Office Hell: A Demon Walks In | Lucifer, Lies & Power Games – Supernatural Thriller Podcast (Ep. 248

A perfectly ordered office. A controlled mind. A monster pretending to be civilised.

In this episode of Werewolf the Podcast, Simon—soldier, strategist, and something far more dangerous—finds his carefully constructed world disrupted when a demon walks into his office… uninvited.

What follows is not a fight—but a game.

A battle of patience, power, and precision as Belphastus, arrogant and calculating, claims backing from Lucifer herself. But Simon knows better. And in a world of demons, lies are often more dangerous than truth.

As tensions rise, threats are made, and violence lingers just beneath the surface, one thing becomes clear:

👉 This is not about brute force.
👉 This is about control.

Meanwhile, outside the office, the consequences unfold—death, cover-ups, and the quiet machinery of a world that hides monsters in plain sight.

Blending dark humour, psychological tension, and supernatural horror, this episode explores what happens when Hell operates… like a workplace.

Perfect for fans of:

• Supernatural thriller podcasts
• Demon and Lucifer mythology
• Dark comedy and villain protagonists
• Psychological mind games
• Serialized horror audio drama

Intro partnership with Grendel Press.

https://grendelpress.com/

Outro partnership with Grendel Press.

https://grendelpress.com/

Transcript

I have developed OCD as a pleasant way to organise my life.

An example of this is the manner in which I have arranged my desktop. 

No, not my computer desktop.

My actual desk's desktop.

I had done it with the sort of precision that showed my deep belief in civilisation. 

I had done it with that precision as a definitive act of paltry defiance.

The blotter was square and from 1846.

The fountain pen. 

A delightful gold 1924 Waterman 42 safety model was parallel to the grain of the oak.

The pistol, in this case a 2025 Glock G45 gen 6, was holstered beneath the desk within easy reach.

In the case of pistols and firearms, older was not better. 

The more modern the better with the old Glock. 

(laugh)

‘Old Glock.’

It was angled at forty-five-degrees to me, a compromise between etiquette and contingency.

I was contemplating the moral superiority of symmetry when Belphastus walked in after knocking but not being invited.

The room was not ready for this, never mind me.

Lucifer had just left, and the world always took a while to get back to the... Whatever we were calling real after she had been in it.

There was... a definite incongruency to his barging in.

I thought about shooting him just for that.

Belphastus did not so much enter the room as inform it; it had always been inadequate.

Or at least that is probably what he thought he had done.

In my humble opinion, it was just bloody rude.

I think he was... offering the... making of a point. 

He was trying to show that he did not care for my... sensibilities. 

Right.

He strode to my desk and spoiled the perfect nature of its display by picking up my ivory paperknife from my precise pattern of comfort.

Before you judge me as a man who accepts the killing of pachyderms.

Here is a brief justification for my ownership of this ... vile but beautiful thing.

The Item was made in 1789 and, as a thing of delightful craft and horror, held a place in my heart. 

I know the modern sensibilities about ivory and don’t think me unsympathetic to the plight of the planet's largest ‘known’ herbivore, but it would be... a sin of a sort, destroying this beautiful thing, now.

‘Is this genuine?’ he asked, turning it over between long, elegant fingers. 

He did not have the right to have such a thing in his hands. 

He was not worthy. 

I know I sound like a self righteous opiniated... erm... What would Wil’s vernacular lend to this?

***The Professor does Wil’s accent.***

‘Self righteous opiniated...fuck.’ Yes, that adds a level of truth.

But believe me, Belphastus really did not deserve to hold such a thing.

It grated within me.

I wanted to snatch it from him like a petulant child and slap and chastise him for his ill-mannered... manners.

In the past, I would not have considered not doing so, but these days, civilisation and decency are important. 

Apparently.

‘It opens envelopes,’ I told him evenly as if speaking to a dolt of a child. 

‘That is its principal... theological... function.’

Then he did it.

Adding more fuel to the fire of my disdain for such a... man.

He had the temerity to sit down.

Uninvited to do so. 

Without a formal invitation to do such. 

He was no friend.

He could not assume such of our knowledge of each other. 

And worse than any of that, he sat not in the chair opposite. 

No

Not in the chair that knew its place as a visitor's seat. 

No.

He had the indecency to sit in my chair. 

My chair.

Oh, the uncivil bastard.

To add more to my cringing discomfort, he... then...

He then...

He then placed his boots on my desk. 

They were mudflaked and ungently placed onto my eighteenth-century gentleman's writing desk.

I was ready to behave in a very ungentlemanly manner myself at this.

I inhaled deeply through my nose.

I had once commanded cavalry through artillery fire without blinking.

I had once negotiated with entities that measured time in the deaths of civilisations.

