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 isn’t uncommon for this particular demon to be summoned—from
exhausting Halloween party pranks in abandoned barns to more legitimate (more
exhausting) ceremonies in forests—but it has to admit, this is the first time
it’s 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 ‘Home Sweet Home’s hung across the wood-paneled
walls.
It’s a mistake—a wrong number, per se. No witch it’s ever
known has lived in such an, ah, dated,
home. Furthermore, no practitioner that ever summoned it has been absent, as if
they’d up and ding-dong ditched it. No, it didn’t work that way. Not at all.
Not if they want to survive the encounter.
It hears the clinking of movement in the room adjacent—the kitchen,
going by the pungent, bitter scent of cooled coffee and soggy, sweet sponge
cakes, but more jarring is the smell of blood. It moves—feels 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 wouldn’t 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.
“Todd! Todd, dear, I didn’t know you were visiting this year!
You didn’t call, you didn’t write—but, oh, I’m so happy you’re here, dear!
Would it have been too much to ask you to ring the doorbell? I almost had a
heart attack. And don’t worry about the blood, here—I had an accident. My favorite
figure toppled off of the table and cleanup didn’t go as expected. But I seem
to recall you are quite into the bloodshed and ‘edgy’ stuff these days, so I
don’t suppose you mind.” She releases a hearty, kind laugh, but it isn’t
mocking, it’s 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. “Imagine if it leaves a scar! It’d be a
bit ‘badass,’ as you teenagers say, wouldn’t it?”
She is as blind as a bat without her glasses, it would appear,
because the demon is by no means a ‘Todd’ 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. “Be a dear
and make some more coffee, would you please? I’ll be back in a jiffy.”
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 they’d swindled in exchange for peanuts, or
how many first-borns they’d 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 blessing—happy accidents, as the humans
would say.
That’s why the demon does as asked, and plods slowly into
the kitchen, careful to duck low and avoid the top of the doorframe. That’s 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. It’s as the hot water is percolating that the old woman
returns, her index finger wrapped tight in a series of beige bandages.
“I’m surprised you’re so tall, Todd! I haven’t seen you
since you were at my hip! But your mother mails photos all the time—you do love
wearing all black, don’t you?” 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. “I was starting to think you’d never visit. Your father and I have
had our disagreements, but…I am glad you’re here, dear. Would you like some
cake?” 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 doesn’t
seem this old woman receives much company in this musty, stagnant house that
smells like an antique garage that hadn’t 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 ‘thank
you,’ but it doesn’t suppose the woman understands. Manners are manners
regardless.
“Oh, dear, I can hardly understand. Your voice has gotten so
deep, just like your grandfather’s was. That, and I do recall you have an affinity
for that gravelly, screaming music. Did your voice get strained? It’s alright,
dear, I’ll do the talking. You just rest up. The coffee will help soothe.”
The demon merely nods—some communication can be understood
without fail—and drinks the coffee and eats the cake with a too-small fork. It’s
ordinary, mushy, but delicious because of the intent behind it and the love
that must have gone into its creation.
“I hope you enjoyed all of the presents I sent you. You
never write back—but I am aware most people use that fancy E-mail these days. I
just can’t wrap my head around it. I do wish your mom and dad would visit sometime.
I know of a wonderful little café down the street we can go to. I haven’t been; I wanted to visit it with Charles, before he…well.” She falls silent in her
rambling, staring into her coffee with a small, melancholy smile. “I can’t
believe it’s been ten years. You never had the chance to meet him. But never mind
that.” 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. “I may as
well give you your birthday present, since you’re here. What timing! I only
finished it this morning. I’ll be right back.”
When she returns, the white, grey and black crocheted work with the summoning
circle is bundled in her arms.
“I found these designs in an occult book I borrowed from the
library. I thought you’d like them on a nice, warm blanket to fight off the
winter chill—I hope you do like it.” With gentle hands, she spreads the blanket
over the demon’s broad, spiky back like a shawl, smoothing it over craggy shoulders
and patting its arms affectionately. “Happy birthday, Todd, dear.”
Well, that settles it. Whoever, wherever, Todd is, he’s
clearly missing out. The demon will just have to be her grandson from now on.
this is so sweet. it made me want to hug someone.
i had to
I WOULD WATCH SIX SEASONS AND A MOVIE
Okay but she takes him to the little cafe and all of the people in her town are like “What is that thing, what the hell, Anette?” and she’s like “Don’t you remember my grandson Todd?” and the entire town just has to play along because no one will tell little old Nettie that her grandson is an actual demon because this is the happiest she’s been since her husband died.
