by Ward Parker
“By the power of God, I command you to leave this adorable garden gnome!” Marco bellowed with convincing authority. “By the power of Christ, I command you! By the power of—”
His voice clenched, as if his throat had seized up. He choked. Missy looked at him with alarm, prepared to use her nursing training to free his airway.
But then a strange voice came out, singing, “By the power of disco, I command you to boogie, boogie, woogie all night long!”
Ex-Father Marco sounded like one of the Bee Gees. This could mean only one thing: The demon that possessed him had taken over as it often did at the most inopportune times. Its voice always varied depending on its mood. Sometimes it sounded like a silly cartoon character. Other times it was a deep, monstrous voice of terror. Today, it was an effeminate disco singer from the 1970s.
“Father, are you still there?”
“That clown is on hiatus,” the voice said in falsetto. “We gonna party!”
Well, that was that, Missy thought. There was nothing to be done now until the demon grew bored and allowed Father Marco to regain control of his own body.
The possessed ex-priest smiled at her with a vacant expression and swiveled his hips in a dance move.
“Clarence, is that you?” said a voice in a cultured but unidentifiable European accent.
The voice was coming from the sink.
“Caorthannach, baby!” Marco’s demon said. “It has been centuries since we last chatted. How have you been, darling?”
“Mostly dormant,” the entity said, clearly coming from the gnome’s unmoving lips. “Hardly anyone summons me anymore. The demons from Milton’s Paradise Lost and Dante’s Inferno have always been the favored ones.”
“You sound bitter, girl.”
“No one likes to be neglected.”
“What are you doing in a garden gnome?” Marco’s demon asked. “As charmingly lovable as they might be, it’s not like your style.”
“Believe me, it was not my choice. It was the summoner’s command. I’ve been dormant too long to have the power to pick and choose whom I want to possess.”
“It could be worse. I was once forced to possess a cow. Talk about boring. Even when I made its head twist around, I was out in a field and the only ones I frightened were the other cows. I find it much better possessing this priest. There are so many ways to mortify him and his companions.”
Missy decided to interrupt the conversation. She was worried, though. Not about being rude, because what demon would be offended by rudeness? But about becoming possessed herself.
“Excuse me,” she said, with as much confidence as she could fake. “I have a question for the demon in my gnome: Who summoned you?”
Silence. Both demons stopped chatting. Ex-Father Marco just stood there, eyes empty, a stupid smile on his face.
“Um, can you answer my question, please?”
“I do not know,” said the sophisticated voice coming from the gnome in the sink. “Only that it was a very powerful magician using black magic.”
There weren’t many powerful magicians in the United States, certainly not in Florida. And who among them would summon such an obscure demon she had never heard of?
The only powerful magician that Missy knew was Bob McGuinn, wizard and Arch-Mage of San Marcos in North Florida. He wasn’t supposed to use black magic, as it was forbidden by the guild of magic practitioners that he administered. But she wouldn’t be surprised if he did use black magic since he had tortured her when trying to get her to reveal the hiding place of the grimoire she had taken from him. The spells he used were not from the black magic canon, but he used them for evil ends.
The grimoire was rightfully hers, bequeathed to her by her birth father, but Bob had possessed it and now wanted it back. Worrying about him was why she had attempted the sentinel spell on her gnome in the first place. She had assumed that if he attacked her with magic, it would be to steal back the book, not to mess with the gnomes of Jellyfish Beach. And having a demon possess her gnome? Talk about overkill. Yet it now seemed that Bob was the most likely wizard to suspect of summoning the demon.
“By the power of the Holy Spirit, I command you!” ex-Father Marco said.
He was back. He squinted and looked around the room.
“Something changed,” he said. “What happened?”
“Your demon came out.”
“Oh, man, that was bad timing. I think I tanked the exorcism.”
“Yes,” Missy said. “But it wasn’t you who tanked it. It was your demon. He happened to know the demon possessing the gnome. It sounded like they go way back. Hell must be a fun place for sociable souls.”
“I’m so sorry, Missy. Did the demons say anything revealing?”
“Your demon—”
“It’s not my demon,” Marco said.
“For all intents and purposes it is. Sorry. As I was saying, he called the other demon by the name Caorthannach.”
“Oh, man. Not good. Caorthannach is an ancient Celtic demon, the mother of the devil, who tormented the people of Ireland before the Christian missionaries arrived. Saint Patrick battled her and banished her to the bottom of a lake. Well, until now, I suppose.”
“Can you remove her from the gnome?” Missy asked.
“I’ll keep trying. Like I said before, exorcisms take a long time.”
The dirty dishes in the sink rattled. Missy braced herself for what the gnome would do. Nothing happened. So she pulled the gnome from the sink and placed him back on the newspaper-covered island counter. Water dripped from the gnome onto the newspaper.
“Could you hand me a dish towel?” Missy asked the ex-priest.
The gnome began vibrating again.
And it flew off the counter and hit Marco right between the legs. The ex-priest shouted a bunch of expletives that made Missy wonder, for a moment, whether his demon had taken over again
We don’t have the luxury of time to see if an exorcism would work, Missy thought.
