An old and homely grandmother accidentally summons a demon. She mistakes him for her gothic-phase teenage grandson and takes care of him. The demon decides to stay at his new home.
It isnât uncommon for this particular demon to be summonedâfrom exhausting Halloween party pranks in abandoned barns to more legitimate (more exhausting) ceremonies in forestsâbut it has to admit, this is the first time itâs been called forth from its realm into a claustrophobic living room bathed in the dull orange-pink glow of old glass lamps and a multitude of wide-eyed, creepy antique porcelain dolls that could give Chucky a run for his money with all of their silent, seething stares combined. Accompanying those oddities are tea cup and saucer sets on shelves atop frilly doilies crocheted with the utmost care, and cross-stitched, colorful âHome Sweet Homeâs hung across the wood-paneled walls.
Itâs a mistakeâa wrong number, per se. No witch itâs ever known has lived in such an, ah, dated, home. Furthermore, no practitioner that ever summoned it has been absent, as if theyâd up and ding-dong ditched it. No, it didnât work that way. Not at all. Not if they want to survive the encounter.
It hears the clinking of movement in the room adjacentâthe kitchen, going by the pungent, bitter scent of cooled coffee and soggy, sweet sponge cakes, but more jarring is the smell of blood. It movesâfeels something slip beneath its clawed foot as it does, and sees a crocheted blanket of whites and greys and deep black yarn, wound intricately, perfectly, into a summoning circle. Its summoning circle. There is a small splash of bright scarlet and sharp, jagged bits of a broken curio scattered on top, as if someone had dropped it, attempted to pick it up the pieces and pricked their finger. It would explain the blood. And it would explain the demon being brought into this strange place.
As it connects these pieces in its mind, the inhabitant of the house rounds the corner and exits the kitchen, holding a damp, white dish towel close to her hand and fumbling with the beaded bifocals hanging from her neck by a crocheted lanyard before stopping dead in her tracks.
Now, to be fair, the demon wouldnât ordinarily second guess being face-to-face with a hunchbacked crone with a beaked nose, beady eyes and a peculiar lack of teeth, or a spidery shawl and ankle-length black dress, but there is definitely something amiss here. Especially when the old biddy lets her spectacles fall slack on her bosom and erupts into a wide, toothy (toothless) grin, eyes squinting and crinkling from the sheer effort of it.
âTodd! Todd, dear, I didnât know you were visiting this year! You didnât call, you didnât writeâbut, oh, Iâm so happy youâre here, dear! Would it have been too much to ask you to ring the doorbell? I almost had a heart attack. And donât worry about the blood, hereâI had an accident. My favorite figure toppled off of the table and cleanup didnât go as expected. But I seem to recall you are quite into the bloodshed and âedgyâ stuff these days, so I donât suppose you mind.â She releases a hearty, kind laugh, but it isnât mocking, itâs sweet. Grandmotherly. The demon is by no means sentimental or maudlin, but the kindness, the familiarity, the genuine fondness, does pull a few dusty old nostalgic heartstrings. âImagine if it leaves a scar! Itâd be a bit âbadass,â as you teenagers say, wouldnât it?â
She is as blind as a bat without her glasses, it would appear, because the demon is by no means a âToddâ or a human at all, though humanoid, shrouded in sleek, black skin and hard spikes and sharp claws. But the demon humors her, if only because it had been caught off guard.
The old woman smiles still, before turning on her heel and shuffling into the hallway with a stiff gait revealing a poor hip. âBe a dear and make some more coffee, would you please? Iâll be back in a jiffy.â
Yes, this is most definitely a mistake. One for the record books, for certain. For late-night trips to bars and conversations with colleagues, while others discuss how many souls theyâd swindled in exchange for peanuts, or how many first-borns theyâd been pledged for things idiot humans could have gained without divine intervention. Ugh. Sometimes it all just became so pedantic that little detours like this were a blessingâhappy accidents, as the humans would say.
Thatâs why the demon does as asked, and plods slowly into the kitchen, careful to duck low and avoid the top of the doorframe. Thatâs why it gingerly takes the small glass pot and empties it of old, stale coffee and carefully, so carefully, takes a measuring scoop between its claws and fills the machine with fresh grounds. Itâs as the hot water is percolating that the old woman returns, her index finger wrapped tight in a series of beige bandages.
âIâm surprised youâre so tall, Todd! I havenât seen you since you were at my hip! But your mother mails photos all the timeâyou do love wearing all black, donât you?â She takes a seat at the small round table in the corner and taps the glass lid of the cake plate with quaking, unsteady, aged hands. âI was starting to think youâd never visit. Your father and I have had our disagreements, butâŚI am glad youâre here, dear. Would you like some cake?â Before the demon has a chance to decline, she lifts the lid and cuts a generous slice from the near-complete circle that has scarcely been touched. It smells of citrus and cream and is, as assumed earlier, soggy, oversaturated with icing.
It was made for a special occasion, for guests, but it doesnât seem this old woman receives much company in this musty, stagnant house that smells like an antique garage that hadnât had its dust stirred in years.
Especially not from her absentee grandson, Todd.
The demon waits until the coffee pot is full, and takes two small mugs from the counter, filling them until steam is frothing over the rims. Then, and only then, does it accept the cake and sit, with some difficulty, in a small chair at the small table. It warbles out a polite âthank you,â but it doesnât suppose the woman understands. Manners are manners regardless.
âOh, dear, I can hardly understand. Your voice has gotten so deep, just like your grandfatherâs was. That, and I do recall you have an affinity for that gravelly, screaming music. Did your voice get strained? Itâs alright, dear, Iâll do the talking. You just rest up. The coffee will help soothe.â
The demon merely nodsâsome communication can be understood without failâand drinks the coffee and eats the cake with a too-small fork. Itâs ordinary, mushy, but delicious because of the intent behind it and the love that must have gone into its creation.
âI hope you enjoyed all of the presents I sent you. You never write backâbut I am aware most people use that fancy E-mail these days. I just canât wrap my head around it. I do wish your mom and dad would visit sometime. I know of a wonderful little cafĂŠ down the street we can go to. I havenât been; I wanted to visit it with Charles, before heâŚwell.â She falls silent in her rambling, staring into her coffee with a small, melancholy smile. âI canât believe itâs been ten years. You never had the chance to meet him. But never mind that.â Suddenly, and with surprising speed that has the demon concerned for her well being, she moves to her feet, bracing her hands on the edge of the table. âI may as well give you your birthday present, since youâre here. What timing! I only finished it this morning. Iâll be right back.â
When she returns, the white, grey and black crocheted work with the summoning circle is bundled in her arms. Â
âI found these designs in an occult book I borrowed from the library. I thought youâd like them on a nice, warm blanket to fight off the winter chillâI hope you do like it.â With gentle hands, she spreads the blanket over the demonâs broad, spiky back like a shawl, smoothing it over craggy shoulders and patting its arms affectionately. âHappy birthday, Todd, dear.â
Well, that settles it. Whoever, wherever, Todd is, heâs clearly missing out. The demon will just have to be her grandson from now on.
Part II
