The Genre Demon

A tale written years ago on a boring night in Boston

Fog had rolled in off the harbor, shrouding Boston’s gleaming towers in grey. Some days, she resembled London, mock gaslights peering through the dark and murky night, pedestrians strolling through her version of Hyde Park, nimble nascent nocturne nomads on Newbury, suburban Trojans in SUV’s sailing down her narrow streets. Talons sunk deep, it sat perched on the Hancock admiring gothic churches laid out below it. The thing was seething, it’s ancient Europe left behind for this New England, this modern metropolis. Bat like leathery wings, twenty feet wide, spread as it sailed unseen in the misty night. Hatred of colonial puritanical idiots with cellphones drove it down, to swoop up a yuppie on Boylston. The man screamed, but the demon stuffed his mouth and was high above before anyone took note. It perched atop the library, eyeing its quarry. Terror was deep in the bulging eyes of his victim, the demon’s green-yellow eyes looked inquisitively, almost pitying the man in the Brooks Brother suit. The demon opened its mouth, every tooth pointed to a fine edge, brown saliva dripping, it spoke.

“Where is Edgar?”

“D-d-d-don’t k-k-kill me.”

Anger, frustration, “Who is Edgar?”

“Ed-d-d-g-g-ar?”