The Story Generator

Fighting a burgeoning panic, he began again, stumbling over the nearly unpronounceable ancient words.

He had made it only halfway through the ritual when two of the creatures crashed through the window behind him in an explosion of shattering glass. One of the grotesque monstrosities landed on his right shoulder, the other tumbled onto the desk. The candles’ flickering light flashed off the scaly armor of what looked like a cross between an armadillo and a gargoyle.

The creature on his shoulder slashed through his shirt and flesh. Screaming, he swept his arm across the desk, driving the other one off. He leaped to his feet, knocking the chair to the floor.

The one on the desk flung itself at his face and he batted it away. The abomination on his shoulder reached around for his throat. As its claws tore at him, he tucked his chin to his chest to protect his carotid. Hot blood seeped from the wound, but not the gush he’d feared.

The other beast came at him again. It leaped onto his leg and its razor-sharp teeth and claws penetrated his thigh.

He’d prepared in advance for the eventuality, perhaps the inevitability, that the incantation, his only remaining option, would fail. The gas can sat on the floor behind him, the cap already removed. He held the creature away from his neck but fell to his knees under the things’ weight, landing on scattered shards of glass. Claws raked his face, blood flowed from the wounds in his leg and throat, but he managed to grasp the handle of the can and carry it to the desk.

He tipped the can and gasoline drenched the device, seeping into the crevices of its intricate housing, sloshing across the desk, down the sides, and onto the floor.

The acrid fumes seared his nostrils. Why wouldn’t the candles ignite them?

The monster on his neck worked a claw under his chin and slashed. Blood spattered from his throat and mixed with the gas on the desk.

As his vision dimmed and became a narrowing tunnel, he stretched a shaking hand toward the nearest candle. Too far away. Its light glinted on the desktop lighter closer to him, but just out of reach. His fingers slipped on the lighter. It wobbled, almost toppled, but its wide base kept it upright. He flicked the wheel, too slowly. The serrated steel wheel ground against flint, not rapidly enough to spark.

With a hideous screech and another rain of broken glass, a third creature pounced onto his back, claws clinging in his shoulders.

It was far too late to redeem himself, to atone for his sin, but he must end this, here and now.

He got a slippery grip on the lighter again. He had only enough strength for a last desperate attempt. He pressed his thumb on the wheel and flicked it.

The gas fumes ignited with a concussive sound and he experienced the most excruciating pain of his life. But he’d stopped it, he hoped, although he’d never know for sure.

Around him, the house burned.

But not everything in it.