The Laurel Street Contract

I sold my soul for $20,000 a month, and I'd do it again. The job posting was a godsend for a broke graduate like me. But when the signing bonus hit my account, the job posting vanished. The front door was locked from the outside. And my new boss? He’s not human, he lives in the shadows of my room, and he just informed me that the contract is for eternity. 1 Another one. Gone. I let out a long breath, feeling the last scrap of hope in my lungs go with it. My fingers tapped uselessly against the keyboard, dragging the politely worded, ice-cold rejection email into the trash. It was the one hundred and thirty-sixth time in two months. I, along with thousands of other graduates in this city, was treading water in a vast, dark ocean. We were all drowning, paddling desperately while the lights on the shore went out, one by one. The only small mercy was the tiny apartment my parents had left me—a small island where I could take refuge from the storm. I’d long since given up the fantasy of finding a job in my field. I removed all the filters, typed a few keywords into the search bar, and hit “All.” I refused to believe it. In this whole, sprawling world, was there truly no place for me? This time, the page flickered for a few seconds before reloading, as if the server itself hesitated at my desperate plea. A new page popped up. The link at the very top of the page had a headline that was so bold it felt almost absurdly tempting: Resident Estate Experience Curator. $20,000/month. Move-in after sunset. Excellent benefits. Twenty. Thousand. Dollars. A month. My breath caught in my throat. Full health, dental, vision… room and board included… The few lines of the description visible below the headline were a siren song. My finger, acting of its own accord, clicked the link. The more I read, the faster my heart beat. A fantastical soap bubble was inflating before my eyes, shimmering with a thousand iridescent colors. It grew larger and larger until I reached the final line, a small addendum. Then it reached its peak, and with a soft pop, it burst. The requirements were so minimal they might as well not have existed. Surely, anyone who met the basic criteria would be fighting tooth and nail for this. The page that had seemed so magical a moment ago now felt bland and tasteless, like a clumsy con. Once the initial adrenaline rush from the money faded, I had the mental space to consider the obvious red flags. A salary that high was either for a top-tier luxury property or hotel, demanding a professional-grade review from the curator, or… it was for something else entirely. My eyes drifted down the page, as if seeking confirmation for a suspicion I didn’t want to name. An address came into view: 6 Laurel Street. I knew the area. It was a new villa development on the outskirts of the city—or at least, it had once been marketed that way. The prices there were so astronomical I’d never even had the courage to look them up on Zillow. But if I actually got this job, I could at least enjoy a taste of that life for a short while. A little research couldn’t hurt. I opened the real estate website and typed in the address. The page loaded, and a single line of data left me speechless: “Lot density: 0.28.” It meant that each house was an island, enjoying an immense, private space, separated from its neighbors by a vast distance. They were practically isolated. No wonder the pay was so high. I was about to close the job site when a set of numbers in the bottom-right corner caught my eye like a magnet. Posted: 5 minutes ago. Views: 1. It meant that before me, not a single person had clicked this link. I was the first one to see it. Impulse is a devil, but right now, the devil’s voice sounded like an angel’s choir. The cursor hovered over the “Apply” button for less than a second before my resume was sent flying into the ether with a soft whoosh. From that moment on, my consciousness felt like it was floating in warm seawater. A fog of unknown depth lay ahead, but I couldn’t be bothered to swim away. To my surprise, the recruiter was online. Before I could regret my recklessness and try to retract the application, the system notified me that my message had been read. The exchange that followed was so efficient and professional that my doubts began to melt away. We quickly exchanged contact information and added each other on a secure messaging app. The HR manager’s profile picture was so simple it was almost eerie—a solid black square. If his username hadn't included the name of the real estate company, “Ridgeview Estates,” I never would have guessed he was in the industry. Ridgeview Estates - Mr. Alistair: Hello, Ms. Eve. The contract has been drafted. Please review it. If there are no issues, please sign the electronic version and upload it. We will then mail a hard copy to you for a physical signature. Eve: Okay, thank you, Mr. Alistair. My mind was growing foggier, as if my ability to think was being siphoned away. I followed his instructions, clicking the encrypted link and uploading my digital signature. The instant I hit “Confirm,” my phone chimed, the crisp notification pulling my