Children of the Night

by

Barbara Sheridan

---

 

Men are assholes and I had to marry their king. Jenny Wilson grumbled to herself as she made her way through the thick underbrush of the woods just outside of Wyrmwood. Though she walked slowly. Jenny tripped more than once and uttered a string of obscenities following each missed step.

She blamed her unsteadiness on the flashlight which tried, unsuccessfully, to pierce the darkness around her. It never occurred to Jenny to blame the three hours she spent at The Ace of Spades bar (with her new found friend Jack Daniels) for her lack of balance. Besides, if it hadn't been for her stupid husband, she wouldn't have gone into thai hick town to drink in the first place. It was all his fault when you came right down to it.

Jenny swore at herself for ever listening to Steve. She should have known better than to believe that cock and bull story about wanting to relax, to get away for awhile to get back to basics and far away from a computer. Jenny grumbled. She should have known that just us meant her. Steve, and his goddamned typewriter.

She grumbled more as she remembered being taken in again by that smooth-as-silk Southern drawH that sexy smile and those hazel eyes. Just a novella, he said. We II go to that little town Jim told us about. He said. The atmosphere would be great for me. I'll be done in no time at all.

Jenny swore again as she tripped over a thick root and tumbled towards a giant rock. She groped for the fallen flashlight and cursed herself for getting lost. There were no giant rock formations in the clearing when she went towards town. "Son of a..." Jenny broke off as the flashlight's beam illuminated the rock formation. She whimpered as she felt her bladder empty itself down her leg.

# # #

Steve Wilson snatched yet another piece of paper from his typewriter. He crushed it into a ball then deposited it on the floor with the others. He rubbed his aching eyes. This was ridiculous. He could write a ull-length, bestseller on a trails-Atlantic plane trip and now he couldn't even write one lousy 20,000 word story. He sighed and pulled the plug on the typewriter. It was no use. He'd have lo start all over tomorrow.

He went out onto the small front porch of the secluded house. He'd been here a week and still hadn't been able lo write a single decent paragraph. That morning's conversation with his agent echoed in his mind.

I'm just a little burnt-out, Jim. I just did two screenplays and the new Deathstalker sequel and...

I know it. Steve, and i wouldn't push, but St. Martin's is all over my ass. They want to get the Children of the Night antho out before that Barker-Koontz thing that Doubleday is doing. They'll take the story- no editing- as long as you have it in by next Friday."

Steve sighed again as he got up from the porch step. He promised to have the story, knowing all the while it was a lie. He'd never get it done, and he knew what- or who- was responsible for his giant, economy-sized case of writer's b|ock.

Though he hated to admit it. Steve knew that Jenny and her constant bitching for attention were killing his creativity. Most of his work this year had been crap, pure and simple. It only sold because his name was on it. If he could only get rid of Jenny-temporarily, of course.

Steve cocked his head to one side. What on earth was that noise? It was a strange scraping sound- and now a scream- Jenny's scream. He ran towards the woods. The trees began to rustle violently. It was followed by the sound of snapping branches-- or was it bones? At last he came upon the clearing and stood immobile when he saw the thing snatch Jenny's lifeless, limp body in its giant stone-Tike claw.

Steve could only stare as the stone gargoyle spread its wings and rose into the sky. blocking out the rays of the full moon as it flew away. Steve looked back at the ground. All that was left of Jenny was a bloodstain. He stared at the ground for a long time. It was horrible. It was impossible.

Finally, Steve turned and ran back to the cabin like a man possessed. He lunged at the telephone and took it off the hook before going to his typewriter.

The End