by Julie Jansen
title page
Suburban Gnome Invasion
Julie Jansen
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Musa Publishing
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Suburban Gnome Invasion, Copyright © Julie Jansen, 2012
All Rights Reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without prior written permission of the publisher.
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This e-Book is a work of fiction. While references may be made to actual places or events, the names, characters, incidents, and locations within are from the author’s imagination and are not a resemblance to actual living or dead persons, businesses, or events. Any similarity is coincidental.
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Published by Musa Publishing, April 2012
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This e-Book is licensed to the original purchaser only. Duplication or distribution via any means is illegal and a violation of International Copyright Law, subject to criminal prosecution and upon conviction, fines and/or imprisonment. No part of this ebook can be reproduced or sold by any person or business without the express permission of the publisher.
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ISBN: 978-1-61937-169-5
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Editor: Matt Teel
Cover Design: Kelly Shorten
Interior Book Design: Coreen Montagna
Suburban Gnome Invasion
“WE HAVE ONE UNDER the house,” Susan said.
She handed Arnaldur the picture—a blurred shot of a gnome with chubby legs, a long white beard, and a pointed hat. It carried a dead cat in one arm and was pulling a rhododendron aside, revealing a ripped screen that led into the crawl space.
Arnaldur stared at the picture with furrowed brow, ever the brooding Scandinavian. Then he set the picture down and spooned a sardine onto his toast, as though the situation didn’t bother him at all.
“Aren’t you going to do anything about it? You know what they do. They eat cats and dogs. They whittle away at rose bushes to make arrows and spears. Do I have to remind you?”
“I remember very well,” he said. The thought of it made him wince and touch his leg.
Arnaldur had fallen prey to a gnome’s thorny rosewood arrow last summer. The pointed tip, dipped in condensed, bacteria-rich gnome saliva, pierced his calf when he’d treaded too close to the juniper in Mr. Harrigan’s backyard. He’d had no idea the gnome’s burrow was there. Infection set in that racked up a fifteen hundred dollar medical bill. And that was with triple-coverage health insurance.
Arnaldur’s indifference riled up Susan even more.
“It’ll make our property value go down!”
At the mention of property value, she saw him cringe. Repairing areas of dry rot, installing a new roof, and a bathroom remodel had all cost him more than the infection. And if the gnome started doing gnome things, like burrowing under the foundation and using floor boards and plumbing hardware to construct its own dwelling, the repair work could cost double the price of recent home improvements.
Then there were always liability issues if it attacked a neighbor…
Arnaldur spooned another sardine onto his plate.
“And those stories about gnomes taking children? Aren’t you the slightest bit concerned about Reynir?”
Arnaldur looked at the clock, then at Susan. “Reynir will be fine. Those stories are about toddlers, not tweens, and they’re all a bunch of baloney.” Arnaldur pushed himself up from the table. “We do nothing about the gnome today. We wait.”
Susan was about to open her mouth to protest, but he pulled her close and kissed her. Then he made her sit on a chair, and he put a piece of toast on her plate. “And you will eat breakfast.”
Susan shoved the sardines to the side and reached for the butter and jam.
At 7:30, Arnaldur headed down the hall toward Reynir’s room. If the boy wasn’t out the door in the next ten minutes, he’d be late for school.
Reynir was the one who’d suggested the bird cam for Susan’s birthday. If it weren’t for the bird cam, Susan wouldn’t have discovered the gnome until it was too late—until it had bred and made its nest under the house. Gnomes were most dangerous when they were protecting their brood.
He had the boy to thank for that.
Arnaldur knocked before turning the knob and opening the door. “Reynir?”
“Hi, Dad.”
The room was a disaster. Dirty clothes covered the floor, dirty dishes rested on top of the TV and the desk, and a betta sloshed around in two inches of murky water left in the fish tank. Reynir cradled his videogame controller and stared blankly at the TV screen, like a zombie.
Arnaldur switched off the TV and covered his nose.
“Good God, what is that smell?” A pungent ripe cheese smell stung Arnaldur’s nostrils.
Reynir shrugged his shoulders.
“This weekend you clean up your room. Maybe you’ll be lucky and find the sandwich—or pizza pocket or whatever you left to rot in this mess—before a rat does.”
At the mention of the word “rat,” Reynir stood up quickly and slipped on his shoes. “You don’t really think there’s a rat, do you?”
“We won’t know until the floor’s clear. Might even be a horde of spiders in here.”
Reynir followed his father into the dining room and grabbed a piece of toast. “Hi, Mom. Dad thinks I have a rat in my room. And spiders.”
“What? Rats and spiders?” Susan shuddered. “Are you serious? And gnomes under the house?”
“Something in Reynir’s room smells like it’s died and gone to heaven is all,” Arnaldur said.
“Wait,” said Reynir. “We have a gnome under the house?”
“Yep, seems we do.”
“If it has babies, can I keep one?”
“Absolutely not! Gnome kits are not pets.” Arnaldur shooed the boy out the front door for school and warned him to stay away from the rhodie near the crawl space.