wandering thoughts back to reality. It was a text from my bank. A deposit of $2,000 had just cleared. What was this? A signing bonus? I was shocked and thrilled. I immediately opened the chat app, but Mr. Alistair, as if anticipating my question, had already sent a new message. Ridgeview Estates - Mr. Alistair: Your signing bonus has been disbursed. Welcome to the family, Ms. Eve. A car will be sent to your contact address tomorrow at 6:00 PM sharp to pick you up. The driver will provide you with a list of instructions. The license plate ends in 444. Please be ready. No onboarding, no welcome email chain, no team Zoom call. A high-paying job had just fallen into my lap. I was giddy with relief, feeling like I’d been hit by a winning lottery ticket. As I watched the courier pick up the paper contract to be mailed back, a sense of unreality washed over me. That’s it? It’s… done? The faint sense of unease lingered for only a moment before being washed away by the tide of my new salary. It was a local job, after all. If anything went wrong, it would be easy enough to handle. I went home, threw on a jacket, and decided to go out for a celebratory dinner. Just as I closed the tab for the job site, the original posting vanished. It was as if it had never existed, leaving not even a trace in my browser history. In a place my eyes couldn't see, on the contract I had just signed, the black and white clauses began to silently twist in the air, emitting a faint, cold light. Twenty thousand dollars a month. It was an unimaginable luxury. I closed my eyes and let my dreams be completely overwhelmed by a series of glittering fantasies about the future. The next day, I stood at the designated street corner, towing a small suitcase, my shadow stretched impossibly long by the setting sun. The autumn chill was deepening, and the sky was darkening quickly. A cool wind blew past, and I rubbed my arms, pulling the collar of my trench coat tighter. Just as the last sliver of light was about to be devoured by the horizon, an all-black sedan pulled up beside me. The windows were tinted, making it impossible to see inside. I greeted the driver, and he politely opened the back door for me. I declined his offer to help with my luggage and slid into the seat myself. The car was unnervingly quiet, sealed off from the noise of the outside world. "Ms. Eve, would you like some water? There are some bottles in the mini-fridge. They're all new," the driver said, making conversation as the car crawled through rush-hour traffic. He seemed friendly enough. Hearing the slight cough in my throat, he pointed out the fridge’s location. I was a little embarrassed to accept, but my throat was painfully dry. The water bottle had a minimalist design, its body a frosted black. When I twisted the cap, a crisp, clean scent wafted out. The water tasted surprisingly sweet and pure, flowing down my throat as smoothly as a living spring. I turned the bottle over, examining the label, but it was just a generic brand I’d had before. Maybe they had switched to a new source; I'd never known it could taste this good. "It is," the driver said, his voice soft. "The very best water." He’d heard my unconscious murmur of appreciation and glanced at me in the rearview mirror. Seeing my gaze on the water bottle begin to unfocus, he smiled and finished my thought. His smile was blurry, indistinct in the reflection. The traffic ahead finally cleared. With a deft turn of the wheel, the car left the main road and headed out of the city. “Ms. Eve? Ms. Eve?” A gentle hand was shaking my arm. I frowned, slowly waking from a deep haze. Perhaps it was the exhaustion from the job hunt, combined with the comfortable seat, but I had fallen asleep at some point. That water seemed to have a strange tranquilizing effect, making my eyelids impossibly heavy. “Ngh… are we here?” “Yes, just ahead.” I was instantly awake. It was completely dark outside. The car was parked in a small courtyard in front of a three-story house. There were no other buildings in sight. The streetlights cast a dim, ghostly glow, and the distant woods were a mass of dark, looming shadows, like crouching beasts. Top-tier luxury, I thought to myself. The privacy is incredible. Before I could fully process anything, I was following the driver’s steps into the house. Warm, yellow light poured down from above, momentarily soothing the disorientation and anxiety of being woken so suddenly. “The instructions are all here. I’ll be leaving now,” the driver said, handing me a folded piece of paper. He left in such a hurry he didn’t even give me a chance to say goodbye. His figure vanished into the darkness with an unnatural speed. Something felt wrong. The thought had barely surfaced when a sharp pain, like a needle prick, lanced through my brain. The image of the signing bonus in my bank account immediately filled my mind, pushing everything else out. It’s a huge salary. It’s not like they’re asking me to kill someone. Just do what they say. I looked down and unfolded the paper. It simply listed the locations of household supplies and the passcode for the bedroom door. But at the end, the tone shifted abruptly. There were a few extra lines, handwritten in a sharp, angular script with red ink. The first rule: I must be back in the second-floor bedroom before 10:30 PM. The second rule: Before sleeping, you must cover any and all mirrors in the room with a cloth. “Failure to comply will result in consequences,” a warning was printed below, the red as stark as blood. 