I had, on one memorable afternoon in Prague, disassembled a duke into fifteen living body parts while keeping him conscious so he did not enjoy the experience. 

And yet.

Here I was.

Looking at the dirt on my sublimely polished oak .

My hand drifted, almost affectionately, toward the sword that was part of the mix of residents in the umbrella stand.

It would suit this pig of a man to have it pierce his chest.

A delightful and final addition to the man's... overall look?

Yes, there had been centuries when this sort of insult would have ended in a bloody, final way.

The law, however, had grown tediously comprehensive even for such as me.

The paperwork and the effort to clear this up would not be... worth it.

The bastard Belphastus gave me a broad smile, devoid of warmth, which brought me back into... whatever this was.

‘You nearly had me,’ he said conversationally. ‘You and that Nich bastard were it.. 

‘Nicha.’ I corrected.

His smile did not falter.

‘Yes, Nicha.’

He folded his arms behind his head before he continued trying to look the part of a relaxed man.

‘Admirable ruthlessness shown on your part.’

My jaw tightened by a fraction.

‘I regret the imprecision.’ I said.

‘Oh, don’t,’ Belphastus waved a hand lazily.

‘It was refreshing.’ 

‘Most people attempt assassination with emotion. You attempted it with... imposition.’

I allowed myself the faintest inclination of the head.

An acknowledgement of a sort.

‘I do try to remain professional.’

Belphastus leaned forward slightly, boots still lying where no boots ought to be.

‘You would make an excellent villain, Simon.’

He picked a tooth with the pinky of his right hand, which reminded me in that moment of a primate self-grooming. 

‘Cold. Patient. Capable of pulling the trigger without trembling.’ He continued his charge of me as the villain.

I considered this.

‘In most people’s stories,’ I said, ‘I regret I already am.’

Belphastus laughed, a harsh, uncouth sound.

‘You see? That’s what I admire. No illusions.’

A silence settled. 

It had edges.

I folded my hands and kicked at a scuff I noticed on the otherwise perfectly polished floor. 

‘How,’ I asked mildly, ‘did you return to Earth?’

I was genuinely interested and rightly confused.

Belphastus examined the paperknife again, as though it might confess something interesting.

‘That,’ he said, ‘is not your concern.

I smiled and nodded and waited, adding an uncomfortable silence that most English gentlemen could not stand.

Belphastus seemed to enjoy waiting.

Ah, I forgot he was no gentleman. 

Belphastus seemed to find a comfort of sorts in an uncomfortable silence. 

‘Let us simply say,’ the man continued, ‘I have acquired a new patron.’

‘Oh?’ I feigned interest. 

‘A dammed powerful one,’ Belphastus added with emphasis on the dammed. 

I nodded, offering him the opportunity to continue with his gloat.

‘Very dammed and very powerful.’ He continued.

I did not alter my features.

I did nothing, not even blink.

I waited.

On no further... erm... gloat. 

A little disappointing.

He was no Bond super villain admitting all before Bond sorted out the... issue. 

He finally continued the conversation that had temporarily stalled.

‘In Hell?’ He added

I again showed no response with another loaded pause.

‘A name you would recognise, Simon.’

‘You don’t mind me calling you Simon, do you?’

I did, but I waved his question aside so he could continue and eventually get to his point.

Belphastus’s smile sharpened.

‘Simon.’ His use of my name felt erm... erm... yucky? 

Repugnant. 

‘My... backer... is Lucifer.’ He lied a delicious lie.

That lie lingered in the air. 

I did not move, but a spell of sorts had been broken.

My hand no longer itched to grasp the haft of my appropriately named bastard sword. 

I smiled inwardly and outwardly.

I did not announce his lie to him.

Because it was such a clumsy lie.

It was not clever enough a lie to... (Laugh)

Lucifer did nothing so clumsily theatrical as this. 

I knew her too well.

A startling thought and realisation in the moment.

I know the devil... The devil... too well.

I should put that thought to one side for the moment. 

Hmm!

A part of the truth here was If the Morning Star sponsored one’s return, there would be... more to it.

Much... more.

Or at least she would have given this vile man clean boots to put on my desk.

She had... a certain... decorum... which shockingly I admired. 

Can you admire such a... thing as...

Should you admire such a thing as....

Anyway...

I returned my interest to the bastard in hand. 

Belphastus was doing a terrible job of testing me.

I had passed that test with a definitive A, but he did not have the wit to know I had.

I allowed the smallest, almost invisible flicker of amusement to pass behind my eyes.

‘How... fortunate for you,’ I said.

Trying to add the right level of weight to the words that this news should bring.

Belphastus tilted his head.

‘You don’t seem surprised.’

