Mom called, “Put Sugar in her cage and come down for supper!”
I looked up from my book. My Guinea pig continued to race around manically, as she’d been doing for the past hour. The plush carpeting beneath her tiny pink feet had taken on the image the little creature seemed determined to imprint.
It took a bit of effort, but I finally managed to catch her. She oinked and squealed, squirming in my grip.
I looked down at what she’d made and sighed. “Not again.”
Using my toes, I rubbed out the pentagram.
I booped her nose. “Bad, Sugar.”
Author’s Note: I had a Guinea pig when I was a teenager and she may have been named Sugar. Whether or not she worshipped demons is a matter up for debate.