The fly had teeth. Miniscule, bone-yellow teeth with no proboscis—just a disturbingly human-like mouth underneath its large multi-lensed eyes. The view through the magnifying glass showed it opening and closing its mouth, almost smacking its lips, sickly green saliva stringing from top to bottom.

Isaac set the magnifier down, leaned back in his chair. He certainly wasn’t an entomologist, but he was fairly positive no species of fly had choppers. Aside from that, and its unusual size—about as big as a bumblebee—it appeared to be a run-of-the-mill housefly. Now it sat in its jar, motionless except for the teeth-gnashing, like a cow chewing cud.

Across the table sat a young man named Randy. No, it was Randolph, as he had snootily informed Isaac. There were three others in the room with them. A bald fellow named Glenn, who carried himself like a tough guy, leaned against the wall by the door. A book-wormy guy named Stu sat on a stool at the kitchen counter. Lastly, sprawled on the couch was a dark-haired girl named, or more aptly, nicknamed Raven.

The job he had been assigned seemed simple. Pick up a “package” at this address and deliver it to Arrangement. As far as assignments went this had sounded like a no-brainer. Even better the pickup was in a fairly well-to-do part of town in an upscale apartment. The four occupants were young, probably living it up on their parent’s dime. Isaac got the initial feeling they were persnickety, know-it-alls, but not really dangerous.

Easy pickup. Easy delivery. Easy money.

However, upon stepping off the elevator at the top floor and walking towards the apartment, he had started getting apprehensive. He wasn’t a claustrophobic person, but the hallway had felt small, confining, dark. There were windows at both ends of the hall, sunlight beaming in, and recessed fluorescents along the ceiling. All the sources of light had seemed suitably bright when he had looked directly at them, but for some reason, nothing penetrated the gloominess. The cramped feeling only intensified the closer he had gotten to apartment 10D.

Glenn had been the one who let him in, staring sourly at him in some sort of bid at intimidation. He certainly had the expression down, but he was thin and lanky and really only seemed as tough as his scowl made him.

Isaac had found the interior of the apartment aped the hallway, even more so. The place was clearly roomy and well decorated. But again, everything felt cramped, the air thick like a crowded elevator. The windows were open, and a pleasant breeze tussled the drapes. Lights on. Television on. Still, it remained somehow dark. The gloom always seemed to be at the edges of his peripheral vision, as if it consciously moved out of his direct sight when he looked around.

Randolph had introduced himself and his friends with dismissive waves of his hand. Stu had grunted and Raven had barely acknowledged being spoken to and had just kept her eyes vacantly on the TV. When Stu had unenthusiastically offered him something to drink Isaac had noted several two-liter bottles of soda on the counter, each somehow crushed in on themselves, like someone had squeezed the air out and then put the cap back on.

The group seemed nervous, twitchy, but somehow still lazy and depressed. Randolph hadn’t moved from being slumped in his chair, but his eyes darted. Raven chewed her nails or pulled at holes in her tights but was otherwise sprawled uncaringly on the couch. Stu paced, albeit slowly, aimlessly around the kitchen, often peering out the window. Glenn looked like he wanted to punch something but only if it wandered right up and picked a fight so that he didn’t have to put any effort into it. The whole group behaved like they were afraid of something but too tired to do anything about it.

And now Isaac sat, looking at the jar with the fly. He’d asked for the package and this is what was set before him. They even supplied the magnifier as if knowing he’d be curious.

“Where’d it come from?” Isaac asked. He knew he should just grab it and go, but every magician carried the curse of curiosity. It couldn’t be helped.

Randolph shifted in his chair. The room had a nervous energy to it, a vibe of distrust. Isaac assumed this was what a drug deal would feel like. A business transaction where everyone teetered on the edge, each waiting for someone else to do something brash, but also eager for the relief of having the merchandise change hands. “We found it by accident.”

“That so?”

The man nodded, looking not at Isaac but at the jar.

“My employer will want to know its origins.” This was a lie. No information had been requested, but Randolph here didn’t know that.

