He was carved into the wall, but he also was the walls—or so they said. He was the walls, the ceiling, the floors, the chilling draft you felt in the narrow back room on the eastern side.
He was the shrine and its protector.
He was worshiped—once, long ago.
As time trickled by, he became a myth, a tourist attraction, a gift shop. He was plastered on T-shirts and magnets.
Until one cold day, the ceiling collapsed without warning, and he became a bludgeon and a tomb.
He was many things, but most of all, he was angry.
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