Saturday, six o'clock. What was on his mind? Francesca's blue mini skirt.

Thomas was his name—like the train—but folks just called him Tommy. He stood seven inches over five feet and had a face smoother than an oiled-up car salesman. His physique? Like a beanstalk in the winter. He was suave, cool as a frozen cat with sunglasses on, a real one-faced, lady-killin' hustler.

"Hey, Fran," he said, offering the girl a polite wave from the water cooler.

She spun around in her chair, swinging those long, golden locks of hers like a shimmering sledgehammer. A delightful smile rode upon her pretty face, one that could convince a router to work without restarting it. "Good morning, Tommy," she spoke, voice softer than a pillow.

His face heated up like a forge, donning a redness that she, no doubt, took notice of. "The weather's crazy today, isn't it?" he stuttered out.

It was a good pickup line—one of his best. There was, however, a slight problem with it. If either of them were to look out the window just fifteen feet away, they would find that the weather was the definition of unextraordinary. Sunny, a couple clouds, no rain or sleet or snow, nothing special about it.

Francesca covered her mouth with her hand, failing to restrain a giggle. "My, Tommy, you're quite the charmer."

Right, that was enough. The window led to a near eighty-foot drop; it was time to take advantage of that.

"Say, do you want to grab dinner together?" she offered, fluttering her long eyelashes. "I know this marvelous French eatery called La Lune. It's just down Saint's Boulevard."

His heart nearly exploded. "Like a date?" he whimpered.

She shook her head, lips still splayed into a smile. "Not like a date. It is a date."

He swallowed his saliva and let out a shaky breath. Was this really happening? For all his false bravado, he'd only ever landed a few dates throughout his twenty-seven years of life, and never once with a woman like Francesca.

"That sounds great," he squeaked, trying to tame his shocked expression. "I'll tail you after work?"

"Uh-huh. It's a date," she reemphasized, hoping to score another reaction.

Tommy offered her a shaky smile, then traipsed over to his cubicle and ducked inside. He stared at an Excel spreadsheet for nearly twenty minutes, entertained by lewd thoughts and hopeful expectations.

The clacking of heels stirred him from his daze. It was the unmistakable foot-rhythm of Miss Laura—his poorly aging manager. The woman was quite a sight, and not in a good way. She resembled more a bipedal whale than a human, with her fat, blemished head and swollen belly that bulged like a toad's throat.

She parked herself behind his chair and cleared her throat. "Mister Barlow, get a rundown of your clients on my desk before twelve, or you can kiss your career goodbye," she squawked.

"Got it, boss," Tommy replied.

"You had better," she said, then huffed and waddled away, every short step drawing a pant from her puffy lips.

"Dude, what did you do to tick her off so bad?" Jamie asked, peaking his head around the cubicle wall. His long, dirty blonde hair drifted to the side like a flowing waterfall, revealing bloodshot eyes and a coffee moustache.

Jamie was an old friend, one from high school. The guy was a major geek—super into role-playing games. He was the one that introduced him to Dungeons and Dragons, a game that they'd been playing every week for almost ten years now.

Tommy shrugged his shoulders. "I wish I knew. Maybe I should file a complaint, try to get her fired."

"Yeah, that's a good idea," Jamie agreed with a nod. "Or just find a new job. You hate working here anyways."

"Well, who actually likes working here? We sell boxes—it's not the most thrilling of pursuits."

Jamie furrowed his brow. "I like working here. The pay is decent and we don't have to work overtime. Plus, we get dental insurance."

All valid points. Still, though—Tommy couldn't help but feel he was destined for greater things than selling boxes. He had a bachelor's in business administration, but never put it to use. Maybe it was time to spread his wings, let fate have its way with him for a few years, see where the wind takes him.

He shook his head. "You're right—it isn't so bad here. Still, I could do without that witch hovering over us."

"Want to slash her tires later?" Jamie asked, lips bent into a wide smile.

A grin crept onto Tommy's face. "I can't. I have a date with Francesca tonight."

Jamie's jaw dropped. "You're joking."

Tommy shook his head. "Not joking, I swear. She asked me. My signature move finally worked."

"You mean the one where you make a bland comment about the weather?"

"Bingo."

"Well, you proved me wrong. Is she wearing that blue mini-skirt today?"

"Yes, yes she is. I feel like it gets shorter every time she puts it on."

"Yeah, I—" Jamie's eyes widened. "Witch incoming!" He rolled back into his cubicle and began attacking his keyboard.

Tommy mimicked him, inserting random numbers into the table rows of his spreadsheet. He could hear the tip-tapping of the witch's heels pause behind him, then carry on down the way.

A smirk found its way onto his face. It was a close call. Lord only knows what she would've said had she caught him and Jamie taking a break.

He rolled his chair backwards, but then the darnedest thing happened—a black hand from the depths of Hell reached through the computer screen and grabbed his shirt collar.

"Oh, god," he screamed, clutching the hand, trying to tear its fingers from him. "Help!"

Jamie shot around the corner, rushing to help him. "Hold on, Tommy," he shouted, trying to drag him away from the vicious hand.

"I have to go to dinner with Francesca—I can't die yet!"

It was no use. The hand was far too strong. In seconds, Tommy's body was dragged over the desk and forced through the monitor, piece by piece, starting with his head. Then, it all faded to black—a noiseless nothingness, a void, the abyss of abysses.

"It seems the ritual failed," remarked a muffled voice.

"Shall we try it again?" asked another.

"No, it's best if we—"

"Quiet, you fools," came a harsh whisper. "Listen!"

Tommy's scream carried on, though its sound had shifted. It rang deeper than the ocean, like the roar of an angered grizzly. He squirmed as though a maggot over fire, pressing against the confines of the devil monitor.

A loud crashing noise shook his ears, then light graced his eyes, quieting him. He pushed himself upwards, towards the dim light, grasping at it like a babe would a teat. Then, the light gave way to images—some rather concerning images.

Stone. Stone everywhere. Stone roof, stone floor, stone walls, stone columns—everything was stone. And lighting the stone were a hundred candles, encircling him and the red octagram he rested in the center of.

"Where am I?" he boomed, shaking the room with his mighty voice.

Confusion set in. Why did his voice sound different? What was going on?

"My lord," stuttered one of the twelve robed men surrounding the octagram. He prostrated himself, angling his masked head towards the floor. "We have returned you from the afterlife to pledge ourselves as your faithful servants. Please accept us."