Young Writers Society

Two weeks passed without a second incident.

Since Patty was too poor to afford repairs and Jack had never nailed a board in his life, the hole remained as is. Nobody really cared, and the cats seemed to enjoy the breeze. Life went on just as it had before, except for the fact that the piano was gone and they had a sun-roof that was on the wall.

Jack was in the kitchen when he heard a knock at the door.

He wondered whether he should answer. He had had enough of the news people over the past two weeks, with their fancy suits and their fountain pens with damningly permanent ink. Or worse, it could be one of those shows where “professionals” walked around a house with ghost-busting equipment, pretending to be frightened by “paranormal activity.” He was in no mood. He hadn't been in any particular mood lately. Normally Aunt Patty would have told him to answer it, but she was at her friend Jackie's house helping host a baby shower; it was the first time she had left the house in almost six months, so it must have been one hell of an important baby.

Whether it was force of will or lack of resistance, Jack Milligan unlocked the latch, turned the handle, and opened the door.

Standing in the threshold of his house was a tall, thin man in his late forties. He had a balding head of scruffy black hair, dark brown eyes, and a nose longer than Jack's index finger. He wore a brown suit with a shiny, multicolored tie of blue and purple hues. In his right hand he was carrying a plain black briefcase. His eyes were tired; he looked like he hadn't slept in weeks or months or maybe years. He had no particular look on his face. It was simply blank.

The man ignored Jack for a moment, stuck his head through the door and peered around. Then he looked down, and saw the odd-looking fourteen-year-old staring up at him.

“Hello,” was all the man said.

“Hey,” said Jack.

A moment of silence.

“So?” said Jack awkwardly.

“So what?”

“What do you want?”

It was a question that most adults would have thought ridiculously rude given the circumstances. Jack knew this, but didn't particularly care at the moment. The man with the briefcase didn't seem to mind. In fact, all it did was make him smile, ear-to-ear and more sincere than Jack had ever seen.

“Right,” said the man. “Down to business. I like that. Love it, actually. All these adults, always wanting to see my papers and stuff, and 'are you insured', and all that stuff. Nice to meet a kid for once. Most kids don't answer the door, they're too busy sitting around, watching cartoons and shooting each other. May I come in, please?”

“Um, what do you-”

“Thanks.” The man, still smiling, crossed the threshold past Jack and into the house. “Don't mind if I do.”

Jack said nothing, and wondered if he should call the police. The man's head titled left and right, examining the kitchen. He nonchalantly set his briefcase on the table and took off his coat, tossing it aside onto the back of a chair. His gaze turned back to Jack.

“Hello,” he said again.

“Hey,” Jack said again.

“Got any sodas? I work better with sodas. Good old caffeine, makes you alert. You can get an hour of living done in ten minutes. Wife says its bad for me; I don't really listen to what she says. I just give her a smack with a frying pan and she usually shuts up. Just kidding. I don't have a wife. Had a dog, though. Good dog. Labrador. Named him Lab. It was short for Laboratory. Don't remember where that name came from. Actually, I'm lying again. Never had a dog. But there's a cat here, so we're good.”

He immediately snatched up one of Aunt Patty's cats from under the table and began to scratch it behind the ears. To Jack's eternal amazement, the cat didn't struggle or put up any fight whatsoever. To the contrary, Benjamin seemed to be enjoying the man's behind-the-ear massage. He purred like a sports car.

“What was I saying?” said the man. “Oh, right, sodas. Can I have a soda, please?”

“Um,” said Jack. It wasn't a mumble. It was – more or less – exactly what he was thinking.

“I'm sorry,” said the man, shaking his head and looking away. He suddenly looked genuinely and unabashedly ashamed. “Oh, I am so, so stupid. Will you ever forgive me?”

“For what?” said Jack. He was still at a loss for words.

“I never got your name,” said the man. “I am so rude! It's so rude to pet a person's cat when you don't know their name. Isn't that right, Mister Teaparty?” He shook the cat like you would a baby, then, realizing his second mistake, gritted his teeth. “And now I've gone and named it, and now I'm attached, and I'm being so rude today I deserve a ticket! I'm Rufus, by the way. What's your name?”

