Last week, dear reader, Hailey found herself caught in the pernicious trap of the demon Soneillon. Using the face of her pastor, Father Sonny, he orchestrated a Sunday School program to teach the parish about the dangers of witches and their evil magic. Caught up in this play, Hailey took on the role of a demon, and in a twist, that demon was Soneillon in female form!

Her best friend, Missy Andrews, took the role of Theresa Athow, a witch who sold her soul to Soneillon in exchange for terrible powers from the underworld. Caught up in some mysterious spell, the viewers found themselves joining the play after a sequence of events that turned them from mild mannered citizens to a raving mob determined to burn the witch and her demonic companion at the stake!

However, as the spell of Soneillon washed over the unsuspecting innocents, one man remained safe. For recall, dear reader, that before entering the church last week Belinda placed a one-time protective spell upon Detective Anderson, Missy’s father, as a reward for his heroic actions against Dr. Doubt and how he saved the life of Eldritch Maiden, being gravely injured in the process!

But her reward was short lived, and the Detective did not know of the spell either. Indeed, dear reader, in his mind the performance is still going strong! He may be the girl’s only hope too, for in an unfortunate turn of events a member of the mob struck Hailey with a rock and rendered her unconscious. Now unable to defend herself or her friend, Hailey is at the mercy of the masses, and if the demon has his way there will be little mercy to spare for either girl!

Storming the forefront of the church, the masses chant with unholy glee, “BURN THE WITCHES, BURN THEM!”

Like some malevolent conductor, Soneillon stands in the background, subtly influencing the crowd to his vile bidding. But his vantage is such that he cannot spot the sole individual still free of his influence. The detective, down in the middle of the press and bustle of bodies, grasps in vain toward his wife exclaiming, “Hey! What are you doing?!”

But, caught in the spell, she simply continues to chant and march toward the front and the two downed girls.

“Dammit!” the detective cries out, “Marsha! What the Hell is going on here?”

His words fall on deaf ears as his wife continues to surge forward with the crowd. Up ahead, the masses have seized both girls and begun to bear them toward the makeshift stakes setup near the altar of the church. Seeing his daughter shoved and jostled forward, the detective shouts, “Missy! Missy stop this!”

She does not hear him, or if she does she does not recognize the voice consumed as she is by the power of the play and Father Sonny’s evil magic. So instead of stopping to speak to her husband, she instead reaches toward the teeming crowd and finds herself holding a torch. Chanting along with the rest of the group, she raises her burning branch and hefts it toward the two girls. Seeing her motion, Detective Anderson reaches toward her, trying to pull her back to safety and away from the raucous mob.

With a wicked smile, she looks back at him with no emotion in her eyes, no recognition, and no connection at all. Then she swings the torch and strikes him upside the head, knocking him back out of the crowd and onto the pews. A second later, she is gone, joining the rest of the crowd moving forward as the detective reels from the unexpected blow.

“Marsha…” the detective groans, “What on Earth is going on?”

Unfortunately, dear reader, no one is around to answer his pleas! Falling back against the seat, the detective tries to focus as his vision sways and his head spins. The blow to the head leaves him fighting against passing out, struggling to stay awake against the encroaching darkness in his vision.

Although he cannot see, nor would he understand if he did, behind him Father Sonny is laughing wickedly from his perch. Raising his hands, he says with a smirk, “And so it begins. Ahhhhh, Hailey Juniper Penze if only you were awake to see this…” With a quick smile, he says in a jovial tone, “But then, you might cause trouble for me, so this is better in the end.” Tapping his chin, he adds thoughtfully, “I suppose I’ll have all of eternity to torment you, so it’s no great loss.” He then leans over the edge of the railing, pushing himself far enough that he almost falls and sniffs deeply, pulling in the scent of the crowd and the rank body odor of sweat from the teeming mass. Closing his eyes, he savors the smell for a few seconds before saying, “Ahhhhh, what a sweet smell. It reminds me of mass graves and bubonic plague it does. Hate, hate, hate, it never gets old.”

