"What's Good for the Goose Is Good for the Gargoyle" - September 19, 2024
A stone gargoyle on a suburban street must contend with an invasion of kitschy stone geese...
Every Thursday, Silver Gecko Publishing highlights one of my stories, either a work of short fiction, a novel, or an audiobook. This week’s selection is the short story “What’s Good for the Goose Is Good for the Gargoyle.”
I developed this story in the mid-1990s, when a scourge was passing over suburban America: stone geese. These were the tackiest things I had ever seen, yet people insisted on putting them on their stoop and dressing them up in clever costumes. It was a crazy time.
This story was published in my horror anthology 13 TURNS, available NOW in the Kindle Store and in paperback. The anthology includes 13 jolting tales of terror, murder, and the macabre.
Check out the excerpt of the story below, and if you like what you read, pick up your own copy of 13 TURNS.
-Kevin Carr
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Illustration by PublicDomainPictures (@PublicDomainPictures) from Pixabay
“What’s Good for the Goose Is Good for the Gargoyle” by Kevin Carr
The gargoyle snarled, its face frozen in eternal ferocity. Thick, knotted knuckles gripped its stone pedestal, holding fast with crude, malformed claws. Two fangs from its bottom jaw nestled in its muzzle, its mouth slightly open as if panting. Snaking around the gargoyle’s neck was a heavy iron chain, fastened securely to the rock below. The beast crouched, with bat-like wings fanning out, stretching, ready to take flight at the slightest sign of release.
“Damn it, Herb!” Cleo yelled from the open kitchen window. “Will you get that blasted thing off the front steps for Christ’s sake. You want the neighbors to think you’re an idiot?”
Herb ignored his wife.
“Crazy old bat, ain’t she, Bruce?” he murmured to the gargoyle. Herb reached forward and stroked the cold stone head of the statue. “She don’t know what she’s talking about.”
Bruce, of course, did not reply – a stoic sentry guarding the gate.
“You’re a good boy, Bruce,” Herb said. He picked up his Flex-Grip wrench and clamped it around the massive bolts fastened to the gargoyle’s base. “Much better than those other damn things the local idjits put on their front steps.” Herb twisted the wrench, tightening the bolt.
Although it was still late February, the day was unseasonably warm. The sun beat down, bringing the temperature into the sixties, and Herb began to feel it. He leaned back and wiped his glistening brow with his dirty shirt sleeve. Craning his head back, he looked to the houses around him and sneered.
A ceramic goose bloated on each porch. They were all different, though. While basically the same shape and mold of stone, each had its own personality. Yet Herb saw little about them that was not tacky.
In front of Mrs. Stanley’s house, the goose wore a yellow slicker, complete with rain hat and a tiny proportionally-sized umbrella wedged against one wing. Two doors down, at the Wilsons, the goose wore a blue checkered dress, reminiscent of Holly Hobby. Another house down the block, a goose was a leprechaun, complete with a red beard, green hat, and long wooden pipe. The owner had even gone as far as rigging an incense burner within the pipe’s bowl so the goose could enjoy a good smoke from time to time. Next door, the owners bypassed Saint Patrick’s Day and went straight to Easter. This one wore floppy white bunny ears with a tiny basket of multi-colored eggs.
Each goose had one thing in common – it made Herb sick.
“Damn geese,” Herb said. He had abhorred the idea of stone geese on the front porch from the first time he noticed one in his mother-in-law’s lawn five years ago. The first on the block to get that eyesore, she treated it better than her dog, Patches. She spent hundreds of dollars on pre-made clothes, fabric and detailed patterns to dress the obnoxious effigy in a myriad of costumes – one for every occasion.
Then the blasted creatures started to appear all around town. Within the course of a few months, the geese had taken over, like a silent invasion – infiltrating the sanctity of homes and personal space. The geese had landed, and they had made their nests.
When Herb had gone to the arts and crafts show with his wife that weekend, he was sure he had found his answer to the goose conspiracy.
The gargoyle had sat in the corner of the booth, wearing a small, hand-painted sign: “Clearance: $35.00.”
Herb jumped at the chance and bought the sinister specter. Of course, he waited until Cleo was preoccupied with an array of plastic jewelry two booths down. Then, Herb pulled out his wallet and slid two twenties from the folds.
“This is a steal, you know,” Herb said to the merchant after he had received his change.
“Believe me,” the merchant replied, pocketing the two twenties. “I’m glad to get that crummy thing off my hands. It’s my last one. They don’t sell worth snot. Now, those stone geese...”
Herb grunted at the remark. “I think he has a certain charm,” he replied.
“Suit yourself.”
