At first the girl joked that either her phone is haunted or her dog is a sorcerer. Both explanations could probably get her on a talk show, but she knows better now. It’s Ghouli. It’s always been Ghouli. It’s like she said to the police – she put it on the fireplace mantle herself. Twizzler would not stop barking at it even though it wasn’t ringing. It was well out of his reach. Then, like magic, POOF, phone was gone, only to be found days later, boring a hole under the fridge as it disintegrated into some kind of acidic ectoplasm. Ghouli creeps, sight unseen and it does not like the taste of electronics. Then the barking stopped too.
Ghouli looks through a mirror above the fireplace, through a living room and beyond into the kitchen where the family eats. A father, a mother, a daughter, a furry thing lapping scraps at her feet. Forks and knives clang against ceramic plates. Ghouli is hungry too. The furry thing has stubby little legs, low to the floor. It run-waddles to the fireplace. It can’t see itself (nor Ghouli) in the mirror high above, but it barks anyway. How does it sense Ghouli’s presence – the smell? Ghouli can only smile for so long before it requires a new texture to gnaw between its teeth. All appendages raise in unison to punch through the mirror. SMASH!
The Sore Points cover that song, she forgets the title, but cranks it up anyway:
On a map of the world
He stands alone
With his dreams and his demons
hic sunt dracones
hic sunt dracones. They don’t teach Latin at her school, but thank you, internet. It means, “here be dragons”, a warning on the maps of ancient mariners for uncharted territories.