See, now, a house. It’s a typical house, two storeys, one-car garage.

A small front

lawn stretches out to the curb, with a ditch at the end, and a mid-sized maple tree in the

middle. It’s spring, so the leaves are coming back, the lawn’s looking fairly green.

Take a closer look at the house, past the red bricks and Leave It To Beaver near-

perfection of the design. Go further. A living room with a 32-inch television and a

couple of gaming systems; no blu-ray player yet, but give them time, it’s in the budget.

There’s a kitchen, an old-style kettle on a stove burner, still a few minutes before it’s

done. You’ll see a dining room with a nice chandelier that’s there mainly for show, and

candelabras on the long dining room table for a bit of class. There’s a drawing room, too,

with nice couches and a knee-high table for appetizers and coffee and tea that, really, is

almost never used.

Now go up the stairs. They curve slightly before reaching the second floor. There

are four rooms. One is a bathroom, well kept, with a tasteful neutral paint job, and that

odd picture of a child peeing that seems to make its way into bathrooms everywhere. The

shower is large, with a tub that was made for long, relaxing baths. The mirror spans the

entire counter, which holds two sinks, with care-products and makeup littered along it.

The other doors are closed, but we can easily assume that bedrooms hide behind

them. Also present, just to the left of the bathroom, is an unassuming linen closet.

It’s a typical house.

Except for one thing.

One minor thing.

You’ll see it in a second.

 Give it a moment.

Wait for it.

“Dad!”

No, not yet. But follow the voice to the room it came from, its door shut. A pink

sign, made to look like a puppy, hangs from it, with “Jenny’s Room” written on it in very

cursive handwriting.

“Yes, sweet child?” The voice here, emanating from another of the rooms, is

theatrical and over the top. It’s the kind of voice that rolls its Rs because it likes the

sound.

“Come here, dad!”

“What is the problem?” See how the door swings open. He does it on purpose,

flinging it like that. He does it so his cape billows. He likes his cape to billow.

Oh, yes. Sorry. He wears a cape. A long, dramatic, opera cape. It’s black, of

course, with a dark red lining. At least, it had been dark red once upon a time. Now it’s

faded and dulled, but the fact remains that you can tell that, at one point, it had been a

good dark red, and that’s all that counts.

As he walks, you’ll also kindly note that his entire outfit seems set to be

screaming for the stage. His shirt is red underneath a black vest; buttons the shape of

skulls hold the vest together. Black pants cover his thin legs. He wears boots, even

around the house, but that’s because he wouldn’t dream of being seen in his socks, which

are the kind with a patch—green in this case—to mark the toe and heel, and he would

simply die if anyone ever saw them; their main colour, at least, is black. His gaunt face

wears a goatee, finely and patiently kept. It’s obvious he spends a good fifteen minutes
trimming it every morning. The lights shine off his scalp; it’s a special note to make that

he’s not bald because he thought it looked better for the part, but rather because he was

going bald and a thinning head of hair simply would not do. It gets shaved every

morning as well, meticulously, and it turns his daily routine into a full hour instead of the

half-hour that most men engage in.

He stops in front of his daughter’s room. An odd light flashes beneath it before

she opens the door. “Damn it, dad!” She’s sixteen, with unnaturally black hair, dark

eyeliner, and a tank top. She wears a studded choker. Her arms are folded across her

chest, and even an angry, wild dog with rabies would have run from the look on her face.

“What is wrong, my girl?”

And now we shall see what’s so odd.

She points. “Why is there a demon in my closet?”

“Demon?” Feigned innocence does not become this man.

“Yes, dad, a demon.” She pokes him angrily in the chest. “That you summoned!”

“I did no such thing!”

She arches an eyebrow at him. “Oh, please. You’re a necromancer, dad. Demons

don’t just show up. Now would you kindly unsummon him, or whatever it is that you do,

so I can change?”

“The proper term is dismiss! Would you at the very least try to get it right?” He

almost trills when he pronounces his Rs.

“Fine, dismiss! Dismiss! Dismiss him!”

He rolls his eyes as he strolls in, his cape billowing slightly. With extra flourish

his opens her closet door. In the closet is a demon, an imp to be precise. It’s an ugly
thing, the size of a small man, with bone-thin arms and legs, a gaunt and drawn face,

rows of sharp teeth, a pig nose, long pointed ears, and glowing eyes. There is one

distinction to most other imps, however. This one is wearing one of Jenny’s bras.

It glances up, startled, and gives him a puzzled gurgle.

The man rolls his eyes. “Get out.”

It looks down at the bra, then looks up at him imploringly.

“No, you may not keep it! Now, vacate this place immediately, or you shall regret

that you ever deigned to touch my daughter’s intimates!”

“He should regret it anyway,” she mutters.

The imp hops out of the closet and takes off the bra, sheepishly handing it back.

“Thanks,” Jenny says sulkily, taking the bra between her thumb and forefinger.

