Stories from the Sentinel: 1896


Connor O’Shea was taught a hard lesson.

He suffered from the delusion that Cross was a quiet, peaceful town, and when he moved into a small home on Olive Street, he decided he was important.

No one bothered to pay him any mind.

He stomped about a bit and even attempted to get himself on the board of the First Congregationalist Church of Cross, but they wouldn’t deal with any of his nonsense.

New England towns have a set way of doing things and Cross more so than most.

Well, a position opened up on the Sentinel, and he decided he was the right man for the job.

They told him he wasn’t.

As he left the offices, flabbergasted, he overheard them talking about a loose bull near Blood Lake.

From what I can piece together, he set out for my lake in order to get the story before anyone else.

It wasn’t a wise decision.

Yes, there was a loose bull near Blood Lake.

No, it wasn’t a regular bull.

The writers at the Sentinel had a code all their own, and bull stood, quite simply, for a minotaur.

On one of the islands, there’s a passage to the labyrinth, and on occasion, one or two of the minotaurs will make it through. Usually, I can get a handle on them before any real damage is done, and I send them on their way. Rarely do I have to draw a weapon. They’re usually younglings out for a bit of fun.

Connor O’Shea learned how minotaurs play.

When I arrived, unaware of Connor’s trespassing, I was surprised to find a young minotaur sitting on a stone, crying as he cleaned blood off his horns. On the ground beside him, gored and trampled, was Connor’s body.

I sat down across from the minotaur and inquired as to what had occurred. O’Shea, I learned, had attacked the minotaur and attempted to capture him.

It hadn’t been a wise decision.

An older, more mature minotaur would have extricated himself and gone back to the island. This youngling panicked and killed O’Shea.

I told the minotaur not to worry, he’d done us all a favor.

I gave the man’s head to the youngling as a keepsake and then dragged the corpse home. The pigs were hungry, and it’s a good idea to feed them man every so often, just to help them remember the taste.

#horror #fear #art

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Nicholas Efstathiou

Husband, father, and writer.

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