10:30 PM? That wasn’t a problem; it was close to my usual bedtime anyway. But the terse, nonsensical rules sent a chill crawling up my spine. I hadn’t moved into some kind of haunted house, had I? I’d lived in this city my whole life and never heard anything about Laurel Street. I looked around. The decor wasn’t lavish or particularly new, but the furniture was impeccably maintained, exuding a warmth that only time could bestow. The throw pillows on the sofa looked so soft that the sleepiness I had just shaken off threatened to return. I gripped the smooth wooden handrail of the staircase and started to climb. The sense of unease grew heavier. The feel of the polished wood under my palm was not something you’d find in a newly renovated house. This house, it seemed, had been standing here, silent, for a very long time. I reached the first door on the second floor and, using the code from the paper, opened it easily. The room was simple, containing only a massive king-sized bed, an antique wardrobe, and a huge, full-length mirror that took up nearly an entire wall. Opposite the bed was a floor-to-ceiling window. A full moon hung in the night sky, its hazy, cold light staring at me through the sealed glass. Standing by the window, I could see the overgrown garden below. The weeds were so thick they had almost completely swallowed the small stone path. It was clear the grounds hadn't been tended to in a long, long time. Suddenly, I felt a tickle on my ear, like a feather brushing against my skin, or the light touch of a fingertip on my earlobe. I swatted at it, my hand closing around a small piece of light, airy white fabric. I stared at the bit of white in my hand and breathed a sigh of relief. It was just the sheer curtain, not tied back properly, fluttering in the night breeze. My phone buzzed. It was 9:00 PM, and my pre-set “focus mode” had just activated. After a shower, I connected to the Wi-Fi and played a game for a while. As I played, a sudden thirst came over me. I glanced at the time. 10:25 PM. It’s just a quick trip from the second floor to the first. A bottle of water shouldn’t take long. Cautiously, I set a two-minute timer on my phone. The water in the first-floor fridge was the same as the kind I’d had in the car. But this time, the cap was incredibly tight. I grunted and struggled with it for what felt like an eternity, finally managing to take the first sip at the bottom of the stairs. As the sweet liquid slid down my throat, my consciousness flickered for a moment. The bedroom door in front of me seemed to sway, drifting closer and then retreating just as it was about to touch me. My sense of distance became blurry and unreliable. Beep-beep-beep-beep, beep-beep-beep-beep— The shrill alarm on my phone jolted me back to reality. I fumbled for my phone, my eyes widening in shock. 10:29 PM. What happened? I only set a two-minute alarm. Where did the other minutes go? There was no time to think. The bedroom door was right in front of me. I practically scrambled inside, and behind me, the door slammed shut with a violent bang, pushed by an invisible force. I checked my phone again. The second hand had just ticked past the mark for 10:30 PM. Safe… Only then did I dare to lean against the door, gasping for breath. This money was not going to be easy to earn. I had to find out more about this house. Otherwise, my life might not even last until payday. The phone slipped from my numb fingers as my consciousness began to blur. My thoughts were being pulled by a powerful, irresistible force, dragging me unwillingly into a deep darkness. The full effect of the water was only now kicking in. Just before my breathing slowed into a deep, steady rhythm, I had the nagging feeling that something was wrong. Did I… forget something? When I opened my eyes again, the world outside was still pitch black, but I felt as if I’d had the most complete, restful sleep of my life. I was incredibly alert. I hadn’t been up this early in ages. I reached for my phone on the nightstand to check the time. But no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t lift my arm. Am I dreaming? I tried to pinch myself, but I couldn’t summon the strength for that either. I struggled for several minutes. Kicking my legs, clenching my fists—nothing worked. My limbs felt like they were filled with lead, lying limp and useless on the bed, unable to move an inch. My mind was trapped inside this disobedient shell, a waking prisoner. The mental effort was exhausting, like running a marathon. I closed my eyes again, hoping that sleep would pull me back into a normal reality. A tingling sensation started in my calf. At first, I thought it was just from lying in one position for too long, my circulation cut off. But the tingling soon turned into an itch. Like a hand was stroking me. The realization sent a choked sob up my throat. I tried to flinch away, but the force holding me down grew stronger. The invisible hand gripped my calf muscle, the sensation a maddening mix of ticklish and numb. I wanted to scream but couldn't make a sound. The coldness of the touch immediately brought to mind every horror story I’d ever heard about female victims. I’m… dealing with a ‘thing.’ I didn’t dare say the word ‘ghost,’ even in my head. Whoever you are… please, sir, let me go. I’ll leave tomorrow, I swear I’ll leave first thing in the morning! The hand, which had been still for a moment, suddenly squeezed hard right after the thought, I’ll leave tomorrow, crossed my mind. It hit a nerve, sending a violent tremor up my leg that almost broke through the invisible restraint. I didn't know what I'd thought wrong, so I desperately tried to empty my mind, not daring to think anything at all. After what felt like an eternity, the hand finally released my leg, leaving behind a lingering, silken thread of coldness as it vanished. The leg it had “massaged” didn’t feel tired at all; in fact, it felt strangely relaxed. But that small comfort did nothing to erase the sheer terror of what I had just survived. All desire for sleep was gone. As soon as I regained control of my body, I hugged my knees to my chest and sat on the edge of the bed, trembling as I stared at the pale, sickly white moon outside. I didn't want to speak. My heart was a wasteland of despair. Maybe this time it was just a whim, and it decided to spare me. But what about next time? I turned my head until my neck ached, then turned back. Just then, a flash of light caught my eye. I instinctively looked to my right—and saw a second moon in the giant full-length mirror. I whipped my head back to the left. The moon outside the window had descended impossibly low, as if it were pressed right against the glass. One to the left, one to the right. Two moons, watching me silently, coldly. A thin piece of paper had fallen silently beside the bed, completely hidden by the duvet. In my earlier movements, I must have disturbed the bedding, and a corner of it had curled up, revealing a new line of text, written in the same red ink. It read: Rule #2: Remember to cover the mirror before sleeping. The next day, I sat on the edge of the bed, my face pale and drawn. I hadn't slept a wink, my mind replaying an endless loop of every exorcism chant I could think of, from every movie I’d ever seen. The instruction sheet was lying in its usual spot by the front door, looking harmless. But after last night, I was afraid to touch it. I debated for a long time before deciding I had to get out of here, no matter what. A breach of contract fee? I didn’t care how much it was. I couldn't stay in this place for another second. I grabbed my suitcase and rushed downstairs. My thumb was frantically trying to message Mr. Alistair while my other hand reached for the doorknob. The door wouldn’t open. Did I… lock it last night? I had no memory of it. I put more force into it and tried again. The handle didn’t budge. Clearly, the problem wasn’t me. The door had been locked from the outside. I paced anxiously in front of the door, waiting for a hopeful reply on my phone. The cell service in here was terrible. The little sending icon spun for ages before finally showing the message had gone through. The reply was almost instantaneous. He sent an image of the contract. I tapped it open, my fingertips white from the pressure as I zoomed in, refusing to miss a single punctuation mark. I scanned it line by line. The signing date, the address, the… penalty… clause… No, no, this was all wrong. This contract, aside from my signature, was completely different from the one I had signed. In the penalty clause section, the number of zeroes was obscene, a long, malicious string that seemed to mock my naivety and greed. Eve: This isn't the contract I signed! Eve: Where's the original? I want to see the original! It was as if he had been waiting for me to say that. He not only sent a high-resolution photo of the original paper document but also a screenshot of the courier’s tracking information. It was all there. The package I had packed myself. The name I had signed with my own hand. The phone slipped from my grasp and clattered onto the cold floor. Before I could even begin to understand what was happening, another message came through. I dove for the phone like it was a life raft. -: Ms. Eve, the contract is legally binding. Instead of thinking about breaking it, I suggest you see it through. -: We were in a rush to fill the position, it’s true, but for a good reason. You’re a local. You should know more about the history of 6 Laurel Street than an outsider would. First the threats, now the bait. What was this if not a search for a scapegoat? Rage shot through me. My typing was too slow. I switched to voice-to-text, ready to unleash a torrent of every curse word I knew, when my eyes caught the contract image again. The text box was covering most of it, but the address at the end was perfectly clear. In my shock, I hadn’t noticed it before. 