A cross—

incredible

—what's that?—The younger brother walked to the window, as two large shadows momentarily tried to obscure the shining full moon.

—They returned.—The older brother turned away from the window and tightly grasped his younger brother's hands.

Excitement sparkled in his eyes.

—This is probably bad, isn't it?—The younger brother tried to squirm out of the tight embrace.

—Not this time, little brother.—The older brother adjusted his glasses on his nose.—This time, it's good.—He let go of his brother and began pacing the room, repeating under his breath,—This time, it's very good.—

The younger brother sat down in an armchair next to the aquarium, where the fish had retreated to their hiding places made of coconut halves.

—What? Don't you remember what happened last time they came to our house?—The younger brother could barely choke on the words through his tears.—That was the last time we saw Mom and Dad.

—Yes, I know.—The older brother stopped before him and knelt down.

The twinkle in his eyes grew ever more distinct.

"And this time I'm very glad of it."

The younger man closed his eyes as if to keep all the tears to himself. His heart seemed to burst his chest, pounding harder and harder. He hadn't been able to keep his eyes closed since the last time those "bad people" visited their apartment building. And this time, drops leaked from under his eyelids.

The older man stood up and walked over to the wardrobe. A large, carved one with heavy doors. They creaked as he opened them.

He glanced over the shelves and bent down to pick up a large, heavy suitcase that lay at the bottom of the wardrobe. He slid it under him and stood on it to reach the top shelf, which was too high even for him.

"What are you looking for?" the younger man asked, opening his eyes, which were already quite swollen. The

older man didn't answer, just grunted for a moment, stretching to grab what he'd been trying to get rid of all his life.

These memories had been tormenting him for a long time. Now, without his parents, he couldn't make ends meet. They had once been his support and comfort on difficult days. When they left three years ago, he was eighteen, and his younger brother only four. He barely remembered their faces. Perhaps that was why he looked through the family photo album every evening, mostly of his older brother. The album of photos from his childhood disappeared. Exactly three years ago.

"I have it!" the older brother exclaimed, quickly jumping down from the suitcase and slipping the item into his pocket so the younger brother wouldn't see it.

He tried to strip him of all hope that their parents would return home.

If the younger brother knew what the older brother had found on the shelf in the closet, hope would return. But it was unknown whether the parents would return. Someone was definitely coming back, as evidenced by the shadows moving against the full moon. And the older brother was certain who it was

.

A red car screeched to a halt in front of the building. The two-story house with its slightly sloped roof obscured the rising full moon. Only the residents of the corner apartments could view this daily miracle of nature. When someone now pulled into the parking lot of building number 73, as the owner of the red car had done, they drove into the shadow of the rising guardian of the night.

The red Opel had parked just so, evidenced by the crunch of the stones scattered across the freshly laid parking lot. The tinted windows hid the driver and passenger both day and night. But the residents of apartment number 73 knew exactly who they were. The strange couple

from apartment number 8. A bald, neckless, broad man got out of the car. He glanced up at the first floor, where a ginger cat sat in the window, half-covered by the blinds. The ginger roommate in apartment number 4.

The bald man sniffed the frosty night air and walked around the car. He grabbed the passenger door handle and opened it. A faint smile appeared on his face when he heard the soft bark of a small miniature rat. He took it from his companion and opened the door wider, helping her out.

"Come on, little one, it's late," he said in a deep, low voice.

The little one straightened up and slammed the Opel door behind her. She opened her nostrils wider, letting the evening air fill her lungs.

"Late, but very pleasant." She looked at the bald man and took the dog from him.

"Grab your groceries from the trunk and come home."

She winked.

"I'm waiting for you."

He quickened his pace and almost ran to the trunk.

The little one was already opening the gate when the first light emerged from behind the building wall, illuminating the bald man rummaging through the trunk.

"Hurry!" he heard as she disappeared down the stairwell

. "Hurry up..." as if the echo of the little one's voice had reached him.

