The axe-wielding killer had a giant onion for a head. Maybe not quite giant, but still the size of a normal human head, which made it one really big onion. He wore denim overalls, carried a scythe, and was superimposed over a field of corn. Above the onion-head, the word “Vidalia” was written and below his feet, in dripping red letters, “He’ll do more than make you cry”.

Isaac, hands clutched behind his back, studied the framed poster as if it were fine art in a museum. Such posters lined the hall, a veritable gallery of terrible B-movie perfection. A two-foot puppet swathed in bandages titled the Ventriloquist Mummy. A window washer who could talk to the dead advertised as Squeegee Board. An exceptionally large frog with blood-stained horns called The Horney Toad. Lord of the Springs chronicled the murderous exploits of an escort and her possessed mattress. Then, finally, the piece de resistance, a B-movie relic displayed on a raised platform—the protagonist’s armored wheelchair from the socially reviled Special Ed Zombies.

The buxom blonde that had let him in had disappeared, disinterested in him almost immediately upon his arrival, leaving him milling about for the home’s owner. He didn’t have to wait long.

Peter Goss—B-movie producer and director, Hollywood mogul, swinging hedonist, and amateur cult leader—appeared at the railing on the landing above him, smiling from ear to ear with perfect, pearly teeth. Despite the hour, he wore a fluffy bathrobe with matching slippers and a pair of designer sunglasses so tight the arms were absorbed into his fleshy temples. He came down the steps with an unexpected spring to his step, like a bouncing ball.

“Isaac! My heathen prayers are answered!” he exclaimed and clutched Isaac by the shoulders. “You got my message. Excellent. We’ve got great works to get done and little time to do it. You look like shit. I’m sure you’ve been on the road for a while. And up to no good wherever you stop eh? Set yourself up in one of the guest rooms. Get cleaned up. Trim your beard. You look like a child going for Halloween as a lumberjack. Did you check out the blonde that let you in? She’s my new assistant.” He nudged Isaac several times in the ribs to ensure the entendre was understood. “She and I are going to be doing some readings for my new movie. I’ll meet up with you afterward.” The producer rapid-fired the sentences and then scurried off before Isaac even returned the greeting.

An hour later Isaac sat in Peter’s office, showered, trimmed, and enamored with the plethora of Goss Productions movie paraphernalia that comprised the private collection. He’d swung around the giant spoon from Cereal Killer while wearing the pointed hat from Dunce Slap until he accidentally knocked over the glass sphere from Kingdom of the Crystal Balls. It had a slight crack and he barely got it back on the display shelf before Peter burst in.

Isaac had known Peter for a couple of years, having been referred to him for some random magical tasks he needed done. For a tidy fee he’d taught the producer a few minor cantrips; lighting candles without flame, gusting wind to blow curtains, an invisible knock to make noises in unoccupied rooms, etc. All easy and safe.

Considering Peter’s career revolved around low-budget horror movies these spells enhanced his reputation considerably. That’s one reason Isaac liked the man. He understood his limits and never pushed the boundaries. He knew enough about Isaac’s craft to respect that there are some things not to be delved into.

Once Peter was settled into his plush chair and had poured two hefty glasses of scotch he asked, “So, how do we go about summoning a demon?”

Isaac frowned as his respect for the man’s intelligence flushed away. He almost slammed down the glass angrily on the desk but figured he’d be better off drinking it.

Peter saw the disappointment on the magician’s face and moved quickly to push his case. “Hear me out. Just hear me out. I know that’s a big request.” Isaac waved his hand at the man to proceed. “I have a problem.”

“Go on.”

“An asshole.”

“I don’t do that kind of magic.”

Peter continued smiling; his years in show business having erased most of his other expressions. “So, you know I’ve had this whole sex cult thing going on lately. It started with impressing a few ladies with the tricks you taught me and just progressed from there.”

“I remember seeing a tabloid cover with a headline of ‘Horror movie mogul holds black magic orgies’.”

Beaming with pride Peter pulled that exact magazine from his desk. It was called The Scuttlebutt and covered all sorts of dirty Hollywood gossip. “So, I got this up-and-coming actor. I’ve cast him in a few things and his performances have been solid. He’s definitely got the Hollywood image. Rugged good looks, great physique, fabulous hair, and a five o’clock shadow a blowtorch couldn’t get rid of. But the guy really thinks he’s the next Brad Pitt. All rebellious and cool and play-by-his-own rules. That kind of attitude doesn’t wash in today’s Hollywood. And get this, his name is Kirkwood Rockwell.” Peter scoffed at the nom de plume. “Anyway, he’s been coming to all my functions lately. At first, it was fine. The ladies like him. My investors like him. He’s about as magnetic as a B-movie actor can get.

“But all of this adulation is going to his head. The last few cult events I’ve held he’s been snickering in the background and telling other guests I fake everything, and all my tricks are just special effects. As if I’d ever pay for decent special effects. Obviously, I can’t have one of my main stars damaging my credibility right in front of me. But he’s so popular right now I can’t just destroy his career and rail him out of town.”

Isaac assumed he saw where this drama was heading. “So, you want to summon a demon to kill this guy?”

For the first time, Isaac saw Peter look surprised. “What? Kill him? No. Seriously? Have you done that kind of stuff before?”

