To:[email protected]
From:[email protected]
Subject: Vetting Lodging on Earth
Dear Travel Advisors,
I am not one to complain, except for that stretch of time Drekkis kept exploding his possessions. I like a good, exploded corpse as much as the next demon, but twelve in two days is excessive.
As you know, I’ve just returned from a trip above to vet Airbnbs. We’ve always struggled to find aboveground housing for working demons. Honestly, it’s exhausting.
Airbnb seemed like the next step forward. We wouldn’t have to share housing with mortals (even though they can’t see us), and we could set up an account to pay in a way that appears “normal” to them. But I am here to tell you: they are on to us.
My very first booking went downhill quickly. I showed up in my people suit, because the human renting the space insisted on dropping off the keys in person. It smells like mothballs and burgers, and my horns always get smashed in that stupid skin suit—but I digress.
I arrived, and it was a church. Of course it was. I was certain I was at the wrong place until a small, thin man with glasses came out and waved at me. He flapped his arm so aggressively I thought his wire-framed glasses would fly off his face. What I really hoped was that he’d flap his arm right off his shoulder. It would’ve really boosted my mood.
I walked toward him, and he shoved his hand out to me. I forget that humans love touching each other—yuck. As I grasped his hand, my suit squeaked from strain. I noticed a strange look in his eye, like he was the one unsettled.
After the gross greeting, he led me inside, stopping just inside the narthex and looking back at me, waiting for me to follow. I know now he didn’t think I could come inside. Humans are idiots.
He walked me through the lobby and explained that the church had decided to convert their old basement into a space they could rent to travelers to make money for upgrades.
We reached the bottom of the stairs, and it was all I could do not to react. The walls were covered in crosses. Fully covered. If there wasn’t a physical cross hanging, there was one painted on the wall itself. It looked like someone had been trapped down here until they went mad and decorated with feces and blood. It was magnificent. I like a place that screams crazy.
The basement was smaller than I expected, about the size of a human bedroom. At the back of the room was a built-in baptismal font, the size of a large hot tub but rectangular. It had been drained and there was bedding in it. Okay.
After showing me around, the man asked me to bow my head in prayer with him. At that moment, I considered ripping my skin suit off and eating him. However, that would’ve defeated the entire purpose of this trip, so I acquiesced. After the prayer (and more strange looks from the landlord), he left me for the night.
Once alone, I made myself comfortable and settled in.
I awoke to the sound of voices. I was disoriented at first, and when I sat up, I hit my head on the glass side of my bed. My horn went straight through, shattering the glass. There went my deposit.
After a minute, I realized I was listening to chanting. It was a prerecorded bunch of gibberish. I mean, really, if they wanted to try an exorcism, they could at least get the pronunciation correct. That’s the problem with a dead language, isn’t it? You never know if you’re saying the Latin words properly.
I got up to look for the speakers so I could disconnect them and go back to sleep.Just as I crouched to look behind the couch, I felt a drop of water hit the back of my neck. Then my arm. They had installed a misting system to go with the recorded chanting. I knew it was holy water by the way it made me itch.
I packed up and left. No use staying when I knew these people weren’t going to let me sleep. I was halfway home before I realized I’d left my suit hanging in the shower. Oh well. Let them think they vanquished me. I give up.
It is my official recommendation that we abandon this project and go back to the tried-and-true method that has worked for centuries: possession. It’s cheaper for us, and usually no one figures it out. By the time someone notices, we’re gone.
I haven’t had a good possession since the early ’80s, and I miss it. The internal screaming that only I can hear. I get goosebumps at the memories.
We can discuss all this at the next meeting, but I wanted to make you aware of this issue now. The humans have somehow figured out our Airbnb plan. We may have a mole.
This falls under Professional Development. I will be expensing the holy water rash cream.
Assistant to Hellfire and Damnation,
Infernox of the TPS Reports