Bonus: In season 4 she makes him run for mayor and he wins
I just want to watch ‘Todd’ help her with groceries, and help her with cooking, and help her clean up the dust around the house and air it out, and fill it with spring flowers because Anette mentioned she loved hyacinth and daffodils.
Over the seasons her eyesight worsens, so ‘Todd’ brings a hellhound into the house to act as her seeing eye dog, and people in town are kinda terrified of this massive black brute with fur that drips like thick oil, and a mouth that can open all the way back to its chest, but ‘Honey’ likes her hard candies, and doesn’t get oil on the carpet, and when ‘Todd’ has to go back to Hell for errands, Honey will snuggle up to Anette and rest his giant head on her lap, and whuff at her pockets for butterscotch.
Anette never gives ‘Todd’ her soul, but she gives him her heart
In season six, Anette gets sick. She spends most of the season bedridden and it becomes obvious by about midway through the season that she’s not going to make it to the end of the season. Todd spends the season travelling back and forth between the human realm and his home plane, trying hard to find something, anything that will help Anette get better, to prolong her life. He’s tried getting her to sell him her soul, but she’s just laughed, told him that he shouldn’t talk like that.
With only a few episodes left in the season Anette passes away, Todd is by her side. When the reaper comes for her Todd asks about the fate of her soul. In a dispassionate voice the reaper informs Todd that Anette spent the last few years of her life cavorting with creatures of darkness, that there can be only one fate for her. Todd refuses to accept this and he fights the reaper, eventually injuring the creature and driving it off. Knowing that Anette cannot stay in the Human Realm, and refusing to allow her spirit to be taken by another reaper, so he takes her soul in his arms. He’s done this before, when mortals have sold themselves to him. This time the soul cradled against his chest does not snuggle and fight. This time the soul held tight against him reaches out, pats him on the cheek tells him he was a good boy, and so handsome, just like his grandfather.
Todd takes Anette back to the demon realm, holding her tight against him as he travels across the bleak and forebidding landscape; such a sharp contrast to the rosy warmth of Anette’s home. Eventually, in a far corner of his home plane, Todd finds what he is looking for. It is a place where other demons do not tread; a large boulder cracked and broken, with a gap just barely large enough for Todd to fit through. This crack, of all things, gives him pause, but Anette’s soul makes a comment about needing to get home in time to feed Honey, and Todd forces himself to pass through it. He travels in darkness for a while, before he emerges into into a light so bright that it’s blinding. His eyes adjust slowly, and he finds himself face to face with two creatures, each of them at least twice his size one of them has six wings and the head of a lion, one of them is an amorphous creature within several rings. The lion-headed one snarls at Todd, and demands that he turn back, that he has no business here.
Todd looks down, holding Anette’s soul against his chest, he takes a deep breath, and speaks a single word, “Please.”
The two larger beings are taken aback by this. They are too used to Todd’s kind being belligerent, they consult with each other, they argue. The amorphous one seems to want to be lenient, the lion-headed one insists on being stricter. While they’re arguing Todd sneaks by them and runs as fast as he can, deeper into the brightly lit expanse. The path on which he travels begins to slope upwards, and eventually becomes a staircase. It becomes evident that each step further up the stair is more and more difficult for Todd, that it’s physically paining him to climb these stairs, but he keeps going.
They dedicate a full episode to this climb; interspersing the climb with scenes they weren’t able to show in previous seasons, Anette and Honey coming to visit Todd in the Mayor’s office, Anette and Todd playing bingo together for the first time, Anette and Todd watching their stories together in the mid afternoon, Anette falling asleep in her chair and Todd gently carrying her to bed. Anette making Todd lemonade in the summer while he’s up on the roof fixing that leak and cleaning out the rain gutters. Eventually Todd reaches the top, and all but collapses, he falls to a knee and for the first time his grip on Anette’s soul slips, and she falls away from him. Landing on the ground.
He reaches out for her, but someone gets there first. Another hand reaches out, and helps this elderly woman off the ground, helps her get to her feet. Anette gasps, it’s Charles. The pair of them throw their arms around each other. Anette tells Charles that she’s missed him so much, and she has so much to tell him. Charles nods. Todd watches a soft smile on his face. A delicate hand touches Todd’s shoulder, and pulls him easily to his feet. A figure; we never see exactly what it looks like, leans down, whispering in Todd’s ear that he’s done well, and that Anette will be well taken care of here. That she will spend an eternity with her loved ones. Todd looks back over to her, she’s surrounded by a sea of people. Todd nods, and smiles. The figure behind him tells him that while he has done good in bringing Anette here, this is not his place, and he must leave. Todd nods, he knew this would be the case.
