The Last Gargoyle

by Paul Durham

  “Go on, just try it, Clover,” she urges gently. “It’s better than being hungry.”

  It seems there’s no way around this. If I’m going to earn her trust, I need to accept her offering. The things I do for my wards.

  I steady myself and try to imagine that the fishy muck is a bowl of those honey imps from the library. If the Twins could see this, they’d never let me hear the end of it. I close my eyes.

  Imps, imps, imps. Here goes.

  I plunge my stubby snout into the cat food and gulp it up in huge mouthfuls, swallowing it down before it can linger on my tongue. I tear into it ferociously, and thanks to my vivid imagination, the bowl is cleaned in just seconds. I look up in shock, blinking my bulgy eyes in surprise.

  Cat food…is…delicious!

  Hetty looks just as stunned as me. Maybe I was a bit too convincing.

  I see her check the clock on the wall. She takes her backpack from the kitchen chair and slings it over her shoulder. I don’t think the backpack needed mending, but it’s covered with sewn-on patches—logos of her school’s sports teams, bands I’ve never heard of, and a black four-leaf clover that might explain her poor choice of dog’s names.

  “See, don’t you feel better?” she says. “Come on, I’ll show you my room.”

  Hetty starts down the hall and I don’t hesitate to take her cue. I jog in front of her, wary now. As we near the door to her room my ears perk up. The smell is growing stronger. Strong enough to identify.

  It’s the acrid stench of danger.

  And it’s coming from Hetty’s bedroom.

  She reaches for the doorknob and I position myself at her feet, creating a fearsome barrier between Hetty and whatever’s lurking on the other side.

  “You’re an eager one, Clover,” she says with a smile. “Look at that tail go.”

  I try to still my wagging nub of a tail without much success. I bare my teeth, ready to pounce.

  As soon as she cracks the door, I hurl myself at a gangly, freakish brute before he knows what hit him.

  A stuffed orange orangutan with a dangling tongue tastes my wrath. He’s lounging on a plush yellow chair sized for a young child.

  “Don’t eat Mr. Jum-Jums!” Hetty calls in alarm.

  My paws sink into his soft belly as I land on him. He offers the high-pitched yelp of a squeak toy but puts up no defense.

  Hmm. Mr. Jum-Jums doesn’t seem to be the culprit.

  I dismount the stuffed animal and bury my nose in the floor, navigating quickly through a maze of unpacked boxes. I check under the bed, then dart out the other side. I jump onto the mattress, investigating under the pillows and through the folds of Hetty’s floral-print comforter.

  Hetty giggles. “Go on, you can explore.”

  Strange. I can feel a darkness here, but I can’t quite put my nose on it. I narrow my eyes at her brightly painted desk. It’s cluttered with loose papers and pencils. A fat black moor goldfish swims in endless circles around a small bowl. I hop on the chair so I can take a closer look. The goldfish’s telescoping eyes pause and stare, unblinking, at my own. The scent of danger grows stronger.

  “Do you like Fin?” Hetty asks, coming over to me.

  Not particularly. Although he smells vaguely like the delicious cat feast I just devoured, he’s not what I’m looking for either. But I’m getting closer.

  “The building doesn’t allow dogs,” she reminds me with a wink. “So he was my housewarming pet.”

  Hetty tries to squeeze onto the chair next to me and I’m forced to retreat again, fearful of blowing my disguise. She’s disappointed, but understanding. I take a few steps away and drop myself down with Mr. Jum-Jums.

  “I’ve had this desk since I was a little girl,” Hetty explains. She rubs her palm over its surface. “It used to be plain brown but my dad helped me repaint it.”

  Hetty blinks in silence for a moment, then reaches into a pocket of her backpack and removes a tiny, fragile key. I notice now that the middle drawer houses a small keyhole. She moves to unlock it but stops at a distant sound.

  I hear it too. Down the hall, the locks on the apartment door rattle open. There’s a jangle of keys landing on the counter, the tap of heels, and the gurgles and squawks of an impatient baby brother.

  “My mother’s home early,” Hetty whispers, and stuffs the key into a pocket of her jeans.