“Huh. No. Course not. Continue.”

The shock was quickly replaced with wide-eyed excitement. “But that’s a good pitch. A Hollywood mogul summons a demon to eliminate corporate rivals.” He quickly jotted Isaac’s faux pas down. “But back to the matter, I need something from you that will really wow the crowd. I want to knock them dead. Something so intense and powerful that he’ll shut the hell up and even if he doesn’t no one will listen to him anymore. A grand showy ritual with a demonic finale.”

Isaac ran a finger around the rim of his glass as he mulled the request over. Sure, it was a terrible idea, but Isaac had never let that stop him before. While he wouldn’t call Peter a friend exactly, the producer had always been an affable acquaintance and helpful business partner. In addition, the man had enough contacts to simply find someone else to do it should Isaac refuse. What if he hired some psychopath instead? He opted to buy time. “I’m tired from the drive. Give me the night to think about it.”

“You can let me know in the morning.” Peter kept on smiling as if he’d already won the negotiation.

* * *

Isaac always enjoyed visiting Peter’s library. The mogul was an avid collector and all-day sucker for any book about magic, occultism, Heaven, Hell, etc., particularly if it had a scary name or disturbing cover. Most of his collection consisted of fakes and forgeries. In fact, he had thirteen versions of the Necronomicon alone, each more worthless than the last. (Although there were many more variations in existence, he had stopped at thirteen because the number is ominous. “I have all thirteen copies of the Necronomicon”, he’d tell people proudly in his best Bela Lugosi imitation, even though no one knew who the actor was anymore.) But Isaac found it entertaining to sift through the shelves and every now and then he found a nugget of use in one of the many volumes.

There were very few all-powerful grimoires left in the world. Books that contained powerful magic from cover to cover were beyond worth and generally required much blood-letting or soul-selling to obtain. A much less dangerous endeavor was finding tidbits here and there in more commonly circulated books, even some found in chain bookstores. It may be one useful page out of three hundred and it may only contain the wording for a piece of a spell or the designs for part of a magical circle. It could be maddening at times, like assembling a puzzle with pieces never designed to interlock, but useful and worth the effort to someone with the know-how.

But the books also brought unbidden memories. In Isaac’s past apprenticeship his master would often present him with boxes upon boxes of encyclopedias, textbooks, novels, biographies, romances, just about every conceivable collection of pages between two covers. He’d search and search for any worthwhile piece. There had been other complications of course. Painful punishments if the time elapsed. Booby-trapped books. Cursed pages. He’d once seen a peer lose both hands to a well-concealed acid trap in a cookbook. It had rarely been pleasant.

Pushing the thoughts aside he made two separate towers of books on the atrociously tacky but fabulously soft bearskin rug that adorned the library floor. One was the “maybe-hopeful” pile, which he would go through first, and the other was the “good-for-a laugh” stack.

He resisted the urge to pull Jughead out. The spirit was ancient and may have some insight into his book search, but he didn’t feel like listening to the barrage of insults. Instead, he had pilfered the bottle of scotch from Peter’s office. Better to drink a limited amount in peace than an unlimited amount with an asshole.

“Hello”, a feminine voice said.

He spun in surprise, knocking over his maybe-hopeful pile in the process. A young woman stood just inside the room, leaning against the door. Hadn’t he closed it? He couldn’t remember. She smiled at him, seemingly as pleased with herself for startling him, as he was irritated with himself for being caught unaware.

“Hello back.” Isaac found himself staring, not just because of her attractiveness but also because something seemed...not quite right. He didn’t think much of his sixth sense, as it never seemed to be of much use, but he was generally aware enough to catch someone sneaking up on him. Tired from the trip? Too caught up in his book-worming? Too much booze?

“I’m Julia.”

Nah. She had snuck up on him because she could. No more, no less. Some kind of power stood there in the doorway. He could feel it.

“Sorry. Did I frighten you?” she asked, a hint of tease in her voice.

He smirked and set about to restacking his books.

“Not the talkative type huh? That’s weird for one of Peter’s friends. Usually, I can’t get them to shut up. They just brag endlessly about their screenwriting or acting or other forms of prowess.” She made a yuck face and shivered. “You have a name, or can I just call you ‘hey you?”

“Isaac.”

Julia smiled, brushed her hair, blonde with bold streaks of black, back from her face. She was dressed rather plainly in stark contrast to her colored hairdo, a white-cropped tee, and a loose, billowy black skirt. Anklets glittered over both her bare feet, toenails painted black.

“Nice to meet you. Really into your books?” She challenged his concentration further as she stepped into the room and peered over his shoulder.

“Just research.” Isaac picked up a book from the fallen maybe-hopeful stack. The Complete Demon Hunting Field Manual. He frowned. It really should have gone on the other pile.

Julia crossed the room behind him, anklets jingling. She shuffled her feet slowly across the bearskin, enjoying the softness, and then sat down on Peter’s reading desk so that she faced Isaac. She couldn’t be ignored now he realized. She motioned to the scotch. “May I?”

“Help yourself.” He handed her the bottle.

She drank directly from the bottle with no hiss of a burned throat. Handing the bottle back she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand then extended it to him. “I’m Julia.”

Giving up with a sigh, he shook it.