“Jack,” said Jack.

“Well, Jack, I am so sorry. Nice to meet you. Friends?” Holding Benjamin Teaparty in one arm, the man called Rufus proffered his hand. Jack hesitantly took it. Their hands bobbed up and down together for a few seconds before they both awkwardly let go.

Jack was wondering whether or not it was possible to text 911.

“So?” said Rufus. “Down to business? Oh, right, that's my thing.” He cleared his throat. “I'm here about the big hole in your wall. I saw it on the news last night. Something about a piano?”

“Uh...”

He set Benjamin back down on the ground. Satisfied with his day's adventure, the little furball scurried away to take a well-deserved nap. Rufus began to fiddle with the lock on his briefcase.

Who was this guy? Jack had no clue. He didn't look like he was from around here. Everything – from his accent to the way he dressed – suggested he was better drafted for a weird Hollywood actor rather than a citizen of Bible Belt, America.

He couldn't be from the media; those guys traveled in packs, always smiling nicely, brandishing papers with big words that no one really understood or cared to. Maybe he was just what he appeared to be: some lone nut who had heard about the incident on the news and had decided to take the entire matter into his own hands.

“Heck yeah! That's the way we do it in America!”

The briefcase popped open with a satisfying clink, and Rufus applauded himself.

“Been screwing with that lock for years,” he said to Jack. “Thing's gonna be the death of me.”

Cautiously, Jack approached the table and examined the contents of the case. The closer he got, they less sure he was of what he was seeing. There was a small, bright-green water-gun with the letters HW written on it in black marker; a key-ring around which seemed to hang the insignia of every religion from Islam to Christian to Pastafarian; a small silver knife curved almost like the hand of Captain Hook, with strange markings forged upon its surface; what looked like a translucent Christmas ornament that, on closer inspection, was something Jack had never seen before; and, last and most certainly least, a small paperback copy of The Adventures of Tom Sawyer,a big yellow bookmark sticking out of it.

Rufus removed the watergun and the ornament-thing. He placed the “gun” in his his front suit pocket and tossed the ornament recklessly into the air, catching it a half second later.

“What's that?” said Jack.

“Supernatural Activity Detector,” said Rufus proudly. “SAD, I guess. Also called an Oculus. That's what the Chinese called 'em. They're from China, you see. See the little markings?”

He tossed the trinket over to Jack, who caught it gingerly and held it close to his eye. There were markings, all in beautifully drawn Chinese print.

“What are they, like latitude and longitude?” said Jack, transfixed.

“Beats me,” said Rufus. “Chinese are always so 'proper' and 'calculated' about this stuff. They have karate, we have shotguns. Cultural differences, I suppose. I'm gonna need that back, there.”

Jack handed Rufus back the globe, and asked the question that had been killing him for almost five minutes.

“Who are you?”

Rufus looked somewhat indignant.

“I'm Rufus,” he said simply. “Don't you listen?”

“No, I mean, who are you?”

Rufus didn't seem to get it.

“Roo,” he said slowly. “Fus. R-U-F-U-S. Rhymes with “doofus”. I know! It's a stupid name. You've got no room to talk.”

“No, I mean, what do you do? What are you doing here?”

“I didn't mention that?”

“No,” said Jack. “I'm pretty sure you haven't.

“Why wouldn't I? That's incredibly rude. I'm so rude today, seriously. Oh, the thing! Oh, yes. Rufus Blatty, professional Exorcist and smalltime coin-collector, at your service.”

“What,” said Jack, taken aback. Surely he hadn't heard that right. “Professional what?”

“I know, it's a stupid hobby, but-”

“What do you mean 'Exorcist'?” said Jack.

“Well, think of it this way. A plumber plumbs things that need plumbing. A chef chefs things that need cheffing. I

exorcise things that need exorcising. What's not to get? Supply and demand. That's what keeps this economy rolling, brother.”

“You mean, like, from the church? Shouldn't you being wearing a priest outfit and carrying a Bible or something?”

