Goblin

A Story by Darl1ng N1kk1

This also could probably use some revision, but it was written while I was at school last semester, and I have yet to make any changes from my original copy, so here it is. I plan to add a bit more at a later date.

It lay in its lair, cool, conniving, collected and calm. Watching the day go past, it wondered to itself just how many years it had been there. Oh so many years it seemed had passed, and oh so many children have come into its possession. A slimy finger now came to its gleaming face; paused in the air, hovering delicately just below the grate. Feeling the cool air rushing overhead, it turned its eyes above. No one was there for the time being. It again turned its thoughts to time. It had heard many things in all its years. There had been many changings of accents, varieties of music; birds would fly overhead, disappear for a few months, then silently return, their flowing shapes like dark arrowheads in the sky. Although it did not fully understand the passing of time, it knew it had been quite long. Red eyes burned and flickered in their sockets, the pupils large and slit like a snake’s.

Perhaps none would come today; it had been quiet, dark and overcast. Children were no longer afraid of the gaping sewer grates. They could not see it, even if they tried, for it blended into its environment as a chameleon would, but before, they had seemed to know; it was almost as if they sensed his sinister presence.

Hunger panged in its cavernous pit of a stomach; it had not fed for three days. It grew impatient. Gnashing its teeth, little white specs drifted down onto various objects. Light through the grate revealed a striped shirt, torn to pieces, a stuffed dog, a Superman action figure, a tiny satin shoe, and much more, all tainted with a rusted red.

Its clawed feet began to pace, crashing over pieces of plastic and glass. Tearing at its face it feels the true intensity of the hunger take hold. Growing desperate, it pokes its fingers through the narrow slits of the grate. To its delight, it sees a boy no older than ten clad in sporting wear. Sweat gleams on the child’s face. It licks its lips; this new prospect excites him. Waiting for the child to approach, it begins to salivate. Fingers caked in grime, he silently beckons. The boy looks up, a startled look on his face. There are no adults around, only he in the silent street, surrounded by blank houses with black windows and closed shutters. The boy’s face, now colorless as the houses he is near, looks in the direction of the grate. The monster knows he cannot truly be seen; and yet, this boy seems to know. Children knew to be afraid, but this boy seemed to know why to be afraid. Impossible!

Afraid at losing this glorious prospect, it resorted to the one trick it had. It withdrew the paper money slowly and placed it silently between the slits of the grate. Yes, the child had spotted it!

The boy, looking wary, crept closer to the grate. Withdrawing its fingers, the monster patiently waited for him to come close enough. He had him now; it would not be long. The boy stopped several paces away and glanced once more in each direction. No one was around to help him. The boy remained hesitant. After what seemed an eternity to the creature, the boy began taking infuriatingly tiny steps towards its prize.

He was there. He was within reach! Now, the boy must reach out and take the bait.

The boy’s tiny fingers grazed the bill lightly; he refused to grasp it completely. All of this was maddening! Why would he not seize it?

***

The boy, seeming reassured, regained his confidence. Why had he been afraid? It was just the wind that had made the money drift along the top of the grate. Now he had money for a new cap!

Delighted with his newfound fortune, and feeling very pleased with his little act of rebellion, he could not suppress the grin that now crept onto his face.

Getting off his knees, he attempted to stand, only to feel a slight resistance. Thinking nothing of it, he tried again, this time stumbling back down onto his knees, the crumpled money flying out of his grip. His hands a bloody mess of gravel, he struggled to wriggle out of the grip that now pulled him nearer and nearer the grate. Unable to twist his face enough to see his attacker, he grabbed onto anything he could in attempts to slow his descent. No grips could be found; there was only feeble gravel, nothing to which he could clasp his fingers. The last sound was a cracking as his head made contact with the curb; his last sight was that of blood soaked playthings.