The trunk lid came loose slightly and hit him in the head.

"Damn!" he cursed, rubbing the injured spot on his bare skull. "Damn it!"

He lifted it, locked the trunk, and began reaching for the shopping bags again.

The moon illuminated his efforts beautifully. For a moment, it cast a shadow, only to shine back on the man struggling with the groceries.

"So many groceries, he won't help..., he won't even ask..." he muttered under his breath.

He shifted the bags to one hand, feeling their ears dig into his fingers with their full weight, and with the other, he reached up to close the trunk lid.

Usually, when he did this, the closing trunk lid revealed a soothing view: three trees standing on the other side of the street.

The trunk lid slammed shut, and the Bald Man dropped the grocery bags from his hand.

"Oh fuck..." he managed to say, and collapsed against the chain-link fence, pushed by something so sharp that when he hit the ground, his head hung only by the vertebrae of his neck, exposing all the wonders of the human esophagus.

Gushing drops of blood hit the freshly washed body of the red Opel, giving it an even bloodier appearance. Literally bloody.

Something, or someone, once again blocked the moonlight from falling on the car and lifted the shopping bags. Only two ravens perched in the middle tree watched the whole thing, occasionally calling out in their screeching bird language to warn the neighborhood.

There was no sound of footsteps, nor the creak of the front door opening. The chain-link fences clanged lightly against each other as they found their way to the second floor.

On the first floor, the light was dimming, and only the faint, dry sound of a board bending could be heard as a large figure slowly emerged on the tiled floor of the second floor. Fingers were slowly being attached to the nets' ears, and they were no longer suspended in midair. In the distance, the bird's screeching warning sounded again.

The tall, bald tenant of apartment number eight, groceries in his right hand, grabbed the doorknob with his left and opened the door. Without saying a word, without even announcing his return home, he closed the apartment door behind him, where the sound of running water from the shower could be heard.

***

"Did you hear that?" The little one ran to wake his brother.

He was asleep in the armchair next to the aquarium, his clenched fists pressed together. A piece of string protruded between his fingers.

"What?" the older one jumped up. "What happened, Johnny?"

Johnny stood over him, his eyes filled with terror.

"They're already there," he said, widening his already large blue eyes. "Witek, they're upstairs.

" "How do you know?" Witek calmly rose from the armchair where he had dozed off.

"I heard a scream," he raised a finger, "that lady upstairs was screaming. I was in the bathroom and I heard..." He began gasping for breath, trying to tell his older brother everything.

"Calm down, little one. Are you sure?"

He looked at him with wide eyes,

"like he'd never seen anything like that before."

Witek grabbed his hand and pulled him into a small room. He told him to lie under the bed and stay quiet.

"Don't say a word," he said, putting his finger to his lips, "and under no circumstances come out.

" "Unless you call me?" Jasio leaned out from under the bed. "Right? You'll call me?"

Witek narrowed his eyebrows and stood up.

"Under no circumstances, Jasio," he said, "until the moon sets and you see the first rays of the sun.

" "Okay, little brother," Witek heard as Jasio hid under the bed again.

He ripped off the sheets and pillow and stuffed them into his brother's bed to keep him warm. "Come on, it's going to be a hot night."

"Don't be afraid, I'll be back."

"I know," a quiet voice, muffled by the pillow, reached Witek. "

I promise," he thought. But those weren't his words. They were the last words he heard from his mother when she went to look for his father.

"I promise, I'll be back. Don't worry," she said through tears. Just like him now, she told them to hide under the bed.

He could hear the sound of the door closing, the footsteps on the stairwell. And silence. A long, ominous silence, broken by a scream. A woman's. As

he stepped out into the hallway, he glanced at his watch. It was almost eleven.

***

Twelve hours earlier, the writer's watch at number two had struck eleven. Only one more hour until noon. In his left coat pocket, the vibrating alarm on his cell phone informed him of a meeting. Karol Witel didn't need to check the screen. He hadn't had any additional meetings scheduled for a long time.

