“OK, OK,” said Emanuel Kan, and stood still, breathing heavily from the exertion of his pathetic waltz. “What’s about to happen is somewhat dangerous. So please remain calm and still. The creature I’m about to expose is frightening, but do not cry out or he could possibly be drawn to you.” He walked over to his black bag, leaned down and retrieved a gleaming 9mm pistol from it. “I’ve found a hatpin doesn’t quite do it.”

  “Whoa,” somebody said in the crowd and a half-dozen people headed for the back door. “Yes, that’s it,” said the reverend. “Let those without faith in the Almighty flee his judgement.” Tom looked down at Helen. She looked up at him. Without speaking, they decided to stay. Kan stood and walked in front of Grace, facing the crowd. She was having a pitiful time of it, bouncing against the cot, crying out. “The demon knows I’m coming for him. And now I will invite the young woman’s father to join me and read off a list of her sins. And the mother will step forward and remove an article of her clothing so that I might proceed.” He waved the parents out of the crowd with the muzzle of the gun and then put the weapon on the chair with his other tools.

  Crory and Ina stepped forward. He reached into the pocket of his jacket and brought out a pink 3X5 index card. She had tears streaming down her face, smearing her makeup, and held onto his right arm with a trembling hand. She wove to and fro, obviously drunk. Her husband adjusted his glasses, cocked his big head forward and read in a strained voice.

  “Our daughter, Grace, has lost her way, fallen into temptation under the influence of evil. Here are the sins we are conscious of. 1) Pleasuring herself 2) Partaking of the pernicious weed 3) Drinking alcohol 4) Consorting with atheists 5) She is ten pounds overweight 6) Painting her face and wearing suggestive clothing.” When he was finished he assumed a solemn air, folded the paper twice and returned it to his pocket.

  “With the exception of the last one,” Tom whispered, “that’s like a normal day for me.” Helen stuck her index finger into his belly. “Try 20 pounds overweight,” she said.

  “I just want my baby back,” cried Ina. She looked wrung out, ready to drop over.

  “Poor thing,” said Helen.

  Crory returned to his spot in the crowd. The reverend ushered Ina to the cot. He leaned over the writhing girl, put his open palms less than an inch from her forehead, and moved them slowly around like he was polishing a car. He continued with this motion down the length of her body, very nearly but not touching her throat, her breasts, her stomach. He spent a long time conjuring near her crotch, and then swept the rest of the way to her feet. Ina stepped over then and removed Grace’s right shoe. In the act of pulling it off, she staggered, and the reverend caught her. He motioned to Crory, and said, “Please, take care of this.” Crory emerged from the crowd to lead his wife away.

  “That’s right, ladies and gentlemen, the big toe,” said the Blameless. “The seat of Moxioton’s rule. You can’t walk straight without a big toe, and the Almighty wants this young woman to walk straight.” He went quickly to the chair, took up his cigarettes and lit one, keeping it in the corner of his mouth. He threw the pack down and grabbed the gun, holding it at the ready in his right hand. Back at the cot, he blew smoke rings onto Grace’s big toe. He wiggled the fingers of his left hand all around Moxioton’s lair. “Stand back now,” he yelled. The girl was fish-flopping on the cot, sweating, groaning, shrieking, letting off snatches of her own gibberish.

  The reverend’s pinching fingers shot out and pincered something just beneath the curve of the toe nail. He planted his feet and pulled back, and his pose made it obvious there was a struggle going on. Slowly, he extracted what looked like a khaki-colored blob. He backed up and drew it out a little further. It was immensely bigger than all the other demons put together, and it kept emerging from her toe. As it grew it took on the features of a face, and it became clear he had it by its pointed nose. Its mouth opened to show sharp teeth, and it growled and barked. One of its big yellow eyes stared hard at the exorcist and the other scanned the crowd. A string of curse words came from Kan, followed by a loud, “Get the fuck out here.” There was a snapping noise and it retracted back into her toe. A wave of gasps erupted from the crowd.

  “What the F?” said Tom.

  “Satan’s bubble gum,” said Helen.