“You know why I’m worried,” Susan said.
“Yes, I know. I know very well.” Arnaldur patted her on the shoulder, then walked to a desk and grabbed the yellow pages. “While you’re at work, I’ll make some calls. Find an exterminator, if it’s not too expensive.”
“I don’t care how much it costs, Arnaldur. Just get rid of it.”
He frowned.
“You’ll find work soon,” she said. “And we’ll be fine. We just have to get rid of the gnome before something bad happens. We take two hundred dollars out of savings now, or we wind up spending all our money later.” Susan stood up and put on her jacket. She grabbed her purse and her car keys and headed for the door.
Arnaldur stopped her. “You know it’s hard for me. They never did us any harm in Iceland. They were just myths. Just stories.”
“I know.” She touched his cheek. “But now we know they’re real. It’s not just mutated gnomes who have been driven from their habitat—look at the polar bears. The Joneses had one raiding the dumpster behind the restaurant last weekend. It’s all this global warming. At least bears are just—”
“Bears.” Arnaldur nodded.
“These aren’t the same gnomes your parents told you stories about as a boy. These are a new breed.”
She was right. He hated it when she was right.
Once Susan left, Arnaldur searched the yellow pages and found the number for the Department of Wildlife.
“I have a wildlife problem,” he said.
“A…gnome.”
Paper rustled on the other end before the woman said, “I’ll transfer you.”
A man with a gruff voice answered. “Yeah?”
“I have a problem with—”
“A gnome. Yeah. She told me. Just one?”
“I think so.”
“You think so or you know so? Things breed worse than rabbits. And the little ones have that odor.”
“Odor?”
“Like German cheese. The real smelly kind.”
Arnaldur was silent a moment before he said, “I’ve smelled something like that. In my son’s room.”
“I hate to break it to you, buddy, but we don’t trap, shoot, spear, or fumigate. Right now, no exterminations at all. You want that, you gotta do it on your own dime.”
“I thought you helped with this sort of thing.”
“Budget cuts. And you’re not the only one with this kind of trouble. The trappers are booked solid for the next three months. Better pick up the latest issue of Field & Stream.”
The man hung up.
Arnaldur took his advice and headed to the local supermarket, right to the magazine aisle, and found the issue titled, “Gnome Season.” There were trapping tips, weapons of choice, a list of the most highly recommended taxidermists, even recipes. Arnaldur put the magazine under his arm, grabbed a loaf of bread and a carton of eggs, and headed to the checkout aisle.
The clerk picked up the magazine and looked at the cover. “It’s their mating season this month. My boyfriend got an adult male last year.”
“Did you eat it?” Arnaldur asked.
She made a face. “Yuck. Too gamey. Taxidermist freeze-dried it. I made different little holiday outfits for it.”
Arnaldur raised an eyebrow.
“The Christmas suit’s easy. The adult males have a little Santa vibe going on when they have the full white beard. I made an Easter Bunny suit, and a skeleton costume for Halloween.”
She scanned the bread, then the eggs, and placed them in Arnaldur’s shopping bag.
“I used to put him in the front window the week of each holiday,” she said. “Until I came home from work one day and my front porch was a mess. Broken pots, pillows thrown off the chairs and shredded, and the banister had all these little marks. Like teeth.” She tore off Arnaldur’s receipt.
“Teeth?”
“My boyfriend thinks a female gnome saw our male from the window and tore up the porch in frustration because she couldn’t get at him.” She laughed. “They’re crazy. She came back a few times after that. We wound up getting rid of the freeze-dried little guy and getting a mold made of him instead. We had some statues made from that. They look good in the yard. See?”
She reached into her pocket, grabbed her iPhone, and showed Arnaldur pictures of the statues.
He found it all a little disconcerting. Gnomes weren’t meant to be hunted, or freeze-dried, or eaten. They were a part of nature that should be left alone. Arnaldur thanked her, took his receipt and shopping bag, and headed home.
He eyeballed the rhododendron as he walked past the house. It didn’t look any different than usual, but he did notice the trail in the grass, like something had been frequently walking that same path into the side yard.
He dropped his bag and headed to the rose garden. One of the rose bushes was gone, ripped root ball and all, right out of the ground.
He marched toward the front door and picked up his bag. When he got inside he opened the magazine and started to read the article out loud. “During mating season the male forages and brings his kills back to the female while the kits develop in her womb. Gestation is thirty days. A normal litter is anywhere from one to three kits. An odor like ripe cheese is the tell-tale sign kits are around.”
There was a splash and the sound of glass breaking from down the hall: Reynir’s room. Arnaldur bolted down the hall and threw open the door. He was blasted with the horrendous smell. He covered his nose.
Reynir’s fishtank had cracked, and another inch of water was now gone, spilled onto the floor. The lone fish had fallen out and was flopping around on top of a bath towel.
Arnaldur cupped his hands and picked up the fish. He turned and was about to carry it to the kitchen when he felt a searing pain in his backside.