Wiping away a tear and opening his eyes, he says with a smirk, “Well then, that’s about enough of that! Although…” trailing off he turns back to his stash behind the pew and rummages for a few seconds before pulling out a skewer and marshmallows. He considers them for a few seconds. Then he laughs and tosses aside the confections before stabbing the skewer in the wood and carving a malicious looking symbol.

“Now then,” he adds, sorting through various items under the pew once more, “I could swear I put the rest of the ritual here. Something about blood of the line and a few more old Atlantean runes if I recall… Now where did I put my darn notes?” Pausing, Soneillon taps his cheek for a few seconds and then smacks himself on the forehead. “Where should I look? Where should I look! Maybe I should look in the place I left it, silly!” Laughing to himself, he stands up, opens the bible on the pew, and casually flips through until he comes across a slew of ripped pages. “Here we are! Smack dab in the middle of Luke, the old windbag.” A few seconds later he begins copying the symbols from the desecrated book onto the church, cutting into the stone like it was butter with his wicked skewer.

Down in the crowd, Detective Anderson stirs. Groggy, he pushes himself to a sitting position from where he lay on the seats. Rubbing his eyes, he clears his vision and looks out to the forefront of the stage. There, he quickly realizes how bad things are.

The two girls are now fully tied up, his daughter gagged and bound and while Hailey simply lies next to her, a trickle of blood running down her forehead. Rope wrapped tight by the many hands of the crowd fixes the girls tight against the stone pillar of the broken cross, and a growing pile of wood forms around their feet as the crowd continues to chant.

“KILL THE WITCHES, CLEANSE THEM IN HOLY FIRE!” chant the villagers as they wave lit torches. “PILE THE WOOD HIGHER AND LET THE FIRE CLEAN THEIR IMPURE SOULS!”

“Okay,” Anderson says to himself, “this is definitely not a part of the performance anymore. I don’t know what’s going on but I do know I don’t like it!”

Standing up, he starts marching toward the two girls. When he reaches the outer edge of the mob, he grabs the person in front of him by the collar and hoists them out of his way with a quick, “Sorry Mrs. Apple.”

Then he muscles his way through the next ring, pushing two old ladies sporting nasty looking snarls aside before kicking a high schooler holding a torch out of his path. Then he slides to the side, ducking under the wild swing of a child’s pitchfork and pulls himself to the edge of the woodpile.

Pausing in his carving, Soneillon glances toward the crowd with a frown. “Somethings wrong… someone… someone isn’t under the spell!” he murmurs with growing alarm, his eyes scanning for any anomaly in his mob. Finally, they settle on the detective, as he hoists himself atop the wood and turns toward the crowd.

“Hey!” shouts Anderson, his voice lost amid the chanting of the crowd. “HEY!” he bellows, throwing all his years working crowd control as a beat officer behind the shout. For a moment, the crowd halts, staring at him.

“Hey,” he says again. “Listen, this performance is really great, very involved and ummm,” he sits for a second, finding the right word before finishing awkwardly, “realistic. But Hailey is hurt,” he gestures to her bleeding forehead, “and I think we ought to pause for a minute so she can get checked out by a doctor.”

The crowd pauses, milling about in uncertainty. The red lights in their eyes begin to dim slightly and they start to lower the torches, glancing about in confusion as they do.

Up on high Soneillon curses and throws his hands wide shouting to the crowd, “HERESY! The witches must burn!”

Down below, detective Anderson glances about in sudden trepanation saying, “Now, wait a minute, let’s all just calm down a bit and-”

Then his wife, from the crowd, screams, “BURN THE HERETIC ALONG WITH THE WITCHES!”

Then she hoists her torch and tosses it onto the pile of wood, setting the whole thing alight!

Scrambling away from the sudden flames, Anderson asks in a betrayed tone, “Marsha?”

She does not hear him, dear reader, for she is already chanting with the crowd with unholy glee!