666 Laurel Street… no, wait, 6 Laurel Street. Wasn’t that the street I lived on as a child? I only remembered that we moved away suddenly. All I had left of that time was a vague name and no other memories. I’d always been curious about that lost period of my life, but whenever I asked, my parents would clam up, their faces filled with fear. After their accident, that part of my memory became a permanent mystery. Stellarton Road, now called Laurel Street… I forgot all about voice-to-text and my fingers flew across the keyboard, typing the address into a search engine. The results popped up instantly. I clicked on the most popular link, which took me to an old local forum. Someone had asked about this exact thing three years ago. <Anyone know the story of 6 Laurel Street?> LazyBones88 (OP): Title says it all. Anyone know the deal with the famous #6? A lot of the old-timers say to stay away. What happened there? BigGossipGal (Reply 1): No idea, waiting for someone to spill the tea. DragonSlayer92 (Reply 2): Rings a bell. I'll ask my dad when I get home from work. I scrolled frantically past dozens of useless replies, my fingers trembling. Finally, I found what I was looking for. SaltyDog52 (Reply 52): OP must be pretty young. This story is old. They say more than a decade ago, a little girl got lost in there. The whole city was out looking for her. They finally found her in that house a few days later. SecretAgentMan (Reply 53): I remember that! It was a huge deal. My parents volunteered for the search party. SaltyDog52 (Reply 54): After they found the little girl, she had a high fever for days. When she woke up, she couldn’t remember anything. SecretAgentMan (Reply 55): Well, at least she was safe. That’s all that matters. I didn't bother reading the rest of the replies; they were all variations of the same story. My hands on the keyboard started shaking again. The little girl who got lost and lost her memory… could that have been me? In an instant, I was already planning my last will and testament. The person on the other end of the chat must have felt a little guilty, or maybe it was just part of the procedure. My phone chimed again. Another deposit. Added to the signing bonus, my bank account was now well into five figures. Heh. I let out a cold laugh. Did they think they could buy me off with that? Two seconds later, I was staring at the balance on my phone screen, mesmerized. —They absolutely could. The signal here was spotty at best. I wanted to message my one and only friend, ask her if she knew any reputable exorcists or mediums. I was willing to spend every penny I had. But… I stared until my eyes blurred, and the little spinning circle that meant a message was sending just kept spinning, endlessly. The message wouldn't go out. A lonely figure sat slumped on the windowsill, soon curling into a ball, like a shrimp abandoned by the world. What kind of mess had I gotten myself into? I didn’t stay on the windowsill for long. Fear wasn’t going to solve anything. I jumped down, determined to do something proactive to save my own skin. The daylight gave me a false sense of security. In the sun, the house revealed its true form; the light-colored wood floors looked warm and inviting. But the more I explored, the colder my heart became. I searched everywhere but found no possible exit. Even the smallest ventilation grates were sealed shut with welded iron bars. Defeated, I could only return to my room on the second floor. As my footsteps faded, in a corner of the staircase where the sun never reached, a faint gray mist slowly solidified, only to dissipate silently into the air. As night fell, I still hadn’t found anything suitable to cover the mirror. After much hesitation, I steeled myself, tore down one of the heavy blackout curtains, and wrapped the enormous mirror until it was completely hidden. Without the curtain, the moonlight outside seemed even brighter, its pale, stark glow flooding the room without reservation. I felt a knot of panic in my stomach, like an actor trapped in a spotlight with nowhere to run. I had planned to stay awake until morning, but that irresistible drowsiness washed over me again. The traces of whatever had been marked in that water were now flowing through my veins. My eyelids felt weighted down with lead. In the end, I couldn't fight my body’s instincts and fell into a deep sleep. I started dreaming again. In the dream, I was standing at my bedroom door. The front door downstairs was wide open, leading to the free, safe darkness outside. A voice in my head told me that all I had to do was cross the landing, and I could escape. But the floor beneath my feet was moving. The staircase stretched into an impossible length, the steps rising and falling like waves. The solid wood twisted like taffy, making a sickening, creaking sound that set my teeth on edge. No time! I took a leap of faith and, unsurprisingly, fell right into the vortex of the stairs. The wooden waves swallowed me whole. “Mmmph…” I woke with a start. This was no dream; it was real, tangible darkness. A cold, heavy body was pressing down on me, its arms wrapped around me like iron bands. “You’re awake.”