Operation Gnome-Thaw

It wasn't just that Grandpa smelled like a damp basement and snored like a dying badger. It was the eyes.

Okay. Exhibit A: The Smell. The creature in the armchair smelled of damp soil and mothballs. A permanent, low-level funk that clung to the upholstery like a second skin. Real Grandpa Frank smelled of peppermint candies, sawdust, and the weirdly sweet aroma of the pipe tobacco he wasn't supposed to smoke in the house but totally did. Paul had cataloged these scents for years. They were as fundamental as gravity. This new smell was an invasion, an olfactory crime scene. It was the smell of something that lived underground.

Exhibit B: The Sound. A snore rattled the creature's chest, a percussive, wet growl that sounded less like human sleep and more like a small, defective engine trying to turn over in the cold. It would sputter, whine, and then climax in a gargling snort that made the ceramic dogs on the mantelpiece vibrate. Real Grandpa Frank whistled when he slept. A soft, airy tune that sometimes, if you were lucky, almost sounded like a song you knew. This was not a whistle. This was the sound of a blocked drain.

Exhibit C, and this was the big one: The Stillness. The creature—the gnome—had been in that armchair for three days. Three. Days. Ever since the blizzard had shut down the world, it had sat there, a lump of corduroy and flannel, moving only to grunt for more tea or to demand Paul switch the channel from her cartoons to the non-stop, mind-numbing drone of the weather report. Real Grandpa Frank was a hurricane of nervous energy. He couldn't sit still for more than seven minutes without needing to 'check the gutters' or 'organize the screws' or 'see what the squirrels are up to.' He was a man made of fidgets and projects. This thing was a geological formation. A sedimentary lump of pure, unadulterated grump.

Paul crouched behind the sofa, the worn floral pattern pressing into her cheek. From her observation post, she had a perfect view. The gnome was currently 'sleeping,' its head lolled back at an angle that should have been uncomfortable, a string of drool connecting its chin to the collar of its plaid shirt. Its beard, a wiry, yellowish-white mess, looked exactly like the fake moss you could buy at craft stores. And its skin had a weird, chalky texture. It wasn't human skin. It was...ceramic-adjacent.

It had to be a gnome. A life-sized, enchanted garden gnome who had, for reasons beyond her comprehension, taken her grandfather's place. This meant the real Grandpa Frank was out there. Somewhere in the garden, buried under three feet of snow, probably frozen solid like a forgotten popsicle. The thought sent a spike of pure, cold terror through her. He was out there, his peppermint-and-sawdust scent frozen into the air around him, waiting for her. His only granddaughter. His designated rescuer.

This was her mission. It was a quest, just like in the 'Galaxy Sentinels' comics she had stacked under her bed. Stage One: Reconnaissance. That was complete. She had the data, the evidence was overwhelming. Stage Two: Rescue. This part was trickier. How do you un-gnome a gnome? And more importantly, how do you do it without alerting the gnome to the fact that you know it's a gnome? It was probably very powerful. It had managed to fool her mom, who had just dropped her off for the 'blizzard weekend' with a kiss and a warning to 'be good for your grandpa.' Her mom hadn't noticed the soil-smell. She hadn't clocked the snowblower-snore. Adults were useless at spotting magical impostors.

Paul’s eyes narrowed. The gnome shifted, a low growl escaping its throat. It was time for action. Subtlety was key. She couldn’t just confront it. That would be like poking a badger with a short stick. No, she needed a lure. Something irresistible. Something that would draw the creature out of its lair, out of Grandpa Frank's sacred armchair, and into a position where she could get a better look at it. Maybe check for a seam where the human suit zipped up.

What did gnomes like? She wracked her brain, sifting through every fantasy book she’d ever skimmed. They liked mushrooms, but the pantry was fresh out. They liked shiny things, but she wasn't about to sacrifice her limited edition 'Starlight Commander' action figure. They liked...gardens. Things from gardens. Her gaze flickered toward the kitchen. An idea, cold and brilliant, sparked in her mind. Peas. Frozen peas. They were from a garden. And they were small, green, and vaguely magical-looking. It was perfect.

