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When Life Hands You Daemons, Make Eudaimonia
Day seventy-three since Seulgi’s been surviving off of just cup noodles, sandwiches, frozen food, and cereal, she musters up the courage to treat herself to some delivery.
Shifting through old receipts and free lighters, Seulgi digs up the paper flyers she’s had delivered to her door over the years and studies them carefully, wondering if she’d get more bang for her buck by ordering pizza or jokbal. The grumbling of her stomach hastens her decision-making process; jokbal it is. There’s a big chance half of the content will consist of an inedible bone hidden under thin slices of the unsuspecting-looking meat, but she’s been there, done that. She’ll just use mind control to portion the meal.
The phone goes through quickly but the line itself takes a while to get picked up. A noisy middle-aged lady answers, breathing heavily. Seulgi opens her mouth to answer when the lady starts shouting at someone and says they’re closed. All that filters through the accidentally unended call is a man’s voice threatening to take the owner’s kidneys to compensate for his loaned money and another man telling people to get out of the store.
Seulgi quietly hangs up.
There’s an awkwardness that hangs around the house that now only Seulgi inhabits, so Seulgi clears her throat loudly to fill up some of the emptiness. So much for adjusting quickly to life after her parents’ deaths. Even the jokbal lady doesn’t want to talk to her.
Picking at the corner of the menu in her hands, Seulgi sighs before tossing it back into a cabinet drawer without care. She only has about an hour and a half left before her shift, which means the usual again. Seulgi peers in at the contents of her refrigerator. Sandwich it is.
All she has is ham and tomatoes, so Seulgi generally slathers the cheap bread up with various sauces to balance out the flavour profile. She’s found that a mix of mayonnaise, raspberry vinaigrette, honey mustard, ketchup, and barbecue sauce is a rather interesting combination (which probably has too much sodium, but she’s Korean so it’s no different than buying something off the streets).
The routine is simple and mindless: spread mayonnaise, squirt sauces, slap on ham and sliced tomatoes, eat. But blame it on the shock of hearing that the local jokbal owner’s kidneys are at risk, Seulgi deviates from the routine and takes her time making the sandwich. Spread mayonnaise, arrange the ham and tomatoes, draw pretty shapes with the sauces. Maybe she’ll throw some of those stale potato chips and the indestructible pizza cheese in there too (despite being purchased seven months ago, the cheese had managed to evade all traces of mold to the present). Hashtag, self care day. Hashtag, treat yourself.
Almost immediately upon completing a random symmetrical pattern with the vinaigrette (okay, now it looks like a bit too much sauce; she’ll be dealing with a rather liquidy meal later on), there’s smoke in the air and Seulgi blinks in confusion—she hasn’t turned on the stovetop for over two-and-a-half months. Putting down the vinaigrette bottle, Seulgi turns around to grab the cutting board (the frying pan is too far away for her to weaponize). However, she ends up freezing in place at the unknown presence in her kitchen raising an eyebrow at her, arms crossed. Seulgi squeaks.
“You couldn’t have come to rob this place after I left for work?”
The pretty woman opposite Seulgi lowers her eyebrow, seemingly amused. “You’re the one who called me here to rob you before you left for work.”
“Don’t tell me you’re the jokbal lady. Although I must say that you sound a lot more different in person.”
“The what?” The woman furrows her eyebrows. “Who the hell—”
“Listen, I don’t have enough for you to pay off those loan sharks because I work a horrid minimum-wage job at a funeral home and recently used my parents’ life insurance savings to buy this place so I wouldn’t get kicked out for falling behind on rent, so if you want to take my organs, you’ll have to, uh, fight me.” Seulgi feebly raises her fists to her face. “I took three months of taekwondo.”
“You’re holding your fists wrong.” The woman flicks at the air and a knife comes zooming past Seulgi into the woman’s hand. “You might be better off with one of these if a robber comes in.”
“...”
“Are you done staring?”
“Uh…yeah.” Seulgi blinks. She could’ve sworn that some black magic shit happened just now. “Did you just…?”
“Did you really summon me accidentally?” The woman rolls her eyes, snaps, and vanishes the knife into thin air. “With what? I don’t see any—”
At the sight of Seulgi’s sad-looking sandwich, the place falls quiet again.
“Oh.”
Seulgi smiles sheepishly. “Oh.”
A heavy sigh, then: “Not this shit again. You humans need to stop drawing random patterns on random things.”
“I’m sorry?”
“But since I’m already here, might as well go through the motions. I’m Irene.” Irene holds a hand up without waving. “You can think of me as a contractor. If you don’t have any business with me, I’ll be erasing your memory and taking my leave.”
“Wait!” Seulgi assembles her sandwich and holds the plate awkwardly, arms outstretched. “What should I do with this then?”
“What do you mean? It’s just a sandwich.”
“Well yes, but…”
Irene sighs again then crooks her finger. The sandwich goes flying into her hands. “Might as well, since you’ve interrupted my meal.”