  She quickly rises to her feet and turns to me in earnest. “Clover, you have to be quiet.” She places her finger to her lips. “If my mother finds out you’re in here, you’ll have to go.”

  “Hetty, are you home?” her mother’s voice calls from the kitchen.

  Hetty takes a careful step toward the door. “Coming, Mamita,” she calls back, and turns to me once more. “Quiet, okay? You have to make yourself invisible.”

  Little does Hetty know that invisible is my specialty.

  The hours pass as Hetty’s family tackles their evening tasks. My keen ears gather that Mamita has come home early to spend some extra time with Hetty. Unfortunately, she’s picked a day when Hetty has other things on her mind. Hetty checks on me several times, and I get the sense that she is being extra-cooperative for her mother. There’s a shower for her and a bath for Tomás. Dinner and cleanup. Then Hetty struggles through her homework. Her mother tries to help, but she’s torn between Hetty’s long division and her brother’s fussing. From what I overhear, it seems Hetty is having some trouble in school. She hasn’t been sleeping and it’s hard for her to concentrate.

  All these chores take time, but it gives me a chance to explore every nook and cranny of Hetty’s room. My canine form proves useful, as it’s much easier to get into the closet and hamper, sniff under the radiator, and squeeze behind her bureau. I can’t reach the wind chime hung in front of her window, but I’m close enough now to get a much better look. Delicate shards of sea glass are strung on clear fishing line, their frosted shades of aqua, green, and seafoam brightening the shadows cast by the grime-caked fire escape just outside.

  But despite my careful investigation, I don’t find the source of the dangerous energy that haunts this room. I’ve checked everywhere except for one stubborn place.

  I can’t get inside that locked drawer.

  Eventually it’s bedtime, and I lie completely silent under the bed while Mamita walks Hetty through their nighttime ritual. I wonder if, somewhere else, Viola is going through a similar process at this very moment. The room is dark except for the glow of the little lamp on Hetty’s desk. There’s a collection of creams and essential oils on her nightstand. Mamita rubs them gently into Hetty’s skin as she tucks her in, telling her they should help with her insomnia. Mamita pushes a button on a small machine on the floor and it hums to life, broadcasting a steady tone of soft white noise to drown out the street traffic.

  “Let’s have a good night, okay?” Mamita whispers as she gently lays the comforter over Hetty’s shoulders.

  “Okay,” Hetty whispers back.

  “No wandering the hall. If you wake up, just stay in your bed and try to think happy, relaxing thoughts.”

  “I’ll try,” Hetty assures her.

  Mamita pauses. It seems that she wants to linger, to stay and lie with Hetty until she drifts off to sleep. But Tomás is stirring in the other bedroom. His muffled calls are sure to turn into bellowing cries if he’s ignored for too long.

  I hear the creak of the bed as Mamita gets up, and together she and Hetty recite a little poem.

  Trust in the Fairies

  Who watch through the night.

  Trust in their magic,

  The moon and its light.

  Just close your eyes

  And wish on a star,

  The Fairies will guard you

  Wherever you are.

  Fairies. They always get all the credit. No one ever writes poems about Grotesques.

  From my hiding spot, I can now see Mamita’s back as she approaches the desk.

  “Please leave the light on,” Hetty says, and her
mother stops. Mamita’s shoulders slump ever so slightly, as if she was expecting but is still disappointed by the request.

  “Of course, darling,” she says.

  Mamita moves toward the door, where I catch a glimpse of her face. Her features are dark and pretty like Hetty’s, but there are tired circles under her eyes and a hint of sadness on her lips.

  Tomás’s cries are growing louder.

  “I love you, Hetty,” Mamita says.

  “Love you too.”

  Mamita pulls the door halfway shut as she goes, leaving it ajar.

  “Mamita,” Hetty calls, and her mother pauses and pokes her head back inside.

  “You can close the door.”

  Mamita seems surprised but not displeased. She offers a tired smile.

  “Good night, my Indigo Child,” she says.

  “Good night,” Hetty replies, and the door closes with a gentle click.