Operation Pea-Lure was a go. She army-crawled from behind the sofa, her socked feet silent on the worn rug. The floorboards in the hallway were a minefield of creaks and groans, each one a potential mission-killer. She moved like a shadow, or at least, like she imagined a shadow would move if it had knees that occasionally popped. The kitchen was cold, the window over the sink a solid sheet of white frost. The blizzard howled outside, a low, mournful sound that made the house feel like a ship lost at sea.

She pulled open the freezer. A blast of arctic air hit her in the face, carrying the scent of freezer burn and forgotten leftovers. There it was, behind a fossilized block of what might have once been chili: a crinkly, plastic bag of frozen peas. Victory. She grabbed the bag, the tiny green spheres rattling like frozen maracas. It was heavier than she expected. She felt a surge of adrenaline. This was it. This was the key.

Back in the living room, the gnome hadn't moved. The snoring continued, a rhythmic soundtrack to her covert operation. She carefully tore a small hole in the corner of the bag. The first pea, a perfect emerald orb, dropped onto the floor with a tiny *tink*. She placed it just at the edge of the hallway, a single, tempting morsel. Then she placed another, a foot further back. Then another. She was creating a trail, a breadcrumb path of frozen vegetables leading from the armchair, through the hallway, and all the way to the back door.

The plan was simple. The gnome would wake, its powerful gnome-senses detecting the offering. It would follow the trail, mesmerized by the garden-y goodness. Once it was at the back door, she would... well, she hadn't quite figured that part out yet. Maybe she'd lock it outside. A gnome in its natural, snowy habitat might revert to its original state. It was scientific. Sort of.

She laid the last pea right by the gnome’s fuzzy slipper. The final temptation. Then she retreated to her hiding spot behind the sofa, her heart hammering against her ribs. The waiting was the hardest part. She held her breath, watching. The clock on the mantelpiece ticked, each second stretching into an eternity. The house was silent except for the snoring and the wind. Tick. Tock. Snore. Howl.

Nothing. Ten minutes crawled by. The peas began to sweat, tiny puddles of condensation forming around them on the hardwood floor. They were losing their frosty allure. The gnome remained a lump. Paul gritted her teeth. Maybe it needed a prompt. A stimulus. She looked around, her eyes landing on the television remote. With the precision of a bomb disposal expert, she leaned out from behind the sofa and aimed. She pressed the power button.

The television roared to life. A commercial for cat food, loud and aggressively cheerful. The gnome's eyes shot open. They weren't the twinkly, blue eyes of her grandpa. They were flat. Dull. The color of mud. They swiveled in their sockets, scanning the room with a look of pure, venomous rage. The eyes of a creature disturbed from a thousand-year slumber.

"Paul!" The voice was a gravelly bark. It was close to Grandpa Frank’s, a clever imitation, but it lacked the underlying warmth. It was all jagged edges. "What in the blazes do you think you're doing? I was sleeping!"

Paul froze. Her cover was blown. The gnome’s muddy eyes fixed on her, peeking over the back of the sofa. It hadn't seen the peas. Its gaze was locked on the remote in her hand. Drat. It was too smart. It had seen through her diversionary tactic. But then, its eyes drifted downward, following her arm, her shoulder, and finally to the floor. It saw the first glistening, slightly thawed pea.

A flicker of... something. Confusion? Intrigue? The gnome’s brow furrowed. It slowly, deliberately, pushed itself up in the chair. The ancient springs groaned in protest. It was happening. It was taking the bait. It swung its legs over the side of the chair and planted its feet on the floor. It stared at the pea. Then the next one. Then the one after that, a perfect line leading into the hallway.

Paul held her breath. This was it. The culmination of her genius. The gnome took a step. Then another. It was following the trail. It bent down, its joints cracking like a firecracker, and picked up a single pea. It squinted at it, holding it between a thick thumb and forefinger. It brought the pea closer to its face, examining it like a strange new jewel.

And then it ate it. It popped the pea into its mouth and chewed, its expression unreadable. It followed the trail, not with the enchanted wonder Paul had expected, but with a kind of grim determination, gobbling up each pea like a weird, miniature Pac-Man. It was working! It was almost to the back door. Paul's mind raced. Plan B. What was Plan B? She didn't have a Plan B!

