MIdnight Diner 1: Jesus vs. Cthulhu

by Chris Mikesell

  The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want. He makes me to lie down in green pastures; he leads me beside the still waters.

  The head canted sideways on the pintle of Billie’s neck, confused. Nell realized she had been praying aloud. Oh, well. “He restores my soul,” she said in a wavering voice. Her eyes darted to the bottle of oil wedged between the bottom of the sink cabinet and the kitchen floorboards. If she could reach it.

  “He leads me in the paths of righteousness for His name’s sake.” The Billie-thing’s hands clenched into fists.

  “Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for you are with me!”

  A low growling began in the chest. The glasses in Nell’s cupboards rattled and the salt and pepper shakers danced towards the edge of the breakfast table.

  Nell had to make her move. Now.

  She dove for the floor just as a howl like a mountain lion’s issued forth from Billie’s mouth and her hand pistoned upward through the space Nell’s chest had just occupied, smashing through the wooden cupboard.

  Nell was on the floor. She heard something that could have been splintering wood or a splintering set of hand bones, she couldn’t tell which and at this point couldn’t care less. The fingers of her left hand closed around the bottle’s squarish bottom. She yanked it out and pawed frantically at the cap while at the same time pushing away from Billie’s body with her legs.

  Her back struck the stove and her head bounced off the self-cleaning handle. Oh, dammit, the lid was stuck! “Your rod and your staff, they comfort me,” she whimpered.

  The demon pulled Billie’s arm out of the hole it had made in Nell’s cabinet, black eyes betraying no sense of pain at the mess it had made of the hand. The pulp at the end of the arm flopped sideways to reveal white daggers Nell recognized as shards of forearm bone.

  The lid gave with one last panicked twist and clattered to the floor. Nell rose on jellied legs. With a scream she aimed the bottle straight for Billie’s face and squeezed. Freshly blessed oil splashed out and struck Billie on the chin, the throat, the chest. The front of her dress bloomed dark with oil.

  And beyond that, it did absolutely nothing.

  Nell remained frozen in position. The 23rd Psalm had done nothing but make the demon angry; the oil had done nothing but make it wet.

  Twin pops sounded as Billie’s jaw dislocated and her mouth opened wide in a shriek that blew out the window glass in the same instant as Nell’s eardrums ripped. Nell screamed but couldn’t hear it, so she screamed louder and louder, right up until Billie’s one good hand sliced through the air and tore out her throat. In the seconds before her world went dark for good, she had just enough time to wonder how Billie could have grown ten feet tall and still be in the kitchen, because the ceilings in this house weren’t more than eight feet high.

  And then, she wondered no more.

  THE FIRST THING BILLIE NOTICED when she came to in her car was that night had fallen. The second thing she noticed was that her left arm hurt like a mad dog.

  She sat in the driver’s seat outside Nell’s house, blinking at the swollen wreck that began halfway up from her elbow. A wooden spoon and matching spatula ran the entire length of her forearm, tightly secured against her skin with strips of what looked like white and red checkered tablecloth. A moment later she realized the cloth was supposed to be pure white; the red was her own blood.

  What had she done in there? Pieces of glass twinkled in the moon light on Nell’s porch, and it took Billie a moment to figure out she was looking at window glass. Every last window had busted from the inside out. Funny; she didn’t remember doing that. She didn’t remember doing anything, actually, including tearing the hell out of her left arm, which was weird, because that mother hurt.

  The gaping windows stared back at her like eye sockets in a skull. To be honest, she couldn’t swear she’d actually done anything; she couldn’t promise the windows hadn’t been like that when she got there. And hadn’t she had some kind of fight with Otis earlier on this evening? Had he broken her arm? Wouldn’t have been the first time the details got a little fuzzy. Not by a long shot.

  She found herself for some reason thinking about a worm, a fat worm gorging itself on the flesh of a fallen apple, and she would have told her mind to move on to something else if the image didn’t make her feel so damned good. The worm was fat and happy; pain in her arm and missing chunks of memory notwithstanding, she felt the same. Didn’t know why, but she did.

