The Ungulate of Doom

“Oh spirits of the beyond dimensions, heed my call!” chanted Lord Bloodwringer, High Commander of the Undead Leagues (AKA Adrian Entwhistle).

“Oh beings of the underworld of, errr how’d you say that, oh Hades, bring us forth your representative!” cried Gnomeslayer, the Fearsome Slayer of Gnomes (AKA Richard Fitzgerald).

Sorceress Esmeralda of the Dark and Serious Magicks (AKA Emily Jones) leaned over and whispered “This is getting scary, they might just do it!” into Magritte’s ear. Magritte was AKA Magritte. With a name like Magritte, picking something fancier was a bit much; like covering a for-the-queen milk jug with a beaded lace doily. She turned to look at Emily and in the candle lit gloom, could just make out her enraptured and eager expression tinged with just a smidgeon of fear around the eyes. All she could do was make a bit of a non-committal sound and turn back to look at the performance. Even by their fairly over-the-top standards, Adrian and Richard were getting ridiculous.

“By the power of Greyskull,” intoned Lord Bloodwringer, “we insist you show yourselves!”

“According to chapter 12, section 22.4 of the Necrominion,” beseeched Gnomeslayer, “thouest must present thyself to the nearest official, errr, nominated location!”

She had to give them some credit for all this. The Ouija board was funny, and the attempt at communicating with Emily’s well deceased great great aunt was, well, emotional for all involved. Tears and frustration for Emily, and general sheepishness for Richard and Adrian at least. Unlike Emily, Magritte was confident that nothing even remotely supernatural was going to happen.

It wouldn’t be for lack of effort, but Magritte knew Adrian and Richard. Adrian had the attention to detail of a kitten with a laser pointer, and Richard had the artistic skills of a labrador. For some reason, it was felt that Richard should paint the sigils on the floor surrounding them and Adrian should procure the spell. Emily had supplied the candles. Magritte, the skepticism of a successful outcome.

“May Drusilla condemn thee if thou does not present!” wailed Lord Bloodwringer.

“May the monkeys of internal torment eternally torment your internals!” incanted Gnomeslayer.

Richard should not have painted the sigils. They didn’t look anything like what they were supposed to. Magritte had been looking over his shoulder as he did his best to copy them out of whatever dusty book of supposed witchcraft and wizardry they were currently reading from. Adrian had discovered it in his grandma’s attic. He claimed that she was a powerful witch with an evil cat. Magritte lived two doors down from Mrs Entwhistle. The most evil thing the cat ever did was mark time with it’s claws out and the witchiest thing Mrs Entwhistle ever did was invite children to help her make a gingerbread house every year. The children survived uneaten every time. There was nothing witch-like about her.

Lord Bloodwringer and Gnomeslayer chorused together. “Aperigu antilopo de pereo al nia ĉeesto, mastro de ĉio hoofed!”

A loud bang heralded the sudden arrival of a horned figure in their midst. Wreathed in a blood-red smoke and accompanied with the stench of brimstone, the beast bellowed and beat out a violent staccato rhythm with it’s hoofed feet on the floor. Adrian, Richard, and Emily bravely dived for cover under the profusion of blankets and cushions that the Fitzgerald’s thought were necessary in a lounge room, burying themselves deep. Magritte sat still, surprised that they had managed to bring something forth, but perhaps not quite as surprised as she should have been.

Magritte sighed and unfolded herself as she stood. She walked over to the beast and placed a hand on it’s muzzle, almost instantly calming it. Around her, cries of “It’s the end of the world!”, “It’s a catastrophe! We’ve summoned the devourer of worlds!”, “Human sacrifice, dogs and cats living together… mass hysteria!”, and a general sobbing came from pillows and rugs. “You idiots,” Magritte called out, “you haven’t called forth the Great Prince of Darkness. You didn’t even manage Dracula. You got a Vlad though, Vlad the impala. You summoned an antelope.”

Checking carefully around her to make sure everyone was still cowering, she placed her hands gently on either side of the now calm impala’s muzzle, closed her eyes and concentrated just a little bit. A faint pop, a rush of hot dry desert air, and Magritte had returned the impala back to wherever it was that impalas normally live. She gave herself the luxury of a small, satisfied grin. She’d gotten good at that lately. Being the seventh daughter of the seventh daughter had its bonuses.