It Stood at the Gate

It stood at the gate. Behind it, smoke coiled its black fingers heavenward, and the rabbi stirred.

Hooves thundered— close, now, no longer distant warnings but a hammering reality. Torchlight that dappled the woods turned into a raging blaze as Haidamacks burst from the tree line, their rebellious cries splitting the night.

The creature raised its massive arms. Ready. Protective. Truth carved deep into its brow.

The first riders charged.

A hand rose to its forehead, one thick finger tracing the letters.

"Who am I?"

It turned to face the rabbi and the shtetlyaners, the carved letters glowing bloodred. Reb Schmuel's damaged aleph suddenly darkened and sank into the earthen flesh.

מת → אמת

Emet to Met. Truth to Death.

The creature exploded, and horses thundered into the shtetl. Dust swirled with smoke as homes erupted in flame. Children screamed. Women wailed. The rabbi watched his people burn while his creation's last words echoed:

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

Bodies littered the street. The shul blazed. Where truth had stood, only death remained.

Hands reached for him through smoke—pleading, accusing. Their faces melted like wax, their features ran together.

Why did you not protect us?

The fire reached the rabbi. He spread his hands as the fire cracked his skin. His beard caught flame, his mouth opened—

He woke screaming. His chest tight and his throat burned. He ran a clammy hand over his face. Nothing – just the darkness. And the darkness hungered – it swallowed Zokrev whole and silent every night. Candles and torches could not light sleeping homes. Not even wind moved through the empty streets anymore. Doors and windows stayed locked shut.

Outside, he searched for signs of life: men heading for yeshiva, women at their morning milking, the little boy drawing water. Not even a goat bleated.

He entered the shul, but it remained dark and silent. Someone had swept the dust clean. Reb Shmuel's corpse already washed, wound, and buried.

He discovered his creation notes wedged between prayer books on the shelf. Enraged, the rabbi snatched them and strode to the hearth, where dying embers pulsed red. He loomed over the glow, poised to cast the pages into the flames and destroy them forever.

He hesitated. The roads unblemished, the fields untouched, the gates unbroken – no signs of the Haidamacks.

But something gnawed at him. A half-formed memory: thundering hooves, acrid smoke, children shrieking. Had the terror occurred? Or had their dread birthed it into existence?

He rose to his feet and steadied himself. The shul walls contracted, squeezing inward. Or did they dissolve into emptiness?

The rabbi approached the door, his fingertips prickling as they found the latch. Outside, the shtetl lay dormant. Or perhaps not. Perhaps it never existed at all.

Far beyond the edges of Zokrev, the river ran black and slow, washing away the last traces of what had been made, and what had been undone. Somewhere, an ancient voice rose up from the earth to haunt him again.

Who am I?

The rabbi remained silent. No answer existed. His knuckles whitened around the crumpled pages. No, he resolved. Preserve these. The Haidamacks will come. We must prepare.

He pulled the shul door shut and let the night consume him.