“For one, sir, I'm Jewish,” said Rufus. “See the nose? Second, just because I'm not from a 'church' doesn't mean I can't be an exorcist, does it? That's like saying you can't be a guitar player if you're not in a band!”

For what felt like the thousandth time, Jack had absolutely nothing to say.

“Now,” said Rufus, obviously considering himself victorious. “Can we please get down to business? Where's the big hole again?”

Jack – still at a complete loss for words – pointed in the general direction of the living room. Rufus saluted him, and swaggered off into the parlor.

Jack followed, and watched as the strange man examined the hole the same way a computer technician might examine a malfunctioning laptop. Using measuring tape, he measured the hole top to bottom and – apparently satisfied with his conclusion, said, “I think something came through here.” Judging by his tone of voice, he may well have just found a cure for cancer.

Rufus walked over to Jack, who was watching religiously a few feet away from the hole. Rufus peeled off surgical gloves that Jack hadn't even noticed he was wearing, and then proceeded to toss them over his shoulder.

“Anything weird around here lately?” said Rufus, in a completely serious manner. “TVs turning on in the middle of the night? Toilets flushing toilets for no apparent reason? Things floating when they shouldn't be?”

Jack's heart skipped a beat. No, no, no, said the logical part of his brain. There was no way on earth, heaven, or hell that this man had any idea what he was talking about. How could he have known? It was just some wild guess, it had to be. But then again, things didn't just float for no reason. But suppose this guy was legit, shouldn't he tell him everything he knew? Next time could be worse, so much worse, someone could get hurt, or killed. He couldn't let that happen, not when there was the vaguest hope that this Rufus guy was actually – somehow – even a little sane.

“There was this one time,” he said, barely above a whisper.

“And?” said Rufus, his eyes wide with interest.

“This gnome floated,” said Jack, pointing towards the hole and into the yard. His finger landed on Stumpy. “That gnome.”

Rufus smiled.

“Lawn gnomes? Awesome!” He sounded like a kid at Christmas.

They crossed through the hole and into the backyard to confront Stumpy.

Rufus bent down on his knees and stared the gnome in the eyes. He kept staring. Then he stared again. Then he stared some more. Jack watched with anticipation for something to happen, but nothing ever did. Five minutes passed, then Rufus stood up. He pulled the watergun out his his shirt pocket and pointed it directly at the gnome's forehead.

“If anything bad happens, cover your eyes,” said Rufus plainly, then pulled the trigger.

Water ejected from the nozzle and sprayed onto the gnome with a dull finality. Nothing.

Frustrated, Rufus picked up the gnome and held it at arms length.

“Just to be sure,” he muttered under his breath. Then he said, in a completely audible voice, “How much did this gnome cost?”

Jack didn't know.

“Probably not much.”

“Any sentimental value? It's not a family trinket or anything, is it?”

“I don't think so.”

“Are there explosives of any kind hidden inside this lawn gnome?”

“No,” said Jack, although now he wasn't so sure.

Rufus nodded.

“Good.”

He leaped into the air and spiked the gnome into the ground. Stumpy shattered like an egg against concrete.

“You were right about the bombs,” said Rufus, patting Jack on the back. “Good job. Sorry about the dwarf, though. Always best to make sure. Let me guess? Bashful?”

“Stumpy,” said Jack simply, staring in shock at the poor gnome's scattered remains.

“Never heard of that one,” said Rufus.

Jack said nothing. This was insane, now more than ever. He clung to the hope – that small shadow of hope – that this guy somehow knew what he was doing. But then again, even if he did, what exactly was he doing?

“Guess we gotta bring out the big guns now,” said Rufus, brandishing the “SAD”, seemingly out of nowhere. He tossed it into the air again, caught it, then shook it violently. It was like watching a mentally unstable child trying to shake the magic out of a snow globe. Then he was still, eyes wide, staring at the sphere in his hands with a look of great anticipation.

There was a sound. Like whispering, like ocean waves careening against the sand, like a song long forgotten. Like the voice in the pantry, this was not a sound to be heard, but a sound to be felt, tasted, thought. But this was different from the sound in the pantry, which had brought chill bumps and bad dreams; this sound reminded him of everything in the world that was lovable. He smiled, inexplicably. He would have felt foolish if Rufus hadn't smiled as well.