  Hetty lies completely still. Her mother is lingering just outside—I can see the shadows of her slippers under the crack of the door. My guess is that she’s listening, waiting for a final request. But after an extended silence, her footsteps pad away, the hallway goes dark, and I hear her own bedroom door click shut as she takes up her vigil with Tomás.

  The bed creaks as Hetty springs up. Her eager face appears on the floor just inches from my own, peering under the bed on her hands and knees.

  “Okay, Clover, you can come out.”

  I carefully creep forward on my belly, stretching and shaking the dust from my short coat of fur.

  Hetty retrieves some old newspapers she’s stashed in a corner. She lays them carefully in front of me on the floor. I blink slowly. Does she expect me to read them?

  “I’m sorry,” she whispers. “I can’t take you outside for a walk, and I know you must be ready to burst. Try to use those, okay?”

  So undignified. Fortunately, they won’t be necessary. Yes, I know there’s the matter of the deposit I left in the courtyard. But those were desperate circumstances. Let’s not bring it up again.

  Hetty hesitates, pressing her ear to the closed door. Satisfied that her mother has gone to bed, she carefully retrieves something from the pocket of the folded jeans laid over the back of her chair. It’s the tiny key. She heads for the desk.

  This is it! I prepare myself without seeming too eager. Whatever’s in there, I’ll be ready for it.

  Hetty unlocks the drawer with the tiniest of clicks. The wooden drawer scrapes open, rough and coarse. Before I can stop her, she reaches inside.

  Out comes a bulging, musty, purple-scaled…journal?

  Hetty brings it to her bed and sits cross-legged, holding it in her lap. She loosens the elastic band around the journal and opens its thick reptilian cover. I join her on the bed and study it suspiciously.

  “Oh, you can read, can you?” she says, amused.

  Actually, I can. The library, remember? I’m quite erudite—look that one up.

  “I’m sorry, I’m sure you’re a very smart boy,” Hetty says with a smile. “This is my journal. I’ve kept it for a while now, ever since my, ever since…” Her voice trails off. She sighs. “The school counselor said I should write down my feelings. He said it might help me…process my emotions.”

  Interesting. Feelings have always struck me as something to be avoided. Or ignored. I’ve found that they can be distracting. And inconvenient.

  “Not that I put a lot of stock in what the counselor says, if that’s what you’re thinking,” Hetty continues. “He’s much older than me and both of his parents are still alive. But my father used to keep a journal. Lots of them, actually. He never let me read them, but sometimes he’d read a passage or two out loud at bedtime. Usually something nice he’d written about me, or Tomás, or Mamita. So I figured it couldn’t hurt.”

  I look at the pages as Hetty flips through them. She prints in all capital letters. A lot of them are backward. There are little things taped here and there: a dried flower; a newspaper clipping; a black business card frayed around the edges. But mostly what I see are pencil sketches. Her gray and white scratchings form vague images.

  She turns back to the first sheet of paper, which serves as a cover page. Written in large static letters are the words Confessions of an Indigo Child.

  “My father used to call me his Indigo Child,” she says, placing a finger on the words. “So I thought that would make a good title.”

  Hetty’s words are warm and gentle. Touching, even. So why does this child’s tome remind me of a purple-scaled crocodile lying in wait, its pages stinking of danger?

  “I never got to say goodbye to him,” she says. “But the past few nights…someone has been whispering to me in the dark. I’d say it’s in my dreams, but I know I’m not really asleep.”

  My ears twitch. I don’t like the sound of that one bit. But Hetty’s voice brightens with optimism when she confides, “I think it might be him.”

  She’s quiet, blinking slowly.

  “Don’t be scared, Clover,” she says after a moment, and closes the journal. “He means us no harm. I think he just wants to tell me something. Come on, let’s close our eyes and try to sleep. Maybe you can meet him yourself.”

  I find it strange how Hetty almost seems to know what I’m thinking. She can’t possibly hear me, of course. But even if she could, she definitely doesn’t understand me.

  It’s not me I’m frightened for.