The gnome reached the end of the trail, standing directly in front of the back door. It had consumed all the evidence. It stood there for a moment, chewing the last pea thoughtfully. Then it turned. It looked not at the door, but directly back at Paul’s hiding spot. A slow, chilling smile spread across its face, a smile that did not reach its muddy eyes. "You missed a spot," it growled, and pointed a stubby finger to a single, rogue pea that had rolled under the coffee table.

Then, without another word, it turned around, shuffled back to the armchair, collapsed into it with a weary sigh, and was snoring again within fifteen seconds. The mission was a catastrophic failure. The gnome was not only an impostor, it was a clever, pea-loving fiend. This required a new approach. She needed more information. She needed to consult an expert.

The only other living creature in the immediate vicinity, besides the mailman who she only saw for twelve seconds a day, was Brenda. Brenda was the beagle who lived next door. And Brenda, Paul reasoned, saw everything. Dogs had senses humans could only dream of. She could probably smell the gnome-magic from fifty yards away. She would know things. An interrogation was in order.

Getting outside was its own special operation. The gnome-impostor was a light sleeper, triggered by any sound louder than a sigh. Her winter coat, a puffy monstrosity of neon pink nylon, made a loud *swoosh* sound every time she moved. She’d have to go without it. A terrible, tactical sacrifice. Clad only in her sweater, jeans, and a pair of mismatched mittens, she crept to the back door. The lock turned with a deafening *clack*. She froze, listening. The snoring from the living room continued its rhythmic assault. Safe. She slipped out into the storm.

The cold was a physical blow. It punched the air from her lungs and stabbed at her skin with a thousand icy needles. The world was nothing but a swirling vortex of white. Snow whipped past her face, stinging her cheeks. The backyard was gone, replaced by a landscape of undulating drifts, alien and hostile. The fence separating their yard from the neighbor’s was just a series of small bumps under a thick white blanket. This was way more snow than the weather channel had predicted. Typical.

"Brenda!" she yelled, her voice immediately snatched away by the wind. "Brenda! Psst! Here, girl!" She waded through a drift that came up to her thighs, the snow instantly soaking through her jeans. It was like walking through frozen cement. Where would a dog be in this? Brenda had a little doghouse, a red plastic igloo, near the back porch. Paul fought her way towards it, her legs burning with the effort and the cold. She was starting to lose feeling in her toes. This was a bad idea. A gloriously, terribly bad idea, but she was committed now.

A muffled *woof* answered her call. A small, brown head popped out of the doghouse entrance, followed by a flurry of shaken snow. It was Brenda, her long ears caked in white, her tail thumping a frantic rhythm against the side of her plastic home. Relief washed over Paul. The expert was in.

"Brenda, I need your help," Paul said, crouching down in front of the doghouse. The wind howled around her, trying to tear the words from her mouth. Brenda whined and licked her nose, her breath a small puff of steam in the frigid air. "It's about my grandpa. Except he's not my grandpa. He's a gnome. A garden gnome. You've seen him, right? In the garden? With the little red hat and the fishing pole?"

Brenda responded with another excited *woof* and tried to lick her chin. Paul took this as a sign of affirmation. "I knew it! You know what I'm talking about. So, here's the thing. This gnome, he's inside now. He's in the house. And the real Grandpa Frank is... he's out here. Somewhere." Paul waved a mittened hand at the white expanse of the backyard. "Have you seen him? Have you... smelled him? You know, peppermints and sawdust?"

Brenda tilted her head, a look of profound canine confusion on her face. Then she barked again, a short, sharp sound. She was trying to tell her something. It was a code. Paul leaned closer. "What is it, girl? Is it a clue? Blink twice if he's trapped in the shed." Brenda stared at her, then blinked three times, very slowly. Close enough. Then she sneezed directly into Paul’s face, a wet spray of dog-snot that instantly began to freeze on her eyelashes.

"Okay, okay, I get it. It's too complicated for yes or no questions," Paul muttered, wiping her face with a mitten that was now stiff with ice. "You need to show me. Is there anything... out of the ordinary? Anything the gnome might have left behind? A piece of enchanted moss? A cursed pebble?" Brenda just wagged her tail, her whole body wiggling with the desperate energy of a dog who wants to play in the middle of an arctic apocalypse. Then, her ears perked up. She let out a low growl, her eyes fixed on something over Paul's shoulder.