“Ya hear it?” said the exorcist.

Jack nodded.

“That's magic, sonny. Old magic. Older than you and me and both of our grandfathers combined. Not witchcraft or parlor tricks. The definite article. Some of the good old blood of the universe coursing through so small a thing. Very clever, the Chinese. Gotta give them credit. Better name, too.”

“What is it?” said Jack. “Not the name, though. What is it really?”

Rufus's smile grew brighter, if it was possible.

“It's basically a compass,” said Rufus. “Points to what you're looking for.”

“And what are we looking for?” said Jack.

Rufus' smile faltered a little. His eyes darted away for a moment before returning somewhat shyly back to Jack.

He shrugged.

“Poltergeist.”

“What?”

“Not the movie. I mean the -”

“I know what you mean,” said Jack. “I just don't understand.”

“What's not to understand?”

“This can't be real.”

Rufus' eyes darted around again.

“Well, I've kinda got this headache,” said Rufus. “And nothing hurts in dreams so, therefore, by sheer logic, this is

reality. Am I correct?”

“I guess so, but –”

“So,” said Rufus. “Two weeks ago a piano flew out of your house with no explanation whatsoever. Let me tell you a secret. It wasn't gravity. It wasn't global warming. There's nothing that could have possibly done that. Eliminate the impossible, then whatever remains, however improbably, must be the truth. But eliminate the improbable then whatever remains, however impossible, is most likely a poltergeist. Or a Werewolf. But those are rare, so don't worry about it. You following?”

Jack only nodded.

“Good,” said Rufus, nodding back. “I'm off to ghost-bus. Feel free to tag along.”

Jack wavered. Unsure of which reality to hope for, he raised his arm, grabbed hold of a small knot of flesh, and

pinched himself as hard as he could. It hurt. No dream, then. Everything was real and was happening right here and right now. Unless of course, he turned out to be crazy.

He followed Rufus into the house, never looking back.

The exorcist was busying himself with his work, walking about the living room, Oculus in hand.

“Can I help?” he said as politely as he could.

“Eh?” said Rufus, turning his head towards Jack. “Oh, you. I could do with a soda, thanks. Actually, scratch that.”

Rufus pulled out his water gun.

“Get behind me,” he said.

“What?”

“God, you ask a lot of questions.”

Jack did as he was told. Slowly, Rufus crept into the kitchen. He held the small ornament aloft like a torch in a dark

cave. In fact, it was alight! Glowing, a small but mesmerizing shade of gold. It was like something out of a fantasy movie. No plugs, no batteries to speak of. Jack would have to ask the “exorcist” about it later. He hadn't bought into all of this stuff, not yet. But almost.

They moved further into the kitchen. Jack noticed that the orb's light had gone from gold to a pinkish red. He felt his stomach go hard. His aunt's kitchen, once just a harmless, ordinary little pig-sty, now looked much more like a murder scene from a documentary. There was a feeling that at any moment, something scarier than Hell itself was going to crash out of the ceiling and tear his eyes out of his sockets.

“What are we looking for?” said Jack in a voice that was barely a whisper.

“An object,” said Rufus, speaking louder than Jack would have ever dared.

“Could you be more specific, please?”

“I wish I could,” said Rufus. He rotated the orb in the direction of the stove. It turned – slightly – back to its original gold hue. Unsatisfied, Rufus pointed it back towards the other end of the kitchen, towards the table. It turned red, a pinkish red, but red nonetheless. “Spirits – poltergeists, demons, ghosts – need a link to the physical realm in order to operate properly. They need bodies, just like you and me. Only, they get to pick. Most of the time, anyways.”

Jack felt a chill run up his spine, and he shuddered uncontrollably.

“You mean...” he said, stuttering stupidly over the words. It was as if fear had brought out the believer in him. “You mean the spirit, the thing is -”

“Been right under your nose the whole time,” said Rufus. “Life stinks, doesn't it? Or, afterlife, I guess. Whichever's funnier.”

Jack remembered what he had heard when he was in the pantry, and felt an all-too-childish urge to cry.