  A gust of wind whipped through the dead trees surrounding the corpse of Nell’s house, and Billie flicked the ignition key with her good hand. Best thing to do right about now would be to mosey on down to the emergency room and have somebody take a look at that forearm. Later on, she planned to do just that. At the moment, though, she needed to go by that stupid little church and see her man. She and Otis would have a little talk, and when they got done, he would come home with her. For good.

  Yes he would.

  POLLY’S MUSE

  MIKE DURAN

  Dirt and air were the death of her—especially the kind laced with spring rain and kindled by the morning sun. As he choked the final strands of Inspiration from his subject, Brichard recalled this fact with insipid glee. She hadn’t sunk a bulb in months. And hunkered in that mausoleum, entombed in monotony, Polly’s muse had no choice but to surrender.

  “Gotcha!” Brichard flung the twit into the crate and slammed the bolt. “Now you can join the rest of them!”

  As the muse struggled to escape, Polly’s oldest son, Nathan, skidded into the hallway, pajamas unzipped down to his navel. A pillow slapped the wall behind him.

  “Mom!” Matty shouted from the bedroom. “Nathan’s bothering me again.”

  “Come on!” Polly thrust herself from the computer, sending the chair spiraling across the hardwood. “Would you two stop it!”

  Goin and Sprocket tumbled out of Matty’s room in a heap, guffawing. Polly swept past, unknowingly whirling the imps aside with her fuzzy blue Elmo slippers as she marched down the hall, hot on Nathan’s trail. Brichard cackled, relishing her meltdown, then nudged the crate off the desk and followed in its wake. He toppled to the ground where the other Grimpkin joined him, lost in hysterics.

  They had finally captured Polly’s muse.

  “Let me go,” Cecly squeaked from inside the tiny prison. “You’ll be sorry.”

  “Shut up,” Goin snapped, flinging spittle. “No more magic fer you. Grimpkin win.”

  Museglow seeped through the crate and they hissed in revulsion. But the dread halo did not quench their gaiety. They dragged the cage through the den, razzing the trembling muse as they went. Brichard scuttled to the

  open window and grimaced as fresh air swept past. He hoisted the troops over the ledge along with the imprisoned pixie, and motioned them onward. Then he squat on the sill, studying his subject.

  She had returned and was now slumped forward in the chair, the flatscreen boring a hole into her vacuity—a most encouraging sign. By the time Polly had captured Nathan, calmed Matty, and plopped back down at the computer, she was fried. The Grimpkin’s plan had worked. Between those spastic youngsters and her pea-brained husband, the victim was beaten, deflated, worlds away from Inspired.

  And her expectations only made the job easier.

  She massaged her temples with her fingertips and, as if on cue, glanced at the certificate in the gaudy, gilded frame over her desk. Honorable Mention, Gumtree Third Annual Writing Contest, Annapollee Paine. At the time, it was an accomplishment—one that disgusted Brichard and piqued her hopes for more. Now with the Fourth Annual Writing Contest only two months away, Polly had resolved to place higher.

  But as she slouched before the computer, a slight puddle of drool forming on her flaccid lips, Brichard knew they had the upper hand. And this time, they wouldn’t relent. He chuckled, clambered down from the windowsill and joined the others as they hauled Cecly to the basement.

  The da
nk root cellar was the perfect place to extinguish the family’s muses. The Grimpkin squeezed under the door and tumbled down the steps in a raucous mass. Molemin jumped to his feet and shielded the cage. “Who g-goes? Who goes?” he chirped, his beady eyes swelling from the ruckus. Behind him, the muses stirred, barely visible in the murk, their once fiery wings now wilted and grey.

  “We got ‘er!” Goin gurgled. “We got Polly’s muse!”

  Brichard scampered in front of them with his chest out. “Told you we could do it. It was only a matter of time.”

  “Does Pederman know?” Molemin squealed. “D-d-does he? D-does he?” “He’ll find out soon enough,” Brichard said. “Bring her over.” He glared at the muses in the cage. “Let her join the family.”

  THE GRIMPKIN SPRAWLED about the place, telling jokes, sniping at the muses, savoring victory. The pipes rattled overhead as someone ran water inside and the boys continued to squabble, evoking snickers from the troops with each outburst.