Seulgi can’t do much else but watch as Irene takes a huge bite out of the nutritionally-lacking, high-sodium, high-sugar, high-calorie meal (the indestructible pizza cheese totals to quite a bit, it turns out). Irene chews quickly without much thought before slowing down, almost as if only now noticing the taste. She blinks. Seulgi braces herself for the barrage of insults and spewed sandwich bits about to head her way.
Irene takes another bite.
“Hey, this-” Irene finishes chewing then swallows before speaking again- “is not too bad.”
Seulgi narrows her eyes in suspicion. She knows her sandwiches well. “Are you sure?”
“I told you: I’m a contractor. I don’t lie.”
“What does being a contractor have to do with lying?”
Irene dismissively waves her hand. “Why the hell is this good?”
Okay, now Seulgi is offended. “Excuse you.”
“Yes, please, while I finish this sandwich. You don’t happen to have more, do you?”
Seulgi crosses her arms. While it’s true that Irene doesn’t seem particularly dangerous at the moment, there’s no way someone who legitimately thinks Seulgi’s sandwich is good is to be trusted (bringing to question whether people who can control knives and other objects, conversely, could be trusted). Even Seulgi—tastebuds annihilated after weeks of instant food and overly stimulating flavour palettes—can tell the truth about her food preparation skills (to say cooking would be an insult to her chef grandmother, bless her heart). And it’s dismal.
In the meantime, Irene has finished the sandwich and is looking expectantly at Seulgi. Seulgi isn’t sure what’s happening, so she stares back blankly.
Irene speaks first, not minding that Seulgi has mentally logged out. “I really don’t know how I should say this because my role is playing along, but I’m really damn tempted to write up a contract with you.” She sucks on a spot of sauce on her thumb. “Although I guess I could borrow the help of my abilities to make you sign one anyway.”
“Sounds illegal.” Seulgi takes a step back to put the kitchen island between them. “How do these contracts even work?”
“Well, just a disclaimer: you don’t really get a lawyer.”
“Okay, get out.”
Seulgi is shooing Irene away from the kitchen with a fly swatter when Irene lazily flicks the fly swatter out of her hand and levitates it in the air. Despite the obvious reminders in Seulgi’s head that Irene is not acting very human-like (no shit, Sherlock; that took a while), Seulgi still fires her questions at Irene.
“Who are you?”
“Irene, contractor of sorts.” Irene frowns. “You have a bad memory.”
Seulgi rolls her eyes, now wielding a cutting board in front of her. “Let me ask again. What are you?”
“Well, it seems like you’re not stupid.” Irene stretches her arms out widely and smiles insouciantly at Seulgi’s guard. “Ever read the Bible?”
“I’m from a Buddhist family.”
“Shit, okay. Let me try again.” Irene scratches her head awkwardly. “How about fiction? Like, fantasy, horror, supernatural genres.”
“I’m more of a bildungsroman and romance person.”
“Jesus fucking Christ, you’re telling me you haven’t read a single non-romance or building Romans book?”
“Bildungsroman.”
“Yeah, whatever. The Romans will forgive me.”
Seulgi makes an unamused face. “Just answer the question.”
“Fine, fine.”
Irene splays her fingers out and closes them into a fist again, as if testing them before an intensive physical action, then flicks open her fingers suddenly, igniting a flame that floats above her hand. Rolling it around from one palm to the other, she pretends to toss it at Seulgi before laughing at Seulgi’s dolphin shriek.
“What the fuck?!”
Irene laughs, used to the reaction. “Does that answer your question?”
“No!” Seulgi hurls the cutting board at Irene’s head, the latter avoiding it narrowly. “I asked what the hell you are, not if you can do magic tricks!”
“Ah, keyword!” Irene points at Seulgi with an encouraging face. “Keep going.”
A cereal box goes flying through the air at Irene this time. “No more games! Just tell me what you are!”
“Ow, why are you throwing it so hard? The corner got me.”
“Isn’t it weirder if I’m not trying to ward off a trespasser?”
Irene dodges another unidentified boxed object. “Fine, okay! I’m from hell!”
Seulgi pauses, cup ramen mid-throw. “Not at all surprised with how annoying you are.”
“No, like actually.” Irene pulls out a wallet before flashing credentials at Seulgi. Seulgi peers at the card only to realize that it’s written in some sort of ancient script. “I’m a demon.”
“You said you were a contractor. Of sorts,” Seulgi says accusingly. She maintains her stance with the ramen. “What are you doing here anyway? How did you get in? What do you want from me?”
“Well. You summoned me.” Irene pats her stomach. “A bit sloppy but the occult symbol you made with that sandwich did its job. You know? Poof.” Irene mimics the onomatopoeic sound with her hand. “Where I come from, that’s de facto not trespassing.”
“Shit.” Seulgi’s stance falters. Demons weren’t supposed to exist based on Buddhist traditions.
Irene continues. “And in case you didn’t know, demons make contracts with people who summon them. Like in movies. Occasionally we get someone who was just experimenting with henna tattoo ideas or works in geometric design accidentally summoning us, but generally we just erase their memories and everyone moves on with their lives. Which brings us back to my point while answering your last question.” Irene conjures up a piece of paper mid-air. “How would you like to sign a contract with me?”