“Oh, just tell him. Who cares anymore,” said Raven, spitting out a hangnail. Isaac glanced at her, but she had spoken without tearing her eyes from the television.

“We were screwing around with spells. Pentagrams. Black magic.”

Isaac nodded. “I’m familiar with it.”

“We had the dumb, drunken idea of summoning a demon. Asking it questions or for wishes.”

Raven snorted derisively. “Like a genie or something.”

“Shut up Raven. This is your fault,” Randolph snapped at her. Or he tried to snap at her. His words had no spark to them, just a sense of fatigue. Back to Isaac, he said, “We didn’t think it would work. And it didn’t really seem to. No monsters. No flames.”

“No show,” said Raven, clearly disappointed in how this whole scenario had played out.

Stu spoke up, his arms crossed as if warding off cold. “But then we found the fly. Right in the middle of the pentagram. Just sitting there.”

Isaac nodded. Things were starting to make sense. The oppressive miasma emanated from the fly, slowly exerting a crushing pressure into its environment. Claustrophobia, shadows, depression, as well as physical effects like the collapsed plastic bottles. He had no idea of the extent of its power. Maybe it had already reached its limit. Maybe it would eventually kill them. “Can I see this pentagram?”

Stu shook his head. “We did the ritual at Raven’s place. Erased it right after.”

“Where’d you get the diagrams?”

“I found them,” Raven said with a sigh. “But I burned the papers. They were complete failures anyway.” She still had yet to make eye contact.

“That’s a shame. Obviously, they worked.”

She finally looked at him. She was pale with dark hair and black clothing, lipstick, nails, and fishnet stockings. If she had a pointed hat, she’d be wearing a complete sexy-witch costume. Silliness aside, she was attractive, and he imagined these three clowns hopped when she said frog. “Really? A fly? Why a fly? What’s so demonic about that?” The girl seemed put-out, offended that some other-dimensional power had sent her a bug instead of a demon.

“Flies are used pretty extensively in Hell.” Isaac thought about how to explain it in real-life terms, “They’re infused with information. That way they can deliver messages.”

“It can talk?” Stu asked.

“No. My guess is it has to be eaten. Then the information kind of...leaks...into the swallower.” There was really no efficient way to explain it.

“Lord of the Flies,” Stu whispered reverently, just now making the connection.

“Yeah,” Isaac nodded, although what he really wanted to do was line them up and do one consecutive Three Stooges style slap along all four faces. The link should have been freaking obvious. Damn weekend demonologists. His annoyance was irrelevant since he was taking the bug with him. The effects should fade, allowing them to return to whatever god-awful personalities they had previously. It was the kind of good deed he liked, a savior as by-product. One last question though. “How’d you know someone was coming to get it?”

Randolph looked at his cell phone as if it had bitten him. “Someone called me. Didn’t say who it was. Said it knew what we had and that someone would be by to collect it.” He swallowed hard. “Sounded...”

“Like someone not to fuck with?” Isaac finished for him and the man nodded. “Yeah, I’m familiar with that too.” He reached for the jar.

A knock came at the door.

It echoed through the apartment. Three raps—rhythmically spaced. Isaac imagined each of them would have jumped in fright if not clinically depressed by the evil fly. Instead, they just kind of looked at the door in confusion, except for Raven, still glued to the TV.

“Expecting someone?” he asked.

“Just you,” Randolph replied.

Unexpected guests during an evil fly transaction? Probably couldn’t be chalked up to coincidence. The ominous knock, like a bell tolling, came again in three more bangs.

“Who is it?” Glenn finally said through the door.

The voice that responded was feminine, monotone, and bold in its authority. “My name is Ms. Feckle. I have come to collect the property of my lord. Your cooperation would be appreciated. Should you comply I swear to fatally harm you in the most efficient, and therefore painless, method that I can employ.”

A chill itched its way down Isaac’s spine. The voice had been almost robotic. No inflections. No emotion. But what really bothered him had been “my lord”. Who says that? People in the service of some kind of Hellspawn, that’s who, he surmised.

