Page 8 of Delivered to the Devil

The police’s odd explanation is like a shot of adrenaline to my paranoia. Suddenly, I see danger lurking everywhere. The people in the street all seem to be watching me with some hidden agenda, the noises outside my apartment all sound like someone trying to break in, and whenever I see a man in a black suit, I’m sure it’s one of my attackers.

The latter becomes particularly bad when a bulky, suit-clad man starts frequenting the restaurant. He always sits at a table in a corner in the back as if keeping to the shadows, and he never removes his black sunglasses despite the sun being unable to reach him through the room. Never seeing his eyes racks upmy fear to an unbearable pounding. Actually, his mere presence does the same. There’s a certain commanding energy to him that has me heaving for air even as my body unintentionally clenches in sick anticipation whenever I’m close to him. So I try to keep my distance and let my coworkers handle the tables near him.

But keeping my distance doesn’t quell the prickling sensation of being watched whenever he’s here. I have to remind myself constantly that I can’t keep seeing my attacker every time I see a man in a suit. If I keep going like this, I’ll end up having a full-on panic attack just walking the streets. So I do my best to shove the anxiety aside and save my energy for things I truly need to worry about. Like getting the lock on my door fixed or consider moving.

The former is easy enough. Getting a new, safer lock that the next best thief can’t just pick costs more than I can afford to spend, but it’s worth it. It gives me a sense of safety that’s better than the dresser, and I’ll survive eating oatmeal for the next few weeks. The new lock isn’t enough to stop me from barricading the door every night, though, or sleeping with my phone in my hand, 112 on speed dial.

I even manage to get my hands on a can of pepper spray. It takes a trip to one of the shady parts of district nine with a reference from one of my coworker’s friends. I put on a large hoodie and a loose pair of jogging pants and stuff my hair up under a cap, and then I set off to go meet my coworker’s friend’s acquaintance on Szabadkai út. It’s one of those streets I promised myself I’d never be stupid enough to step foot in. Dirt and garbage pile up at the sides of the deteriorated road. Abandoned houses that are probably drug dens loom around me. And men drive by at a slow speed, checking out the women in six-inch heels, tiny skirts, and overdone makeup.

My entire body trembles as I walk down the road with my head held low and hands tucked into the hoodie pocket. Itdoesn’t get better when I find the man in a red Adidas hoodie and a tattoo above his left brow. He doesn’t utter a word, just sizes me up and discreetly hands me the can as I procure a wad of cash.

It’s only when I step off the tram in the city center, as sure as I can be that no one has followed me, that I can breathe normally again. I slip my hand into the hoodie pocket and wrap my fingers around the can, and I keep it there until I’m back in my apartment, having turned the new lock and pushed the dresser against the door.

But despite all these safety measures, nothing can quite alleviate the feeling of being a walking target. I have a persistent, sickening feeling that someone’s watching me, but even as I keep looking over my shoulder like a maniac, I never see anything suspicious.

Either I’m going mad with anxiety, or a frighteningly competent person is watching me.

CHAPTER 4

“Crawling”

by Linkin Park

Rebecca

A few days after the police called, my paranoia goes through the roof when I come out from the restaurant kitchen in the afternoon. I halt so abruptly the beer glasses rattle on my tray. It’s pure luck that I don’t drop them.

There, at the corner table, he sits again. Istvan Gabor. A cup of coffee in hand, looking out over the river as if the view here is better than at the parliament towering above the water.

“What the hell are you doing?” Izsák snarls when he almost bumps into me on his way through the swinging door. “Get those fucking glasses to the bar, or I’ll cut the damage from your paycheck when you drop them.”

Not sparing him a glance, I head to the bar.

“You’re lucky I’m keeping you on at all. I might as well…”

Izsák’s condescending growl fades behind me, but I don’t need to hear him to know the rest. It’s always the same, complaining about my lack of Hungarian. He often mentions it to point out my uselessness—a poor excuse to limit my responsibilities to menial tasks. But I don’t let it get to me. It’s his loss, really. Being fluent in both English and German, I’m more than capable of serving the tourists that fill the restaurantat this time of year. And right now, I’m decidedly relieved about the restriction. I don’t think I could meet the man by the windows with more than a quivery voice and downcast eyes. The mere thought of facing him has my heart pounding against my rib cage as my clammy hands clutch the tray.

The next hour passes in a nervous blur as I try not to glance in Gabor’s direction. Paranoia crackles along the edges of my mind, making me feel like eyes are on me everywhere. But whenever I glance toward the corner table, Gabor is gazing out over the water and all the other customers are deep in conversation.

The nerves keep building to the point where I almost double over from relief when I come out from the kitchen to find him gone. Here I was, making up ridiculous ideas of him being the third man, thinking I’d awoken something feral within him at our first encounter, but the man didn’t even spare me a glance today.

I almost want to laugh at myself as I stare at the empty table. Gabor is probably just one of those weird rich men who like to come down from his mighty castle to get a glimpse of regular life.

I wipe the sweat from my brow and allow my breathing to settle as I cross the room to clear his table. But my breathing stops altogether as I look down at the tablecloth.

There, on the white fabric, next to the coffee cup, is a note. Nothing more. Just a small piece of white paper. Three innocent words written in neat penmanship—symmetrical and flawless. They are the most frightening words I’ve ever read.

Until next time.

CHAPTER 5

“Slave”

by Leprous

Rebecca

When I leave the restaurant before midnight with the excuse that I have a migraine—which isn’t far from the truth—I keep my hand in my bag, clutching the pepper spray.

---