“You have to face your demons,” everyone kept saying to Eric ever since he got into his Slump. He had woken up one day unaccountably sad and hopeless, and life had just continued miserable since.

Eric tried all the known ways to shake it off. He did yoga for a while with a very chill instructor who wore loose linen pants and had tattoos in Sanskrit, but Eric never managed to achieve quite the same ease and grace in the asanas as him. As he sat sweaty and panting on his mat after an especially challenging class, the instructor squatted near him and gently said, “If you don’t face your demons, my friend, you will never become a true yogi.”

This advice truly inspired Eric—to quit yoga, that is. Next, he tried those health shakes he saw on the Shopping Channel after one sleepless night spent phone-scrolling and channel-hopping on the couch. The perky presenter exclaimed that the shakes had changed her life “for only $49.99,” and he could do with an affordable life changer.

Next-day-delivery cost another tenner, and then Eric found himself standing at the kitchen counter studying an assortment of colorful vacuum-sealed baggies with freeze-dried fruits and something called “superfoods,” as well as a little blender—“It makes two cups! Share with a friend!”—the presenter had shouted. He called the one person he thought of as a friend, Lars from the print shop.

“Would you like to come over for a superfood shake? I have two cups,” he said.

“What? Who is this? Eric? You stoned, man?” asked Lars.

“No seriously, I bought this blender kit from the Shopping Channel last night, and now I’m not even sure I want to know what superfoods are. What superpowers can a berry have?”

“I mean, detox, I guess?” Lars did not sound too sure.

“Is that good?”

“Listen, I have to go unjam the printer, and you should get some help, if I’m honest with you. See a shrink maybe?”

Eric did not wish to see a shrink. His wish was to wake up one morning un-Slumped without putting in too much effort, if possible, and therapy sounded like work. He moped about the house for the rest of the morning, avoiding the garish packets in the kitchen, then went out to the bookstore.

The self-help section, on which he had pinned some hopes for no reason other than its promising name, did not carry any clear solutions to persistent Sudden-Onset Slump Syndrome. The books had bright jackets with titles like Ride Your Own Wave and Overcoming Underachievement in large lightweight fonts. A few made references to demons: facing, defeating, or knowing thereof. He did not feel like buying any of them.

Sighing heavily, Eric shuffled out of the store and dragged himself back home. The Slump was hitting him hard. How would he even go about facing his demons? Where did they sit? Should he make an appointment? He Googled “how to face my demons” and got over 95 million results, most of which seemed to be encouraging blog posts by people whose demon-facing credentials were not readily evident.

The mirror in its massive, gilded frame was the only distinguishing feature of the concrete-box apartment. It had been left behind by the previous tenant whom Eric had never met and knew nothing about but liked to imagine as an aging yet still glamorous cabaret star, someone like Nathan Lane in The Birdcage. Perhaps they had moved to an old age home and had no room for the mirror, supplied his Slumped brain gloomily.

The face in the reflection looked resigned. Pulling off his t-shirt and dropping it on the floor, he gave himself a critical one-over. Right there, in the middle of his chest, appeared a thin oblong outline that had not, to his memory, been there before. He tried to recall if he had put his phone there and let it sit long enough to leave an imprint, but the line was not red. In fact, a closer look suggested that it was more like a crack emitting a faint light. Eric poked it with his finger and felt something give. He poked harder.

The oblong swung inwards. Incredulously, Eric stared at his chest, which now had a hole in it. Then a tiny head poked out.

“What do you think you are doing?” it demanded in a high-pitched voice.

“What do I—? What do you—! What is this?” Eric sputtered, grabbing onto the mirror frame to prevent himself toppling over with shock. Behind the little door there really was light, and by peering closer at the reflected opening, he could make out the contours of an overstuffed couch and the flicker of what could be a television.

IN HIS CHEST. A television was on inside — of — his — chest. Maybe Lars had the number of a shrink?

“We’re good on the rent through next year,” said the tiny head, joined now on the threshold by the rest of the tiny body. It was wearing sweats and flicking its tail in annoyance. The tail, Eric noted helplessly, was smooth and reddish, with a sort of arrowhead at the end.

“I haven’t seen any rent,” he managed.

“Well, we wouldn’t be paying you, you cretin! Big Guy up top is responsible for the lease, isn’t he?”

“Who are you calling a cretin? What are you doing here?”

“We live here!”

“Who’s ‘we’?”

“I literally can’t! Xicalcoatl, can you get your fat ass off the couch and come deal with this?” The little figure turned with a swish of its tail and marched inside. There was some muted grumbling, and a new face popped out of the hole in Eric’s chest.

“Oi, guv, see here,” it said with an inexplicable, exaggerated, and very unconvincing British accent, “we’ve been living here for years and never had any trouble, innit.”

“But I don’t even know who you are!” wailed Eric.

“We’re your demons, guv,” shrugged Xicalcoatl. “Me and Mormo have lived in here ever since this unit was built.”

“This unit?”

“Your body, innit. It’s a nice location. We’re right above that spare tire there. Your ticker gives us electricity and all.”

“What spare tire?” protested Eric who had a somewhat outdated body image.

“Missing the point!” Xicalcoatl seemed to be losing his temper. “Our contract says that as long as we’re good on the rent nobody’s to be poking their noses into our house, so we do not appreciate this bloody cheek!”

“Make him go away, X,” whined Mormo from inside.

“I’m… sorry?” said Eric. He had the feeling that the people who had told him to face his demons had something quite different in mind and was unsure how to move forward with his life.

“Can I just ask though? What is it you do in there, exactly?”

“Well, mostly just hang out to be honest, the work is sort of laid back. Our main job is thought inducement, but no more medieval methods like obsession, I’ll have you know, we’re fully hormone-based now. It used to be just the Tuesday newsletter, ‘Will This Week Ever End,’ I’m sure you got that, it was delivered directly to your noggin. But we added a daily version recently, ‘The Slump’ it’s called, you’ve been subscribed automatically.”

“Yes, I’m familiar,” Eric nodded. “Is there an unsubscribe option?”

“Not really mate, it’d be our job’s worth. We’re honest demons, us, have to earn our rent.”

“About that…”

“We’ve told you, haven’t we, that’s none of your business. We deal directly with the Boss.”

“Is everyone a walking rental then?”

“Pretty much. Uninhabited units are usually ones scheduled for demolition.”

“Are you saying I should be thankful?”

“Yeah, yeah, guess I am. Will that be all? Only we were about to binge Strictly Come Dancing and you’re letting the cold in.” Xicalcoatl had pushed the door half-closed and was looking hopefully up at Eric, fidgeting.

“Sorry,” repeated Eric, and felt the door slam shut.

He ran his fingers gingerly through the sparse hair on his chest where moments ago his demons had stood. Facing them had not been as helpful as everyone seemed to believe. He felt he had handled the event well, all things considered. Maybe he should take meditation next. Or exercise, get rid of that spare tire. At least, apparently, he wasn’t scheduled for demolition. With a little spring in his step, Eric went into the kitchen and blended himself a shake.