  The reverend wiped his forehead with his sleeve, and then his fingers dove in for a second try. He caught hold of it, pinched hard, and pulled. Moxioton appeared again, growing like an angry tan thought. Kan lifted the gun, stuck it into the side of the demon, and pulled the trigger twice. The crowd ducked at the report of the 9mm. The demon seemed insubstantial enough for the bullets to pass through easily, but they didn’t. Gunsmoke misted the weird tableau. Grace, the reverend, and Moxioton reached a fever pitch chorus of agonizing grunts and squeals. “I’ve got to pull it free from her to destroy it,” yelled the exorcist. The struggle continued. People fled for the back door. Then, that sharp-toothed maw opened wide, and a burst of fire shot out as if it were a flame thrower.

  The reverend’s baggy black suit, beard and eyebrows were instantly aflame. He stumbled backward, firing off shots into the ceiling. His arms waved up and down, but this time he wasn’t dancing. He lurched toward what was left of the crowd. Helen grabbed Tom by the arm and pulled him out of the way. Emanuel Kan, all smoldering hair and a stink of singed meat, swept past them into the drapes of the living room’s front window. The gun went off and shot out one of the panes, as he fell to the floor. Fire swept up the fabric and leaped onto the couch. The place was in an uproar.

  Tom and Helen made for the back door through the smoke and commotion. He looked over his shoulder and saw three things happen almost simultaneously. Somehow Crory had come up with a fire extinguisher and was dousing the Blameless, the drapes and furniture. Ina had made it to the cot and was helping Grace up. The last was the most spectacular. Morrison Zeck, that lanky kid, who’d not shown himself all night, appeared. He pushed Ina onto the floor and helped the bleary Grace stand by putting her arm over his shoulders. The two of them headed for the front door. That was the last Tom saw before he and Helen passed into the dining room and on to the kitchen.

  Outside, it was still drizzling. They ran into Bill Stewart, standing amid a clutch of neighbors on the front lawn. “Did you see it?” he asked Tom.

  “I thought you were asleep in the dining room.”

  “No, I woke up when the second act got under way. I caught most of it, but once he started shooting I took off.”

  “Remind me never to doubt the existence of demons again,” said Tom.

  “Unbelievable,” said Bill.

  “I don’t buy it,” said Helen.

  “Well, you may not, but Emanuel Kan did,” said Tom.

  Twenty minutes passed and yet the neighbors remained on the lawn in the fine drizzle, waiting for a sign that all was well. Eventually the front door opened and the reverend appeared in the porch light somewhat blackened and frayed, but on his feet. He carried his black bag in one hand and his pistol in the other. Crory and Ina appeared behind him in the doorway. Kan turned and yelled back at them, “You’ll be hearing from my lawyer.” As he passed toward the road and his car, he glowered at the crowd. “Ignorant sinners,” he shouted.

  “If that’s an act,” said Bill, “he should be on America’s Got Talent.”

  “He’s a menace,” said Helen.

  Tom looked to the house, and saw Ina weaving across the lawn toward the neighbors. He barely heard her voice as she thanked Jake and Alice and Oshea. Behind her, Mr. Crory sat on the porch, his powder blue jacket and bow tie gone, his face in his hands, elbows resting on knees. It looked like he was sobbing.

  “Check it out,” Tom said to Helen and nudged her.

  She turned and looked. “What a mess,” she said.

  “I’ve been exactly there more than once,” said Tom.

  Ina staggered over to them in her rounds. “I’m so sorry about tonight,” she said. “Please forgive us. The last thing we wanted was to put you in harm’s way. The exorcist came highly recommended.”

  “Recommended by who?” asked Bill.

  “He had 4 five star reviews out of 6 on Yahoo,” she said.

  “No sweat,” said Tom.

  Ina said to Helen, “Can I talk to you for a second?” and took her wrist. They moved away from Tom and Bill.

  Fifteen minutes later, Tom and Helen were in their CRV, moving slowly along the twisting suburban night streets. Helen drove. Tom squinted and scanned the hedge-lined properties, the oak thickets and trim lawns.