  Sprocket lounged, daydreaming. “I wonder if we’ll get a promotion.” “I wanna bluebrain,” Molemin giggled. “They’re too t-tasty.”

  “Pah!” Goin brushed his talon through the air. “Heretics and hedonists—that’s what I’m talkin’ ‘bout.”

  Brichard brooded in the corner, scoffing at their jocularity. He longed, like the rest, to be a devil; but somewhere along the way, his idealism had become a casualty of war. Perhaps he had underestimated his subject, misjudged the cunning of the Enemy. Either way, he had been here before—and lived to regret it. This time, he could not allow their elation to keep them from vigilance.

  As he sat, grinding his choppers, something creaked overhead, followed by a soft thud. It was the garage door.

  The Grimpkin looked dumbly at each other. Then Brichard cursed and leapt to his feet. He scrambled up the basement steps, under the door, and out to the driveway with just enough time to snag the fender of the van as it sped away. Grappling along the vehicle, he squeezed through Matty’s window, and perched atop the seat between the boys. From there, he peered at the back of Polly’s head, cogitating.

  She wasn’t one to concede defeat, and by the looks of it, a battle was brewing. He’d seen it before: That infinitely determinate gaze and resolute jawline. She was planning a counterstrike. Blast it! Why couldn’t she be uninspired and acquiescent, like the rest of them? Even without her muse, the subject was, regrettably, a live one.

  Leaping the ragged leather gulf, Brichard scuttled to her shoulder and wedged himself between the blades, sounding the depths.

  Every mortal had a Spark—that, according to Pederman’s research— but by adulthood, it was mostly ash. How easily the species relinquished Light. Television proved a useful tool, as did lard and sugar. Polly had her weak spots, as they all did. Yet unlike most, discipline was a defining prism of her life. Even though her Spark was just embers, she knew how to fan the flame. And when a mortal did that, they were dangerous.

  Brichard recoiled at the leftover glow, loathing her resilience, and embedded himself.

  She parked the van and announced over her shoulder, “No fighting in the store. I’m getting a couple things for dinner. That’s it.” Rummaging through her purse, she snatched out her grocery list and glared back at the boys. “And you’re staying with your father tonight. I’m going to the gym.” Brichard cringed. He’d have to organize a team. Polly couldn’t go to the gym alone. All that breathing, sweating, and pumping blood could prove fatal. As she left the car, he scaled her neck, rooted himself, and remained there until she arrived home.

  WHEN THEY RETURNED FROM THE STORE, Brichard discovered Pederman had arrived.

  Goin, Sprocket and Molemin stood stiffly before the cage. The four muses huddled in the corner as Cecly whispered and attempted to warm them with her wings.

  “Quiet in there,” Goin huffed over his shoulder.

  Pederman paced the floor, hands clasped behind him. As Brichard entered, the Lieutenant straightened. “Well, well. The great hunter arrives.”

  Broodle Pederman had begun his career in the field, like most, worked his way into Research, and now stood poised on the verge of arch-devilship. Rumor was that Pederman had a personal relationship with the Dark Lord. He’d devoted his life to fighting the Adversary and had the scars to prove it. Suicides and overdoses garnished his resume, as did several apostasies. He’d even managed to recruit an entire university faculty for the Dark Lord. The Lieutenant did not mess with weathered rock stars and congressmen— he was strictly big time.

  He stood tall; his shoulders were square, with obnoxiously large ears crowning his weathered dome. Pederman faced Brichard. “I take it your adventure with the subject was successful?”

  “Yes.” Brichard cleared his throat and stepped forward with his hands politely folded. “Yes, Sir.”

  “Tell me about it, please.”

  He hated it when Pederman asked for details. “Well, she bickered with the kids most of the time—”

  “The older one, Nathan, is proving useful, is he not?”

  “As you predicted, Sir.” Brichard half bowed, knowing Pederman had set him up. “I was able to keep them bickering and steer her toward the magazine rack. She also purchased some ice cream and potato chips, which should help, and candy bars for the cubs. Other than that, the excursion was uneventful.” He withheld information about Polly’s intentions to go to the gym, knowing Pederman would only probe.