Seulgi grips the ramen tightly again. “What?”
Unaffected, Irene steps towards Seulgi. “Trust me when I say you’ll never get a better deal in your life.” She holds up the conditions for Seulgi to see. “Legal lingo aside, I grant you three wishes in exchange for you making me sandwiches whenever I drop by. Essentially, you’re giving me permission to enter your house as I please.”
“That sounds way more advantageous to you though?!”
“Oh, but there’s more.” Irene smirks. “Unlike with other contracts, I’m putting absolutely no limitations or restrictions on your three wishes.”
“What does that mean?”
“A lot! For example, we’re not allowed to revive dead people; one, because there’s no guarantee they won’t turn out like those creature in your zombie movies, and two, because there are some crazies out there who’ll definitely wanna revive people or creatures who’d wipe out the entire living population on Earth. Like, a dinosaur revival would kind of suck for you, and we’ve not really had much success communicating with non-primates. Which means no deals for us.”
“Okay…”
“We also generally find loopholes just for shits and giggles, and also because it’s easier for us to uphold our end of the deal without haggling with the people up there.” Irene points toward the ceiling. “Not your upstairs neighbours; I mean the big man.”
Seulgi nods unconvincingly. “So if I wanted to bring about the end of the world right now, no one could stop me.”
“Uh, well…” Irene falters. “It would be great if you didn’t think in some drastic ways. I’m just trying to do my job here.” She raises her eyebrows pleadingly. “Come on, you’ll just be making me sandwiches. I’ll even secure the funds for you if you need it, but it would be less complicated for you too to make simple wishes.”
“You speak as if you didn’t just tell me I could wish for whatever.”
“I assure you that many people regret things they can’t handle.” A pause. “And it may or may not take me more energy to complete certain tasks.”
Seulgi sighs. “Okay, fine. Whatever.”
She glances at the contract. It wavers like a mirage in the middle of her unheated place, blotted with black ink she can’t decipher. Perhaps it won’t be too bad. She’s been starting to long for things that seem undefinable anyway. A little bustling, a bit more comforting. The cycle of pushing through the hours of her waking moments has been a tad lonely as of late. She’s been lost in a violent perpetuity of motions.
“I’d still like a copy of the contract written in a language I can understand, as well as the closest thing you’ve got to a lawyer to explain everything to me.”
§
“Seems like you’ve added something crunchy in here.”
Seulgi shrugs, trying not to mind Irene’s casual lounging in her kitchen. It’s been nearly three weeks since she signed the contract with Irene, and so far the latter has popped in unannounced at least twelve times, including when Seulgi was mid-shower and in REM sleep. That doesn’t count the times Irene may have popped in while Seulgi was out at work. Fortunately Seulgi doesn’t get surprised easily—perks of being a horror movie mania. Unfortunately, she’s also a private person, so it’s jarring to have a presence just…there in her personal space.
“I happened to have some leftover pickles from my pizza delivery.”
“Interesting. Fascinating.”
So far there hasn’t been much progress in whatever relationship they’ve established; Seulgi has maintained her daily routine of eat, sleep, and work, while Irene drops by when she’s hungry and leaves after watching Seulgi mindlessly stare at the carbon copy reality shows on TV. Truthfully, Seulgi feels uncomfortable that despite the erratic appearances, her deal with Irene is yet another task on a checklist of things to do. It’s all meaningless. The change is minimal.
“What wishes do you often get?”
Irene wipes her hands on a napkin and boosts herself onto the kitchen counter. “Generally depends on the person, but since most people get just one wish, it’s usually something extremely life-changing. Like great wealth or eradicating disease in their family’s future generations or fame, you know? I do get the occasional humanitarian who wishes for world peace, but they forget that it’s subjective and unlasting.”
“And what do you get in return? Probably not sandwiches from what I can gather.”
Irene drums her fingers on the edge of the countertop. “Their soul.”
“Oh.”
“Eh, it’s not as bad as you think. I just send them down to hell once they’re dead. The more I collect, the faster I get a promotion. That way I can acquire my own castle and retire.”
“... I see.”
It’s silent again, and Seulgi assumes Irene is about to take her leave. On a normal day she’d ignore the small poof and scent of smoke indicating Irene’s departure, but today she clears her throat to catch Irene’s attention as Irene jumps off the surface on which she was sitting. Irene turns to face her expectantly.
“Yeah, I can grant you that wish.”
“Huh?” Seulgi instinctively covers her chest, although she isn’t sure why. “You can read minds?”
Irene flops her hand at Seulgi. “I’m messing with you. But your face screams ‘I need to tell you something’ and I doubt it’s that you wanna have teatime with me to discuss afterlife politics.”
“Well. Yes.”
“Yes, you need to tell me something, or yes, you feel like listening to me rant about my grudges against the guy in the sky?”
“The former.” Seulgi frowns. “I don’t even believe in the guy in the sky.”
