Plague Stories

I am employed in my village as the caretaker of an ancient spirit. Depending on who you ask, the punishment for not properly fulfilling this task range from small misfortunes in our village all the way up to threatening the very existence of humanity; such people insist it's one of the untold checks and balances that keeps the death of our world at bay, like securing the codes to a nuclear arsenal. All I know for sure is that the work I do is an absolute necessity; a notion I have drilled into the minds of the entire line of people who are to be my backup, should anything happen to me.

The rules are simple, but deadly rigid: 1) Do NOT under any circumstances, talk to the old man. 2) Do not make any sudden movements. 3) Once the feeding is done, leave. Do not linger.

As long as you can abide by those rules, the task itself is simple and routine; gently approach with the bowl in hand. Place it down on the pavement in front of the old man, and sit across from him in total silence until he finishes eating. Once he's finished, slowly pick up the now empty bowl, and calmly leave the temple through the stone archways. As soon as you have passed the archways, turning your head will reveal that the old man has vanished; that is your confirmation that the task has been completed, but as an instinctive precaution I suggest you wait until you have returned to the foot of the hill to begin talking again.

I finish reading these words as I look down at their author, resting peacefully in his casket.

The bowl tumbles out of my hands and onto the floor, I reach a hand down to it and say "Sorry . . . !" I blink, and feel before I can see, the old man, somehow in the time it took me to blink, is now towering over me, staring down at me with ravenous eyes.