‘I have learned,’ Simon replied, ‘that men and demons often overstate their backing.’

Belphastus’s smile faltered not entirely, but enough.

He was noting that he may have been caught in this moment of... semantic malfeasance.

Interesting.

‘So calm,’ Belphastus murmured. ‘You’re thinking about killing me.’

‘I was...’ I started laughing and looking at the ceiling before meeting his eyes head-on.

‘And yes, I am again.’

The honesty startled him.

He leaned back, boots creaking on oak, trying to look the calm that had been rattled.

‘And yet you won’t.’ He told me in no uncertain terms, but with that little rise in tone at the end of the sentence that made it a possible question.

‘Will I not?’ I asked.

‘Because of the law?’ I asked, amused.

My gaze drifted tenderly to the pommel of my trusty old blade. 

‘Because,’ I said softly, ‘What?’

Another silence.

This one had teeth.

Belphastus stood at last, brushing the dried mud to the floor from the imposition of his boots.

‘You always did enjoy long games, Simon.’

‘They are the only games worth winning.’ I retorted.

‘You have shown your hand, Belphastus.’

‘You no longer have the ability to bluff.’

Anger shifted across Belphastus’s gaze as he pretended to throw a hand of cards onto the desktop, showing me a sneer of pure disdain.

‘I’m all in.’ He offered. 

His aim was to show that he cared not a jot.

It failed.

Delightfully.

He moved toward the door, then paused.

‘You will discover soon enough who stands behind me.’ He quipped.

‘Yes, but remember they only stand behind you, Belphastus.’ 

‘They don’t protect your front.’

‘However. I look forward with great enthusiasm to the next hand and the clarification that Astaroth has you now as his puppet.’

Belphastus smiled, all edges restored.

‘Do try to destroy me properly next time.’ He told me.

‘Oh, next time I will make sure there is no coming back.’ I reassured him.

The door closed.

The office exhaled.

I remained standing and staring at the door for several seconds.

Then I tutted and carefully reached for my hanky and wiped the boot marks from my desk.

I sat and went through my rituals as I thought. 

I first reclaimed the order of my desktop.

I then took the pistol from its spot and went over the cycle in my mind of checking that it functioned properly.

Of course it did.

But, even after this check.

Something was not right. 

Hmmm... This was not enough to increase my comfort, so I walked to where my sword was stored and brought it over to my seat. 

I laid it tenderly across my thighs. 

It felt right there. 

A sword is always a sword. 

Once comfortable and settled.

I lifted the lovely old bakelite phone and dialled Ben's number from my mobile's contacts.

This process was the equivalent of shuffling the deck of cards. 

Ben

The corridor outside today's theatre of last things smelled faintly of antiseptic and unresolved questions.

Sometimes I shock myself with my poetic language.

I walked beside the wheeled stretcher as though escorting an awkward relative to a train he very much hoped would not return.

This one.

Would not return.

I hoped.

I’m never sure in this job.

He was defo dead.

But that did not always matter, I had found.

On the stretcher lay what remained of Nicha, covered, zipped, bureaucratically simplified.

Two coroners pushed. 

One hummed an irritatingly imprecise tune. 

The other had the expression of a man who had seen too much and therefore subscribed to nothing.

He was as dead as the body before him, behind the eyes.

I was thinking about gravity.

Specifically, how some men seemed drawn to death the way apples were drawn to earth.

My phone erupted into life.

UK Grime. 

Loud. 

Aggressive. 

Totally inappropriate for this corridor at this time. 

Which was devoted to a dignified exit.

The coroner who hummed stopped humming.

I tried not to make eye contact in my embarrassment by staring at the screen.

‘Prof’ it said in large letters.

I felt the anger first, not sharp, but old. 

The kind that had sedimentary layers. 

I did not enjoy being the man who tidied up the moral debris of so-called better men.

The Professor was a so-called better man. 

I forced a neutral expression, gestured politely to the coroners, and stepped through a side door marked Authorised Personnel Only, which, in most institutions, meant Secrets Happen Here.

I answered.

‘Yeah, Prof.’

There was the faintest pause on the other end. 

The pause of a man who measured rooms before speaking into them.

‘Are you on your own?’ 

‘Off speaker phone?’

I wanted to answer sarcastically.

‘No mate am on speaker phone in the middle of the Daily Mail’s offices.’

I thought it.

But I did not say it. 

I must have left too long a silence as I daydreamed.

‘Benjamin!’ said Simon de Montfort mildly. ‘I understand our mutual acquaintance has… concluded matters.’

I stifled a derisive laugh at this use of carefully chosen language and leaned against the tiled wall.

‘He’s decided not to continue,’ I replied. ‘Left rather abruptly.’

‘I see.’

Another pause. 