“Ah, don’t worry. I’ve heard there are a few countries up there. He’s just the one whose jurisdiction I’m in.”
“Good to know,” Seulgi says, even though she doesn’t actually care.
They’re back to silence. Irene crosses her arms and stares at Seulgi, waiting for her to speak.
“So are you going to tell me whatever was on your mind or are you expecting me to telepathically receive your message? I’m sorry to say I can only manage telekinesis and being a lampless genie.”
“Sorry, I just- I’m wondering how to word this.”
Irene walks into the living room and plops down on the sofa. “Just talk, and I’ll see what you’re trying to say. You can tell me when you want me to work my magic.”
“Okay.” Seulgi picks at her sleeve for a few seconds before speaking. “I hate my job.”
“Me too! We’re even.”
Seulgi glares at Irene.
“Okay, sorry. Go on.”
Seulgi looks up at the ceiling, back resting against the couch. “You know that feeling where it’s like you’re on a hamster wheel that won’t stop spinning? But you can’t really get off. Like technically you could, but you shouldn’t.”
“I’ve never been on a hamster wheel, but that’s depressing.”
“Yeah, but imagine.”
“Still depressing.”
“If you get off, you die.”
“Okay, now we’re talking.” Irene twirls a finger in the air, summoning a slight draft that whirls dust from the rug around. “So we’re stuck on this torturous hamster wheel and the floor is lava.”
“Sure.” Seulgi supposes that’s easier to explain than whatever dark alternative she has in mind. “So you keep going without any change in position, but you hate running. You hate that gravity is anchoring you to the same four steps at the bottom of the wheel, and you hate being in the wheel.”
“Now it just sounds like you’re throwing riddles at me, but I’m listening.”
There’s mold growing on the spot where her ceiling lights meet the surface, Seulgi notices. It’s like it doesn’t mind being discovered, despite the outcomes of its fate. “How can I make it easier?”
Irene leans her chin against her palm and hums. “I feel like a therapist.”
“I could very easily wish for you to start hating sandwiches.”
“Oh gosh, you’re an asshole, aren’t you?” Irene crinkles her nose in displeasure at Seulgi’s mild threat. “You know what you want; you just don’t feel like saying it for some reason.”
“I want to make sure it’s what I want before I make the decision.”
“Don’t be so timid. You have two more wishes after this to undo any regrets and make revisions.”
“That’d be a waste.”
“Not my problem.” Irene shrugs. “But if you want to quit your job—if you think it’ll make your spinny spins a bit less exerting, I don’t see why you’re hesitating so much.”
Would simply quitting her job make her happier? Seulgi ponders the question with too many doubts. She has very much made choices that shouldn’t have been made, and there are unknowns she isn’t confident enough to maneuver endlessly. She needs something more definite.
“You can quit your job of your own volition, without me,” Irene says. She releases the draft. “I think you just want the validation to start a new one. Preferably something you like.” A cloud covers the sun, making the room dark. It passes, bringing light back. “Why do you want to quit this job anyway?”
“It’s too depressing.” Seulgi picks at her sleeve again. “I’m always dealing with crying people who can’t process death. It’s all over, isn’t it?” She yanks at a loose thread. “They’re gone anyway.”
Irene silently watches Seulgi struggle with the thread, incapable of severing it completely from her sleeve. It hangs on like a stubborn child, unwilling to let go.
“Did you ever tell your parents about your dream job?”
“Never had one.” Seulgi pulls at the thread repeatedly. “They weren’t home much anyway.”
“Hmm.” Irene eyes the thread—the way it pulls tautly then bounces back. “Anything you’re good at?”
“Drawing, I guess. I used to do commissions for people back in college.”
“Do you like it?”
Seulgi stops her attack on the thread and stares at the colourful TV screen, the noise droning on like background static. She didn’t even realize she never turned it off. “Yeah, I do.”
Irene snaps, freeing the loose thread from the tight grip of the sleeve. “I guess you have your answer.”
§
Her first wish is that she finds a steady source of income as a freelance illustrator so that she can quit her job. (“Oh, that’s small,” Irene comments. “I was expecting a lottery win so you could do hobbies on the side.” She pauses to let Seulgi change her mind, but Seulgi dismisses the notion. “I’ve got two more wishes to undo and revise anyway,” Seulgi retorts. Irene’s words, not hers.) It comes in the form of a web novel platform reaching out to her via her old social media art account, asking Seulgi to illustrate covers and chapter images for several well-known authors. She finds it demanding at times, but it’s a change, and that in itself is oddly comforting to her. It definitely helps that she doesn’t have to spend half an hour jostling against strangers on the crowded bus and subway. Ease has found her cordially, and Seulgi allows herself to revel in its assured repose.
Irene brings food along sometimes—often of greater caliber than what Seulgi has at home—to trade with Seulgi. She claims that she thinks she’s getting the better end of the stick and is only taking the appropriate steps to show that she’s a fair contractor (Seulgi can’t help but notice that it’s the first acknowledgement of the quality of Seulgi’s sandwiches).
