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She poured a ring of salt around the pile, then drizzled glitter glue in a complicated pattern. She uncapped the Old Spice,dabbed a little on each wrist, and then spritzed the gnomes liberally, chanting a spell under her breath that seemed to be sung to the tune of a Journey song.

The gnomes vibrated slightly, then fell totally still. I could suddenly sense they were truly just lifeless ornaments now.

“There,” Baba Yaga said, brushing her hands off. “That should hold them. But after the moon rises, you need to take them out to the bayou and toss them in. Good riddance.”

I wanted to ask what exactly would happen if we didn’t, but she was already corralling her minions clearly preparing for their departure.

She turned once more, fixing me with her electric blue gaze. “You did good, Mally. Never doubt yourself. And if you ever need a babysitter, don’t call me. But do keep in touch.”

I saluted. She returned it, then signaled her minions. She snapped her fingers and they all vanished, leaving behind a trail of sparkle, synthetic hair, and the lingering echo of “Like a Virgin” in the air.

The rest of the party was anticlimactic after Baba Yaga’s exit. There was cake, and Etienne gave a sweet toast that made me sniffle, and the children did a water-balloon relay that ended with Jocko winning by sheer, vicious cunning. The sun set, the bug zappers hummed, and for a few hours, everything was as it should be.

I stood at the edge of the yard, holding Etienne’s hand and looking out over the bayou.

“Ready to face whatever comes next?” Etienne asked.

“With you?” I grinned. “Bring it on.”

The garden gnomes sat silent. But I didn’t feel watched anymore. Just a little bit… protected.

Inside the house, I heard the clink of plates and the whir of the dishwasher. Violet, Iris, and Etienne’s mother Thea had refused to leave, claiming they wanted to “help tidy up” but inreality just wanted to keep a close eye on me. I appreciated their concern. The gnomes were no longer a threat, but Baba Yaga had confirmed someone was out there, watching us.

Etienne and his brothers left as soon as the moon was high in the sky. The four of them, plus half the Rougarou Guard, had fanned out through the bayou, both to get rid of the gnomes, but also to look for the one who sent them. Whether it was witches, rougarous, or some third, unspeakable thing, no one could say.

Jocko, who had partaken from any liquor that was available. was in a bloated, drunken stupor. “They are not just gnomes, you know,” he slurred, eye stalks swiveling toward me. “They are spies. They listen.”

“Thanks, buddy,” I said. “Sleep it off.”

I rocked in my rocker, the rhythmic sway making me sleepy. Inside, I could hear my sisters and Thea talking and laughing. I let my head fall back against the back of my chair. I closed my eyes, drifting a little.

That’s when I heard it—the whispers.

At first I thought it was just the wind, or maybe a neighbor’s TV. But it was close, right by my ear, and it said: “Prenze. Brenze.” The syllables stung the air, sharp as a wasp.

I tried to shake it off, but my body refused to move. It wasn’t just sleep paralysis—it was as if invisible hands had wrapped my arms and legs, cinching tighter and tighter. I tried to call out for help, but my mouth filled with the taste of potting soil and sugar.

Somewhere below me, Jocko was thrashing, his claws scrabbling at the side of his bowl. He managed a low, strangled, “Merde,” before he passed out—I hope he only passed out and bobbed on the top of the water.

I tried to turn my head, desperate to see what was happening, but my body wouldn’t obey. Only my eyes darted, frantic, searching for rescue.

Through the front window, I glimpsed of Violet, Iris, and Thea clearing the dining room table, their faces haloed by the yellow warmth of the chandelier. None of them looked my way. None of them noticed the shadow gliding silently across the floor behind them.

My rocker jerked violently, slamming me back into awareness. A shape was standing over me. For a moment I thought it was Etienne, but the shape was wrong—shorter, stubbier, with a beard like a sopping mop and a hat the color of old bubble gum.

A gnome. Not a ceramic statue, but a living, breathing, evil-eyed gnome.

He bared his teeth, which were tiny and perfectly white, and pressed a pudgy finger to his lips: “Shhh.”

The world spun. I was off the rocker, dragged across the porch and into the dark. I tried to fight, to thrash, but my body only shuddered weakly. Every muscle was jellied, every nerve screaming.

The gnome rolled me onto my back and leaned over my face. His eyes glowed pink and cold. I could smell the synthetic resin, even though he moved like a living being.

He pressed a pudgy finger to his lips.

I tried to scream again, but the gnome clamped my mouth shut with a palm as soft as velvet and as strong as a bench vise.

“You will be fine, my girl,” he said. His accent was pure New Orleans, the kind of twang you get from a lifetime of chicory and mischief.