  “Well, I must say the four of you have done much better than expected.” Pederman ambled toward the muses, limping noticeably worse since their last encounter.

  “Thank you, Sir,” Sprocket slurped, his bloated eyes roving to and fro in their sockets. “Thank you. Does this mean we get a—”

  Goin elbowed him in the ribs.

  Pederman turned to the Grimpkin with an eyebrow raised. “A promotion, Mr. Sprocket?” He sauntered to the cage and wrinkled his face. Cecly poised in front of the quivering muses, glaring at Pederman. “Pitiful creatures aren’t they? Without the twits the mortals are quite average. But as servants of the Adversary, they are to be feared. We must never underestimate the power of our Foe.” He pivoted on his hoof and turned back to the Grimpkin. “Why He adores the mortals, we’ll never know. His motivations are inscrutable, illogical, beyond Grimpkin acumen. Our orders are simple, which I reiterate now, on the eve of your great victory: Shroud the Spark. Smother it! Boredom and lethargy is our ally, Ingenuity and Vision, our rival.” He lowered his voice to a hiss. “We must keep them from their muse. “A promotion will be considered,” Pederman said, nonchalant, “when

  your next assignment is completed.”

  Sprocket clapped wildly and Goin immediately silenced him with another blow to the ribs.

  “You recall the last time Polly’s muse was cornered. A bit too much celebration, eh Brichard?”

  “Yes, Sir. Too much, definitely.”

  “As you recall in my first briefing, our research indicates a lengthy infestation of muses in the subject’s family. Some of the twits are quite infamous: Sapphire and Sophia are now angels, I hear. You’ll remember, I’m sure, that Polly’s great, great grandfather was a university dean—the cad. And on her mother’s side, a preacher. The mortal slew many of our brethren.” Pederman hung his head in overdraw n solemnity, and they followed suit.

  “But now,” he finally resumed, “for your assignment.” The Lieutenant paced the floor between them, ears trailing like ragged banners. “As you know, the Gumtree Writing Contest is fast approaching and the subject is quite fixated upon it. She’s dangerous when decided. Her previous conquests have created a beachhead for a secondary assault and, as such, must be rigorously assailed. Should her confidence flare, your victory will prove short-lived.”

  They mumbled in assent.

  Then Pederman stopped and with calculated enunciation said, “You must prevent her from entering that contest.”

  Brichard caught himself gawking. Was that possible? The Human will was notoriously guarded, c
ordoned by a Divine malice; it could be plied and beguiled, but never fully occupied. These were the Rules. Polly could be neutralized, cowed and cramped. But to keep her from entering the contest, they’d have to go to complete lockdown.

  His mind churned, riffling through plans of attack, when Pederman got in his face. With an icy intonation, the Lieutenant said, “And beware of Mr. Lewis Crupp.”

  THE AIR TINGLED with Pederman’s departure and the Grimpkin began milling about, muttering to themselves.

  “I think ‘is ears are gettin’ bigger,” Goin grumbled.

  “Quiet!” Brichard scanned the ceiling, making sure Pederman had left. Sprocket scratched his head and lolled his bulbous eyes. “Does this mean we get a promotion?”

  “We ain’t getting any pr’motion—” Goin swaggered toward Sprocket “—unless you can keep that kid of yours under wraps.”

  “Oh yeah? Yours still has books under his bed.” He shoved Goin and stood with fists drawn.

  “They’re comic books, you dolt.” Goin countered by socking Sprocket’s muzzle and a scuffle ensued.

  “All right you dimwits, knock it off.” Brichard wrestled them apart. “If anybody’s going to get a promotion, we’ve gotta keep her from entering that contest.”

  Goin and Sprocket stood glowering at each other.

  “And if we’re gonna do that,” Brichard said, “we’ve gotta have a plan.” The combatants grudgingly nodded and Brichard continued dissecting the looming dilemma.

  Tactically, neutralizing the head of the house was the first order of business. Most husbands were spineless, and Garland Paine had done nothing to alter the equation. He’d relinquished his muse without contest and remained calcified in complacency. With Zephyr imprisoned, the chances of an original thought erupting in Garland’s brainpan were remote.