Those Who Fight Monsters: Tales of Occult Detectives

The Demon You Know… A Demon-Hunting Soccer Mom Story by Julie Kenner

Kate

My name is Kate Connor, and I’m a suburban mom with a husband, a teenager, and a toddler. I’m also a demon hunter. And no, I don’t mean that metaphorically. I really do hunt demons from Hell, although I thankfully don’t have to go to Hell to do that. Instead, the demons come to me, and more often than I’d like, actually.

Demons, you might know, walk among us all the time. The air is, literally, filled with demonic essence living in the ether, a little fact that, frankly, can creep you out if you think about it too long. What’s even creepier is that a demon’s essence can also inhabit the body of a human. Sometimes the demon possesses the human, in which case you have a whole spinning-head, Linda Blair thing going on. That’s not my area; for that, you call a priest.

More often (because what demon wants to walk around looking like the thing in The Exorcist?), a demon will move into a body at the moment of death, just as the human’s soul is leaving. You’ve heard of those situations where someone is thought to be dead — a fall, a drowning — but then the victim is “miraculously” brought back to life. Most of the time, that’s no miracle. It’s a demon. And one who brings with it strength beyond which the human had in life, and a body that’s pretty dang hard to kill. You want to off a demon, you have to stab it in the eye. Not as easy as it sounds, trust me on that, but pretty much any jab that punctures the sclera and reaches the vitreous humor will do. I’ve used knives, ice picks, barrettes and even Happy Meal toys.

Manage to inflict that injury, and the demonic essence is sucked right back out into the ether.

Of course, demons can’t pop into any old body. The souls of the faithful fight, and the window of opportunity passes pretty quickly. So it’s not as if the world is overrun with demons walking around in human shells. But there are enough to keep me busy, and my fellow demon hunters, too. I work for Forza Scura, a super-secret arm of the Vatican, although I have to confess I haven’t kept the secret quite as hush-hush as I should. My husband knows. My fourteen-year-old daughter Allie knows. My best friend Laura knows.

And it’s quite possible my toddler knows, too, but he isn’t saying.

Not that I’m completely incapable of keeping a secret. I haven’t told the postman or the guy who runs the 7-11 on the corner. And although I know my martial arts instructor is curious about why a thirty-something mother of two can best him on the mat, so far I haven’t succumbed to a whim and told him. Why? Because I am, more or less, capable of controlling my whims. Because I don’t fly off the handle and do stupid things simply because my friends (or husband, or kids) want me to.

Responsibility.

Now there’s a buzzword. And ‘prudence’. And ‘common sense.’

All qualities that a demon hunter needs to possess. Especially prudence. And clear, level-headed thinking. The ability to act fast in a crisis and not jump into a situation without first doing at least a basic assessment. All those are tools in a Hunter’s toolbox, and as much as certain fourteen-year-olds might wish it were so, that particular skill set isn’t acquired overnight. Which is why my particular fourteen-year-old, despite making serious strides on the knife-throwing and ass-kicking side of the equation, isn’t yet going on regular patrols with her designated trainer. Namely, me.

A fact that has definitely raised the Teenage Sulk and Whine Meter in our house to Def Con One. And which, in a lovely bit of circular logic, completely justifies my refusal. Because if she was being clear-headed and prudent, she’d know that I was right — and there would be no whining, no angst, no moping about. Of course, when I tried that bit of logic on her, I was immediately assaulted with her standard reply of Mother, in a tone meant to express all sorts of unpleasant things, none of which it’s prudent to say outright to your mom.

So maybe she’s learned a little prudence after all…

I hoped so. Because right then she was in a situation that required the utmost common sense and prudence. And, possibly, a few ass-kicking skills, too.

Right then, my daughter Allie was on a date, or what I considered a date, although Allie swore it was nothing more than a group of friends going to the movies.

The entire lot had piled into my minivan earlier, and I’d driven them to the mall, the plan being to meet some other friends for dinner and a movie before the girls headed off to a sleepover, where another mom would get to deal with a gaggle of hormonally charged girls. The boys, presumably, would go home frustrated.