The odd language confused Glenn and he responded to the threat with “huh?” and leaned forward to the peephole. Isaac raised a hand to ward against the action but probably should have yelled dramatically instead.

The ensuing gunshot burst through the peephole and into Glenn’s face, popping his head back in a red spray. It was a deafening bang from what was presumably a very large gun. Glenn fell backward, landed staring at the ceiling, or would have been staring if his face weren’t a craterous ruin.

The reaction of Glenn’s compatriots was surprisingly muted. None of them moved, just glared at the door like they were helpless to resist this violent fate. Isaac was on his feet with jar in hand. “All of you, get into the bedroom!” he ordered with a hiss, trying to avoid the killer at the door overhearing. But it was pointless. None of them moved.

The door was still bolted at the deadlock and locked at the knob. A shape peered at the gunshot-expanded peephole. Again, the level, passionless voice, “In case you question whether I’m a being of my word, your friend has transitioned from this life quickly and without pain. I once more humbly request your cooperation and will happily hold up my end of the bargain.”

“Give her the fly. Just get this over with,” Raven said. She hadn’t moved, but had turned off the TV, annoyed with the interruptions.

Isaac frowned. The weird dark power had depressed them into complete inaction, removed even the energy to fight for their lives. He pulled a .32 revolver from his Everbag, aimed for the keyhole and the dark, examining eye. But it was a small target and he missed, the bullet splintering the wood just above it but failing to penetrate. The figure at the door ducked away, a shard of light now spilling unhindered through the hole.

“I’ll take that as a sign that you are disinclined to accept my most generous offer,” Ms. Feckle said. A blast from the hall and the deadbolt was blown in. A second and the doorknob shattered to pieces. There was nothing securing the door now and it swung open slowly under its own weight. Isaac fell back, trained his pistol across the kitchen counter. Stu was still on the stool next to him, watching with lazy interest. “My lord has no interest in your suffering, only that you return his property and then die for this trespass.”

“We’ve already given the fly to someone. He’s in the kitchen right now aiming a gun at you,” Raven said, sounding annoyed.

“Seriously?” Isaac glared at her in anger, resisting the temptation to shoot her himself.

“Oh my,” Ms. Feckle said. “Another courier? In service of whom may I ask?” There was a hint of enthusiasm to her voice now.

Isaac sighed. Oh well, his cover was blown anyway. “My client’s name is strictly confidential.”

“Ah, I assumed as much. It’s information I’ll have to pull from you, along with flesh and bone.” As she finished the sentence she stepped back into the doorway, or rather she flashed across the doorway, from left to right, a large handgun, silver and gleaming, fired, caught Randolph in the chest, and blasted him from his chair. Isaac caught a glimpse of a long black coat, some kind of old-fashioned hat, and exceedingly pale skin.

“Raven, hide!” Isaac commanded, but the girl ignored him and continued to sit passively. In the end, she wouldn’t have saved herself anyway as another boom from Ms. Feckle’s hand cannon sent a shell through the wall next to the door and into her head. She was finally moved from her seat, tossed over the arm of the couch, taking down the lamp next to it. It was an impressive shot. The killer must have glimpsed her position when she flitted past the doorway and then blindly killed her through a solid wall. Isaac moved slightly, in case this Feckle character had also gotten a bead on him.

“That’s some gun you have there,” Isaac shouted to the hallway.

“Thank you. Hell forged.”

“They make guns in Hell?”

“Why wouldn’t they?”

Isaac was surprised at this little nugget of knowledge, even if it made perfect sense. Even Stu said “huh”. Having forgotten the little fellow was still there Isaac turned to him, “Hey Stu, you may want to...” His voice was interrupted as Ms. Feckle danced across the door again, fired once, and sent Stu violently from the stool and into a row of kitchen cabinets. Doors swung open and various cooking utensils toppled out with a cacophony of clangs and crashes. “...duck,” Isaac finished his sentence.

There was a fist-sized hole in the man’s chest and the wound sizzled and smoked. Hell forged firearm indeed. This was a foe beyond his skill level and now he found himself as the only target left.