  I’m curled up at the foot of Hetty’s bed. I can tell by the gentle rise and fall of her comforter that she’s finally drifted off, her breathing quiet and steady. Traffic has died down outside and the noise machine churns along, doing an admirable job of filtering exterior distractions. I’ve been on high alert for hours, and yet nothing unusual has disturbed us. As ominous as the purple journal smelled, I’m fairly certain it’s not about to grow fangs and chew its way out of the desk drawer.

  Hetty’s peaceful slumber is contagious and I find my eyelids growing heavy. I don’t normally sleep at night; my resting hours come after sunrise. It’s a bit of a job requirement. But I haven’t closed my eyes in several days, my excursions with Viola consuming my usual naptime.

  It’s a good thing I’m a tireless guardian. An indefatigable sentry. Those are fancy ways to say I never sleep on the job.

  So as you might imagine, I’m a bit flustered when I’m awoken several hours later by a strange clatter in Hetty’s room. I leap to my feet—or canine paws, actually.

  Fortunately, the noise is just the old radiator. It rattles like mice in a metal exercise wheel, then hisses a puff of steam from its release valve.

  Hetty is still in her bed, although her covers are rumpled in an untidy pile. My eyes dart around the room and I see that her bedroom door is slightly ajar. It seems she’s been up and about and I slept right through it.

  My paws hit the floor silently and I wedge my nose into the crack of the door, easing it open just wide enough to squeeze through. As a precaution, I creep down the hall to investigate what she’s been up to, expecting to find the remains of a late-night snack or some other harmless evidence of her nocturnal wandering. Instead, I find something more troubling.

  The apartment door is open, the dead bolt loose. Just like the other night when I discovered the Netherkin in the elevator. I quickly glance around the kitchen, but there’s no one else here. I peek past the door and find the building’s hallway empty too. Maybe the lock’s broken. Mamita should really have a word with the superintendent. Then again, is it possible Hetty opened it herself? Whatever the reason, I nudge it shut with my snout and head back down the hall.

  When I’m halfway to the bedroom, my body tenses in alarm. The sensation of claws on a chalkboard crawls up my spine. I break into a run.

  I burst inside. Hetty is still asleep, but she’s tossing and turning. Her bare feet have kicked off the blanket and sheets. The room seems empty, but it’s alive—dancing with a dangerous energy. I hear an unfamiliar sound. Not the radiator this time—it’s the elec
tric noise machine. The steady scratch of its tone has gone choppy. Somewhere, hidden within the static of the white noise, is a low bass throb. Just a hint of a voice. Its words muffled and distorted.

  Another foreign sound draws my attention. Jingling. The wind chime is moving, its colorful shards clicking against one another as if blown by an invisible breeze. But the window remains tightly shut.

  Then I see it. A dark silhouette peering in the window. I can’t make out many details through the shadows, but its face is pressed between both hands on the dirty glass. It has emaciated palms and long fingers that seem almost skeletal, all covered in patchy fur.

  One long ear stands up from its head, the other crooked and drooping.

  In the gleam of passing headlights, I see two red eyes and a mouthful of oversized, overeager teeth.

  The Black Rabbit.

  I flash into my more familiar wisp form of a boy as I tear across the bedroom. If I’m in for a fight, I want to be comfortable. But as I reach the window, the uninvited visitor pushes back from the glass. The Black Rabbit hesitates for a moment, then hops down the rungs of the fire escape’s ladder with a padding of thick paws.

  I crane my neck to see where he’s gone. Every instinct screams for me to chase him, hunt him down and demand an explanation. But Hetty has caught my attention. She’s tossing and turning, as if fighting a fever. I can’t risk leaving her alone. What if another prowler is waiting for me to do exactly that?

  Don’t worry, Hetty, I’m still here.

  I study the noise machine. Its static tone is even and soothing once again, the little green button on its face glowing harmlessly. If I didn’t know better, I might think my ears had betrayed me. But I’m not so easily fooled.

  I carefully pull Hetty’s blanket back up over her and slump down in the cushy yellow chair next to Mr. Jum-Jums.

  “Keep your eyes peeled, would you, please?” I tell his unblinking orange face. “I could really use some help here.”