Todd gets about six steps down the stairway before he is stopped by someone grabbing his shoulder again. He turns around, and Anette is standing behind him. She gives him a big hug and leads him back up the stairs, he should stay, she says. Get to know the family. Todd tries to tell her that he can’t stay, but she won’t hear it. She leads him up into the crowd of people and begins introducing him to long dead relatives of hers, all of whom give him skeptical looks when she introduces him as her grandson.
The mysterious figure appears next to Todd again and tells him once more he must leave, Todd opens his mouth to answer but Anette cuts him off. Nonsense, she tells the figure. IF she’s gonna stay here forever her grandson will be welcome to visit her. She and the figure stare at each other for a moment. The figure eventually sighs and looks away, the figure asks Todd if she’s always like this. Todd just shrugs and smiles, allowing Anette to lead him through a pair of pearly gates, she’s already talking about how much cake they’ll need to feed all of these relatives.
P.S. Honey is a Good Dog and gets to go, too.
the last lines of the show:
demon: you’re not blind here – but you’re not surprised. when…?
anette: oh, toddy, don’t be silly, my biological grandson’s not twelve feet tall and doesn’t scorch the furniture when he sneezes. i’ve known for ages.
demon: then why?
anette: you wouldn’t have stayed if you weren’t lonely too.
demon: you… you don’t have to keep calling me your grandson.
anette: nonsense! adopted children are just as real. now quit sniffling, you silly boy, and let’s go bake a cake. honey, heel!
After gaining the ability to see everyone’s red strings of fate tying soul mates to each other. You realize your string extends past the sky.
You’ve been able to see them for a while, and you haven’t said anything to anyone, because frankly you think you might be going crazy. Maybe you should mention it to someone, though, and by ‘someone’ you mean ‘a doctor.’
You’d never really believed in the red strings of fate thing before. Sure, everyone insists it’s a thing, but… it’s just always sounded so unlikely to you. Love takes work. It takes commitment. Saying there’s someone out there already predestined to be your soulmate has always seemed to devalue a relationship to you.
(You’re actually relieved to see that not everyone has a red string).
so this one time, I had a great idea for pokemon fic.
It was basically about this older gruff jaded trainer who finds a little kid wandering around the route, calling for his fearow. Like little tiny babby’s first time training trainer.
So he asks the kid ‘Yo kid, you lose your starter or somethin’?”
Kid: “Yeah, it’s my fearow, he flew off after some raticate and now I can’t find him.” Older trainer’s like goddamn, who gets a kid a fearow as a starter?
“Your parents uh get you that fearow?” Cause he’s gonna have some words with this kids parents if that’s the case. Kid’s still like looking in trees and bushes and shit.
“No, caught ‘em myself out by the powerplant, saved up and bought the greatball myself and everything!” Kid’s super proud of that, meanwhile the older trainer’s thinking, weird, there’s no fearow out by the power plant, meh, maybe one flew there by accident.
Long story short, it’s not a fearow. A storm front rolls in and the kid’s like, ‘welp, there’s my fearow. Finally.’ Older trainer gets the heart attack of his life when fucking zapdos lands next to this kid out of a goddamn thundercloud and starts preening little kid’s hair.
“That’s not a fearow.” Is the only thing older trainer can say.
“What are you blind or something mister?” Says the little kid. “He’s got the spiky fearow feathers and everything. I can’t believe you call yourself a trainer. Come on Fearow, let’s go find a real trainer to battle.”
!!!!!! that is /excellent/ Yes please.
One of the ideas was to have team rocket show up and menace them, and have ‘fearow’ show up to strike thunder god fear in their hearts for scaring its trainer.
The other idea is kid gets an igglybuff as their second pokemon and everyone assumes the iggly is their only pokemon.
“Oh no, mr iggles isn’t for fighting.” Kid says. “That’s what I have fearow for!”
They are the worst best trainer ever, because zapdos would fly this kid to the moon if they asked because they are a precious little bundle of naïvety and joy. But kid only wants to beat up other trainers for candy and poffin money.
imagine if the oceans were replaced by forests and if you went into the forest the trees would get taller the deeper you went and there’d be thousands of undiscovered species and you could effectively walk across the ocean but the deeper you went, the darker it would be and the animals would get progressively scarier and more dangerous and instead of whales there’d be giant deer and just wow
Rewrite a classic fairy tale by telling it backwards. The end is now the beginning.
