The Kiln Of Damnation

A short horror story

It started as a normal Wednesday. Until I happened upon an abandoned house while I walked home from work. The stucco, chipped and yellow, peeled downward. The house undressed for the world to see!

The basement windows sealed with unwelcoming iron bars that seemed thicker than usual, with streaks of opal and crimson.

My curiosity got the best of me.

Once I crossed the property threshold, the overgrown shrubs hid my presence from the street well enough.

I crouched down and capped my eyes, hoping to see something inviting. The iron pressed against my sides of both hands, cooling my warm skin.

The bleak and derelict room had no life in it. Brown wallpaper and dirty carpet. Broken glass strewn about, with the remains of tables and chairs littered everywhere. A long brass pole stood in the middle of the room. I reckon it may be a coat rack.

As my gaze moved to the right side, just past the rack, I glimpsed two stony figures. They stood face to face, lifelessly conversing. They were sculpted well, and I almost mistook them for people.

One faced me with eyes wide. It was as if it saw something terrifying before the sculptor fired it in the kiln.

I imagine the artist created this unsettling gaze on purpose. Either that, or the clay lived while the hands of its master forced it into form. Alive to feel every poke and probe seen fit by the creator. Alive and tortured until it was placed into its fiery damnation.

I shook my head to remove the nightmarish thoughts. As my gaze drifted elsewhere, out of the corner of my eye, something moved.

As I looked once more toward the burnt clay forms, my eyes widened as the statue tilted its head.

No time to run, no time to scream.

I guess they were not just statues, after all.