The Ladies of Horror
Picture-Prompt Writing Challenge!

Guardian
by Kim Richards

I’ve always thought gargoyles were cool. There are many collectables of them around my house and in my garden. They’re guardians, right? Ancient versions of superheroes, I’d say. Who doesn’t love a protector? That’s why we revere knights in armor, firemen chopping through flame engulfed doors, soldiers saving a child, and police delivering babies in the back of a car. These guys save our asses. Buy them all a beer!

Heck, my favorite show about gargoyles is the one titled ‘Gargoyles’ with many of the voice-overs done by actors I remember from Star Trek—not the silly Disney thing. These creatures watched over people for centuries. I loved each one of them. Why wouldn’t I want to surround myself with them? They touch the dark, mysterious, yet not evil part of what I envisioned.

I recently noticed new gargoyle statues in my garden I hadn’t purchased. Where did these guys come from? The matte gray of their skin made my fakes look childish and cheap. When I drew near, they smelled of moss, rich dirt, and blood. The blood was unmistakable. I dared touch the wing tips of the smallest one. It was cool in a pleasant way—like how dipping your toes in a pool during the summer heat feels.

I quickly threw those fakes away and made room for the real ones. I talked with them…often. I obsessed with what I could do for them, how I could convince them to stay.  I came home from the pet store with offerings. Mice at first but those disappeared quickly. I realized there were numerous of those in the city streets so I wasn’t offering anything worthy of my protectors. From there I graduated to…well, you can envision what.

Eventually I was banned from several pet stores over concerns about the frequency of my purchases. The bastards don’t care that crime is non-existent in my neighborhood these days. I know why.

The gargoyles in my garden multiplied. They expanded to the rooftops of my house and, eventually, those of my neighbors on both sides. I saw them often on the back fences. I never dared to disturb the bones of their feasts littering my yard, thought there were more of them than grass these days.

Why won’t they talk with me?

I lingered in the garden every day, hanging out with a glass of bourbon on the rocks at twilight. Sometimes I swore I saw movement in my peripheral vision.  The drink emboldened me to dare touch the spikes along their spines or scratch their pointed ears. Once I touched an extended fang and came away with a blooded fingertips. I never did that again.

Tonight, as I write this in my journal, I simply want to chronicle the truth of things. They are gathered around me, waiting for me to finish. I imagine they savor my blood as much as I do the bourbon. Once I am done, I will be my final sacrifice to them. You know what? I actually don’t mind.

Fiction © Copyright Kim Richards
Image courtesy of Pixabay.