Missy thanked ex-Father Marco for his help, apologized for the pain in his family jewels, and ushered him out the door. She didn’t have faith that his exorcism procedure would work on the demon in the gnome and didn’t look forward to days or weeks of sessions like this one.
She had returned the gnome to the kitchen island, and it was still there, looking like a grumpy old man. She wondered why the gnome hadn’t attacked her. Freddie had been shown mercy, probably because she adored gnomes. But Missy had no respect or regard for them at all.
She debated whether her being a witch made the gnome and its recruits unwilling to take her on. Sure, she usually had a protection spell on herself when the gnome was around, but that only saved her from being attacked by a foe. It wouldn’t prevent her from tripping over a gnome outside the shower.
Did the demon have any say in this? You would think the demon would have a different agenda than the gnomes. Why would it create a gnome rebellion? Unless whoever had summoned the demon directed it specifically to do that. But why?
The gnome appeared to be looking at her with its beady little eyes. She sensed there was intelligence in there. It freaked her out.
She brought her laptop into the kitchen and searched the internet for hours. She learned that gnome collecting was not just a tacky element of contemporary consumer culture, but had a long heritage dating back to the mid-nineteenth century in England and Europe.
She remembered Freddie saying there was something magical about garden gnomes. That was just Freddie projecting her fantasies onto inanimate objects. But maybe she was on to something.
Missy stared at the gnome. She had to remind herself that this one was dangerous, that the twinkle in its eye was malevolent, not mischievous. But the darn thing was kind of cute.
No, it was not. It was deadly. Even if it didn’t kill her, it would enlist someone else’s gnomes to rise up and kill their owner.
She moved the gnome to the hallway closet where she kept her vacuum. She cast a quick anchorin
g spell to keep the gnome from going anywhere. To make it extra secure, she sealed the door with another spell.
The next day, the closet door hung open and the gnome was gone.
11
Get a Job
Matt asked from the backseat of Josie's giant 1977 Lincoln Continental, “Are you sure you don't want me to take the lead.” He sounded miles away from Missy.
She was in the front bench seat while Josie was at the wheel. Josie was the epitome of the cliché of the little old lady driver who could barely see above the steering wheel. Missy herself, at a respectable height of five feet six inches, couldn't see the road anywhere near the front of the car with its hood like the deck of an aircraft carrier. Josie's angle of view must be such that the closest road surface she could see was a quarter mile away.
“How do you park this thing?” Missy asked.
“I’m so used to driving it that parking's not too hard. People honk or scream if I'm running into them.”
Missy admired the classic-car touches, from the horizontal sweep of the analogue speedometer to the push buttons for saved stations on the radio.
“Interviewing important people is part of my job,” Matt said, from way far away in the state of Georgia. The back seat and its leg room was big enough for a family to live there if Josie wanted some rental income. “I’m good at getting reluctant subjects to open up.”
“I’ve got this, young man,” Josie said. “I’ve done my fair share of fundraising over the years and I've met Mrs. Unger before. The Werewolf Women's Club even got her to sponsor a food bank, though I left the club's name out of it. I told her I was so grateful that I wanted to honor her by getting you to write the story about her.”
“But I get to ask the questions,” Matt said.
“Nope. I ask the questions. You take the notes. I don’t want you to annoy her.”
Missy chuckled. “You’re getting to know Matt well already.”
“But remember, we’re here to get clues of who may have shot your friend,” Matt said. “We can’t just talk about charity. We need to ask if anyone uses the property for hunting. Or, I’m hoping there’s some corrupt arrangement between the Unger family and the developer.”
“We’ll see where the conversation goes,” Josie said.
Matt blew out his breath in frustration.
From what Missy had read, the Unger family had been farmers and cattle ranchers in Florida since the pioneer days. The earlier generations worked hard and amassed vast amounts of land throughout the southern and central parts of the state. The latter generations were less interested in working hard. They enjoyed living off the income from the crops and beef, eventually selling land to developers to sustain their income. Lately, the widowed Lydia Unger accelerated the selling as if she wanted to rid herself of a burden.
The home was a sprawling ranch house surrounded by live oaks covered with gray beards of Spanish moss on slightly rolling hills. Long, white wooden fences enclosed grazing horses.
When Josie’s car rolled up the crunchy gravel driveway and stopped in front of the house, Missy expected a servant to run out and open their doors. Instead, they got a golden retriever who left slobber on Missy’s window.
“Behave,” Josie said.
“Are you talking to us or the dog?” Matt asked.
“I’m talking to all of you.”
They got out of the car and the spritely Josie beat them to the front door. The bell didn’t work, so she pounded on the door.
Cursing came from deep inside the house.
Then, just behind the door, a husky female voice shouted, “I told you to keep an extra key in your truck.”
The door burst open. A tall, slender woman in her seventies wearing a bathrobe and holding a lit cigarette, her hair enclosed in a scarf, stood before them.
“Oh, good morning,” the woman said, slurring her words slightly. “I thought you were my son.”
“I’m Josie Denton. We spoke on the phone yesterday.”
“Oh, yes, I remember now.” The woman surveyed Missy and Matt suspiciously. “Which one of you is the reporter?”