He was supposed to meet with his publisher in an hour. He wasn't exactly happy about it. He was late, even very late, handing in the final chapters of his latest novel. Thoughts no longer crowded his head like they used to. They didn't gather in his cell phones or race with cell phone connections like they used to. After ten books published in 12 years, he'd burned out internally. He hadn't written down a single dream in a year. Nothing since he'd moved into his new apartment. Emptiness. Creative Desert.

"Hi, Uncle Karol," he heard a boy's voice and looked up.

Little Jasio stuck his head out of the second-floor window of apartment number five, flashing his white teeth in a smile at the writer.

"Hi, Jasio. How are you?" He knew perfectly well that the little one lived with his older brother and that Grandma stopped by every day to check if everything was alright.

And that the boys' refrigerator wasn't empty. Sometimes even he tasted Mrs. Antonina's specialties when he happened to be watching his younger brother.

"Everything's okay," the little boy shouted and disappeared into the room.

Witel slammed the door to the Punto and put the keys in his pocket, where his cell phone with the meeting reminder lay. He walked along the gravel parking lot for a while, mentally counting the cars that occupied it. One, two, three. One, two, three.

He stopped for a moment, turned, and stared at the sun, which had been behind him a moment before. He closed his eyes reflexively, letting the sun's reflections dance beneath his eyelids.

I'm at rock bottom, he thought, and pulled his cell phone from his coat pocket. He turned and entered the menu. He found his sender's number and pressed OK.

"Paweł?

" A voice answered in the receiver

. "I won't be coming to your place today. Paweł, I have to write another chapter," he lied. "Something just occurred to me. "

Paweł asked if he was lying.

"I'm not lying."

Karol pulled the phone away from his ear and took a deep breath.

"You'll have the complete text by next Friday, okay?"

Paweł nodded and said he had to be in his office by one o'clock on the twentieth, with a folder full of typescript pages.

"Okay."

Karol only had two hundred pages of typescript. He was certain that if inspiration ever struck him, those last hundred would knock the reader off his feet. He'd been toiling on his eleventh novel for six months. Out of ideas, he began writing about his life. He hoped that what was selling so well now would resonate with the person who fed him: his reader.

Five of them showed up at the first author's meeting. At the last, nearly a hundred people had already come. He was a big deal, and he knew it. He was a writer.

"Is something wrong, Mr. Karol?" He was jolted out of his reverie by...

"Hi Witek." When he turned around, he saw his neighbor, Jasiek's brother. "Are you coming home?

" "Yes, the foreman gave us the day off today. There's no work, you know how it is." Witek scratched his head and headed for the stairwell.

"Wait!" Karol shouted after him, but he had already run up the stairs.

Witel put his hands in his coat and fumbled for his apartment keys. When they jingled between his fingers, he nodded and headed for the gate.

He didn't have to climb the stairs to find himself in the cozy four walls he'd recently taken over. The apartment itself had been empty for three years. After the tragic, one might even say gruesome, murders that had occurred four years ago, no one wanted to move into the building. Strangely enough, the only remaining residents were two boys whose parents disappeared during the tragic events of that night. At first, it was assumed that the murderer who killed almost all the residents of the building, except for the two boys, had kidnapped their parents. Later, a certain deputy inspector surmised that he had probably managed to bury the bodies in the garden surrounding the building. Following this idea, nearly a dozen policemen dug up the garden, loosening the soil, and the new family from apartment number 1 had fresh, oversized tomatoes for the second year running. The parents were never found, let alone their bodies, despite various investigative ideas. Nor was the murderer found. A year ago, after three years of investigation, the case was dropped. The newspapers stopped reporting it after a year and, when they announced the drop, published only a brief notice. Karol stumbled upon this information quite by accident while leafing through the morning newspaper. On a real estate website, he found the number of the building's owner, a well-known figure throughout the city, with a smile on his face.

He called immediately, and the next week he was hooking up the TV and placing his laptop on his desk. The novel he had started had to be finished.