Paul spun around, her heart leaping into her throat. Was it the gnome? Had it followed her? But there was nothing there but the swirling snow and the vague shape of her own back porch. Brenda, however, was now barking in earnest, a series of frantic yaps directed at the fence line. Paul’s eyes followed the dog’s gaze. There, sticking out of a massive snowdrift, was a flash of garish pink. It was the neighbor's plastic flamingo. Or, what was left of it. Just one long, spindly leg and a bit of the body, the rest buried deep.

Paul’s blood ran cold. The flamingo. Of course. It was a classic gnome-vs-flamingo rivalry. Everyone knew that. Gnomes were creatures of the earth, dignified and serious. Flamingos were cheap, plastic interlopers. This was a territorial dispute. The gnome hadn't just taken Grandpa Frank, it was systematically eliminating its enemies. Brenda wasn't warning her about the grandpa-situation; she was warning her about the escalating lawn-ornament gang war. This was bigger than she thought.

"You're right, Brenda. This is a message," Paul said grimly, patting the beagle's head. "He's marking his territory. Thank you. You've been a huge help." Brenda, seemingly satisfied that her message about the injustice done to the plastic bird had been received, licked Paul's hand and retreated back into her igloo. The interview was over.

The retreat back to the house was even harder than the journey out. The cold had sunk deep into her bones now. Her teeth were chattering so hard she was afraid they might crack. She fumbled with the back door handle, her mittens making her fingers useless and clumsy. Finally, she got it open and stumbled inside, collapsing onto the doormat in a shivering, snow-covered heap. The warmth of the house was a shock, painful at first, as her skin began to prickle and burn. She lay there for a minute, just breathing, the scent of damp wool and old linoleum filling her nostrils. The gnome was still snoring in the living room. Oblivious. For now.

The interrogation had been a moderate success. She had a new piece of the puzzle: the gnome was aggressive and territorial. Locking it outside wouldn't be enough. It would probably just tunnel back in. No, this called for capture. A trap. A big one. Her shivering subsided, replaced by the warm glow of a new, even more ambitious plan. Operation Snow-Fort Trap was officially underway.

The next morning, the blizzard had paused for breath. The wind had died down, and a pale, watery sun was trying to burn through the thick layer of clouds. The world outside was silent, buried under a fresh, impossibly deep layer of powder. It was perfect construction weather. The gnome was still in its chair, now watching a game show with the volume cranked up to a level that rattled the windows. This was her chance. She bundled up properly this time—coat, hat, scarf, boots, the whole nine yards. She also armed herself with the essential tools for fortress construction: two large stew pots from the kitchen, a garden spade, and a plastic beach bucket shaped like a castle.

The front yard was a blank canvas. The snow was light and fluffy, perfect for packing. Paul set to work immediately, using the spade to pile up a massive mound of snow near the end of the driveway. The work was grueling. Her arms ached. Her back protested. But the image of the real Grandpa Frank, frozen solid in his favorite flannel shirt, spurred her on. Every shovelful was a blow for justice. Every packed brick of snow was a step closer to victory.

Her design was ingenious. It was a classic pitfall trap, adapted for a winter environment. She would build a U-shaped fortress, open at the end of the driveway. Inside the U, she would dig a deep pit. She’d cover the pit with a flimsy roof of sticks and a dusting of snow. Then, she needed bait. What would lure a territorial gnome all the way to the end of the driveway? Her eyes fell upon the one remaining lawn ornament in her own yard: a small, ceramic squirrel clutching a disproportionately large nut. It was Grandpa Frank’s favorite. The gnome, in its quest to eradicate all lawn decor, wouldn't be able to resist.

She spent hours building the walls, using the stew pots to mold perfect, dense blocks of snow. She packed them together, smoothing the seams with her mittened hands. The fortress rose slowly, a gleaming white structure in the muted sunlight. It was magnificent. A testament to her engineering prowess. Then came the pit. Digging was harder than piling. The snow was surprisingly heavy. Soon, she had a hole that was at least four feet deep. Not deep enough to hurt the gnome, of course. Just deep enough to hold it until she could initiate the de-gnomification process.