Once upon a time there was a princess who loved so deeply that her heart was worn constantly on her sleeve. She fell in love with a prince, and the next year, her father allowed them to be wed- he remembered his own wife every day, and wished his daughter to be as happy as he had been.
The day of the wedding came, and the girl walked down the aisle in a dress of gentle silver. The Prince took her hand and smiled, and leant in to kiss her.
For luck, he would later say. A kiss for luck, a smile for joy, a laugh for a happy ending. It was a saying his own family had had for years, but it was a saying that failed him.
For the second his lips touched hers, she fell to the floor with a sigh.
Not dead they healers told the prince. not dead but sleeping, not dead but unable to wake.
The prince- so ashamed, so in fear of his life and hers- stole her away from the castle that night, away from her father and her people, so they would never have to watch her waste away.
He hid her in a forest, in a casket of diamond and ice, and he waited. Waited, for he did not even know where to start. He did not even know if the hope for her waking had a point.
He was there for two days when they found him. Seven short folk, small men with beards and axes in their hands, and harsh smiles on their faces.
We can help you they said to him, the six cackling behind the speaker. But, prince, it will come at a price.
I would pay anything. He vowed. Only later, realising he should have asked what it would be.
The Seven disappeared and left him on his own. Alone, other than the silent not-dead princess at his side.
When they returned there was an eighth with them- an old frail woman with a basket in her hands.
We will wake her she said, pulling out an apple and throwing it in their air but you will never look at her, talk to her again, and she will work in the mines with my dwarves here.
He wanted to say no. But knowing she was alive, even out of reach, was better than sleep and near death.
so yes he said. Help her.
The old woman smiled and picked out a knife, cutting the apple into small parts. One, she handed to the prince, the other, she took over to the casket, and opening it, she placed it on the princess’ lips.
A gasp, a flash of her eyes opening, and the prince knew nothing more.
***
The princess woke in a place she did not know, surrounded by people she did not know. An old woman and short men- and her prince, asleep on the ground.
He is not dead the old woman said only sleeping. But around you, he will never wake. He saved you but cursed you both- and now your life is tied to my mines.
The princess tried to fight, to leave.
But the old woman had magic and she did not, and the dwarves were all she knew for many years. Sometimes as friends, sometimes as enemies, often arguing but always allies, they worked side by sides in the underground mines, looking for fairydust and rubies, magic and gold.
They taught her the songs of work and the songs of marches, and soon she forgot that she had even been a princess.
One evening she was walking back to their home alone, when she heard a noise to her left. She looked, expecting a rabbit, a bird, but out stepped a man with a bow in his hands.
You shouldn’t be out in the woods alone he said to her.
This is my home.
Trees are no home for anyone. She wondered if she should tell him of the many people hidden in the forest, each with no where else to go come with me.
Why?
Because I have a place you can go.
She should have said no- but what was there for her in the trees and the mine? So she took his hand and he led her out into the bright daylight, through winding roads intil they arrived at a castle she did not know.
where are we? she asked.
The Huntsman smiled my home, and the home of my queen.
He led her in through the doors, up to a room where a woman was sat on a throne. The woman stood as she saw the princess, staring at her in wide eyed shock.
You look just like her the queen whispered.
Once, the Huntsman said quietly, seeing the question in the princess’ eyes my queen had a child. A daughter who should have been your age. But she was stolen away by the man my queen loved.
You-
I’m not her the princess said- but she had never known her mother. Only her father and an empty throne at his side.
No. the queen said, her tone one of disbelief. But I am in need of an heir, and you in need of care. Stay here a while, and let us see.
Orpheus in the legs that fall asleep and the eyes you can’t keep open, and the endless cups off coffee that didn’t work, caffeine immunity creeping in. He’s the sand in your eyes the day after an allnighter, coaxing you to pause, letting you know the world can wait a few hours. In the vivid daydreams and dizzy thoughts that conjure themselves into vision even when you don’t close your eyes. He’s the sudden smells that take you back a decade and are gone as quickly as they come.
Hades stands not in graveyards but on every corner and every bridge. Dutiful accountant, he knows your name, and it waits on his tongue. He’s not there to rush you, nor help you. Perhaps his presence is enough. Ideation, Hades is in cold fingers and forgotten teas, crumbles leaves that tell you he’s taken her away again. He’s in the rinds of fruit and discarded husks, the plucked leaves, the end, always waiting at the core of everything.
