The Demon Maker

The shadows stretched long in the workshop room. Clean and cluttered, the wooden floor creaked as the maker shifted in his aged chair. The finish, once the deep color of mahogany, had long worn off from extended use, leaving only the faded oak to match the desk upon which he leaned. Covered in various precision tools, each with their own place, the desk, with its numerous drawers containing bits and pieces, offered a place for the maker to work. A lone lamp lit this workspace.

With great care, the maker lifted a thin paintbrush in one wrinkled hand while gripping a small figure in his other. His fingers moved slowly, carefully, methodically. The quiet scrape of paint on pewter was the only sound other than his breathing, as slow and careful as his fingers. Dark red blended with the black base coat of the figures wings, giving a subtle highlight to the tips of the bat-like protrusions. A pass by the claws hinted that this beast had just killed.

He sighed heavily as he set the figure down. It was finished.

He cleaned his brush and placed it back in its very specific resting place. He rubbed his tired eyes, pulling off his eye glasses and letting them hang from the cord around his neck. Clapping and rubbing his hands together, he was ready. He reached for the small cord hanging from his lamp, turning it off with a sound click.

The room was now dark, with only a small amount of moonlight reaching in through the high window above his desk. He sat perfectly straight, his hands on his knees, his breath still slow, careful, and methodical. His eyes slowly adjusted to the darkness, bathing his workshop in the dark blue of the night.

It was then that it came. At first, a shadow crawled in through the window, two glowing red eyes darting from side to side, settling first on the maker, then the figure. The scraping of its claws filled the small room as it came down the wall, reaching outward toward the desk. With carefulness that seemed impossible for such a beast, it plucked the painted figure away.

His breath had been held since the shadow appeared. His eyes had remained locked on the figure through this dark ritual. Over and over again he had seen what was to happen, but he had to watch. Not because he wanted to, but because he was afraid not too.

The beast again looked from the figure to the maker. Its burning eyes peered into his, boring into his soul. Its eyes could drive a man mad, destroy him, or worse. For the maker, its eyes were, as impossible as it could be, thankful.

It then turned to the figuring, scowling and calling forth a hideous incantation. The sound could only be described as obsidian and fire. Its eyes glowed with an unholy darkness, tendrils of which slowly swirled outward, reaching for the figure. As they touched, they burst forth, latching on and encompassing their prey. Darkness exploded from the figure.

His eyes never closed. The maker had watched, horrified of the ritual's final step, but more afraid not to look on. As the ritual closed, the figure took to life, growing in the darkness to seven feet of nightmarish hell.

It let out an awful growl, freezing the maker's blood. Its eyes, a blue like that of the coldest ice in the farthest reaches of the north, turned to its creator. A flicker of recognition glimmered in those eyes, as all the previous hell-things had done. With that, this new shadow in the night escaped out the window, followed by the original.

This older one turned back, as it had done when it first came to life. Its eyes burned threateningly upon its creator. This one had been born from no dark ritual performed in front of the maker, but something more insidious. It had come to life on its own.

As the beast flew into the night, and the blue light of the moon returned to the workshop, the maker clicked on his small lamp. He returned his glasses to his face and opened the first of many drawers. He pulled a suitable torso from the collection and placed it on the desk.

He would make more.

He had to make more.

Only then could light shine in contrast to the dark.