“You didn’t try on anything else in there, did you?”

It stares at her, panic clear in its eyes. It blinks. Then it runs, disappearing as it

leaps out the window.

Shaking her head, Jenny approaches the closet. “Oh, God, it stinks!” She glares

at her father. “It absolutely reeks in there! What the hell?”

“I cannot help it if the ranks of hell’s bowels have a rank all their own!”

“Oh, yeah, very witty dad. I’m laughing. Look at me, really, I’m laughing.”

“Well, is it my fault that your closet smells of lavender?” He sniffs it and

wrinkles his nose. “Normally,” he adds.

She arches an eyebrow. “What does that have to do with anything? It’s a nice

smell. I like that smell.”

 “As do the imps! I have told you thus on numerous occasions! But, no, you keep

putting in those lavender leaves, or those lavender-scented air fresheners, or that lavender

soap! If you but used another fragrance this would be a long-forgotten problem! Lilac

would be fine, base potpourri would more than suffice, vanilla candles would convince

them to leave well enough alone, but no! Lavender it must be!”

“You’ve said no such thing!”

“I have so!”

“MOM!”

He cringes. His daughter has the pipes of an opera singer when she wants to.

Moments pass before a woman, a head shorter than her husband, appears. She’s

wearing a fluffy purple dressing-gown, with fluffy purple slippers, her hair held in a

purple towel. She’s been out of the shower for some time, now, of course, but her hair is

still in the towel. It stays in the towel for most of the morning, leaving it only just before

she dresses so it can be styled. On her face is the patient look of one who has weathered

these arguments for more mornings than she could ever care to count, and it has simply

become part of the routine.

“What is it this time?”

Jenny points accusingly at her father. “One of his imps was in my closet again!”

“At least you got the creature’s name right!” he says hotly. “Anyway, I have

constantly told her that if she would simply stop using lavender within its closed door,

this problem would solve itself!”

“You’ve said no such thing!”

 “Is it my fault your memory more resembles a sieve than a pot? It’s no wonder

you fail most of your tests!”

“I fail because my study habits suck because I can’t sleep because there are

always demons in my closet!”

The woman takes a deep breath, but he speaks first.

“You are fair lucky there was but one! The summon-circle was drawn with the

wrong material, so instead of the one I had meant to summon this midnight past, two

dozen greeted me! Three imps are hard enough to manage, two dozen is nigh

impossible!”

The wife blinks at this. “Wrong material?”

“Yes!” He looks at her. “I distinctly recall asking for type-fourteen-A, high-grade

chalk with ancient bone powder mixed in!”

“They all look the same!”

“It is clearly marked on the shelf! You have but to read it!”

She shakes her head. “Look, I hate that place, you know that. All those skulls,

those stuffed ravens with the glowing red eyes, and the thick, wax-dripping candles…”

She shudders. “I pick you up basic supplies. Anything more and you do it yourself.”

“I had assumed that chalk would have been basic enough.”

“Me, too, but apparently not.”

There’s a pause. “The clerk is always more than willing to help,” he says in what

he hopes is a helpful tone.

 “Carl? He’s the creepiest part of the place. No, no, no. You want these things

picked up, from now on you can do it yourself. I’ll drive you there, I’ll wait in the car

even, but you’re the one going in, okay?”

He sighs. “Yes, dear.”

Jenny stares at them, dumbfounded. “About the demon? In my closet?” she says

after a moment, in case either of them had forgotten why they were there.

“Right.” The mother shakes her head. “It’s unfortunate, but that’s how things go,

Jenn. Anyway, your father’s right, he’s told you before that lavender’s a bad choice for

air-freshener.”

“But mo-om, you know he could easily just summon something else! Why is it

always imps?”

A roll of the eyes. “Sweetheart, it wouldn’t matter. All of them love lavender. I

don’t know why, your father doesn’t know why, but that’s how it is. Anyway, I made him

promise not to summon anything else. Imps are a hassle enough; I’d rather not see what

the other things can do.”

“But Rosa’s dad summons bigger stuff all the time at home, and nothing ever

breaks into her underwear, not even by accident!”

The father rolls his eyes. “Again with Vorsyth the Magnanimous, misnomer

though that may be! I am tired of even referrals to his person while within the sanctity of

my own abode!”

Jenny blinks. “What?”

 His wife shakes her head. “He means he doesn’t want him even mentioned under

his roof.” She turns on her husband. “English, Frank. English. You’re at home, you’re

not with the guys, you can speak normally here.”

“My name is not Frank! It is…”

“It’s Frank, okay? You’re at home now. You’re not summoning creatures from

the depths of wherever, you’re not with the guys discussing the latest in summon-circle

patterns, you’re at home. And at home, you’re a father and a husband, and your name is

Frank.”

