Hunger

 

As far as the groundskeeper knew, it had always been here, he just had to feed it.

At first, he thought it would be easy: surely so small a thing would survive on scraps? But as it grew, so did the hunger and, in its hunger, it ventured its mouth further from the house and into the grounds.

And so, too, he imagined, its roots deep into the foundations.

Afraid as he was of its insatiability, he felt protective of it. On the (now bare) ground, he built it an enclosure to keep it (and, if he were honest, others who might venture onto the grounds) safe. Now enclosed, its hunger grew and, commensurate, his devotion. Once a simple task, he watched the grounds fall to disrepair as he sought to amply supply it, lest it bore off its meagre confines and search for satiety elsewhere.

And so the gate became a fence, and the fence became a wall, first of wood, then of stone, then of steel. And still it grew and, commensurate, his desperation and resolve.

At first, it was fortuitous game: the small and likely unmissed. They disappeared, just as thoughtlessly, into the gaping, ceaseless mouth. So he sought larger prey: the misplaced and misremembered; the maligned and monstrous.

As its dissatisfaction continued, he cast a wider net; any time his resolve weakened, he remember its reach deep into the foundations and, fearing the destruction of the house, he pulled back his catch: the lost and stolen; the regretted and regrettable; the stranger and neighbour; the lover and friend.

And at last there was just him and it. He turned back to the house, sacred among the bald grounds.

And so, his eyes on the gables and windows, the eaves and entrance, he fell into the maw, and hoped he would be enough.