She scavenged some old branches from the woodpile and laid them carefully over the pit. Then she painstakingly covered them with a layer of loose snow, camouflaging it perfectly. Finally, the bait. She placed the ceramic squirrel right in the center of the flimsy cover, its cheerful, painted-on smile a beacon of impending doom. She stood back to admire her work. It was perfect. A flawless trap. Now, all she had to do was wait.

She burrowed into a snowbank across the street, creating a small, hidden observation post. The cold seeped into her boots, but she ignored it. This was the moment of truth. She watched the house, waiting for the gnome to emerge. The minutes ticked by. An hour passed. A car drove slowly down the unplowed street, its tires spinning. Nothing. Maybe the gnome didn't care about squirrels. Maybe her bait was all wrong. Doubt began to creep in.

And then, she heard it. A low, rumbling groan. It wasn't coming from the house. It was coming from down the street. It grew louder, a familiar mechanical whine. A large, boxy shape turned the corner, chains rattling on its tires. The mail truck. Her heart sank. It was the mailman. He was making his rounds, a heroic, Gortex-clad warrior battling the elements to deliver catalogues and bills.

He parked the truck and trudged up the street, his large bag slung over his shoulder. He was heading straight for her driveway. Straight for the trap. "No," Paul whispered, her breath fogging in the cold air. "No, no, no, turn around. Go to the other side." The mailman, however, was a creature of habit. He always started with their side of the street. He trudged onward, his boots sinking deep into the snow, his eyes fixed on the front porch.

He was getting closer. He stepped onto the driveway. He was five feet from the pit. Four. Three. Paul wanted to scream, to warn him, but she was frozen in place, a helpless spectator to the disaster she had set in motion. The mailman took another step, his heavy boot landing directly on the center of the camouflaged pit. There was a loud *crack* as the branches snapped, followed by a surprised yelp. The mailman vanished. He just dropped out of sight, disappearing into the ground with a soft *whoomph* of displaced snow.

A flurry of envelopes and magazines shot into the air like confetti. Silence. Then, a string of curses that Paul had only ever heard in movies her parents didn't let her watch erupted from the hole. A head popped up, covered in snow, a furious, red face glaring out at the world. "What in the name of priority shipping is this?" the mailman bellowed. He was sputtering, trying to climb out, but the walls of the pit were too soft and kept collapsing. He was stuck. She had captured a federal employee.

This was a spectacular, world-ending level of failure. Paul wanted the snow to swallow her whole. She had to fix this. She scrambled out of her hiding spot and ran towards the driveway, her feet feeling like lead weights. "I'm so sorry!" she yelled, her voice squeaking with panic. "It wasn't for you! It was for the gnome!"

The mailman stopped struggling and just stared at her, his mustache caked with snow. "The what now?" he asked, his voice dangerously calm. "There's a four-foot hole in the middle of this driveway, kid. I could have broken my leg. I could be delivering junk mail from a wheelchair for the rest of my life. Explain. Now."

Explaining was difficult. The words tumbled out of her in a panicked jumble—the gnome, the snore, the peas, Grandpa Frank frozen in the garden, the flamingo. The mailman listened, his expression shifting from pure rage to a kind of weary resignation. He'd seen a lot on his route, but this was a new one.

"Okay, kid," he said finally, after she'd finished her frantic tale. "Okay. Let's just... get me out of here. Then we're gonna go inside, and we're going to have a little chat with this... gnome." It took their combined efforts, and the strategic use of the garden spade as a lever, to finally get him out of the pit. He was covered in snow, his uniform was soaked, and a stack of coupons for a local pizzeria was irretrievably lost. He was not happy.

He marched her to the front door and hammered on it with his fist. The door swung open. The gnome-impostor stood there, silhouetted against the light of the living room. It squinted at the mailman, then at Paul. "What's all this racket?" it grumbled. "You're letting the heat out."

"Sir," the mailman said, his voice dripping with forced professionalism. "I seem to have fallen into a large hole in your driveway. Your... granddaughter... tells me it was a trap for a gnome." The gnome’s muddy eyes swiveled to Paul. There was no flicker of understanding, no sign of fear at being discovered. Just a deep, profound annoyance. "A gnome? Paul, what have you been doing? I told you to stay inside. Are you trying to get the mailman killed? We'll get sued!"

