The Maze The Lost Labyrinth - By Jason Brannon Page 0,44

leaves in Autumn. The Piper surveyed the house on Pinecrest Avenue and saw that it was good. Not only had his destructive music changed the heart of a man, it had completely transformed him.

The minions he’d sent out into town to do his bidding had now returned and chattered nervously amongst themselves in the chamber room behind him.

“You’ve done well.” He turned away from his scenic view of Fairpointe. “You’ve turned this man’s heart to stone, and you‘ve destroyed a family in the process. What sweeter music can be made than that of a broken heart? Even now I can hear them hurting, hear them crying, hear them feeling sorry for themselves.”

The minions gave themselves applause with grimy, soot-covered hands. The Piper motioned for them to be quiet.

“We’re not done with him yet. There have been challenges where he’s concerned. Prayers have been offered up.”

The minions recoiled at the word.

“You must be vigilant. Keep singing to him. Keep filling his ears with the sounds of your voices. This man needs to hear a chorus, and you, my fine children, are the choir.”

With another wave of his hand, the minions were gone, speeding through the air again to that old familiar street. The Piper stood there for a moment, looking out into the world. Silent.

He waited until he was sure they had gone back to their work before putting his pipes to his lips. He loved his work, certainly, but there were times, even for him, where the music wasn’t enough. This was one of those times.

The song he played was a familiar one. It was a tune composed of suicidal thoughts, curses, and a complete separation from God. It was the first song he learned after being hurled out of Heaven like a falling star.

As he played, tears streamed down both cheeks. He wanted so very badly to raise his eyes to Heaven and catch one more glimpse of the glory, but he was ashamed.

Instead, he cradled the pipes tightly and played his mournful dirge. It was a funeral song for his soul, and never had it seemed more fitting than now.

******

Darrell Gene’s carpet was a mess. It was stiff with dried blood and black ichor. The state of his house, however, hardly mattered anymore. He was a different creature-barely even human. The world and the air were his domain, not some quaint little brick house in the middle of suburban America.

A pile of wet skin lay behind the recliner. Some of it he’d cut away with the pocket knife, and some he’d sloughed off like a snake. He’d torn away the rest in his haste to rid himself of every last trace of humanity.

All that remained of the old Darrell Gene were his green eyes. The rest of him was covered in glistening black scales. Parchment thin wings covered in maroon feathers folded behind him, eager for the chance to stretch and take flight. His breath stank of sulfur and rotten meat.

He was a monster, and now he embraced that fact.

And monsters, of course, were supposed to do monstrous things.

He looked in the mirror and studied himself in amazement. Never in a million years would he have guessed that this was his true identity.. He tried to remember the war in Heaven, the moment when he’d been thrown out of the Eternal City. He couldn’t though: the amnesia was extensive.

“You’re one of us,” the wingless angel had told him. “Part of our family.” Now he knew it was the truth.

Unsure of how to act now that he was no longer human, Darrell Gene spent the next couple of hours ransacking his house, practicing the fine art of destruction. He ripped the couch apart with yellowed talons. He gouged holes in the sheet rock with the curved horns that jutted from his forehead. He cracked the ceramic tile in the kitchen with his cloven hooves. He crumbled the washer and dryer into wadded balls of metal with his overlarge hands. He was just about to reduce the kitchen table to kindling when he heard a knock at the door.

Darrell Gene panicked for a moment, wondering if he should hide from his visitor. Then he remembered who he was. What he was.

He didn’t need to hide from anyone now.

The potted plant in the hallway wilted and began to rot as he passed by on his way to the door. He narrowed his eyes when he saw Carl Beckett knocking again. The man was whistling a melancholy tune this time. It sounded