“If I recall correctly, Jamón Ibérico is pretty expensive.” Seulgi holds up a slice of the ham and observes it carefully. “Are all demons this rich?”
Irene places a few slices of the jamón in her sandwich. “I have connections.”
“Hopefully legal ones.”
Irene glares at Seulgi. “He owns the farm they use for the ham, alright?”
“Glad to know your friend is normal.”
“Correction: client.” Irene takes a bite of her food. The upgrade seems to please her greatly (Seulgi doesn’t blame her; the corner supermarket deli meat is probably only about half actual meat). “We’ll be seeing him in hell in a few years since he achieved his lifelong dream of having unlimited access to money and ham.”
Seulgi freezes, ham dangling right in front of her open mouth. She places the jamón down. “I see.” Poking at the delicacy (now with morally questionable undertones infused into the fatty meat and sweet, nutty flavour), Seulgi presses her lips together. “How’s that, by the way? Being a demon.”
Irene raises an eyebrow and places her sandwich down. “Oh, are we doing career talks? I would’ve prepared a presentation and handouts if you told me ahead of time.”
“Oh wow,” Seulgi chirps out robotically, “no need! I don’t want you to feel pressured.”
“You really have a way of taking a dig at people, don’t you?” Irene shrugs. “Your loss. I make a mean slideshow. You wouldn’t be able to tell that I’m older than most people’s great-grandparents.”
Seulgi wasn’t interested in the technological adventures of modern-day demons who were actually older than most people’s great-grandparents. “Must know a lot of people, then.”
“Literally, yes. Mostly in a past tense sort of manner though.”
“Not surprising.”
“I’ve got cool powers. But you already know that.”
“Anyone confuse you for a superhero yet?”
Irene covers her face then moves her hand away to reveal glowing purple irises and dark markings along the pale skin of her face. “Usually this clues them in about me not being Superman.”
“Under intoxicated circumstances, you could pass as an X-Man.”
“Not once they see the horns.”
“You’ve got horns?”
Irene throws her arms out, eliciting a loud, thunderous sound. “No, I’m kidding. But I’ve got some cool means of transportation.” She slightly flaps her dark wings. “Although teleporting is much faster most days.”
Seulgi blinks at the stray feathers fluttering through the air and reaches out to grab one. It’s surprisingly soft, almost like a cat’s fur, and it glints under the light like shimmering gold.
“My mom was well-known in our part of town for having really pretty wings. As you can see, I’ve inherited them.”
“You have parents?” Seulgi looks up at Irene. “I had always thought demons just kinda spawn.”
“What are we, video game characters or something?”
“Technically, in some sense, yes.”
“Well, for your information, video game characters are based off of us, not vice versa, and you can’t believe everything that comes out of fiction written by some species that barely interacts with us. I bet you humans say we’re ugly too.”
Seulgi eyes Irene’s huffing face. “I can’t speak to that. Remember I don’t read fantasy?”
“I bet you’re fun at parties. Don’t you have any friends to play with instead of being mean to me?”
“No.” A light shower starts to fall outside Seulgi’s living room window. “I don’t have any friends. Some things in life just stay on the backburner without you realizing it.”
They both stare out at the rain; there’s a soft haze of sunlight that filters through the rain clouds. Something quietly clatters from within the house, breaking Seulgi’s trance.
“I thought of my second wish.”
“I’m listening.”
The rainwater collects on a shingle and drips noisily onto the railing of Seulgi’s veranda. The rhythmic droplets ring out with a metallic clang upon impact.
“I’d like a nice friend. A true one who’s reliable and honest. It’s been a while since I’ve had one.”
§
An upbeat knocking at Seulgi’s door interrupts her from her half-asleep state three-quarters of the way through a movie she had put on earlier. Wiping the corner of her mouth and pausing the scene, Seulgi hurries to the door, opening it to reveal a brightly smiling woman a few centimeters smaller than her. She waves at Seulgi.
“Hi! I’m Wendy; I just moved in next door.”
Seulgi bows quickly and reciprocates the greeting. “Nice to meet you. I’m Seulgi.”
“Irene told me you were looking for a friend!” Wendy holds up a plate of rice cakes. “I’m passing these around right now. Give me a second.”
Without much warning, she slaps a plate of warm sirutteok into Seulgi’s hands. Seulgi hurriedly catches it to prevent it from sliding off the paper plate, nearly bumping into the door in the process. Wendy holds up the remaining rice cakes.
“I need to meet the other neighbours too, so I’ll come talk to you in a bit. Wait just thirty- no, ten minutes!”
With that, she dashes off, leaving Seulgi standing dumbfounded in the open doorway.
§
Wendy, who should have introduced herself to Seulgi as Seungwan (her “human” name), is a half-demon that Irene knows from having briefly stayed in Canada after signing a long-term contract with an adult actor wanting to break into vegan baking (apparently Wendy owes Irene some favours after a wild boar-related incident that neither demon is willing to expand upon). She’s bubbly and enthusiastic in all aspects of helping others, so Seulgi gets along with her relatively easily, despite not being used to the interminable talking. Part of it might have been the pastries sent from heaven (except they were actually made by an entity whose father was from hell); if not that, the confusing rowdiness in Seulgi’s house definitely played a part.