***

"Run!" Karol shouted to Witek as he stood over the headless corpse.

"Mr. Karol, this is..."

"Yes, I know, Witek, get out of there.

" Karol stood by the fence, looking at the boy and the headless corpse on the other side of the fence.

"Mr. Karol, there's nowhere left to go today. They're back."

The writer held his breath, trying to figure out what Witek meant.

He approached his dead neighbor and examined the cut on his neck closely. The same. Exactly identical to four years ago. He could see well thanks to the moonlight. It hadn't been so bright in a long time. The night hadn't been this bright in a long time.

Karol looked at Witek as if he were crouching over the bald man from number eight. He looked up and examined the shadows they were casting in that spot.

Three.

There were actually three of them. Him. Witek. The headless corpse lying under the fence, which shouldn't cast a shadow because..."

Witek abruptly rose from his crouch, looking at the writer with terror in his eyes.

"Mr.... Karol..." he choked out.

Karol didn't turn around, but watched as the shadow, which didn't belong to either of them, moved and grew smaller and smaller. Closer and closer.

The writer was now one hundred percent certain that something, or someone, was coming their way. He didn't need to turn to check which of the neighbors wanted to look at the corpse with them. Looking at the boy, he knew that what he saw wouldn't be his neighbor, and if the boy didn't like it either.

Horror, pain, and despair flashed in Witek's eyes, as if on celluloid.

"Mr. Karol," he whispered, "don't turn around, just run quickly toward the stairwell.

" "Why?" Karol wanted to turn his head.

He was consumed by pure human curiosity, which, as the English say, killed the cat.

Witek glanced at the writer, and Karol realized the boy wasn't joking.

"Quickly," he whispered, "I'm running after you."

Karol obeyed and began to run. Out of the corner of his eye, he glanced at what he had been forbidden to see. He shouted and accelerated, almost tripping as he ran onto the sidewalk leading to the apartment building.

"Don't close the door, I'm running after you," he heard Witek say, and the sound of feet clattering behind him.

Another sound reached his ears. The sound of air being torn apart by wings meant they were being chased. They were the next target.

"Run to number five. The door's open!" Witek shouted, gasping for breath as he ran up the stairs, closing the windows in the hallway.

The writer reached the first floor and, without thinking, turned the handle. Indeed, the door wasn't locked. He stopped in the hallway and consciously looked around for any uninvited guests. Witek ran right behind him, nearly knocking him over.

"Get inside quickly!" He forced out the last of the air in his lungs.

He closed the door behind him and took a deep breath.

"What was that down there?" The writer leaned against the wall, gasping for air just as greedily.

"The same thing that appeared four years ago. The night our parents disappeared." Witek turned the key in the lock and slid the bolt.

Karol noticed that the door didn't have any protection against burglars, let alone against the thing he saw walking towards him.

"Where's Jasiu?" he asked, concerned.

"Easy." Witek patted him on the shoulder and stepped away from the door.

At that moment, something struck it so hard that a crack appeared in the doorframe, and the metal bolt bent slightly, giving the two men little hope of lasting power. They ran to hold it. They couldn't let that thing get inside. They looked at each other, and at that moment, another blow bounced them off the door. They pressed against it again, waiting for another attack.

Thirty seconds later, they heard retreating footsteps in the hallway.

"He's leaving," whispered Karol, wiping sweat from his forehead.

"I wouldn't be so sure about that." Witek stepped away from the door and leaned his hands on the side dresser. "Please help me."

They pushed it towards the door and went into the kitchen. Witek, passing the bedroom door, became concerned.

"Jasiu?

Silence."

Karol looked at him and asked, too.

"Jasiu?

Silence.

" Karol felt fresh air rushing across his face. The windows were open in this apartment!

"I'll be right back," whispered Witek, putting a finger to his lips, and entered the bedroom.

Karol nodded and walked to the kitchen window, which overlooked the most illuminated part of the garden. He pulled back the curtains and looked around the garden. No one.