“Mister exorcist, sir,” said Jack. “Yesterday, before the piano flew, I was in the pantry. I heard a voice. It was like a whisper inside my head.”

Rufus continued to hold the orb aloft, but turned his face back to Jack. A look of pity mixed with determination glared on his face.

“What did it say?”

“I think it said 'Help'.”

Rufus sighed.

“Figures,” said Rufus.

He turned his attention back to the orb, still shining pinkish red, and started his approach to the table.

“Wait,” said Jack. “What does that mean?”

“No offense, son, but you ask a lot of questions.”

“Dude, you're a ghost -buster! You should be used to it!”

“Are you kidding me? Most people have either called the police gotten the hell out of dodge by this point.”

They were next to the pantry now. The orb was glowing brighter, now an almost crimson red.

“Stay here,” said the exorcist. Jack's arm shook uncontrollably as he watched Rufus grab hold of the door handle and

slowly open it up. Rufus walked inside and started to turn around, holding the orb as a beacon.

“What I was saying, though,” said Rufus suddenly. He thought for a moment, then began grabbing random cans and shaking them as he talked. “Was that you've got a four one niner on your hands. That exorcist slang. My slang anyway. Dunno if other exorcists use it. Means you've got a bad spirit caught inside somethin', only it's trapped, y'see. Some spirits are smart about what they possess. Some aren't. They're dumb, idiotic. Like cows, maybe. They go inside the first shiny thing they see and next thing they know they're stuck in an inanimate object. Some can handle that, get out, and move on. Some can't. So they cry out the only way they know how. Spirit energy, called Ecoplasm. Powerful stuff, and dangerous as all get-out. They don't know what they're doin' and what they're using it for, and that's what makes it dangerous. Sometimes it screws up the electricity and things you thought you turned off are suddenly on again. Sometimes things disappear, and wind up somewhere miles away. But if the spirit is desperate enough, and screams loud enough, things start to move. That's where poltergeists come from.”

Jack stood still, shaking his head and pretending like he knew what the exorcist was talking about. This entire day had turned into a giant information dump that just never stopped pouring. And there was always the chance that this was all nonsense.

“How do you know all this?”

“Experience,” said Rufus. He grabbed a bag of potato chips, ripped it open with his teeth, sniffed its contents, then tossed it over his shoulder. “There's a book, too. You should read it. Old book. Lovely printing.”

Jack thought – inexplicably – of his father.

“So these spirits,” said Jack. “They can come from anywhere? They can be anyone? What if they're someone you know, someone you've lost, and they're trying to talk to you again? Y'know, say goodbye, or something.”

“There are two kinds of spirits, my friend,” said Rufus. He was currently examining a bag of cat food. “There's ghosts, for one. Ghosts are nice most of the time; a little ornery, maybe, but never dangerous. A good, honest person can come back as a ghost if they wanted, though it's a bit of an Olympic feat all things considered. Kinda like bending over backwards while playing a guitar with your tongue.

"But Hotheads are bad news. They're the violent dead, the miserable dead. The spirits that lose part of themselves because of what they do in life. They're not entirely human, at least not anymore. Most people call 'em Demons. People gave 'em that name long ago, without really understanding what we had named. Long story short: they're dangerous, ill-tempered, and very, very dead.

“Problem is, you never know what yer gonna get. Who knows? It could be Elvis looking for a peanut-butter-and-banana sandwich, but that's usually down to luck. Truth is, whatever's in this house, whatever's been 'haunting' you, odds are it ain't pretty.”

He began to tap the orb in frustration.

“C'mon,” he begged of it. “Show me the money.”

He spun around again, waving the little ornament around like a madman. He stopped suddenly, and breathed loudly through his nostrils. Rufus walked out of the pantry, defeated. He slammed the door shut behind him.

“Ain't in there,” he said simply.

“What?” said Jack.

“Thought it was in there,” said Rufus. “Wasn't in there. Who would've guessed?” He was looking around the kitchen now. “What to do, what to do, what to-“

Something caught his eye. Jack followed his gaze. There, shoved up next to the pantry door, was his aunt's scooter. For a few moments, neither of them said anything.