“But…”

“And drop the theatrics. For God’s sake, Frank, you don’t have to wear the cape

everywhere you go. Fine, you go to The Shop, that’s one thing, that’s keeping up

appearances, but even Janet says that her husband doesn’t go grocery shopping in his…

oh, what do you sometimes call it… his attire.”

“Then Gavin’s dedication is truly lacking.”

“Oh, sure, go and say that to his face, see if he doesn’t conjure up some demon to

poop in our bed.” She glares at him. “Like he did the last time you said that!”

“I got him back but good, though, you have to admit!”

She sighs. “Yes, dear, that leviathan in their swimming pool was a good one. I

doubt they’ll ever use it again.”

“He has but to feed it a few raw fish every week or so, and it will be more than

content to allow them the use of their pool.”

 “They tried that. Janet felt like it was trying to see through her swimsuit, and

Gavin got the distinct feeling that he was oversized fishing lure. They’ve been asking

you to dismiss that thing for over four months now, isn’t it time you did that?”

He looks to his daughter. “See? She knows the proper vernacular. Why can you

not grasp it?”

Jenny gives him a flat stare. “I’m sixteen, dad. I shouldn’t even know what

vernacular means.” She shakes her head. “Most fathers aren’t this weird! Kylie’s dad—

you know Kylie, daddy, she’s one of the few friends I have who’s normal—her father

works in an office building. He stares at a computer screen all day. He uses regular

words that you don’t have to look up in a dictionary. He doesn’t wear a damn cape!”

He looks down at his cape and lifts it slightly. “What is wrong with it? Granted,

it is somewhat agèd, but still, I see not the problem.”

Jenny blinks. “Are you serious? It’s. A. Cape.”

The mother shakes her head. “Alright, that’s enough. Look, I’m about to start

breakfast. Jenn, we’re going out today and buying you some vanilla air-freshener for

your stuff. No more lavender.”

“But I hate vanilla!”

“Then you pick the scent! But we can’t keep having this argument every week.

Today. You and me. The mall. Okay?”

She sighs. “Okay,” she says sullenly.

“Thank you.”

“Shall I join you?” he asks.

“No, you’ve got stuff to prepare for your little meeting with the boys tonight.”
 “I thought you had taken care of the culinary preparations,” he says as they walk

away from their daughter’s room.

“I was too busy sewing up the lining in your cape. Anyway, Janet says that none

of the other wives help out when their husbands host.”

“It is because they are not such active participants in the professional lives of their

loved ones. But you, my lovely succubus, you help me in all ways.”

She turns around, gives him a stern look, and points at his face. “Don’t.”

He frowns slightly. “Pardon?”

“Succubus. Don’t. We’ve been over this before. Pet names are fine. Pet names

after demon-types are not fine.”

He bows with a flourish. “As my love wishes.” He straightens. “I shall make

haste to the kitchen, then, and begin preparations for tonight!”

There’s a slightly awkward pause. “Muffins, dear?”

He sags. “Yes.”

“Good. You’re trying to eat healthier, after all.”

“Yes, dear.”

“And what else.”

“Must we…?”

“What. Else.”

He sags even more. “A lovely fruit dish and a vegetable platter.”

“Good. You boys can have just as much fun discussing imp-types and circles and

patterns and the latest in cape-fashion with healthy food than the junk you usually eat.”
 “We do not discuss fashion!” he says, trying to rally himself. “That is best left at

home, with the specialty magazines that we all subscribe to but not one would be willing

to admit it.”

“Uh-huh. Then what did Janet overhear you boys discussing the other night when

she was making you coffee?”

“I haven’t a clue.”

“She swore she heard Nate mention the latest by Spuffin-Royce and how it’s far

too expensive for the typical necro.”

Frank’s eyes shift uneasily. “Yes, well… he is not as eloquent with his words as

some would like. We have spoken to him before about the use of the term ‘necro’.”

“Just be nice about it. No imps in his bed.” She kisses him. “I’ll be down in a

minute to start breakfast, okay?”

“Very well.” The bedroom door closes as he begins to walk down the stairs but

stops and turns. “Might I at least partake in some devilled eggs for this eve, my sweet?”

“Oh, alright,” she calls out through the closed door.

“Thank you!” he bellows triumphantly. “You are an angel in my…”

The door swings open. “Just get downstairs!”

There are many sights to see in the world, but few are more amusing than a grown

man in a cape trying to scurry down a flight of stairs while maintaining some semblance

of dignity.

Pull out, now. All the way. The rest of the day is, really, more of the same.

Perhaps it would be interesting to see what actually happens during one of Frank’s little
meetings. But for now, perhaps, it would be best to leave this typical non-typical family

to their privacy.

On your way out, however, take note of the one last imp that the good

necromancer had missed: it’s hiding in the umbrella stand by the front door; it wears a

pair of Jenny’s panties on its head like a helmet, and it eats a bar of lavender-scented soap

like a candy-bar. For all intents and purposes, it is the happiest imp in the world.