Persephone is in the fresh fruit, ripe and ready to burst, eating them, destroying them feels like a sin, like delicious betrayal. Shes the first sharp bite and the way the juice rolls down your chin, in the decisions you hold steadfastly onto.
Aphrodite is in the sharp line of lipstick, and the boldness of a sharp cateye, but also the next day when it’s smeared and freckled with chipped mascara, the glance in the mirror when you see yourself like this and shrug, ‘not so bad’. She’s in the burst of warmth and weak you feel when you watch a child laugh with its grandmother. She’s there in that moment you fit into those jeans, she’s there when you slip into sweatpants and have a second slice of cake. When you shit talk your ex she’s there, nodding and making sure you know he was no hood for you.
Dionysus walks in when your friends do, carrying his revelry on their shoulders. With a bottle of champange, -a treat-, he’s not so much in drinking it as he is shaking it up and popping the cork, the laughter and the mess that ensues, the sticky fingers that last the night. He’s there in the morning next as well, surveying the damage and grinning like a king when you scrape chips off the couch.
Hestia is in a recipe that came out perfect the first try and in the twenty failed attempts in another. She is the warm crackle of a bonfire that friends and family gathers around on a crisp evening with cups of warm cider in your hands. She guides your hand when feeding a baby for the first time and smiles indulgently as you stuff your face with gooey cookies still hot off the rack. She’s a faint brush of cinnamon and wood smoke across your nose and the sound of footsteps big and small crunching leaves.
Once upon a time there was a small desert village with a single well outside town. One day a young woman went to the well to fetch water, and the well heard her crying, and asked “What’s wrong?”
She stopped her sobbing and asked the well “You can talk?”
“Yes,” said the well. “Long ago, the witch who lives in this town gave me life so I could serve as a guardian to the townspeople.”
“Alas,” said the young woman. “I am the daughter of that witch. She lived in peace with the townsfolk for many years. But the new mayor, who is a violent and hateful man, riled the people up against her, and they burned her at the stake. I am young and still do not know very much magic. I tried to curse them, but my curses fizzled. Now I worry I will never avenge my mother’s death.”
“Do not be afraid,” said the well. “I will take care of this.”
The next morning, when the Mayor came to fetch water from the well, he heard an odd noise coming from the bottom. He peered over as far as he could to see what was happening. Then an impossibly long arm shot up from the bottom of the well, grabbed the mayor, and pulled him into the well shaft. There was a horrible crunching sound, and nobody ever saw the Mayor again. The townsfolk apologized to the witch’s daughter, and they all lived happily ever after.
Moral of the story: living well is the best revenge
I really like the idea of body horror in fantasy settings. Specifically as the cost of using magic
Fire mages with hands of charcoal and embers
Water mages who’re living columns of water from the waist down
Necromancers with withered, skeletal arms
Sure, you can twist the universe to your will, but you lose a little of your humanity each time you do
And what of the people who just have withered edges. Like just a bit. They tried it, and they knew what they were losing so they stopped.
Not because it was wrong. Not because they were scared to hurt themselves.
But because they knew that their bodies wouldn’t last forever. And someday…. Someday they were going to come across a motherfucker who deserved every little bit of their life force in destruction.
And you see the girl taking your order at the coffee shop, you realize the very tips of her fingers are perpetually singed. You leave a tip in the jar and promise yourself you’ll never be a dick when she misspells your name. Because someday she’ll be having a bad day. And there will be a customer who’s not so considerate, he will find out that he hit her last nerve.
She may not be all that good at magic. But that motherfucker is going up in flames.
I want to see a ghost hunt POV shot filmed by the ghost. I want to see a wiggly camera and a quiet disembodied voice going, “okay, so Chet and Ricky are here for a supernatural sighting. I’m going to make it a little chilly. Let’s see what happens.” Basic two ghost hunting bros walk in like ‘ooh, I feel a very hostile presence, very dark’. We hear the disembodied voice snort, his ghost buddy like dude shhh shut up and then pushes like, a pencil off the table. Chad and Brad flip shit and fuckign book it and the camera jumps, ghost and ghost bro just losing it, “oh my god, oh my god, that was fucking golden”. Next week, Sara and her boyfriend are there on a date. Ghost bro empties ketchup on a window and boyfriend pisses himself
queerhomestuck 