“Let me ask you something,” said Rufus. “When was the last time your aunt went for a drive?”

Jack was sure his jaw was hanging open. It couldn't be.

“A year, at least,” he said, failing to hide the bewilderment in his voice.

Rufus held the ornament downward, in the direction of the scooter. It instantly turned hot red and began to vibrate in

Rufus' hand.

“We have a winner,” said Rufus in a macabre joy that Jack couldn't comprehend. “Stand back.”

Jack backed up three or four paces behind Rufus.

“What are you gonna do?” said Jack, failing to hide the fear in his voice.

“I'm gonna try and exorcise it,” said Rufus, bending down to examine the scooter. “Free the beast, so to speak. If it's

friendly, we all shake hands and get out of here. If it ain't, then I take my little Holy Water gun and shoot it screaming back to where it came from. Either way, you're about to see something you ain't never seen before.”

Rufus held the orb (SAD, Oculus, whatever it was) in his hands as if he were defusing a bomb. Slowly he inched it closer to the scooter. The ornament's light was a critical red now, and Jack could see it vibrating violently in the exorcist's hand. It was like a metal detector being held over buried treasure. It was only half an inch away from the scooter now. Jack's whole body shook, not from fear, but from anticipation.

Jack heard a small tap sound and like a strike of lightning, light and color exploded in front of Rufus. The exorcist flew backwards, and the whole of him crashed into Jack, who had half a second to realize what had happened before they both went plummeting to the ground. He hit the floor with a painful thud.

His body still throbbing, Jack managed to push Rufus off of him. His aunt's scooter was up on all four wheels. Jack heard a sound like forced, heavy breathing emanating from the plastic monstrosity.

The scooter shook violently, skidding across the floor north, south, east, west. A dirty old pot suddenly flew up from the counter and stuck itself into the ceiling.

Other things began to move: spoons and bowls and old soda cans started to fly about, swirling, swirling around the kitchen. Some simply flew in random directions. Others gravitated around the scooter, their orchestrator, their would-be god. It wasn't just the kitchen either. Jack could hear the bedlam all around him, crashes and noises erupting from every corner of the house.

Rufus moaned.

“It's a Hothead,” he said, then swore in a combination of words that Jack would have never thought of putting together.

“A what?” Jack yelled.

“Bad spirit, don't you listen?”

Almost like a dog who had been ordered to run, the scooter thrashed itself around the room, up and down and all around. The breathing became louder and louder; it was a low moaning, like a ghost in an old movie.

Rufus got to his feet, groaning. He reached down, grabbed Jack by the collar of his shirt. Jack was yanked to his feet.

“Go,” said the exorcist simply.

Jack couldn't even if he had wanted to. He froze where he stood, staring straight up at the scooter, right into the face of the impossible.

Nothing could explain this. No tricks, no wires, no dream. Nothing. And he wasn't afraid. No, quite the opposite. As scary as this was, as weird as this was, as dangerous as the was, the only feeling that Jack Milligan felt was that of revelation. He knew now that the unreal was in fact real, that fantasy could be reality and that the world was made up or much, much more than newspapers and untied shoes.

Jack turned his head to Rufus, who was fumbling around in his jacket pocket.

“Where is it?” he said to himself. “WHERE-” His eyes grew wide, and a grimace spread across his face. “Oh, come ON!”

“What is it?”

“Didn't I tell you to run away?”

“Let me help!”

“What are you, nine? This is no time for playing hero!”

“I can help! Just let me-”

“AHA!”

Rufus ignored him and ran into the kitchen, silver knife held aloft. Jack tried to follow, and almost immediately pain erupted in the side of his head. Something hard, something very, very hard had just struck him. He backed away and faced his attacker. It took a few moments for his mind to register that the coffee table was spinning.

The furniture had joined in with the kitchen utensils in their unholy crusade. The couch bounced against the ceiling, the recliner scratched against the ground, and the coffee table spun around like a tossed coin suspended in motion.