“Hey, Wendy. Have you ever thought of making cupcakes with cucumbers?”
Seulgi makes a horrified face at Irene’s suggestion, slamming a fist down onto the arm of her sofa in displeasure. Irene laughs at the dramatic reaction.
Ever since Wendy started to find every reason possible to get into Seulgi’s house, Irene has also been tagging along, often with an excuse about liking to hang out with Wendy if not being invited (without Seulgi’s knowledge) by Wendy herself. If previously Irene had only been visiting two or three times a week, now she was dropping by nearly every day, and Seulgi feels like she’ll get whiplash with how the two call for her attention from various points in the house.
“I don’t think I’ve tried that yet, but if Seulgi is willing to taste test—”
“No!” Seulgi stops that plan before it even happens. She’s avidly anti-cucumber. “Do that and I’m never letting you back in this house.”
That shuts Wendy up. It’s almost as if she has been programmed to want to be Seulgi’s friend. Seulgi doesn’t entirely hate her determination though.
“You’re such a killjoy.” Irene lifts a strand of Seulgi’s hair, flapping it around like a battle rope. Seulgi sighs and lets Irene do whatever. “You would deny Wendy the opportunity to experiment beyond her current abilities and create something no one has ever created before?”
“Those are a lot of words to say you like seeing me suffer.”
“Oops. Maybe it’s the demon in me.” Irene winks.
§
Many of Seulgi’s days are like that: spontaneous, loud, bothersome. There are times when she finds herself screaming because Wendy is cutting through a hamster only to find out that it’s cake or Irene knocks on the transparent glass door of Seulgi’s shower while Seulgi is in it. Other times she has to stay up at night finishing commissioned illustrations because Irene and Wendy spent the entire day bugging Seulgi to play board games with them, except because Seulgi is the only non-demon entity, she has to deal with all the barely noticeable cheating tricks they attempt to pull on her for every single game (at that point, she thinks they should just accept the fact that they’re absolutely horrible at board games and find something else to do—preferably something that can be done without her participation). Either way, there has been a huge rupture in Seulgi’s life, one that can’t be undone.
And Seulgi loves it.
Where previously, dinner was spent with TV sounds and refrigerator hums seated at the table with her, the present houses warm bodies debating loudly about whether radishes are a good substitute for carrots in carrot cake. To feel proximity to something living, tangible, and relatable is just like breathing, and for the first time, Seulgi awakens with the explosion of force imbued within her. The stupid jokes they make, the nonsensical arguments they have: all of it gives variation to the undulating everyday motions Seulgi could never escape, tides that fall gently with promises to rise up again as something more powerful. She revels in it.
It helps her forget about things she had been hoping to forget but only superficially achieving. Seulgi takes the time to restock her fridge with things that wither and rot as with all things that once lived and cleans up the drawer full of receipts that list purchases that had been made by people now gone. With a cursory glance at the small, neat text informing her of the four servings of pork belly her parents ate before they left, Seulgi drops the paper on top of the pile of memories that are okay to let go. Wendy takes it out to the recycling area on her way to empty her own trash.
“I’m glad to see you’re still buying the ingredients for my sandwiches,” Irene says, looking in at the contents of Seulgi’s refrigerator. She notices the spinach going bad already and smiles at the things that don’t change. “Although some of your grocery purchases do seem a bit uneconomical, given that you just order delivery every day.”
Seulgi shrugs, studying a reference picture. “I can afford it; might as well. And it’s convenient since I’ve gotten a bit busier with the side hustle designing t-shirts.”
“It’s almost like you didn’t need to wish for your success. Your proactivity goes beyond the premises of my actions.”
“It’s rare to hear you attribute something good to me other than what you perceive to be my expertise in sandwich-making.” Seulgi speaks without looking up from the rough sketch she starts drawing. “You’re starting to sound a lot less like a demon and more like a motivational coach.”
“Hey, we aren’t much different, okay?” Irene protests. “Both of us get people places and have them doing things that were once beyond their imagination.”
“Put optimistically, I guess.”
“I’m just being honest.” Irene smiles as Seulgi looks up to meet her eyes. “I’m a contractor, remember? I don’t lie.”
§
“Okay, don’t lie.” Seulgi narrows her eyes at Wendy in suspicion. “Is it actually edible?”
It’s Seulgi’s first time making a loaded baked potato, and by the gloriously black visual of the attempt, it’s safe to say that she should stay away from cooking. Wendy manages to force a cheerful smile either way, but anyone with half a brain knows she’s praying to gods outside her familiarity for a chance at survival. Seulgi tries stopping her, but when Irene got her a nice friend, she happened to send someone a little over the top in that field.
Irene clicks her tongue at Wendy, sandwich in hand. “I wouldn’t eat that if I were you.”
Wendy turns to look at Irene. Her eyes aren’t smiling, despite the wide grin on her mouth. “I don’t think you and that sandwich are ones to talk.”