Cleo suddenly came around the corner, holding a set of purple and pink ceramic earrings up against her cheeks.
“What do you think...?” she began. Then, her eyes fell on the snarling stone gargoyle Herb held in his arms.
“Don’t even think about buying that rock, Herb,” she said.
“Too late,” Herb replied, his face beaming. “You know that all sales are final.”
“And just where do you think you’re gonna put it?”
“I thought it would be a nice addition to the front porch.”
At that comment, Cleo’s eyes had grown wide with rage. Herb thought he would not hear the end of it on the way home. However, he eventually won out. After the forty-five minute drive, Cleo grew so frustrated and sick of arguing that she finally blurted, “All right, you Neanderthal. Put the damn thing on the front porch for all I care. But don’t cry at me when some smart-ass neighborhood kid decides to dash its stone brains all over the sidewalk or steal it for his room. Anyway, I doubt you’ll even get off your duff for the fifteen minutes it’ll take you to set it up and bolt it down.”
Cleo was wrong. The very minute Herb got home, he pulled out his tools and carried Bruce to the front porch. He promptly bolted the creature down across the porch from Cleo’s own ceramic goose, which wore a pink sun dress laced with frilly ruffles.
“There,” Herb said, patting the gargoyle’s head. “You’re all secure. And you’ll be a fine addition to a street littered with those ugly stone birds, flower-print plastic lawn chair covers, and plywood-cutouts of a chubby kid taking a pee.”
The gargoyle did not reply; it only snarled into the open air.
• • •
Bruce sniffed and blinked his stone eyes. A heavy cloud-cover stretched to the horizon, blanketing the town in darkness. Yet the gargoyle’s eyes were unaffected. He still saw through the deep mist of the chilly night’s fog. Bruce flexed his stone claws, relaxing their grip on his pedestal.
The gargoyle drew a deep breath of the night air, flapped his wings twice, and let it out with a soft sigh. He did not know the time – gargoyles had little use for time. All Bruce understood was the concept of no sun. And, of course, he knew it was after midnight. It was late enough for the whole street to be asleep. Bruce’s movements would not be seen.
The gargoyle stared out into the street, scanning the lawns. The neighborhood seemed dead. Not even a slight wind whistled through the trees. Bruce’s nostrils flexed to bring in wafts of air.
Then, he heard a deep growling.
Immediately, Bruce spun his head around to see a large black dog stalking through the stretch of front lawns. The animal’s fur was matted with dirt and some blood – a stray. The dog moved closer to the porch, its ears perked and tail held high.
Bruce could smell the hunger from the beast.
The dog moved closer to the gargoyle and sniffed the porch steps. Its dull brown eyes stared at the statue. One of the loose canine lips curled upwards to show a mass of yellow teeth.
The growl grew louder.
Bruce blinked his eyes and leaned forward. The black dog jumped back at the sudden movement, startled. Its growl rumbled in its throat, then crescendoed. A tuft of fur raised on its back, and it hunched its head, eyes staring at the stone beast.
Bruce let a small growl escape his own throat.
The dog’s brow furrowed heavily, and it let out a deep, throaty bark.
Bruce snarled and lunged forward, held fast by the chain. He lashed out his teeth and snapped his jaws, the heavy clap of his teeth echoing in the still night air. Then he barked louder – deeper, letting the sound fade to a rumbling growl.
The dog grew quickly silent. It backed away, its tail curling up from behind and resting along its belly. A thin, meager whine escaped its throat.
Bruce smiled. His plans were not to harm the mongrel. He just wanted to scare it. The iron chain was strong, and Bruce knew it would hold. For his pride, he just had to put the stray in its place.
The dog slinked to the edge of the yard and slowly trudged down the length of the sidewalk.
Bruce watched it leave, pleased with himself. He settled back onto this haunches, gripping the stone pedestal. He smiled as the dog entered the shadows of the neighbors’ houses.
A slight wind – the first of its kind that night – moved softly through the yards. Across the street, Bruce thought he saw some movement, then squinted his eyes. There was nothing – just a shadow of leaves rustling in the bushes. The wind made a soft hisssssss through the trees.
Suddenly, the cold night air broke with a tortured yipe!
Bruce let go of his perch and scrambled to the edge of the porch, but his chain’s slack fell away and caught him smartly by the neck. A painful shriek in the distance split the air, then subsided into a soft gurgling.
Bruce reached back and clamped his jaws tightly on the iron links that held him to the porch. He yanked his head to the side twice, hearing the crumbling of the stone pedestal.
Hisssssssssssss!
Bruce looked up to the sky. The empty tree branches above remained still. This was not the wind!