A crash sounded, followed by a loud swear. A blur of blue and black flew overhead. Jack had the sense to drop to the ground as the shapeless form passed above him. He spun round, and saw (in a single blink of a second) that Rufus was clutching the Scooter as it flew itself towards the television set with a deafening-

Boom! The TV's glass shattered in an explosion of particles. Rufus had wrapped his arms and legs around the scooter; he clutched a knife clutched in his left hand, but was clearly too busy holding on for dear life to use thing.

The demon-thing, apparently unhappy with its “rider”, began to spin vertically, like the wheel of a car, round and round and round. Every time it rotated, Rufus' head bashed against the exposed insides of the TV set. The exorcist held on desperately.

“GET-” thud “OUT-” thud “HOUSE!”

“Let me help!” said Jack desperately. “I can help! I can-”

“I'M-” thud “SERIOUS!” thud “OW!” thud “OW!” thud “OW!” thud “OKAY!”

Rufus relinquished his hold of the Scooter and was flung straight up into the air. He hit the ceiling with a painful cracking sound. He landed into the rotating coffee table and swore again as it spiked him onto the floor beneath.

The entire house began to shake. It was like an earth-quake, only Jack had never experienced one before. He imagined this was what an earthquake would feel like.

“Oh, great,” said Rufus, moaning. “Now I've done it.”

Almost immediately, crashing sounds erupted all at once from every corner of the house. The couch plummeted to the floor; the recliner suddenly fell still; Rufus swore once again as he dodged the plummeting coffee table.

“OH, NOW I'VE DONE IT!”

“What's going on,” said Jack. “Why is everything-”

“This thing was stronger than I thought! Well, angrier, at least!”

Jack looked and saw from the Wall-Hole that the house wasn't just shaking. It was floating.

Imagine that you are an old woman in her late sixties. Your name, it so happens, is Cynthia Simpson. It's been a rough afternoon of gardening, and you're all sweaty and stinky and could really use a nice, relaxing bubble bath right about now.

The neighbors across the street – the fat lady and her quiet, off-putting nephew – have been making a heck of a racket. Those people are nothing but trouble. The whole episode with the piano was disturbing, to say the least. She may never say it, but Cynthia suspects that the Devil was involved, and she has been praying three times a day since the incident occurred. She wipes the sweat from her brow, trying to put it out of her mind.

Imagine her surprise when – out of the corner of her eye – she sees the impossible. She turns, and sees the house with the hole floating in the air like a hot air balloon. From the wound in the house's wall, she sees Patty's nephew clinging to the floor as the home ascends. Behind the boy is a sharp-dressed man with dark hair and a bleeding forehead.

Cynthia Simpson blinks twice, swallows hard, and faints on the spot.

No way, was his first thought.

Yes way. Eleven, twelve feet above the ground, at least, and gaining air with every second.

“We're FLOATING!” yelled Jack. He couldn't believe that the voice was actually his. It sounded high and girlish and scared. But the fact remained that the house was floating.

“Not floating,” said Rufus, loud but calm. “Levitating! Completely different.”

Jack did his best to take in deep, steady breaths. The floor beneath him felt as solid as wet paper spread out over a volcano's mouth. What would the newspapers say? he wondered. House Rockets to Atmosphere; Teenage Boy Missing and Presumed Space-bound.

“Right,” said Rufus. “There you are!”

Rufus was on his knees, shaking the green water-gun.

“Keep running off on me!” he yelled.

The exorcist stood to his feet and pointed the barrel of the “gun” at the Devil-Scooter. It was still in midair, hovering in front of the shattered television set. It's “voice” croaked menacingly, like a frog from hell. Rufus grinned a sly cowboy-grin.

“Thirsty?”

The “holy water” squirted from the nozzle of the gun, hitting the Devil-Scooter square in the headlights.

It screamed.

Like a sound from the bleeding bowels of the cosmic stomach, the Scooter cried in agony, violently spasming every which way. It shook like a madman for a few seconds before collapsing with a violent thunk onto the wooden floor, where it continued its terrible dance. A spark ignited on its headlights, and a silvery flame from nowhere enveloped the vehicle, burning its bright blue into a hideous black. For a moment Jack thought he saw something, something that was there and yet not quite there, like an afterimage, passing from the melting chrome and into the air; but it was only for a moment, and Jack had no time to ponder whether he had seen it or not.

