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SUMmoner

Writer's picture: Gwenna LaithlandGwenna Laithland


I was just nestling under the blanket with a cup of tea warming my hands when my phone chimed.  Picking it up I groaned. I'd forgotten to log myself out of the SUMmoner app.  It thought I was still on ACTIVE and had assigned me to a call. 

 

Glaring at my screen, I seriously considered ignoring it.  Joining SUMmoner had seemed like a fantastic deal at first.  I controlled my own hours, got paid instantly through the app and, I used my own possession vessel. Sure, it put some miles on it but better to get paid for just HAVING the vessel, instead of letting it just lie around when I'm not using it.  PLUS, and this was the big seller on every SUMmoner ad, they guaranteed all of their summonings were exorcism free.  If you got exorcised during a SUMmoner gig, they'd pay you 10,000 quid upon your reincarnation.

 

All in all, picking up SUMmoner jobs wasn't that bad, but it still felt like a lot of extra work for not a lot of extra cash.  This intensified because I hadn't intended to work that night.  I'd intended to sit flat on my demonic butt, drink my tea and binge-watch Stranger Things.  But I knew if I ignored it my rating would dip and I'd be back to getting a crap-ton of calls from teenagers who accidentally summoned a demon and didn't know what the hell to do after that.

 

“Fuck.”

 

Throwing my cozy blanket off I begrudgingly stood up to go. I still hadn't fully shaken the desire to ignore the call as my thumb mashed down the "On the way!" button.  It blipped cheerfully and my frown deepened. On my way topside, the bitterness grew.  By the time I made it to the place I was positively fuming. 

 

Humans had developed this massive instant-gratification issue. In the last 200 years, demon summonings were on such a rise it created a need for freelance, available-on-demand demons. I remember as a kid there were demons who worked in summoning but it was a specific career field - not just something any old schmuck with a vessel could do. 

 

As the smoke cleared I was greeted by a group of hooded cultists.  Three of them continued to chant in Latin, one of them puked and one of them stood to greet me.

 

"Dark one.  You have heard our call and we are grateful.  May we know your name, spirit of chaos?"

 

 It was normally at this point I'd kick up the theatrics - maybe drip blood down the walls and swirl up a good gust of foul-smelling wind. I'd give them some creepy-sounding multisyllabic name in my best LEGION voice but I was in absolutely no mood.  So I just said,

 

"Louise."  I blinked.  He blinked back before launching into a tirade of praises for my darkness and evil and power and yadda yadda yadda.

 

I heard him stumble just a bit on the wording for one of his exultations. I normally would have found that funny but my mood was so sour, his bumbling speech annoyed me further.  I interrupted him, speaking pointedly.

 

 "Look buddy.  I've got other stuff on the agenda tonight.  You called me here for a reason.  What do you want?  Money, eternal life?  What?"

 

The man was briefly stunned and the Latin chant had finally abated. 

 

"Uh.  Yeah, um.  We wanted to implore you, erm..ye...thou?"  I swirled my finger in a tight circle, begging him silently to spit it out already.  "We'd like you to raise Hitler from the dead. His mission was never completed and without his leadership, we feel we shall never be able to purify our race as he envisioned."

 

I put my hand on my hip and rolled my eyes with all the drama I could muster without triggering a grotesque facial disfigurement. 


"You want to raise Hitler?"  The stupid man nodded. 

 

"You think raising a single guy who died in the 40s will trigger World War II part Deux?" 

His nod was a little less emphatic. 

 

"Hitler? The bat shit crazy, offed himself in a bunker, decided to make white people better by offing other white people, Hitler? The same guy who decided fighting Russians in Russia in the winter was a fucking terrific idea? That’s the solution to purifying your race?” My temper was unhinging.

 

There was no nodding now.  "You miserable pieces of self-shitting flesh.  All you ever want is death and destruction and decay.  You think that's the bloody solution to everything." 

 

I let my voice take on a mimicking whine as I began pacing.

 

"He hurt my fee-fees...can you kill him?  She won't let me touch her naughty bits...can you kill her? The brown people are BROWN...CAN YOU MURDER THEM ALL OH DARKEST, DARK ONE?"  I had more tirade in me but paused when I felt a warm, moist spray across my back.  The wall in front of me splattered a brilliant red, a me-shaped void forming in the wine colored mist.  I let my head fall to my chest.

 

Turning around I saw exactly what I'd expected.  In my anger I’d failed to control my volume. Human bodies are so fragile, even the slightest change in pressure and pop! I accidentally made the cultists explode.  My phone, nestled in a robe pocket, chirped out a short series of descending tones.  My rating had gone down a tenth of a pentagram but I was still above a 666. 

 

"Blowing up cultists - not that big a ding...good to know," I said, pulling a bit of flesh out of my vessel's hair.  I used the app to call for a remains detail to come handle the mess and hightailed it back home.  Less than 30 minutes later I was back on my couch, my vessel freshly showered, tea in one hand and remote in the other.  I was just about to hit play when my phone chimed again. 

 

"Son of a bitch."

 

Disclaimer: This is an original short story by Gwenna Laithland. Any similarities to real people or events is purely unintentional. All rights reserved. No one may repost this story or any part of it for commercial or financial gain without authorization from the author.

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