  “Why didn’t they just call the cops?” Tom asked.

  “You know what that’s like from our own kids.”

  “Yeah, I remember.”

  “They can’t have gone far on foot.”

  “That Zeck kid rescuing Grace reminded me of the end of The Graduate.”

  “Well, she’s got to get home now. Ina’s distraught.”

  “Even the weird old man looked on the verge.”

  “What are you doing on your phone? You’re supposed to be keeping an eye out.”

  “How are we going to miss her? She’s dressed like the fucking Snow Queen. I’m looking up if there’s such a thing as self-inflating balloons.”

  “I’m telling you, it was all tricks gone wrong,” she said.

  “Here it is. There is such a thing as self-inflating balloons, but they don’t look anything like that stuff the Blameless was pulling out of Grace. That shit seemed alive.”

  “Remember Jurassic Park, the dinosaurs? Did they look real?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Case closed.”

  “Why don’t you head over by the lake, that’s where our guys always went to get in trouble.”

  They drove slowly, in silence, till they arrived at the dirt parking lot near the playground at Halloway Lake. The rain had stopped and the moon played peek-a-boo from behind the clouds. Helen put the car in park and reached to turn the lights off. She didn’t, though. “You see out to the left, near the shore, over by where the cat-tails start? I think there’s somebody sitting on that bench.”

  He squinted. “I can’t see shit.”

  “Come on, we’ll go check it out,” she said and killed the headlights.

  “What if it’s Moxioton?”

  She opened the door and got out. He followed her. They walked across the sand beyond the swing set. The lake smelled of spring and stirred in the breeze.

  “Tell me honestly,” he said. “When the Blameless first spoke of Moxioton, did you ever think he was gonna pull that demon from her big toe?”

  “That one will come from lower down,” she said in the reverend’s voice and laughed.

  “If you’re right, and it’s an act, it’s genius.”

  “The gun was a surprise.”

  “Next time we get an invitation to one of these, say no.”

  Helen raised her arm and motioned for him to be quiet. They were getting closer to the bench. “Walk soft,” she whispered. They drew within twenty feet, and the moon came through the clouds. The girl’s dress shone like a beacon in the sudden light. Grace and Morrison Zeck, slumped shoulder to shoulder, both asleep. Tom and Helen quietly moved a few feet closer. She took his wrist when she wanted him to stop. They stood in silence for a moment. Tom leaned down and whispered in her ear, “That Zeck kid is a goofball.”

  Helen shook her head.

  “Do I call Ina?” he asked, holding up his cell phone.

  It took her a while to answer. “No,” she said. “I don’t think so.”

  “Why not?”

  “They’re too young to be lovers. They must be friends.”

  When the moon went away, they walked back to the CRV and drove home. Later, the rain started in again. The sound and smell of spring came through the screen of their bedroom window while he dreamt in the language the angels dream in, and she, of the land without worry.

  Word Doll

  Every morning I take the back way to town, a fifteen-mile drive on narrow two-lane roads that cut through oceans of corn. The cracked and patched asphalt is lined on either side by telephone poles shrinking into the distance. Sometimes I pass a hawk perched on a fence post. Every few miles there’s a farmhouse, mostly old, like ours. In the winter, the wind is fierce, whipping across the barren fields, and I have to work to keep the car in its lane, but in summer, after I get my cigarettes in town and stop at the diner for a cup of coffee and a glance at the newspaper, I drive home and go out back under the apple trees, sit at a little table, and write stories. Sunlight filters down through the branches, and there’s always a breeze blowing across the fields that finds me there. Sometimes the stories flow and I don’t notice the birds at the feeders, the jingle of the dog’s collar, or the bees in the garden just beyond the orchard; and when they don’t, I stare out into the sea of green and daydream into its depths.

