Summoned by Anne M. Pillsworth Page B

foulness.
    “By their foulness shall ye know them.” That was what the Necronomicon said about the Outer Gods and their minions. Too often now the line went through Sean’s head, worse than a trapped song-fragment. He’d stopped reading Lovecraft, and he hadn’t watched the movies he’d stockpiled for gorefests while Dad was away. The last thing Sean wanted to do these days was sit in the dark watching monsters kill teenagers.
    Vague dread rode around in his chest. He hadn’t said the final incantation, the one that would have bound the Servitor to him. The Rev claimed a Servitor would be “deferential” to its summoner even without binding. How deferential? It would only eat part of him? Crazy to worry about something that had never existed, but he couldn’t shake a sense of being sought. Infinity mentioned that kind of feeling, also how performing rituals could cause euphoria, also how Nyarlathotep could appear in many forms, one of them a falcon-winged “angel.” It all jibed with Sean’s experience, though since he’d read the book before doing the ritual, those tidbits could have lodged in his brain as raw material for hallucinations.
    Another thing. Zeph and Aghar were strong crap: He’d only “taken” them once, and yet he sometimes got a hankering for the high he’d felt, for the fearless Sean of the magical circle. Was he already hooked? Would he end up like the Reverend, with his own account at Geldman’s?
    It didn’t help when Sean went back to work and Beowulf kept talking about a coyote pack roaming along the Pawtuxet River. “A lot of pets are missing,” he said. “The Gagnons’ poodle, and Alexa’s cat, and Sweetie Pie.”
    “Who’s Sweetie Pie?” Sean asked.
    Hrothgar jammed his head between the front seats of the van and huffed, like, who the hell didn’t know Sweetie Pie? “He’s Trudy’s dachshund,” Beo said. “Oh, plus me and Dad found this dead raccoon near the baseball fields. Good thing a girl didn’t find it. A girl would’ve freaked.”
    “Sexist generalization,” Joe-Jack said severely.
    “Well, maybe not Eddy,” Beo conceded. “But its head was ripped right off.”
    Sean let Hrothgar scarf down his donut. The idea of animals getting killed along the river (near the industrial park) gave him a stomach-churning pang of guilt. Again, crazy. Hallucinations couldn’t hurt anything.
    “I’m not sure it’s coyotes,” Joe-Jack said. “Could be feral dogs. Or something rabid. I called Animal Control, but they probably won’t do anything until some kid gets mauled. That’s how government works.”
    “Right,” Sean said, dutiful.
    “Listen, Sean. You better not walk on the river trail until this gets straightened out. I’m not letting Beo go alone. Plus we’re keeping Hrothgar on the leash, and we’re keeping the gate shut, so he doesn’t wander off. Right, Beo?”
    Beo squirmed. “I never leave the gate open! Besides, know what I think it really is? I think somebody let loose a terrarium of giant Argentinean toads. Sean, you should’ve seen these humongous webbed prints near the coon.”
    “Swan tracks,” Joe-Jack scoffed. “That’s all those were. But you stay off the trail, Sean.”
    No worry—he hadn’t been near the river since the ritual. “I’ll stay off,” he promised.
     
     
    Friday the fourth of August, a week and three days post-ritual, Sean took the afternoon off and hung out at the Hope High tennis courts with Eddy and Phil. What with his still-sore left hand, Sean lost every set. He didn’t care. Playing made him feel normal again.
    Though he was really sleepy after dinner with Celeste and Gus, Sean didn’t want to stay over at their house. Dad would be home Sunday, which left only Saturday for Sean to clean up. After Gus drove him to Edgewood, he took a shower and sat down to watch TV. Two hours later, he woke up and gimped to bed, where he fell asleep without any of his usual agonizing over the ritual, and the Reverend and