It was useless. The gnome was playing dumb. And the mailman, another useless adult, was clearly falling for it. He was looking back and forth between them, the suspicion on his face slowly being replaced by the dawning, incorrect realization that he was dealing with a slightly unhinged child and her cranky guardian. He sighed, a great, gusty sound of defeat. "Look, just... fill in the hole. Please. And keep her away from the lawn ornaments." He thrust a bundle of mail into the gnome's hands, turned, and squelched his way back to his truck without another word.

Paul was left standing on the porch, facing the impostor. The gnome just shook its head, muttered something about 'kids these days,' and slammed the door in her face, leaving her alone in the cold. It was the ultimate humiliation. Her plans were getting bigger, but so were her failures. Desperate times, she thought, trudging back towards the gnome-trap-turned-mailman-hazard, called for desperate measures. There was only one option left. It was time to consult the Forbidden Texts.

The Forbidden Texts were, in fact, a stack of old 'Galaxy Sentinels' comic books stored in a cardboard box in the attic. The attic was a cold, spooky place full of ghosts and discarded furniture, but it was also a treasure trove of forgotten knowledge. Specifically, she was looking for Issue #47: 'The Cryo-Prison of Zarblon-5'. She remembered it vividly. Captain Starfire had to rescue his first mate, K'Tharr, who had been frozen into a block of alien ice by the evil Emperor Vorg. He’d used an ancient cosmic ritual. It was her only hope.

Getting into the attic required stealth and a stepladder. With the gnome absorbed in a televised bowling tournament, she managed to pull down the rickety folding stairs and scramble up into the dusty darkness. The air was thick with the smell of old paper and cedar. She used the flashlight from her emergency kit, its beam cutting a weak yellow path through the gloom. There it was. The box. She pried it open, the cardboard groaning in protest. She dug past issues about space pirates and giant robots until her fingers brushed against it: Issue #47. The cover showed Captain Starfire standing over a blue, frozen K'Tharr, holding a glowing crystal and chanting.

She carried the comic back down to her room like a sacred relic and spread it open on her bed. There it was, a full-page spread detailing the 'Ritual of Cosmic Thawing.' It required several key components. One, a 'Focusing Crystal of Power.' Paul didn't have one of those, but the TV remote had a big red button on it that looked kind of like a crystal. That would have to do. Two, a 'Relic of Personal Significance.' She thought for a moment. Grandpa Frank’s most prized possession was probably his collection of truly hideous neckties. She snuck into his room and liberated the ugliest one, a polyester nightmare covered in cartoon fish. Perfect.

Three, an 'Offering of Sustenance from the Frozen Wastes.' The comic showed a weird, alien fruit. Paul translated this to mean something from the freezer. A jar of pickles. It made perfect sense in a weird, comic-book-logic kind of way. Finally, the ritual required a massive surge of energy, a 'Cosmic Power Burst,' to jump-start the thawing process. Captain Starfire had used his ship's main reactor. Paul looked around her room. Her eyes landed on the single, overburdened power outlet by her desk. It was already powering her lamp, her clock radio, and her nightlight. An idea, terrible and brilliant, began to form. She had seen the box of old Christmas lights in the attic. Lots and lots of Christmas lights.

The final preparations were made under the cover of darkness. The blizzard had returned with a vengeance, rattling the windows and plunging the world outside into a howling abyss of white. The gnome was asleep in its chair, the snores reaching a new, epic crescendo. It was the perfect time. This was it. The final, desperate gambit. Operation Gnome-Thaw.

She laid out the ritual components on the living room rug, in a precise circle around the gnome's armchair, just as the comic dictated. The remote control (Focusing Crystal) at the north point. The fish-tie (Personal Relic) at the south. The jar of pickles (Frozen Sustenance) at the east. For the west point, she improvised with a half-eaten bag of cheese puffs for good measure. Now, for the power surge.

She had spent the last hour dragging tangled strings of ancient Christmas lights down from the attic. There were at least a dozen of them, a multi-colored serpent of wires and dusty bulbs. She plugged the first string into a power strip. Then she plugged the second string into the end of the first one. Then the third into the second, and so on, creating one long, daisy-chained monstrosity of festive fire hazards. The final, overloaded plug at the end of the power strip was plugged into the wall. The entire setup hummed with a low, ominous energy.