Resuming his carvings with a chuckle, Soneillon wipes his brow and says, “Whew, that’s all my runes done and all my problems taken care of.” Rubbing his hands together he adds happily, “All that’s left is to watch the whole lot of them burn! Now where did I leave those marshmallows?”

Down on the pyre, Anderson frantically works the knots trying to free the girls in time. His daughter screams in pain from the heat for a few seconds before a member of the congregation strikes her with one of the waving pitchforks and knocks her out too. Working as fast as he can, Anderson loosens the first of many knots as he watches the fire race toward his daughter’s feet!

Up above, Soneillon pops back out from under the pew with his bag of marshmallows and smiles jovially. Then he rips open the bag and pops one in his mouth as he leans back over the railing to watch Anderson struggle in vain to untie the ropes in time.

Chewing, he watches as the fire begins to run up Anderson’s pant leg and as his daughter’s dress catches. On the other side, Hailey’s feet are now fully alight as the teeming mob chants.

Feeling the heat, Anderson wipes his hands frantically as the sweat makes them too slick to work the ropes. Wiping them once, he brings them back up only to see a new layer of sweat forming. Quickly, he wipes them again in vain. Realizing nothing is working, he abandons his plan and begins assaulting the knots, pulling at them wildly until his fingers are raw and bloody. Hands slick with sweat and blood, he can no longer make headway even as he continues to fight in vain!

Panting in exhaustion and desperation, unable to breathe due to the smoke curling around his body from the fire running up his limbs, he grabs his daughter and holds her tight gasping out, “No, no, I won’t let you die Missy! No, I-” then he doubles over, hacking and wheezing as the smog fills his lungs and oxygen becomes scarce. Squeezing her tight as if to ward off the flames he chokes out, “I love you,” before falling limp.

Looking down, Soneillon lets out a wicked smile. “Love her?” he asks idly, “Well that’s odd. I’m no human, but she does seem a little young for you.” Then he shrugs and says, “Must be that midlife crisis thing.” Then Soneillon reaches for another marshmallow, popping it into his mouth. A second later, he spits it out onto his palm in alarm. Grimacing, he stares down at the blood-covered glob of congealed sugar.

Turning back to the pyre, he says with an irate gurgle, “True love? Don’t tell me that guy is her father…” before he can finish, he coughs up another glob of blood. Hissing he tries to shout to the crowd but finds himself hacking instead, blood and smoking rising from his throat as his body begins to shine red. “True love, how repugnant! How disgusting!” he whines, “How absolutely horrible! Utterly awful! Truly un-pl-eas-” his voice fades as he tumbles to his side before saying the last syllable, “-ant!”

Then he curls into a ball and disintegrates into ash that falls through the floor with a Hellish scream!

A peal of thunder roils outside, cracking so loud that it drowns out all other noises. Then a flash of lightning illuminates the church, blinding everyone inside before fading. As the congregation regains sight, they glance around at the odd costumes and now plastic pile of wood around the two girls and Detective Anderson. The fire is gone, along with the red eyes and spell that bound the church. Indeed, dear reader, along with all physical evidence of his dastardly deeds the memory is gone as well! Confused, the churchgoers wander back out into the parking lot and head home in a near silent daze.

Everyone arrives home safely, despite their trace, and falls instantly asleep waking tomorrow with no recollection of the events that transpired or of Father Sonny and his hate-filled proselytizing. Only one girl retains those memories, well her and her spirit do, but they scarcely understand exactly what saved the church after the fall of Soneillon.

And on that matter, dear reader, let us simply state that it is best to remain a courteous houseguest and that demons, like fish, wear out their welcome sooner rather than later!

But what does this mean for Thorm Athow’s resurrection? For while Soneillon was defeated and he did not manage to effect the death of Hailey Penze he was able to complete the ritual in the church, to whatever end it might have with only the death of Melinda Athow fueling it. Find out next week, dear reader, in… “Affairs of the Family!”