“The sandwich isn’t talking.”
“I am every bit as capable as you of weaponizing whatever object is in my hand.”
Irene eyes the brick of a burnt potato (identifiable as “food” only by the garnished green onions atop the indestructible pizza cheese) and takes a cautious step back. “No but I actually think you should put that down; I haven’t felt this genuinely threatened for my life in decades.”
“The insides are manageable!” Wendy attempts to split the baked potato open with a fork, only to resort to shoving her fingers into the opening and trying to rip it open à la Captain America tearing apart a stump of wood. But despite the supernatural advantage Wendy has over the fictional muscle man, it seems that Seulgi has created something nearly as indestructible as her indeterminably old pizza cheese.
“If you can even get to the inside in the first place.” Irene snorts. “Why don’t you use your powers to open it?”
Wendy freezes. “Oh.”
“Yeah, oh.”
Irene squeezes two fingers in the air and the potato breaks (by the sound that resonates throughout the house, cracks would be the more accurate description) in half. Seulgi and Wendy stare at the rock hard halves rolling around on the ground. Picking one side up, Wendy pokes at the yellow flesh with her finger only to find that it doesn’t sink in even a tenth of a millimeter.
“We could…put it in the blender and rehydrate it with some milk to make mashed potatoes.”
(If the blender can even handle the potato in the first place is the important question).
Irene waves Wendy’s suggestion away dismissively. “Yeah, yeah. You two can do that. I’m fine not obliterating my health with indigestible carbs.”
Seulgi doesn’t comment on the alarmingly unhealthy nature of the sandwiches she makes Irene.
§
Not being one to be insulted for her culinary skills by someone who regularly eats chickpeas slathered in wasabi ketchup, Seulgi tries her hand at cooking again when Irene appears around lunchtime on a weekend. She’s determined to make something her chef grandmother would be proud of this time, even though she’s a bit worried that Irene’s gustatory preferences may just be unusual, period. In which case her chances of getting an accurate review of the omelette she plans on making are kind of screwed.
Oh well. She can always knock on the wall and holler for Wendy to come over and recite her day’s events to Irene. That ought to get Irene to behave.
“Are you trying to poison someone again?” Irene peers at the contents of the bowl Seulgi is mixing. “If I wasn’t around to conduct the Heimlich maneuver last time, Wendy would have actually died.”
“Stop exaggerating; she just needed some water.”
Seulgi ignores Irene’s rebuttal and slowly dices the onion with laser focus, peeling her eyes open against the attack of the chemical compounds bringing tears rolling down her face in order to not slice off her knuckle. After a while, Irene stops complaining and instead takes a spot next to Seulgi, instructing her to hold the knife a certain way and curl her fingers slightly to prevent injuries.
“Everything takes time and practice,” Irene mentions, nodding at the slow improvement Seulgi shows. “Just like you can’t run without learning how to walk first.”
Seulgi tosses the diced onions into the bowl with the beaten eggs and carrots. “Maybe I should wish to become a good cook.”
“Seriously?” Irene looks bemused. “You can just build up your skill level.”
Pulling out the ham, Seulgi focuses on the cutting board again. “I just guess I missed out on a lot because I couldn’t cook.”
“Yeah, like good nutrition.”
Seulgi furrows her eyebrows, not taking her eyes off the food. “I don’t have any health issues.”
“Because you’re young. For now.” Irene starts telekinetically flicking the cubes Seulgi has finished dicing one by one into the bowl.
“You speak as if you aren’t a few hundred years old.”
“Excuse you, I’m only a hundred and fourteen.”
“Good to know.” Seulgi swats Irene away, distracted by the constant movement right next to her knife, and finishes her task. “Although, I guess if I were to become a good cook, there’s no guarantee that you’d like my sandwiches the same.”
“I’d probably just go find someone else then since the contract would end at that point anyway, although I haven’t really ever found anyone quite satisfactory enough to this day.” Irene tilts her face into Seulgi’s view. “Why? Have you taken a liking to making me sandwiches?”
“Psh. You wish.” Seulgi shoves Irene aside with a finger. “I still can’t believe I’m buying two loaves of sandwich bread every week. Has your appetite gotten bigger?”
Irene shrugs. “Hey, at least you have someone who appreciates whatever you’ve got going on in the culinary department. I can’t say the same for Wendy, in a completely honest manner.”
She isn’t wrong, technically. Seulgi never imagined someone—a demon at that—would one day break (read: materialize) into her house in the midst of her loneliest echoes and fill her life up with so much noise that she wouldn’t be able to tell how big and empty her place is. Chaos be damned, Seulgi embraces the spontaneity of never knowing when Irene or Wendy will bug her to join their shenanigans because it takes her mind away from matters of dwelling—of past and enchainment and routine. No more hamster wheel for her.
“Hey, Irene.”
“What’s up?”
“I thought of my third wish.”
As if having thought that Seulgi might have forgotten, Irene blinks in surprise. After a moment of silence, she nods in understanding and gestures for Seulgi to continue.