He dropped the fish, reached around, and found that a stick had stabbed him in the rear—a rosewood arrow. He groaned as he pulled it out and threw it to the floor. Looking up, he could see two tiny sets of eyes peering at him from the closet. He picked up a book and shielded himself as he approached them. They were the size of small cats, about half the size of a grown gnome.
One bolted from the closet, picked up the fish, swallowed it, then lifted a pile of papers and disappeared into a hole in the floor. Arnaldur caught only a glimpse—it wore a little white blouse and blue skirt, and its blonde hair was braided down the back.
A female kit.
The one in the closet was a male, too young to have a beard, dressed in blue pants and a tiny shirt made from fabric oddly similar to the print of their bed sheets. It raised its bow and shot an arrow into the book Arnaldur was using as a shield.
Arnaldur threw the book and pounced on the gnome, trapping it in his hands.
The thing had a human appearance and human dexterity, but its eyes and movements were that of a wild animal.
He heard the front door open and footsteps clod down the hall.
Reynir pushed the door open. He dropped his book bag.
“Dad? What are you doing? You’re bleeding!”
“Quick!” said Arnaldur. “Empty your book bag!”
Reynir stood staring at the thing his father had trapped.
“Reynir!”
The boy dumped the contents of his bag on the floor.
“Open it and get ready to zip it back up!”
Reynir did as he was told and watched as his father stuffed the squirming, biting gnome into the bag. The gnome’s tiny hand caught in the zipper, and it squealed like a baby pig.
Reynir covered his nose. “It smells awful.”
“Now you know why you don’t want one as a pet.”
“Hey, what happened to my fish tank? Where’s my fish?”
“I’ll have to get you a new tank, son. The gnome ate the fish.”
The front door opened again, and Susan called from the front room. “Arnaldur? Reynir?”
They carried the bag down the hall, the gnome still punching and kicking, its squeal now a cross between a cat’s hiss and a meow.
Susan looked from the bag, to the boys, then back again. “You didn’t!”
“It’s a male kit,” Arnaldur said. “There was a female too, but she got away.”
“You went under the house? Alone?” She tried to touch the bloody spot on the back of his pants, but Arnaldur pushed her hand away.
“No, nothing like that. They got into Reynir’s room through a hole in the floor. We didn’t see it because of all the crap he has piled in there.”
“So they’ve been here longer than we thought. That would explain the holes in the sheets for the past month. I kept finding big swatches missing from the sheets and some of your shirts.”
A thud sounded and wood cracked from Reynir’s room. The gnome in the bag howled.
Reynir cowered behind his father. “What was that?”
Arnaldur handed the book bag to Susan and ran to the kitchen. He came back with a knife, three wooden cutting boards, and a bottle of pickled herring.
“What are these for?” Susan asked.
“We’ll use the cutting boards as shields,” said Arnaldur.
There was another crack—like ripping floor boards—and the gnome kit howled again.
“And the herring?” Susan asked.
“I’m clutching at straws here!”
Arnaldur made sure Reynir was behind him as they turned to go back down the hall.
Something moved. It was the father gnome, the one from Susa
n’s picture. He held his bow and arrow.
The young gnome in the book bag squealed and kicked. Susan had the bag strapped over her shoulder and across her chest. “Should I give the little one to him?” she whispered.
“No!” Arnaldur said. “We need it for leverage.”
“Leverage? What the hell are we doing, Arnaldur? What’s your plan?”
“Lift shields! Now!”
They held up the cutting boards as a rosewood arrow shot through the air and hit Arnaldur’s shield.
Arnaldur reached into the jar of pickled herring and threw a handful at the gnome.
The gnome sniffed the air and roared, but left the herring alone.
“Arnaldur, you’ve pissed him off!” Susan whispered, and then turned to see the mother gnome—blonde like her daughter, but with two very sharp and imposing canines, screeching like a feral cat.
“Arnaldur!”
Arnaldur couldn’t help her because he was busy with the father gnome, who’d managed to knock the knife out of Arnaldur’s hand by slapping it away with the edge of his bow. The bow flew across the room, but the knife was now in the gnome’s hand and pointed at Arnaldur. The gnome and Arnaldur circled each other.
“Here, Dad! Catch!”
Reynir threw Arnaldur a couch cushion.
The gnome stabbed at it, but Arnaldur managed to block the creature, pin it to the wall, then knock it to the floor. Arnaldur pried the knife out of its hand, then covered its face with the pillow as tight as he could.
“Way to go, Dad!” Reynir smiled and clapped until he heard his mom scream.
“Go, Reynir. Help her!”
When Reynir entered the kitchen, he saw Susan on the floor. The mother gnome, holding onto the book bag, was dragging her across the linoleum. Susan braced herself with her legs against the laundry room doorway. “Help!”
Reynir picked up the father gnome’s bow and an arrow from the floor. Reynir had never shot an arrow before, but he pointed it at the mother gnome just the way he’d seen the male gnome point the arrow at his own father.
“Let her go!” Reynir shouted.
The female gnome snapped her canines, lifted her skirt, and pulled out a primitive-looking dagger. She smiled at Reynir and then in a flash slashed at Susan’s ankle.