"Witek!" he called to the boy without turning from the window. "No one's here, I think we're in peace for now.

" "That's good," he heard the boy's voice behind him and calmed down.

He looked for a moment longer and felt incredibly sleepy. He rubbed his eyes and turned away from the window.

Witek stood before him, or so he thought. A huge figure with wings and gray skin spoke. It spoke in Witek's voice

—don't be afraid—and bared its teeth, revealing all its diversity. One fang covered the other, giving Witek, or whatever stood before him, a double set of teeth.

Karol felt terror seep through his trousers. Wet terror.

The creature-Witek extended its paws toward the writer, and he could see they were tipped with sharp claws. Sleepiness returned. He had time to glance at the cross hanging around the once-boy's neck. He slowly sank onto the windowsill and sank to the floor.

***

If I'm at the pole, I forgot my warm jacket, Karol began to come back to life.

He instinctively stretched his arms and encountered the strong resistance of the dark wall. He opened his eyes. Nothing. Dark. His knees were tucked under his chin, making it difficult to breathe.

He felt the walls in front of him and beside him. They were pressing down on all four sides, as if he were trapped inside something.

"Plastic," he muttered.

And it was terribly cold.

He held his breath for a moment as something shuffled past his mailbox. "Am I a prisoner?" he thought. When the shuffling stopped, he began to fidget so he could reach his cell phone in his pocket. Locating it, he pulled it out and pressed a button. The screen immediately glowed brightly. Suddenly, his eyes revealed the same interior he'd seen every morning when he took out the milk. He was locked in the refrigerator, which amused him slightly. But a moment later, when the phone's screen went blank, darkness enveloped him, and terror gripped him as well. "

Shut up, Mr. Karol," he thought. But at that very moment, something shuffled under the refrigerator where he was sitting, and he heard something heavy scraping against the tiles. They'd pushed the door open, he thought. Bastards.

The light in the refrigerator flashed as the door opened. Karol didn't want to move from his seat. Especially when he saw what was opening the door for him. A small gargoyle that looked just like the whip creature grinned broadly at him, revealing equally colorful teeth, slightly stained with blood. Oh God! It held out its hands, also tipped with sharp claws.

"Hello, Uncle Karol," the little creature said, pulling him out of the refrigerator.

Impossible.

"Johnny?" The surprised writer collapsed onto the tiles, gasping for fresh air.

At that moment, the whip creature entered the kitchen and ordered the whip creature to leave.

"Quickly," he repeated.

Johnny folded his wings and left.

"Welcome back, Karol." He helped him up, digging his claws into the writer's shoulder.

Karol stood up, brushing frost off the sweater he'd put on before leaving the house. The remains of food in the fridge also fell off.

"Back? So far, I'm pretty confused. We were just running away from someone like you," he pointed at Witek, who bore no resemblance to the boy, his neighbor.

Witek stretched and stretched his wings.

"A gargoyle..." Karol muttered.

"Excuse me?" Witek nudged the lamp with one wing.

"You're a gargoyle, right?

" Three years ago, a woman from class four called me a winged monster, but a gargoyle can be one too.

Karol's sanity was returning, thawing out after his time in the fridge.

"Why the fridge?"

Witek shrugged, causing his wings to move as well.

"So you're safe

," he grumbled. "In the fridge? And safe from what? From you?"

Witek bared his teeth, blood dripping down them in a wide grin.

"I don't think so, Mr. Karol. No matter how we look, you're safe with us.

" "I'd like to believe that." Karol adjusted his sweater and left the kitchen, brushing against Witek's wing. It was rough and slightly cut his face. The boy, who no longer looked like a boy, looked after him, grinning again.

When Karol entered the room, he saw little Jaś, no longer looking like Jaś, with his wings stuck in the armchair, resting his head on his hands. He playfully thrashed it with sharp claws growing from his hands.

"Jaś?" Karol asked, turning his head as he heard Witek passing behind him. "

It's his first night, Mr. Karol. He's a little embarrassed and maybe also a little upset."

