It Stood at the Gate

The rabbi stopped mid-prayer, his body wrapped in phylacteries. The leather straps binding his arm felt suddenly tight, constricting. It was the first time since creating the creature that he had attempted to pray—perhaps shame had kept him away, perhaps fear that Hashem would not answer one who had dared to mimic divine creation.

The air shifted, thickened. Not like wind through an open door, but like something solid displacing space meant for the living. The shul door groaned on its hinges, swinging inward. Morning light vanished as the creature's bulk filled the doorframe.

The rabbi's prayer died on his lips. The words of the Shema crumbled to ash in his mouth.

The creature stepped inside. Floorboards protested—wood splitting, nails shrieking against the weight of something never meant to walk among men. Dust swirled through the shards of light over its shoulders.

The rabbi's clumsy fingers fumbled with the phylactery knots. The creature watched this small human struggle with its depthless eyes. It did not advance. It did not threaten. It simply waited, patient as stone.

When the silence stretched unbearable and the rabbi's hands stilled at his sides, only then did it speak:

"Who am I?"

The words erupted deep within the clay, grinding into the pulp of the rabbi's bones and the roots of this teeth. He swallowed, tasting dust on his tongue. When he found his voice, it cracked.

"You protect."

His fingers curled at his sides. He forced breath into his lungs, forced himself to stand straighter, to be the creator, not the created. "You were made to protect us."

The creature's head tilted slightly. As though considering. As though weighing the words.

The rabbi pointed. "Your job is not complete," he said. "You are not finished."

The creature jerked. Carefully, it stepped forward.

"Then neither are you."

The rabbi gasped and jumped aside. His mind raced and eyes clocked left and right until they locked on the inscription on the creature's forehead.

Truth. How close it was to death.

He moved before it could speak again, hands reached for its forehead, for the scratched letters carved into clay, for the strokes he scrawled to bring this abomination to life.

But the lumbering creature was faster. Its beastly hand caught his throat, fingers closing over his flesh like a stone press against olives. A grip that did not tighten—did not yet crush—but did not release.

"What will you do?"

Its voice was not angry. Not afraid. Only curious.

The rabbi struggled against the creature's hold, but it did not waver. His breathing labored as the world narrowed. He reached down the creature's arm, grabbing for the inscription.

"If I am unfinished, then so are you."

The grip tightened. The rabbi gurgled and stopped scrambling. His legs dangled, toes brushed the wooden floor, kicking dust into the air.

From behind, a flash of steel. A blade jabbed through the creature's forehead, puncturing the shallow marks, tearing the letters apart. The rabbi dropped to the ground as it staggered back, hands rising to the wound. A great, fractured rumble filled the shul—not a cry, not a scream, but the sound of something inhuman breaking.

It crumbled as it hit the ground, clay splitting, limbs shattering into dust.

The rabbi lifted his head, choking on air thick with dust that coated his skin. Reb Shmuel stumbled against the wall, his knife clattering to the floor as one hand clawed at his chest. His eyes rolled white; mouth stretched in a silent, anguished scream. Then he titled sideways on buckled knees, crumpling into stillness.

The rabbi stared at the lifeless form, expecting movement. Time dissolved before he finally rose to his feet, dust blanketing the shul floor while dread saturated the air.