In the blink of an instant, the flames abated, and the scooter was still, a literal shell of its former self.

Jack and Rufus looked at each other, a flood of relief shared between them for roughly three seconds before both of them realized what was about to happen next.

Jack joined Rufus in a recitation of “Oh, crap!”

Suddenly the entire world around him was like being on an elevator that was going down way to fast, and there was no STOP button or anything to hang on to. For a second he himself flew a few inches off the ground. Then came the most deafening crash of all, and Jack Milligan fell to his face.

The world ceased to be.

Fuzzy, fuzzy. Everything was fuzzy. Dark, swirling, soundless. He knew now that he had dreamed it all: that there was no gnome, no piano, no demonic scooter. Soon, very soon now, he would wake up in his ordinary bed in his ordinary house in his ordinary life.

Then the old friend called “feeling” came back. He felt himself being dragged across hard, wooden floor.

He began to struggle with every nerve of feeling he had left. He tried to claw his fingernails into the floor. The scooter – the spirit, the ghoul, the Hothead, whatever – was making him do this, and now he too had become part of its legion of dancing brooms.

But, no, that wasn't it. There was something, someone, gripping his his heels. The world was still soft and out of focus, but through the fog he recognized the man called Rufus. The exorcist grit his teeth and swore under his breath.

There was a bright flash of light that just stayed and stayed and stayed. He felt warm grass sliding underneath him. Rufus gently put his feet down onto the ground.

How long he stayed there, he couldn't tell. His head hurt like a kick to the privates, but the world was slowly returning to him. He could feel the smell of the pollen of the air mixed with the dust that had been stirred out of the earth by the falling house. He imagined a pair of green feet with ruby-red shoes sticking out from beneath the house, and would have laughed if he could remember how.

The world swam back into existence, and soon he could see a bright blue sky and a cloud-hidden sun painted above him. Voices murmured out of focus all around him. Somewhere in the world, birds were singing.

The police arrived five minutes later to a disoriented Jack and a house that was approximately twenty-six inches to the left of where it had been half an hour ago. The boy was given a glass of hot cocoa, a blanket, and more questions than the average ACT.

He said, somewhat honestly, that he wasn't sure exactly what had happened. He had gone to collect some of his things when suddenly, the entire house had lifted in the air before collapsing. When the boy asked about a man called Rufus with a fedora and a briefcase, all he received was confused looks and shaking heads.

Somewhat satisfied with the answers that Jack had given him, the Powers That Be sent him to Jackie McNair's house to be with his aunt, who had been “terribly worried”, thank you very much.

As Jack Milligan found out much, much later, the “official” cause of the incident was a toilet cleanser that his Aunt had used. Apparently, it contained a chemical that had caused the entire plumbing system to explode, thus jettisoning the house approximately 23 feet in the air. It was a miracle, they said, that it hadn't happened sooner.

Riding in the back of the police car as the day gave way to twilight, Jack felt himself constantly temped by sleep. But the past few hours had left him impervious to the Sandman. A part of him doubted he would ever sleep again. So he watched Ross pass him by, watched the world doze off to sleep. It was the same world he had seen this morning on the ride to school, only it wasn't the same. Absentmindedly, he reached into his pocket and pulled out his new possession.

He lied to the cops, you know.

Some would argue that a lie of omission isn't really a lie at all, but Jack had been brought up too well believe it. He had lied, and he was sorry. But not too sorry.

He had told them that the mysterious man who had come to his house had vanished without a trace. This, in a more traditional sense of the word, was a lie.

Jack held the Oculus in his hand, his pale, tired reflection gazing back at him. There was no way to be sure exactly how it had gotten into his pocket, but there wasn't a doubt in his mind that Rufus had put it there. A gift between friends, or something more? He smiled at the thought.

Thinking of his destination and what his aunt would have to say, he shook the jewel softly, and put it up against his ear. It's song whispered to him, and there was solace in it, maybe even a little hope. Tomorrow, he somehow knew, was going to an amazing day.

THE END?