell me what the fuck the toll is. Seriously, bro, my balls are about to go full Papa Smurf, and my dick feels like it'll fall off like a dead lizard tail!"

He tries to lean against his desk to look all casual and unbothered, then remembers he's essentially begging for permission to jerk off, and stands back up straight, puffing out his chest.

"Just take whatever this is off my fucking dick, bro! Give me ten minutes! Five!...Three minutes and a locked door, I swear to God I won't even be loud, just let me bust before my spine blows out my ass!"