One could almost hear Simon arranging sentences like chess pieces.

‘Was the departure… self-directed?’

I let out a slow breath.

‘Yes.’

Technically.

‘He chose his moment,’ I continued carefully. ‘There was no hesitation.’

On the other end, silence, but not confusion. 

Simon was a man who understood the difference between truth and reportable truth.

‘I assume,’ Simon said gently, ‘that the appropriate documentation will reflect his decision.’

‘It will,’  I told him. 

‘Soula’s handling the paperwork.’

I pictured Soula already assembling the neat narrative, aligning timelines, persuading facts to sit properly in their chairs.

‘And Wil?’ Simon asked.

My jaw tightened.

‘He’s off-site.’

‘Taking some air.’

Simon absorbed that.

‘And is he… unsupervised?’

Ben almost laughed.

‘Never.’

I lowered my voice instinctively, though there was no one close enough to hear.

‘I’ve put the usual people on him.’

The usual people.

Men and women who did not officially exist, but who appeared in peripheral vision and inconvenient places. 

Observers. Shepherds. Occasionally, retrieval specialists.

‘I thought that prudent,’ I added.

‘Very,’ Simon agreed.

There was a softness to the word that might have been approval.

Or calculation.

I pushed off the wall and looked back toward the corridor where the stretcher waited.

‘He didn’t leave a note,’ Ben said.

‘No,’ Simon replied. ‘I would not have expected one.’

They let that settle.

I rubbed at my eyes.

‘I don’t like it,’ I said wearily, and immediately regretted the admission.

‘Few things worth doing are likeable,’ Simon said. Using one of his pre-prepared platitudes.

There it was.

The fucking bollocking philosophy.

The ancient weight of it.

I imagined the Professor sitting in that immaculate office, the desk perfectly civil, but in all that civility, knowing how easy and ready he was to cause violence and bloody ruin. 

It was always within his reach. 

He was one of the monsters he always fought so hard to hide. 

The sad thing for me is that I knew we needed him.

The sad thing for me is that I had learnt to admire him.

He was...

Necessary in this and all the other worlds.

I had to ask.

I had to.

He had been doing this as far as I knew for centuries.

‘You ever get tired of this?’ I asked him before he could stop himself.

‘Tired?’ Simon considered. A sigh. ‘Yes.’

‘Enough to stop?’

A long pause.

‘No.’

End of sentence.

No explanation of that no.

Time passed.

I almost smiled despite myself.

‘Thought not.’

A distant metallic sound drifted through the corridor, the stretcher shifting, impatient.

‘Everything else contained?’ Simon asked.

‘For now.’

‘And the cause?’

I stared at the tiled floor.

‘He acted alone,’ I said clearly. ‘No external influence.’

On paper, it would read as despair. 

Instability. 

A tragic end.

In reality, Wil’s hand had been messy.

But, Wil was only the tool.

More correctly, the weapon.

The unthinking weapon that Simon had chosen to kill with.

I understood.

Simon understood.

‘Very well,’ the Professor said. ‘Thank you, Benjamin.’

There was something almost... fucking... human in the gratitude.

I hesitated.

‘You called quickly.’

‘I dislike uncertainty.’

I nodded, though Simon could not see me.

‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘Me too.’

I ended the call before it could become something else.

I stepped back into the corridor, and the coroners resumed their slow procession.

The humming of the man at work returned.

I fell into step beside them.

I hated that some things were necessary.

I hated more that I understood why.

And somewhere, not far away, Wil was walking under watchful eyes, alive, dangerous, and carrying the kind of silence that never truly counted as solitude.

The stretcher wheels squeaked once, sharply.

As if protesting the simplicity of the word:

Suicide.

‘Fucking suicide.’ I said outloud.

I shocked a passing nurse.

She was so... Beautiful it hurt. 

An African Disney princess in scrubs and Crocs. 

Carrying a little black cat.

I should question the cat, but...

‘Sorry.’ I threw out as an englishmans habit. 

‘No need to be.’ She said, continuing to walk on by me. 

She was right.

I paused as the coroners and their cargo continued.

I turned and followed her with my eyes.

No, not in a pervy way.

She stopped at the automatic doors at the end of the corridor, where she put the ID on her lanyard to the sensor to open them.

The doors opened to the roar of flames and screams of the wretched.

I moved my eyes from this...  this... whatever the fuck that was... to hers. 

She winked and stepped into the maelstrom as the doors closed behind her. 

‘Detective Johnson.’

One of the men pushing the gurney brought me back to... You know what... I have not got a clue what reality is and is not these days, but they brought me back.

‘Hmmm!’ 

‘Oh, sorry.’ I again threw it out there for no reason.

I started back on Nichas journey.