Under rows of dripping stones and the clap and patter of rain, you seek Baumann's crypt and the wisdom buried with him. Torch raised, you try to keep back the heavy shadows.
Wait! A scrambling sound. Like nothing you’ve ever heard before.
“It can't be true,” you whisper. “The guardian is real?”
His two dead hands, sewn together with catgut and a terrible curse … they slither just out of sight. Then they leap! from the darkest hole in the night. The torch, doused in blood, sputters on the floor.
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Published in FlashShot #115 (2003)
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