Cathedral

Fires swept through the cathedral, sinking down deep into the stone, boiling the catacombs underneath. The waves of heat and the smell of old earth and decay pulsed into London’s streets with each sway of the wind. The fire was malignant. Unnatural. The only kindling in the entire cathedral held had been a few tapestries and old benches, yet the fire roared death and burned with the determination to bring down the stone paramount. The stars shone brightly down upon the hellfire, as if trying to get a better view. A growing crowd began to stir, filling the streets. Restless, the onlookers attention turned upward toward the cathedral’s bell tower, toward the silhouette of a figure resting calmly against its stone arches as fire nicked just a few meters below.

“Demon!” a man shouted, only to be eclipsed by the roar of praying now stricken throughout the mass. The constable, Hale, began to take action. Realizing his pistol did not have the accuracy to fire the 100 meters he needed to reach the top of the tower, he sent Paul, his deputy, to fetch a rifle.

Hale wore a blue and white trench coat, the colors of his uniform. His stout frame could be mistaken for fat but it would better be described as gristle. His hands and shoes were worn and covered in dirt from pulling citizens away from the pyre. The man was a veteran within the police force and usually relied on evidence and concrete facts before taking action. Tonight was different. The fires coming off the cathedral cooked the very ground he stood on, embers wisped by him with passion. Only a madman would mistake this for anything but demonry; only a madman would mistake the demon resting so calmly against the stone shoulders of its apocalypse.  

“HURRY YOU FOOL! BEFORE IT MOVES!” Hale shouted. Paul, already scrambling up the street, took heed. Pushing past citizens and horse carriages he finally handed Hale the long range rifle. Hale’s grubby fingers falcon’d the gun from Paul’s hands and shouting at the crowd to move. Flint cocked and shoulder locked, Hale took aim.

The silhouette moved slightly while Hale took aim. The figure stood on its own feet now, not resting against the stone arches, leaning toward Hale and his rifle.

Smoke was billowing out from the cathedral. Huge plumes of tar-like air scampered by like high flying elephants past Hales sights. Eyes strained and bloodshot from the smoke, Hale clenched his teeth and pushed the rifle hard into his shoulder. Blinking hard, he waited for the damned smoke to clear. Seconds past, two, three. His trigger finger shaking uncontrollable, he held his breath for that final morsel of smoke to clear… Nothing.

The crowd grew silent even as a large support beam crashed down a small portion of the cathedral; charcoal dust sprayed the side of the awestruck crowd. The demon had vanished, the stone arches held nothing but the brilliant stars shining down through them.