Hisssssssssssss!
He spun his head around and looked towards a row of heavy evergreens along the property line. The needles did not move. The air was calm, still.
Hisssssssssssss!
Bruce lunged again at the chain. Something was wrong down the street, and he knew that no wind made the sinister hiss.
He gnashed his teeth, leaping from the steps and frantically flapping his wings. A link in the iron chain finally burst, releasing the gargoyle. Bruce faltered in the air and fell to the walkway below, striking his left side. A sharp pain bolted through his body, and he winced. But he was free, and he ignored the pain. Bruce stumbled to his feet and stretched out his wings. Running several steps, he flapped them and caught a slight breeze. On his seventh step, he was airborne, flying low over the lawns.
The gargoyle sniffed at the air and caught the scent of blood. He aimed his course around the corner of a house. Immediately, he saw the body.
The black dog lay on the lawn, its intestines glistening in the bright porch light. Its tongue dangled from its muzzle, motionless in the blood-stained grass. Three of the creature’s legs were broken, snapped between the knee and the foot. But that was not the worst. What scared even the hard heart of the gargoyle were the obscene creatures devouring the dog’s insides.
Bruce growled and launched a sharp bark at the strange things in the mongrel’s belly. They looked up and hissed. Their heads, like worms snaked out from the gut, dripping in thick, black fluid. Bruce circled overhead and stared down at the grotesque monstrosities.
Each one was about three feet long with mottled, leathery skin. Their heads and tails were like snakes, thin and coily. But they bulged in the center, as if they were each digesting some small animal. From their sides, six stubby legs wiggled, grasping at the raw flesh from the dog’s carcass. The creatures had no faces – just gaping mouths filled with sharp needles. They had no eyes, yet they seemed to see Bruce flying over head.
Hisssssssssssss!
Bruce slowly descended, growling at the slithering, hissing things. He swooped down over the carcass of the dog and gnashed his teeth. Several of the strange creatures lashed upwards with their mouths of knives, snapping at Bruce’s legs, trying to drag him from the sky. Bruce snarled and dived, clamping his solid jaws around the neck of one of the beasts. It emitted a high-pitched squeal of agony as Bruce worried its neck, feeling it snap beneath his powerful bite.
He then let the fiend fall, dropping like a duck shot from the sky. It landed on the grass in a puddle of the dog’s blood, making a soft splash.
Hisssssssssssss!
The others squirmed and cried. They wriggled from the inside of the dissected hound and scurried through the grass – quick like massive, lizard-like cockroaches. Bruce dived several times, trying to snag one by the neck as it scuttled through lawns, driveways, and the street. But the strange creatures were too quick – and slippery, drenched in dog blood.
In moments, they were all gone from the scene, leaving sticky trails of gore through the grass.
Bruce looked down to the corpse and felt a wave of sympathy run through his heart. He had scared away the dog, snapping at it when it had invaded his space. But Bruce had never wished to see such carnage over the poor creature. He desperately wanted to pick up the carcass and drag it away, to get it away from the blasphemous death it had faced. He wanted to take it far away and bury it in land or at the bottom of a river out of respect for the dead. But Bruce knew there was no time. Those creatures were still around!
Bruce flapped his wings and climbed into the air, racing to his home perch. Those creatures were dangerous, and his owners must be warned! Somehow the things had escaped detection for so long. It was only a matter of time before the slithering beasts graduated from dogs to larger animals. By the time the humans in the neighborhood even suspected that such demons existed, it could be too late.
The gargoyle landed on the front steps next to his stone perch and hopped up the stairs. He folded his wings behind his body and scrambled to the front door. Reaching up with both front legs, he scratched frantically, ripping ribbons of wood from the door with stubby, strong claws.
Hisssssssssssss!
Bruce turned his head and scanned the street behind him. He could see no movement in the lawn, nor in the shadows of the trees. The things could be lying in wait, hiding behind many shapes. The gargoyle could barely see past the wrought-iron railing, which framed the porch. Cleo’s stone goose stood in the corner, silhouetted by the porch lights across the street.
The gargoyle scratched harder at the door and whined softly.
Hisssssssssssss!
Bruce spun his head around again and peered into the night. Again, nothing.
Just as he started to turn back to the door, he noticed something different about Cleo’s stone goose – its head had moved!
Hisssssssssssss!
Bruce cocked his head to the right. The goose twitched slightly. A soft crackle of crumbling concrete echoed across the porch. The gargoyle slowly turned and moved closer to the stone goose.
Hisssssssssssss!
Thin cracks appeared in the stone of the bird’s neck.…