“I’m the reporter,” Matt said.
“And what are you?” The woman asked Missy.
“I’m a nurse.”
“You brought a nurse with you?” The woman asked, offended. “I’m not that bad off. Not yet, anyway.”
“I’m a friend,” Missy said, “just along for the ride.”
“Well, come in and let’s get this over with.”
They followed the woman through a giant foyer and down a hall past a drawing room, a dining room, a living room, and, finally, to a study in the rear of the house. It was very masculine, with red leather armchairs, loaded bookshelves, and a fireplace with a painting of a fox hunt hanging above it.
“You folks want anything to drink?”
“I’ll have some sparkling water, please,” Matt said.
“I got Scotch, bourbon, or gin.”
“That’s okay,” Matt said. “I’m fine.”
Mrs. Unger sat behind a large desk covered with printed spreadsheets, an overflowing ashtray, and a tumbler of whiskey.
“What do you want to know about me?” She asked before taking a gulp of her drink.
“Tell us about—” Matt said before Josie cut him off with a deadly glare.
“When did you first become involved in philanthropy?” Josie asked.
“After I married Larry, he was afraid everyone would think he married me just for my family fortune, which was true, so he encouraged me to make large endowments to worthy—”
A crash of several objects falling came from the hallway.
“Jeremy! What the heck are you doing?” The woman yelled. “I told you to be careful.”
“Sorry, Ma,” a sheepish male voice answered.
“I don’t want you bringing your toys into the house.”
Something else fell, and a gunshot echoed in the hallway. Missy and Matt dove to the floor.
“You idiot!” Mrs. Unger shouted. “We’ve got company.”
A man in his forties appeared in the doorway. He wore a camouflage military uniform, with night-vision goggles on his head, grenades clipped to his flak vest, and an assault rifle strapped to his torso. He held several handguns.
“Our militia is having a meet-up today and I’m running late. It’s my turn to bring the donuts.”
“I told you not to bring your toys into the house, especially not loaded.”
“They’re not toys,” the man said resentfully. “They’re the exact weapons used by some of the world’s top security forces.”
“You use them for playing army-man in the woods with your friends. When will you get a job?”
“Ma, I’m preparing for the civil war. That is my job.”
“Nonsense,” his mother said, taking a swig of her drink.
“What woods do you play—I mean, have exercises—in?” Matt asked.
“That’s top secret,” the man said, looking defiantly at Matt.
“He plays on our land, so he and his little friends don’t get arrested.”
“Don’t call them that,” her son said. “They’re deadly warriors. A lot of them are ex-military. When it’s time to rise up, we’ll be ready!”
“Go and get ready for your play date. I have business here.”
The man stormed out of the room.
“Sorry about that,” Mrs. Unger said. “I just wish he’d get a job.”
Another gun landed on the floor in the hallway. Another gunshot went off, and the bullet ricocheted off the tile floor.
“Ouch!” cried her son.
“So, where were we?” Mrs. Unger said. “Oh yes, charities. The tax write-offs are very useful with all the property taxes I have to pay.”
She droned on for quite a while about endowments and charitable foundations while Matt dutifully took notes and recorded it all on his phone.
Josie and Mrs. Unger laughed about a mutual acquaintance, and Missy was beg
inning to lose patience. And she was sick of breathing cigarette smoke. Maybe it was time for Matt to interrupt with a hard-hitting question.
“I have to say, Lydia, it surprised me that you sold the tract of land west of Jellyfish Beach,” Josie said. “And to that horrid man, Loopi.”
“Yeah, he’s a sleazebag. But the taxes—I couldn’t afford them any longer.”
“You could have donated the land to the county for a park.”
“Yes, but Loopi offered me top dollar. Money is getting tight around here, what with the land we still have, the horses, and my son who won’t get a job.”
“Did your son ever play in the woods down there?” Josie asked.
Yes, finally! Missy thought.
“I wouldn’t know,” Mrs. Unger said. “That tract is a long drive from here, but when Jeremy and his friends play army-man, they do like to try different types of terrain, so it’s possible.”
“Does his group have a name?”
“Why? You’re not asking because of that woman who was shot, are you? Remember, we didn’t own the land anymore when that happened.”
It doesn’t mean Jeremy and his friends wouldn’t still go there, Missy thought.
“No,” Josie said. “I was curious about what he said about a civil war. I wanted to know what side he’s on. You know, the name of his team.”
“It’s all a big fantasy of a bunch of men who still haven’t grown up. I think they call themselves the Boogaloo Brigade. Something like that. It’s so silly.”
Josie giggled. “I guess you’re right.”
The “interview” went on for another fifteen minutes, but Mrs. Unger was losing her battle with the whiskey. Her eyes drooped and half-smoked cigarettes were burning to ash.
“I think we have enough,” Josie said. She turned to Matt, “do you agree?”
“Yes,” he said, pulling himself out of a daze. “Lots of great material here.”
“We’ll let ourselves out, dear,” Josie said, patting Mrs. Unger on the arm.
The three thanked their host profusely and left the room. Loud snoring followed them out.
Once they were in Josie’s car, she said, “That turned out well.”