Potluck

By Renee Reeves

Perplexed, the exorcist stared at the casserole.

“It’s the same thing every time,” his client whispered. “That tuna-jello stuff.”

The exorcist tapped the gelatin with a pencil. It quivered uneasily.

“Have you already tried eating it?” A fork on the counter clattered to the linoleum.

“Maybe that’s all she wants.”

Dutifully, the client pretended to chew and swallow a forkful, although it vanished on his tongue.

“It’s good,” he muttered, and a warm breeze played through his hair. The casserole, too, vanished.

At the door, exorcist and client shook hands.

“Tell you what,” said the exorcist. “I’ll bill you half price.”