The Gates (Samuel Johnson vs. the Devil #1)(42)

“That’s just it,” said Christopher, his frustration growing. Didn’t anyone in this family listen? “It’s not a ‘body,’ it’s a—”

But it was too late. His dad had flung open the back door, and was preparing to unleash the full force of his rage upon the unfortunates who had trespassed on the most sacred patch of his little empire. His face was bright red, and his mouth was open, but no sound was coming out. Instead, he was staring at the enormous demon standing five feet away from him. It looked like a hairy black yak that had managed to stand up on its hind legs and modify its hooves with hooked claws. Along the way it had clearly decided that chewing grass was infinitely less fun than chewing something much meatier, so its blunt vegetarian molars had been replaced with sharp, white, tearing teeth. Its eyes were bright red, and smoke was pouring from its nostrils. It drew back its lips from its teeth and growled at Mr. Mayer.

“Right,” said Mr. Mayer. “Well, we’ll say no more about it, then.”

He closed the door and said, in a very small voice, “Run.”

“Sorry, Barry?” said Mrs. Mayer, whose view of what lay on the other side of the door had been blocked by her husband, and who was still under the impression that something needed to be done about the trick-or-treaters in their back garden.

“Run,” said Mr. Mayer, in a slightly louder voice, then: “RUN!”

A heavy body hit the back door very hard, rattling it in its frame. Mr. Mayer grabbed his wife with one hand, his son with the other, and dragged them into the hallway just as the door burst from its hinges and landed on the kitchen floor. Mrs. Mayer looked over her shoulder and screamed, but her scream was drowned out by a bellowing from behind them.

“It’s okay, love,” said Mr. Mayer, slamming the kitchen door, although he wasn’t entirely sure how much good that would do, given what had just happened to the back door. “Don’t be frightened.” He didn’t know why he was telling his wife not to be frightened, as there seemed a perfectly good reason to be very frightened, but that was what one did at times like this.

“Frightened?” said Mrs. Mayer, yanking herself free from her husband’s grasp and storming into the living room. “I’m not frightened. That’s a new kitchen, that is. I’m not just going to stand by while some bull thing destroys it.”

She moved with determination to the fireplace and picked up a poker.

“Mum,” said Christopher. “It’s a demon. I don’t think a poker will hurt it.”

“It will where I’m going to put it,” said Mrs. Mayer.

Mr. Mayer looked at Christopher, and shrugged.

“You have to stop her, Dad,” said Christopher.

“I think I’d rather face the demon,” said Mr. Mayer as his wife pushed past him. “You know your mum when she has her mind set on something.”

He grabbed a pair of coal tongs and followed his wife. From behind the kitchen door came another bellow, and the sound of dishes smashing on the tiled floor. Mrs. Mayer entered the kitchen to find the demon standing amid the wreckage of her second-best crockery.

“Right, you!” said Mrs. Mayer. “That’s quite enough of that.”

The demon turned, bared its teeth, and caught a poker straight between the eyes. It staggered slightly, then seemed about to recover itself when the next blow sent it to its knees. Meanwhile a second demon, smaller than the first, had just entered through the back door. Mr. Mayer caught it by the snout with the coal tongs and twisted hard. The demon let out a pained howl as Mr. Mayer forced it backward and then, holding on to the tongs with his left hand, began to bang the demon across the head with a dustbin lid.

“That’s.” Crash! “For.” Smash! “Messing.” Thud! “Around.” Whack! “With.” Thump! “My.” Whomp! “Roses!”

When he had finished, the demon lay unmoving upon the ground. The red light faded from its eyes, before disappearing entirely. In the kitchen, Mrs. Mayer was growing tired of hitting the demon with the poker, which was just as well as it had stopped moving some time before, and its eyes had also gone dark.

Mr. Mayer stood in the yard, the tongs in one hand, the dustbin lid in the other, like a knight of old, albeit one who couldn’t afford proper weapons. From the rose garden, two more demons watched him warily as their fallen comrades began to disappear in wisps of foul-smelling purple smoke.

“Now listen here,” said Mr. Mayer. “I’m going to count to five, and by then you’d better be off those roses, or you’ll get what your friends got. One.”

While the demons had no idea what Mr. Mayer was saying, they were smart enough to understand what he meant.

“Two.”

He began moving in their direction. Mrs. Mayer appeared behind him, brandishing the poker. The demons exchanged a look, and the universal nod of those who have decided that it would be a smart thing to make themselves very scarce as soon as demonically possible. They squatted down, and with a single leap propelled themselves over the six-foot-high garden wall, then, not to put too fine a point on it, scarpered.

Mr. Mayer walked to the rose garden where he stared down upon his beloved bushes, now trampled into the dirt. Only one remained standing: the original bush. It had survived everything that man and nature could throw at it, and it wasn’t about to be crushed by any horde, demonic or otherwise.