Stone skin crumbles and falls away with each dull clang of the clock tower. Midnight has arrived. The gargoyle, now shed of his shell, remains on his perch.
The brothers of stone have all descended to the earth. I observe the mortals below. Some, I have even given names. They won’t last long if they stay out night after night. I should be the one to dispatch at least one or two. Cheryl, a plump maiden, or Charles, a gaunt youth, would both make for excellent midnight snacks.
Some of my brothers have returned and put on a feast of viscera and flesh, screams and moans quickly silenced by their talons. They fill their bellies with meat and mine gnaws with envy.
What are we? Disgusting demons feasting on the innocent? I hear their jaws grind through meat and bone.
The others have been eyeing me suspiciously. Yes, I have not descended for over a century. And yet, I live. Flesh is not needed for substance after all, only for pleasure and purpose. But this makes the others weary. Sometimes their blood-stained faces glance at mine and I can almost see a shred of remorse in their eyes. Remorse in a demon—laughable.
I watch and I wait. I should fully accept all that I am. Fangs, claws, wings and a thirst for blood. Swoop down and feast. Join my brethren. Man would speak legends of me. A ferocious gargoyle that devoured the parishioners of Paris without hesitation.
Brother Stoneskin has returned with a screaming maiden—his favorite. He snaps her neck and bites into warm flesh. A tinge of revulsion and curiosity overcome me. I sense within me that familiar desire. I turn away and peer down the main street of the cathedral. A young couple roams below. Are they not afraid of this place after the strike of twelve? Have they not heard the stories? How dare they not show any fear.
Hand-in-hand, laughing. I should destroy them. But not tonight. I deny my true nature. God forsake these thoughts that bubble up and churn like an evil storm cloud that never dissipates, forever raining down on my scaly scalp.
Another brother with another victim. This time a child. I am repulsed but I cannot look away from the massacre.
What are we? Guardians of the darkness? The elders, before their fall at the hands of the constructors, told us we are signposts for man. To reveal the true horrors that lie deep within them. The elders justified our actions. After all, man has done more wicked to each other than any of us ever could.
So, we are mirrors, held up to the moonlight to reflect their evils. This is lost on them. They are only afraid. Some do seem to laugh in the face of fear—that young couple. I will shred them to pieces. But another night, another time.
I remember an elder told me I had great promise. He said I truly looked grotesque. That compliment has stuck with me through all these years. Now it taunts me.
I have become a cloudy and cracked mirror.
A shriek escapes me. It echoes through the town. I hear the pattering of feet on cobblestone. So this is what I am reduced to. A night siren, while my brethren feast and play.
Dawn approaches. Perhaps tomorrow night I will go down and show them what a true evil lurks in their midst.
And unleash the tortured torturer within.
I hope you enjoyed my entry for the Twenty-four hour short story contest for June 5 hosted by @mctiller.
Pixabay Image Source edited by @cizzo.