I Sold My Soul to Pay for College—Literally

I was nineteen, broke, and drowning in student loan denial letters. My GPA was too average, my family too “middle class,” and my dream school too expensive. My part-time job at “Burger Bastard” barely covered textbooks, let alone tuition.

That’s when I saw the flyer.

Taped to the back of a bathroom stall in the campus library, right above a rusted toilet paper holder, it read:

Need Tuition Money Fast?

We Buy Souls – Fair Price.

Call or Text: 666-GET-PAID

I laughed. I mean, come on. But something in me—a mix of desperation and caffeine-induced madness—snapped a photo of it anyway.

That night, I texted the number.

Me: "Hi. I saw your flyer. I’m interested in selling my soul."

Them: "Splendid. We’ll send someone."

Ten seconds later, my dorm light flickered. The air turned cold. Then he appeared, casually seated on my second-hand IKEA chair.

He looked like a barista at a gothic Starbucks—black jeans, messy dark hair, a clipboard balanced on one knee. No horns. No tail. Just impossibly tired eyes.

“Lucifer,” he said, extending a hand. “But friends call me Luke.”

“You’re... the Devil?” I asked, trying to keep my voice from squeaking.

“Technically CEO of Underworld Acquisitions, LLC. Now, let’s talk payment. What are you studying?”

“Creative writing.”

He groaned. “Of course you are.”

He flipped through a stack of contracts. “Alright. BFA in Creative Writing, full four years at Winthorpe University, including tuition, housing, textbooks, and a subscription to Grammarly Premium. We’ll even throw in noise-canceling headphones for your sad poems. Sound good?”

I nodded, heart pounding. “And the soul part?”

He shrugged. “Standard fare. We don’t collect until natural death. No rush.”

I hesitated. “Do I have to... do evil stuff?”

Luke blinked. “You’re already going into creative writing. That’s punishment enough.”

He handed me a pen that bled actual blood. I signed.

In an instant, my phone dinged.

Winthorpe Financial Aid Office: “Congratulations! Your full scholarship has been approved.”

Amazon: “Your headphones are out for delivery.”

Grammarly: “Welcome, Premium User!”

At first, it was amazing.

No more sleepless nights calculating textbook rentals. No more asking if I could pay for ramen with quarters. I even bought a tiny espresso machine for my dorm.

I wrote like I was possessed. (In hindsight, maybe I was.)

I got published in small journals. I won second place in a poetry slam. Professors loved my work. My classmates said my metaphors “sliced like silk-covered daggers.” One cried during my short story about a haunted blender.

But by junior year, things... shifted.

I started waking up at 3:33 AM every night. Not 3:32. Not 3:34. Always 3:33. My mirror whispered insults. Birds stopped chirping near me. Dogs barked without warning.

One afternoon, I passed a priest on campus. He dropped his Bible and screamed.

I texted Luke.

Me: “Hey. Weird stuff is happening. Is this... normal?”

Luke: “You’re a soul debtor. Side effects include mild haunting, existential dread, and occasional spontaneous Latin.”

Me: “Can I get out of it?”

Luke: “You signed in blood, sweetie. We don’t do refunds.”

Senior year, I fell in love.

Her name was Marianne. She was studying philosophy and had eyes like storms and a laugh that made my ribs ache. She loved coffee, used semicolons correctly, and—most damning of all—believed in redemption.

When I told her about the deal, she didn't laugh.

She cried.

Then she said, “We’ll fix it.”

We Googled every loophole, every ancient rite, every Reddit post tagged #souldebt. We even emailed a Unitarian minister who moonlighted as a paranormal lawyer.

No dice.

Eventually, Marianne found a thread on a witchcraft forum titled: “Devil Deals – Buyer’s Remorse and Return Policies.”

It said: “If the seller creates a work of pure truth—a piece of art so honest and soul-filled it becomes a divine offering—they might renegotiate.”

So I wrote.

I wrote until my hands blistered and my eyes burned. I poured every regret, every fear, every inch of love I had for Marianne into a short story titled:

“The Boy Who Sold His Soul and Forgot How to Cry.”

I submitted it to a literary journal known for rejecting everyone. They published it.

The next night, Luke showed up in my room.

He looked... tired. Older. A faint halo of smoke circled his head like a thought he couldn't shake.

“That piece,” he muttered. “It hurt.”

“Good,” I said.

He sighed. “Fine. I’ll cut you a deal. We keep your story in the Infernal Library, and you get partial custody of your soul.”

“Partial?”

“You can feel joy again. Dogs might wag their tails. But mirrors still hate you.”

“Deal.”

He handed me a new contract—this one signed with tears instead of blood.

I graduated with honors.

Marianne and I moved into a tiny apartment above a bookstore. I work part-time teaching poetry to angry teenagers. She’s applying for a PhD.

Sometimes, I wake at 3:33 AM. I light a candle and re-read my story. And though I know a part of me still belongs to the shadows, I’ve learned something important.

Souls, like stories, can be rewritten.

Even the Devil can’t erase what’s written in truth.