  In late September, on a Monday’s journey to town, I passed this old place at a bend in the road, like I’d passed it every morning. It was a Queen Anne Victorian with a wraparound screened-in porch, painted blue and white. The house was in good shape, but the barn out back was shedding shingles, and the paint had weathered off its splintered boards. I’d often seen chickens bobbing around on the property, and a rooster at times dangerously close to the road. There were blackberry bushes tangled in a low wall on either side of the entrance to the gravel drive. As I rolled past, I noticed something partially covered by those bushes. It looked like a sign of some kind, but it was faded and I was going too fast to catch a good glance.

  On the way back from town I forgot to slow down and look, but the following day I woke up with the thought that I should stop and investigate. Nine times out of ten, I could drive to town and back and never pass another car, and that day was no exception. I slowed as I got close to the place, and right across from the sign, I stopped and studied it—about two by three foot, made of tin, fading white with black letters. It was attached to a short, rusted post. The berry bushes had grown up and partially over it, but now that I’d stopped I could make out its message. It said—WORD DOLL MUSEUM—and beneath that—Open 10 to 5 Monday thru Friday.

  The next morning, I got up, and, instead of driving to town, I took a shower and put on a white shirt and dress pants. I took a cup of coffee out under the apple trees. Instead of writing, I sat there, smoking and wondering into the heart of the corn field what the hell a word doll was. At 10:30, I got in the car and drove toward town. The sun was strong and the sky was clear blue. The corn had begun to brown, it being summer’s end. At the bend in the road, without hesitating, I pulled into the driveway of the Victorian. The chickens were in a clutch over by the corner of the house. The place was still. I didn’t hear any television or radio playing. I walked slowly to the porch door, scuffing the gravel in the drive to let anybody listening know I was there. The screen door was unlatched. I opened it and called, “Hello?”

  There was no reply, so I entered, the screen door banging shut behind me, and walked to the main door of the house. I knuckle-rapped the glass three times and then folded my arms and waited. The fading coral roses bordering the porch gave off a strong scent, and a wind chime in the corner over an old rocker pinged in the breeze sifting through the screen. I was about to give up and leave, when the door pulled back. There was a thin old woman, a little bent, with a cloud of white hair and big glasses. She wore a loose, button-up dress, yellow with white flowers.

  “What do ya want?” she asked.

  “I’m here for the Word Doll Museum,” I said.

  My pronouncement seemed to momentarily stun her. She reached up and gently grabbed the door jamb. “Are you kidding?” she asked and smiled.

  “Should I be?” I said.

  Her demeanor instantly changed. I could see her relax. “Hold on,” she said, “I have to get the keys. Meet me over by the barn.”

  I left the porch and the chickens followed me. The entire gray structure of the barn, like some weary pachyderm, was actually listing more than a few degrees to the south, something I’d not noticed from the road. The door was hanging on by only the top hinge. The lady came out the back of the house and walked with the help of a three-pronged cane over the lumpy ground of the yard. As she drew closer, she said, “Where you from?”

  “Not far. I pass your place on the way to town every morning, and I saw the sign the other day.”

  “My name is Beverly Gearing,” she said and held out her hand.

  I took it in mine and we shook. “I’m Jeff Ford,” I told her.

  As she passed by me toward the ramshackle barn, she said, “So, Mr. Ford, what’s your interest in word dolls?”

  “I don’t know anything about them.”

  “Well, that’s okay,” she said, and opened the broken door.

  I followed her inside. She shuffled over the hay strewn floor. Swifts flew back and forth in the rafters and the holes in the roof allowed sunbeams to cut the shadows. On one side of the barn were animal stalls, all empty, and on the other there was a wall of implements and tools and a small room built within the greater structure. Over the door to it was a wooden sign with the words Word Doll Museum burned in script and shellacked. She fished in the pocket of her dress and eventually came out with the key. Opening the door, she flipped on a light switch, and then stepped aside, allowing me to enter first. The room was painted light blue. There was a window on each wall that looked out at nothing but bare plywood, and inside, window boxes fixed up with plastic flowers.

  “Have a seat,” she said, and I sat in a chair at the card table at the center of the room. She worked her way to the other chair at the table and half-sat/half-fell backward into it. Once she was settled, she took a pack of Marlboros out of her pocket and a black lighter. She leaned forward on the table with one arm. “Word dolls,” she said.