Diane walked into the front room of her apartment, blinking the sleep out of her eyes and smoothing her fingers through her blonde locks. After three weeks of a hard push at work, she finally had a long weekend as a reward, and she was determined not to sleep it away. That didn’t mean she was awake enough to start breakfast, though. She picked up the remote to the television and sat down.

A moment later, she screamed when the couch suddenly tilted forward, and to the left.

Upon catching her balance - and her breath - she muttered, “What the hell?” Sure enough, when she got down on her knees and looked, one of the legs had broken off the couch.

The last couple of weeks had been filled with such small disasters. The day before, the showerhead had fallen off as soon as she turned on the water. The coffee maker had fallen victim to the curse the day before that. From broken heels to leaking pens, it had seemed as if the world was conspiring to drive her even crazier while she battled exhaustion from work.

Well, I’m awake now, she thought. The fright had chased the last vestige of drowsiness from her in a split second, so off to the kitchen she went.

After breakfast, there was one task that couldn’t be ignored any longer. She’d put on her last pair of comfortable panties before going to bed. There were a few racier garments left in the drawer, but those were for special occasions, and not everyday use. The laundry needed to be taken care of before she could truly begin to enjoy her long weekend.

She carefully checked the hoses on the washer before turning it on. A loose one spraying water everywhere had been the first of the string of disasters, and she really didn’t want a repeat of that. Once the first load was in, she returned to the front room to see if there was anything she could do about the couch while she waited on the washer.

Along the way, the sight of a package sitting on the table changed her mind. It was from her grandmother, and had arrived while she was at work the day before. Curiosity overwhelmed her. She picked it up and took it to a chair, where she sat down slowly, wary of a repeat of the couch trying to dump her in the floor.

The tape yielded to her nails without much trouble, and the first thing she saw was a handwritten note from her grandmother.

When I called the other day and you told me about your string of bad luck, I knew you would need this. Keep an open mind and trust your grandmother, Diane. Blessed be, the note read.

Though the family didn’t speak of it, everyone knew that her grandmother practiced Wicca, and had picked up the craft from her own mother, who had in turn learned it from her mother. Diane’s aunt and mother had broken the long-running string, but her grandmother had been trying to influence her for years in hopes of reviving the family tradition in the next generation. Diane shook her head and chuckled while she looked to see what else was inside.

Beneath the note were several purple cloth-wrapped bundles. Each had a D stitched into it with silver thread, facing upward, demonstrating that they were gifts meant for her to keep. When she unfolded the first, she found a white candle that her grandmother had no doubt made herself. She could smell vanilla and other enticing scents when she brought the candle to her nose. The remaining bundles were three similar candles as well as four brass holders.

Upon removing all the candles, Diane saw the lid of a beautifully carved wooden box with a silver latch and hinges. As with the cloth wraps, her initial was carved into the center of the lid. Inside the shallow box, sitting on a purple velvet cushion, were five white crystals. They were semi-transparent, and caught flickering rainbows of light within their facets.

The box was beautiful, and the candles smelled wonderful, so she appreciated the gift, even if not in the way her grandmother had intended.

In the very bottom of the box was a thin, hand-bound book. It was a little larger than a hardcover novel, and the binding was covered in purple cloth stitched with strange symbols on the borders, surrounding her initial in the middle. Diane lifted the book from the box, opened it, and gasped in surprise.

The last thing she’d ever have expected to see in a gift from her grandmother was a detailed drawing of a naked man. Of course, it wasn’t just any naked man. His skin was a rosy, magenta color for one thing. He also had horns and pointed ears sticking out of long, black hair. Despite these strange features, he had a handsome face and a lean, muscled body. His unusually large penis was drawn erect, and flowers in a vase next to him seemed to be there to indicate a scale of perhaps two inches high. At the top of the page, in flowing, calligraphic script was the word Gremlins.

After recovering from her initial shock, she looked closer. The page had been copied from another book, picking up the signs of aging in the paper in the original. The text below the header appeared to be in the same hand, though less embellished. Made curious, she began to read.

Gremlins were described as distantly related to the Fey, such as Fairies, Pixies, and Sylphs. They were supposed to be impossibly fast, and invisible to people unless they wished to show themselves, or were compelled to do so. While generally benevolent, this sometimes changed when the creatures were provoked.

The indications that one had gremlins living within the home were all too familiar to Diane over the last couple of weeks. When upset, the creatures were said to sabotage things in the night to vex the homeowner. That certainly explained why her grandmother had sent her the book.

The next sign of gremlins taking up residence made her blush - and wonder.

Ever since she’d moved into her new apartment a few months before, she’d been having wonderfully intense orgasms whenever she masturbated. They were accompanied by fantasies that seemed to take on a life of their own, filled with handsome, virile men she’d never seen before. It had encouraged her to pleasure herself even more frequently than she had when she first explored her body years ago.