“Again, it’s not exact, so maybe you can walk me through this.”
“Oh, am I playing therapist again?”
Seulgi laughs. “No, think of it as a lesson. Kind of like how you were doing earlier with the onion dicing.”
“Okay, that’s no biggie. Just don’t cry like you were with the onions.”
“Hey, those weren’t sad tears, okay?”
“But I was sad at the horrid state of your technique, so let’s not generalize.”
Seulgi stares at Irene with eyebrows raised. Irene holds her hands up in surrender.
“Fine, go ahead.”
They make their way to the living room and take a seat side by side on the couch. Seulgi picks up the remote control then puts it back down, wondering whether or not to have background noise playing as they talk. She then realizes that it’s been a while since she left the TV on mindlessly to fill in the quiet refrains of her waking hours.
“Seungwan won’t live forever, will she?”
Irene takes a moment to think about the question. “I mean, she has a much longer lifespan than you do, but no, she won’t live forever. Probably has a few more decades at best.”
“So she’ll be gone sometime during my life too.”
“Not if you die first.”
Seulgi makes an unamused face. “Are all hellbound entities this obsessed with death, or are you special?”
“I just have a realistic perception of everything that goes on,” Irene says matter-of-factly. “And what that means is everything dies.”
“I’m starting to regret having this conversation with you.”
“You’re the one who wanted a counselling session before making your third wish.”
“Ugh, whatever.” Seulgi presses three fingers to her temple in exasperation. “And is there no way to make her live longer?”
“You’d have to get her opinion on this matter too, but it seems like she plans on joining her dad in hell after everything’s done.”
“I see.”
Seulgi feels a little sad at that thought: while it’s true that everyone has to die and that Wendy is a friend Irene bestowed upon her, knowing that Wendy doesn’t have much longer to live makes Seulgi nostalgic already. To understand that ends bring devastation to some and peace to others is utterly wicked, but Seulgi thinks it would make her happier to know Wendy is happy too. Just like a true friend would be.
Irene observes Seulgi’s internal struggle without saying anything, allowing Seulgi the space to process her words. Unfortunately, it’s much more difficult for Seulgi to see Wendy in the afterlife; she doesn’t have the same access to hell as Irene does, and even if she did end up going, demons and souls are kept separate. Plus, Seulgi was Buddhist. Hell might not even be an option.
“But you’ve still got a couple years. Don’t be a Debbie downer already.”
Seulgi grimaces. “I’ll be lonely. It’s not like I have any family around either.”
“You can always make new friends.”
“They won’t be the same as Wendy.” Seulgi stares off into the distance. “Why don’t you stay with me?”
“I already do that quite often.”
“No, for my last wish, I mean.” Turning to face Irene, Seulgi smiles slightly, eyes softening in a manner Irene has never seen before. “Won’t you stay with me in this mortal realm until I die? After this contract ends, even if I no longer have the strength to make you shitty sandwiches. Just until my eternity comes to a rest.”
Irene’s mouth opens slightly, unable to speak. There’s something so earnest about the way Seulgi’s eyes waver uncertainly that Irene reaches out to wipe tears that aren’t present.
“My sandwich bread will get moldy.” Seulgi drops her gaze to her hands and speaks hurried excuses disguised as careful thoughts. “I’ve no reason to eat so much bread nowadays, so I’ll need someone to finish it so I don’t waste my money. And I’m no good at cooking; there’s only so much delivery can do for me once I’m older and need good nutrition. I’m sure all those exotic dishes you bring from lord knows where will be enough to keep me healthy and alert. Yes, I can afford most of it too, but sometimes you find things I don’t know even existed, you know?”
“Is that so?” Irene asks, pleased by the symbiotic relationship that has somehow formed between the two of them. Regardless of contract.
“Yeah. And you like my sandwiches. You said you haven’t found a single being who can approximate it.” Seulgi lightly taps Irene’s shoulder. “Don’t tell me you won’t miss it once you leave after this contract ends?”
Irene nods slowly. “I will.”
“Is it too difficult for you to grant?”
Irene gives Seulgi a small smile. “I’ll be away for periods of time when I’m making deals with other people.”
“Not forever though, right?”
“I can try to make them short. We do use loopholes after all.”
“I’m not asking for a 24/7 marked security either. Not even Wendy does that.”
Irene laughs, knowing that Wendy would if given the chance. “I won’t grow old even when you do.”
“I mean, one of us should stay hot forever given the chance. Would be a waste not to.”
“Seems way more advantageous to you though,” Irene says softly, tossing Seulgi’s words back at her. “What about me once you’re gone?”
Seulgi answers after a long pause, smiling as if remembering something. “We’ll meet again. Buddhists believe in reincarnation.”
And at Seulgi’s confident response, Irene decides she’ll do it. Because that’s the most perfect answer Irene can imagine Seulgi ever saying, and it’s enough to make her know that if Seulgi says they’ll meet again, Irene will make it happen. Regardless of contract.
After all, won’t she miss Seulgi just as much as (if not more than) she’ll miss her sandwiches?