The Demon Hotline

The blood-red rotary phone on my desk, with its twisted cord like a serpent's tail, was a relic from another time. I’d found it in a dusty corner of an old curiosity shop, intrigued by the bizarre symbol—a circle within a pentagram—etched into its base. The shopkeeper’s unsettling grin and glinting eyes hinted at secrets I could only guess at. "Special item," he'd said. "For the brave or the foolish." I'm Nathaniel Grimes, a 43-year-old occult enthusiast. My dark hair streaked with gray and my eyes, haunted by sleepless nights, reflect a lifetime of chasing shadows. Tonight, the air in my study felt charged. The phone had been silent until now. I dialed the number on its brass plate: 666-HELL.