The book listed that very thing as an indicator of gremlins. The creatures were said to delight in a woman’s pleasure, and feed their own bliss into her, creating a loop of ever-increasing ecstasy that culminated in exactly the type of orgasms she’d been experiencing. A sudden lack of that stimulation was said to be the most common reason gremlins went rogue.

Diane looked away from the book and thought. The string of mini disasters had started shortly after the long, hectic days at work had kicked in. She’d come home each night so exhausted that she almost always dropped straight to sleep upon crawling into bed. In that entire time, she could only remember masturbating twice. Upon thinking about that, she realized that both of those times, nothing had gone haywire the following day.

This can’t be real, she thought. The words rang hollow in her head, though. The book was describing everything she’d experienced recently in eerie detail, and compelled her to read on.

What followed was a ritual to capture the gremlins, and force them to leave the home. It required four white candles, and five white crystals, explaining everything else her grandmother had included in the box. The bait that lured the gremlins into the trap was the woman masturbating. Once trapped, the creatures became visible, and all that was required was to order the creatures from the home, and they would leave, never to return.

Diane’s gaze darted from the book to what she thought was movement in her peripheral vision. She had the overwhelming feeling that someone was watching her. Every dancing shadow and small sound made her start.

This has to be a joke, she thought. As quickly as the thought occurred, she knew it was wrong. Her grandmother would never do something like this as a prank, no matter how implausible the whole thing seemed.

It was too much to deal with, and Diane snapped the book shut. She shook her head and stood, determined to forget the whole thing.

It didn’t work.

She managed to go through the motions of a normal day long enough to transfer the load of laundry from the washer to the dryer, and that was it. She found herself standing in front of the table where she’d left the contents of the package, staring down at the book and arcane instruments.

I can’t believe I’m even considering this. I must be going crazy.

As she had a dozen times since reading the book, she turned toward an imagined sound and searched every nook and cranny for its source, only to see nothing.

There’s only one way to prove it’s not real, she thought when she looked at the book again. Just do it, and when nothing happens, you’ll know Grandma is going senile.

It made sense. Of course, so did assuming her grandmother wasn’t in her right mind, without going through the ritual. That was even more reasonable. Yet she was drawn to the book. She had to make a considerable effort to not reach down, pick it up, and peruse the pages again. After fighting the urge for a few seconds, she surrendered.

There wasn’t much to the ritual. Make the room dark. Place the candles at the four corners of the bed. Place the crystals around the bed in a pentacle pattern. Light the candles, creating a between of light and shadow, then lie down and draw the creatures in.

I could put two of the candles on the nightstands, and the other two on t.v. trays, she thought. If I close the door and hang a blanket over the window, that should make it dark enough.

The little bits of problem solving were the breaking point. Part of her was still trying to pretend it was ridiculous, and to forget all about it, but deep down, she’d already made a decision. She was going through with it.

Diane packed the items back into the box to make them easier to carry, and headed toward the bedroom. She sat the box down, and then returned to the front room for a candle lighter and the t.v. trays. When they were set up at the foot of the bed, she opened the box again.

It’s just a game, like when you played with the Ouija board in college, she thought while removing everything from the box. Just do it, and then laugh at how silly it is when nothing happens.

Soon enough, the candles rested in their holders, and the crystals were arranged. Then, she hung a blanket over the window and closed the door. When she shut off the overhead light for a moment, it confirmed that the room was nearly as dark as night. Once the candles were flickering, releasing a warm scent of vanilla and spice, Diane turned out the light for the final time and beheld the scene.

The only thing missing was the sacrificial virgin.

After taking a deep breath, Diane carefully crossed the room to her bed and climbed in. She felt incredibly self-conscious as she lay on the bed in the candlelight, and couldn’t bring herself to undress. The book hadn’t said anything about that, though. Reaching a compromise, she parted her legs and reached between them to rub her folds through her shorts.

Her fingers moved at a slow, methodical pace while her eyes roamed the room. She squinted into the darkness, seeking any sign of movement amidst the dancing shadows cast by the candles. The faint whoosh of the air-conditioning flowing through the vent was the only sound that broke the silence.

Nothing was happening.

Or rather, nothing was happening so far as the ritual was concerned. Something else was certainly happening. It had been a week since she’d masturbated, and even the tiny bit of stimulation was sparking a fire. A brief, quiet moan escaped her, and she rubbed a little harder.

Her breathing picked up. Her fingers moved faster. After a minute or so, thoughts of the ritual faded into the background, drowning in a sea of need. She caressed her breasts through her t-shirt and could feel how stiff her nipples were. The hand between her legs slid higher, and then beneath the waistband of her shorts. She gasped when she touched her sex through the thinner material of her panties.

There was no turning back. In a rush of arousal, she pushed down her shorts, tugged up her top to free her breasts, and gave in to a week’s worth of pent-up need. Her fingers slid between her nether lips and she moaned again while drawing the slippery digits up to her clit. The first touch of the swollen bud made her whimper.