"Unsettled, I'm Witek, or whatever your name is. Perhaps you'd be so kind as to explain it to me." He walked over to Jaś and sat down next to him in the other armchair.

Witek found a seat on the couch, and although it was uncomfortable, he sat down, curling his wings as much as possible behind him.

"Okay," he began, "listen." Whether you believe it or not, we're good...

"Aha," Karol sighed.

"Aha," the boy continued, "that won't change. We won't hurt you. They are..." He pointed at the window.

"Are they?" Karol was becoming increasingly amused by the whole situation.

He smiled faintly.

In one bound, Witek spread his wings and jumped at the writer. He grabbed him tightly by the neck and opened his jaw, bringing his teeth to the neck, where an artery was nervously pulsing.

"No!" little Jasio shouted, raising his head.

Witek brought his teeth to the neck, and his eyes took on a bloody color.

"Witek!"

At that moment, the boy loosened his grip and threw back the writer's head.

"That's how they'll get you..."

He walked back to where he had jumped to Karol.

Karol rubbed the pressure point, looking at the boy in disbelief.

After all, he had described such things in his books. Vampires, gargoyles, witches. The true horror he'd been writing about on sheets of paper was unfolding before his eyes.

"So you," he corrected himself, "are the good guys, right?

" "It seems so.

" "So who are the bad guys?"

Witek spread his wings as if he was uncomfortable sitting.

"Gargoyles."

The writer smiled faintly again.

"Yeah, that's a stupid question."

At that moment, little Johnny turned to Karol.

"Our parents were good gargoyles, and they defended the house from the bad ones three years ago.

" "Did they die?

" "Probably," Witek replied. "We don't know for sure. No one found their bodies."

The writer knew the answer, but not wanting to test the little gargoyle's composure, Johnny stood up and nodded to the older boy.

"Let's go to the kitchen.

" "Gargoyles cry?" he asked, surprised when he heard Jaś crying from the living room.

Witek shook his head and looked at Karol reproachfully.

"Sure," he grumbled, "we're a little stronger than you, but just as sensitive as you."

"I'm not crying," the writer shuddered.

Witek smiled and leaned into Karol's ear.

"Of course," he whispered, "it's the cats that meow in your apartment."

The writer could no longer hide his astonishment.

"What did you want to tell me?"

He scratched his head and looked at the young gargoyle standing before him.

"You don't know how you die, do you?" Karol asked

. "No. He's still alive," Witek replied, "and I intend to survive this night."

Karol stood on tiptoe to whisper in the boy's ear.

"You're crumbling into dust."

Witek jumped back as if struck by lightning and leaned against the kitchen cabinets.

"I don't believe it!" he shouted, covering his eyes.

"Yeah..." Karol muttered and left the kitchen with a wave of his hand. "What am I supposed to say?

" ***

"Where are they?" one of the creatures muttered, approaching his friend who was feasting on the woman from the second row.

He rose and stood almost at attention, folding his wings behind him

. "Wipe yourself, you idiot. I'm asking, where are they?" He approached the blood-stained gargoyle.

"I don't know, the Most High," he replied uncertainly.

The Most High glared at him. His eyes, whose blackness blended with the gray of his skin, instantly turned red.

"Moron," he muttered, turning away from his hungry companion and adding, "Food is just an addition to today's task. We have to find them! I don't intend to wait another three years!"

***

Karol paced around the room, trying to gather his thoughts. In the morning, he drank rolls of milk. The closer to midnight, the hungrier he became, and even a visit to the refrigerator didn't quell the hunger. How was that possible? He thought. Okay. They might be those... Gargoyles over there, but why was there a cross on the neck of the big one, I mean, Witek?

As he spoke, he took a close look at the object hanging from the boy's neck. On a thin, well-worn leather strap hung a cross. And not just any cross. Certainly not the kind you saw around the neck of the average resident of this country, who defiantly called himself a believer.

