The Sentinel

The Sentinel

It is never pleasant to come upon the dead in a lonely place at midnight.

The watchman felt the hair stand on the nape of his neck as he stared at the corpse sprawled upon the polished floor before him.

This part of the museum was alight with candles in niches along the walls. Great tapestries were hung between figures of curious gods carved of ancient stone that reflected dimly on the gleaming black mahogany floor.

Bracing his rocking courage, he examined the body. The dead man’s head sagged on broken vertebrae; and his throat had been crushed to a pulp of purplish flesh.

There was movement to his right, and a leg made of solid stone savagely kicked him in the belly and dropped him, green-faced and gagging.

His eyes tried to focus upon his assailant as another kick landed to his mouth. He screamed through a ruin of splintered teeth, blowing bloody froth from his mangled lips.

The heavy steps of the stone sentinel moved before him, and with inhuman strength, it lifted him up by the neck from the floor. With eyes glittering like gems, the god crushed the watchman, then slowly returned to its pedestal.