She draped the lights around the armchair, looping them over the back, under the cushions, even around the gnome's ankles. The sleeping creature was now cocooned in a web of pure, unadulterated electrical potential. Paul stood back, her heart pounding. She held the comic book open to the right page. She had to get the incantation right. According to the ancient Zarblonian text (helpfully translated in a footnote), the words were: 'By the frozen heart of Vorg's despair, let the cosmic warmth now fill the air! By the starlight's holy, burning brand, release this hero from winter's hand!'

She took a deep breath. She raised the remote control high above her head. "By the frozen heart of Vorg's despair!" she intoned, her voice trembling with a mixture of terror and excitement. The gnome snorted in its sleep. "Let the cosmic warmth now fill the air!" She could feel the static electricity in the room, the hair on her arms standing on end. She pointed the remote at the slumbering figure. "By the starlight's holy, burning brand!" The lights flickered. The hum from the wall grew louder. "RELEASE THIS HERO FROM WINTER'S HAND!"

She slammed her finger down on the power button of the strip with her foot. There was a brilliant, electric blue flash. A sound like a giant's firecracker. The smell of ozone and burnt plastic filled the air. Every light in the room—the Christmas lights, the lamps, the TV—flared up for one glorious, impossible second and then died. The house was plunged into absolute, deafening darkness and silence. The rhythmic snoring had stopped. The howling of the wind outside seemed ten times louder now. She had done it. She had blacked out the house. Maybe the whole block.

For a long moment, nothing happened. Paul stood frozen in the dark, her eyes wide, trying to adjust. The only light was the faint, grey glow from the snow-covered windows. She could just make out the shape in the armchair. It was still. Too still. Had she overdone it? Had the cosmic power surge been too much for a mortal gnome? Panic began to bubble in her chest.

Then, the shape stirred. A low groan echoed in the silent room. Not a snore. A waking-up groan. "What in the Sam Hill?" a voice grumbled. It was the gravelly voice, the impostor's voice. It hadn't worked. Paul's shoulders slumped in defeat. All that planning, all that risk, for nothing. The gnome was still a gnome.

A figure sat up in the chair, patting the armrests as if searching for something. "Power's out. Must be the storm. Paul? You there?" It was Grandpa Frank. It was his voice. The real one. The one with the slight warmth buried under all the grit and gravel. It wasn't an imitation. It was him.

"Grandpa?" Paul whispered, her voice barely audible.

"Of course it's me, who'd you think it was?" he grumbled, his silhouette shifting as he tried to stand up. "Help me find a flashlight. My knees are killing me. Been sitting in this blasted chair so long I think my legs have fallen asleep." He smelled like mothballs and burnt dust, and he was the crankiest man on the planet. He was exactly the same as the creature that had been there all along.

The terrible, crushing realization hit Paul like a physical blow. There was no gnome. There was no impostor. There was no enchanted, ceramic creature. It had just been Grandpa Frank. Her grandpa had just... gotten older. And smellier. And a whole lot grumpier. The change hadn't been magical and sudden. It had been slow and permanent. She stood there in the dark, the useless pickle jar cold against her leg, feeling like the biggest idiot in the entire, snow-covered world.

After a fumbling search, they found a flashlight. In its weak, yellow beam, Grandpa Frank looked tired and pale, his face a roadmap of wrinkles. He wasn't a gnome. He was just old. "What's all this junk on the floor?" he asked, nudging the fish-tie with his slipper. "And is that my remote? Honestly, Paul. Go to bed. It's been a long day." There was no anger in his voice. Just a deep, bone-weary exhaustion.

Defeated, Paul trudged to the window and looked out at the swirling snow. The power was out all up and down the street. Houses that had been warm squares of light were now just dark, silent shapes. She'd really done it. As she stared, her eyes drifted next door, to the spot where the flamingo usually stood. The single, spindly leg she'd seen earlier was gone now, completely buried by the new snow. Wait. No. Not buried. It was gone. The entire spot was just smooth, undisturbed snow. The flamingo was gone, and Paul knew, with the certainty of a fresh-poured sidewalk, that this was gnome work.