He heard shouts outside and the guttural voices of the Gargoyles talking outside the window. Until sunrise, if they didn't find them, they would survive. Of course, if the boys didn't get hungry.

He focused once more and began counting his steps between the mental intrusions that haunted him before writing his next book.

Despite its apparent significance, the cross appeared before Christian beliefs; he began to compose a prologue in his mind.

"Mr. Karol," Witek interrupted.

"Excuse me?

" "What did you just say?" The boy rose from the couch he'd been occupying for some time.

"Me?" he said, surprised.

"You were talking about it, so quietly." The boy approached him, touching the cross on the strap with his claw.

The writer grimaced slightly and swore under his breath, not hiding his anger at being unable to keep his mouth shut. Even when he was thinking.

"Yes. You're right." Now he had to share his thoughts with Witek. "What you have around your neck," he began, "is a cross, in case you didn't know. And not the typical Christian one that almost everyone in the area wears.

" "Right?" the boy asked in surprise, lifting it to his eyes with his claw.

"It's known that it's one of the oldest symbols of humanity," Karol continued, "known in most ancient religions. Every major civilization you've read about had objects bearing this symbol. It was usually associated with a form of worship of the forces of nature."

"But from what I've read," the boy interrupted, "vampires and gargoyles are afraid of crosses."

"That's true, and they certainly are," Karol replied, "and I hope we won't have to find out."

Wings fluttered outside the window. Karol quickly ran to the lamp next to the armchair and turned it off. In a whisper, he ordered the boys to hide.

"Silence!" He put a finger to his lips.

He looked at Witek and almost jumped with fear. The gargoyle's eyes glowed red, and in the darkness they looked even more monstrous. He looked at Jaś. The same. Only this time he had expected such a sight.

Suddenly there was the sound of breaking glass, and with a gust of wind a winged creature flew into the room. Twice the size of the boys, and what's more, its blood-red eyes illuminated almost half the living room.

"I know you're here!" A guttural voice cut through the living room so forcefully that a scratch appeared on the hallway mirror.

A gargoyle twice the size of the ones the writer had seen today paced the floor of the room, carefully looking around.

Witek's eyes flashed in the darkness, which Karol noticed and immediately cowered in a corner.

What happened next changed the writer's life profoundly.

***

"Hello?"

Karol sat comfortably in his armchair. The sun was shining outside. A week had passed since those events, and he had just spoken to his publisher, proudly informing him that he had a finished manuscript for his novel.

"You can throw that one away," he smiled into the receiver.

Just a week ago, he watched in horror as two gargoyles fought. He saw blood and gnawed human remains scattered in the courtyard of his building. He accidentally kicked the head of a woman from building four, who rolled at the feet of that foul-smelling gargoyle. What saved him from certain death now hangs around his neck.

Witek managed to throw it at him at the last moment. Even though he was winning against the Most High, he knew he had to completely transform, which resulted in him removing the cross from his neck. Little Johnny was too young to become a true gargoyle. With a single throw, the Most High smashed him against the wall. He crumbled to dust, falling to the floor in the wind. When Witek saw this, he decided on the worst. If the Most High won, he would reappear in another three years, and blood would flow down the building's facade. What protected him from becoming a demon ended up in the writer's hands.

"Yes, I'm sure," he said into the receiver, twirling the cross hanging around his neck between his fingers.

It would protect him now.

It had to. If the second gargoyle hadn't scratched him downstairs in front of the building, he wouldn't have written the novel in a week. He wouldn't be in such good health. Everything's fine. Except for one thing. When he sits and writes, he gets a strange itch between his shoulder blades.

"It's going to itch anyway," muttered a newspaper that flew past the writer's eyes.

A hand slowly appeared attached to the newspaper, and behind it, the silhouette of the boy who died a week ago in apartment number five. At least, that's what the police determined.

"Coffee?" Witek suggested

. "With pleasure," Karol replied, rising from his chair. "With the greatest pleasure."