6,323 words. (AKA I rocked)

I did exactly as I said I would. I went and I wrote and I wrote and I wrote. I wrote until I wanted to stop three times, and then I kept writing. I just forced it out. It might not be great, but it's there, and it's building into something awesome. I am totally going to do this again, soon. :D

The story revolves around a private detective who is closely tied into the supernatural circles, but lacks any real ability himself. This is just a bit from when he and his partner first get their case.

Please bear in mind that I didn't do any editing, so there's lots of typos, poor sentence structure, and probably a few reused words thrown in.

Comments on content would be welcome.

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“Well...” She got nice and quiet, the way most people do right before they start to talk about something dreadfully serious. It was always a little amusing to me how people could bring themselves into a strangers office to ask for help, but lose their nerve before actually getting to bring up whatever brought them there.

I stared out the window at the city while she thought. It was a pity that the city from my dreams wasn't the one out my window. Not that I wished harm on anyone, but that it would be easier to investigate if that were the case. As it was, I'd have to hit the library a little later, looking for photos and landmarks, and hoping I still remembered it all those hours later.

“My husband...” she finally began. I gave her my full attention as she blurted out, “I think he's sold his soul.”

“You don't say.” I said, raising an eyebrow. “To whom? Do you know?”

She stared at me for a moment, wide eyed, then said, “I... I just assumed to the Devil.”

I sighed. It was great that she was aware enough of the world around her to come to us, but it's always a little touchy dealing with someone who pulled their supernatural knowledge from Faust. “Actually, last I saw, there are no fewer than 16 demons who commonly barter for souls. The big bad, surprisingly, isn't one of them.”

“Why not?” She asked, looking a little confused. Rather than launch into a long lengthy conversation about Demonology, Hell Dimensions, Astral Treaties, and Shadow-History, I just shrugged.

“The Big Bad doesn't come to earth. Some claim to barter on his behalf, but their gifts come from the demons themselves.” At this, the girl looked toughtful. It was a cute expression. “Now,” I said after catching myself staring. “Why do you believe your husband has sold his soul?”

“Well...” The girl looked down at the purse in her lap. “I have some proof.”

“Like a signed contract?” I asked without really meaning it.

The girl stared at me, then said, in awe, “You really are a prophet!” And produced a tannish-brown piece of paper, rolled up into a tight scroll, and sealed with wax. The seal had already been broken, so I didn't bother checking it for traps first. Besides, being able to stop a trap wouldn't necessarily mean I could disable it.

The scroll said simply, “In the matter of Henry J. Perry, as well as that of his eternal soul. There has been an agreement, witnissed by Vghh'll Hyuff, witnessed by George Mason Pantana, witnessed by The Esteemed Valis Drake, of an exchange at the time of death. In return for assistance, detailed verbally and witnessed by the aforementioned, from the receiving party, Hentry J. Perry willingly, and without any compulsion, releases his eternal bond with his own soul. This release is irrevokable, and eternal. With the signing, this contract becomes fact.”

I read it twice, then shrugged and laid it down. “Where did you get this?”

She again looked embarrassed. “I found it.”

“where?”

“Hidden in his sock drawer.”

I nodded, trying very hard to look lost in thought. In reality, I was too confused to actually speak. While contracts do exist, and look much like the document she just gave to me, they usually aren't on Earth. The demon, who arranges for the transfer, usually keeps the contract on him, or at his place of residence. As opposed to an earth contract, which is signed in triplicate, copied again and again, and notorized just for the sake of eternity, contracts with the demon realm are usually worth exactly the paper they're printed on. Meaning, of course, that when the paper is destroyed, so too is the contract broken.

So why would Henry have his own damnation? Why would he keep in his sock drawer, and not in some place where the forces of darkness couldn't just snatch it away. And how did he get it? There's only one person I've ever heard of stealing from a demon and getting away with it, and he did it only by nearly dying. I'm pretty sure it's not something that's just...ya know... done.

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I'll post more later
Thanks for reading.