Everything was ready for the ritual. The old McIntyre place had been empty for a good forty years, and young Bobby Joe Griffith and his friend, Matthew, had decided its dusty parlor was the only proper place to summon a demon. Or at least, that’s what it said to do in the book Bobby Joe had found in his Pawpaw’s attic, a moldy thing bound in what he hoped was very old, stiffened leather.

The book, The Grimoire of Astaroth the Unsmiling, was open on an upturned barrel. Around it, they’d arranged the necessary components: a stolen stick of his mother’s best sandalwood incense (which mostly smelled like a church closet), a circle drawn in chalk (which Matthew had stepped on twice, smudging it something awful), and a sacrificial offering of a slightly dented moon pie and a warm bottle of Dr Pepper.

“You sure about this, Bobby Joe?” Matthew whispered, his voice trembling like a sparrow in a hurricane. “It says here we gotta speak the ‘Words of Unbinding.’ What if we unbind somethin’ that’s better off left bound?”

“Hush, Matthew,” Bobby Joe said, his own heart thumping a nervous rhythm against his ribs. “Ain’t no progress made without courage. Now, hand me the… the ‘Orb of Seeing.’”

Matthew passed him a grimy, crystal-looking marble he’d won off of Fatty Jones in a game of checkers.

Bobby Joe cleared his throat, the incense smoke making his eyes water. He squinted at the spidery Latin in the grimoire.

“Abracadabra… corpus delicti… e pluribus unum!” he intoned, putting as much dread into it as a twelve-year-old from Piedmont, Alabama could muster.

The room remained still. A moth batted against the grimy windowpane.

“See?” Matthew said, his shoulders slumping with relief. “Ain’t nothin’ but a book full of foolish—”

A sudden wind, smelling of ozone and old cellars, whipped through the room, extinguishing their lantern. The moon pie trembled. From the center of the smudged chalk circle, a figure began to materialize with a sound like tearing burlap and the pop of a stubborn jar lid.

It was not a towering beast with horns and claws and scorched wings. It was, in fact, a man. A tall, well-put-together, and profoundly irritated-looking man in a slightly singed tweed waistcoat and spectacles perched on his nose. He blinked, adjusted his glasses, and peered at the boys.

“All right,” he said, in a voice that was less a demonic roar and more like a disgruntled school teacher. “Which one of you amateurs is responsible for this?”

Bobby Joe and Matthew stood frozen, mouths agape.

The demon—or whatever he was—sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “The summoning vortex was a mess. Inefficient. I haven’t seen a chalk-line that sloppy since the Sumerian incident of 2043 BCE. And for pity’s sake,” he said, pointing a dismissive finger at the moon pie, “you can’t offer a fermented grain-and-sugar patty to a Duke of the Ninth Pit. It’s insulting! The Dr Pepper, however, is marginally acceptable.”

He picked up the bottle, flipped the cap off with a thumb, and took a long, weary swig.

“Are… are you a demon?” Bobby Joe finally squeaked.

“I am a Senior Infernal Logistics Manager, thank you very much,” the man sniffed. “My name is Grith. Now, you’ve yanked me out of a very important budget meeting. There’s a brimstone shortage; it’s an unholy nightmare. So, out with it. What is your wish? A kingdom? Eternal youth? The usual tedious stuff?”

The boys looked at each other. This wasn’t going as planned.

“Well,” Bobby Joe stammered. “We was hopin’… for a hoard of gold. And maybe… to be able to fly?”

Grith stared at them over his spectacles. “A hoard. Of gold. The global economic implications alone… and flight? The paperwork for unauthorized human levitation is a bureaucratic Hades. Think smaller. And more realistic.”

Matthew, inspired by the demon’s sheer mundanity, piped up. “Can you make it so my Daddy don’t tan my hide for gettin’ a D in arithmetic?”

Grith considered this, tapping his chin. “A temporal suspension of paternal corporal punishment? Now, that I can do. Requires a simple Form 66-B: Minor Temporal Misdirection.” He snapped his fingers. A small puff of sulfur-scented smoke appeared, and a triplicate form floated down onto the barrel next to the grimoire. “Done. He’ll be distracted by a suspiciously compelling squirrel outside the window until the urge passes.”

“Wow,” Matthew breathed.

“What about…” Bobby Joe thought desperately. “Can you make it so Ol’ Lady Moore’s okra gets ate by something so she quits givin’ it to us?”

“Ah, a localized agricultural pestilence request.” Grith produced a small, obsidian tablet and began scribbling with a fiery stylus. “Easily arranged. A small, but very hungry, interdimensional armadillo will see to it. Standard stuff.”

He tucked the tablet back into his waistcoat. “Right. Well, if that’s all, I really must be getting back. The brimstone crisis won’t solve itself.” He finished the Dr Pepper, set the bottle down with a definitive clink, and began to fade, the tweed and spectacles dissolving into the same odd-smelling mist.

“Remember for next time!” his voice echoed from the empty air. “Neat chalk lines! And for my sake, a decent offering! A bit of nice smoked brisket, perhaps!”

The lantern flickered back on. The boys were alone. The moon pie was gone. The only evidence was the empty Dr Pepper bottle and the lingering scent of bureaucracy and burnt sugar.

Bobby Joe slowly closed the Grimoire of Astaroth the Unsmiling. He looked at Matthew.

“You know,” Bobby Joe said. “I reckon we might be better off just tryin’ to find some treasure the regular way.”

“Yeah,” Matthew agreed, nodding vigorously. “My Daddy always says there ain’t no substitute for honest work.”

And for the first time in their lives, that notion didn’t seem quite so dull.

*****

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