Watchdog

A Horror Story

Photo by Lucas Santos on Unsplash

When I was a mere boy of twelve years, impoverished and cold, I roamed the shadowy streets of Violshire, hunger gnawing at my empty belly. My tattered rags clung to my fragile frame and the chill of the night wind pierced the threadbare garments.

My days in the darkened recesses within the city were aimless, devoid of purpose. My time around the other children had been tough. They hadn’t much involved me in their plans, except when they got rough and didn’t want a challenge of course. One day I chanced upon a peculiar establishment with an air of antiquity. It had weathered walls, a faded sign that creaked on rusty hinges and swung eerily in the wind, revealing the words, “Mr S. Crope, Purveyor of Curiosities."

Drawn by an unseen force, I found myself repeatedly passing by its grimy windows, each pane revealing a myriad of forgotten treasures with secrets long lost.

Day after day, my gaze was inevitably drawn to a dull pocket watch nestled behind the glass. This particular timepiece possessed a charm of its own, adorned with an intricate engraving of a hound — a symbol of unwavering loyalty and companionship. The hound's eyes, painted with an uncanny yellow hue that contrasted the aged exterior, seemed to flicker with a mysterious light that stirred something deep within me. I could not resist the pull it exerted upon my soul, and so my eyes remained locked upon it, captivated like a moth to an ethereal flame.

It was on one fateful day, as if the fabric of time itself had conspired to orchestrate our meeting, that the proprietor of the establishment emerged from the shadowed recesses within. He regarded me with eyes that bore the burden of time and spoke of mysteries buried deep within.

‘Looking to buy something?’ he asked, his voice tinged with a hint of suspicion.

‘No, Sir. Just looking is all.’ I replied meekly, my eyes downcast.

‘Hmmm. I've seen you looking an awful lot,’ he remarked, a corner of his mouth curling up ever so slightly. ‘Not a thief, are you? You know what happens to thieves?’ he queried, his gaze piercing.

‘Oh, no, Sir. I wouldn't steal from you,’ I stammered, my voice trembling with genuine fear.

‘Hmmm,’ he grumbled, his eyes boring into mine. Another prolonged pause ensued, stretching out like an eternity before he finally spoke again. ‘It's the watch, isn't it?’ he asked, his tone weighted with understanding.

I could only nod in response, my throat tight with anticipation.

‘It…’ I began, struggling to articulate the inexplicable pull the watch had on me.

‘It what?’ he pressed, his eyes gleaming with a mixture of curiosity and amusement.

‘It's... nice, is all,’ my voice barely above a whisper.

With a deliberate and calculated movement, the old man stepped inside his shop, disappearing momentarily from view. He reappeared clutching the coveted timepiece in his bony hand. Without a word, he pressed the pocket watch into my dirt-streaked palm, its weight both tangible and symbolic. His voice, laced with wisdom and melancholy, resonated in the stillness of the moment. ‘Take it, child.’

Fear mingled with curiosity, and a wave of hesitation washed over me. ‘I have nothing to offer as payment,’ I confessed, my voice trembling with vulnerability.

The man remained silent, his gaze fixed upon me with an intensity that seemed to penetrate my very being.

My resolve crumbled under the weight of his scrutiny. Temptation overwhelmed caution, and I succumbed to the alluring unseen force that had drawn me here. "Thank you," I whispered, my voice barely audible.

‘Guard it, and be guarded,’ were his departing words, the cryptic meaning I would come to learn.

I withdrew from the vicinity of the shop, conscious that ownership of something of value would make me an easy target in a city where survival often meant fending off those who sought to take from the vulnerable. I sought solace in a secluded spot where I could safely examine the watch. Its weight was surprisingly light in my hands, yet the value it held seemed immeasurable compared to any of my past possessions.

Tentatively, my fingers wound the intricate mechanism, as though breathing life into the dormant artefact. The engraved eyes upon the watch's face began to glow with an otherworldly radiance. At that moment, as if summoned by eldrich enchantments, a chilling presence swirled then coalesced in the shadows. From the darkness emerged a monstrous form — a colossal hound, with fangs sharp as daggers and eyes ablaze with that same eerie luminosity that danced within the watch.

Instinctively, I recoiled in terror, my heart pounding in my chest. I knew not the nature of this spectral apparition that stood before me, but to my astonishment, the hound displayed no signs of malevolence. Sensing my fear, it approached me cautiously, its fearsome countenance softened by a strange tenderness. Nuzzling against me, it radiated an inexplicable warmth.

Summoning my courage, I reached out, my hand trembling as it met the hound's coarse black fur. It stood tall, towering over me, yet it lowered itself to the ground, allowing me to pet it. In that instant, a bond was forged between us — an unspoken language of trust.

‘You need a name,’ I murmured, my voice filled with a mix of awe and reverence.

The hound turned its gaze towards me, its eyes filled with a glimmer of understanding.

‘How about Balthazar?’ I suggested, watching for any sign of approval.

Its ears perked up, and a gentle wag of its tail confirmed my choice. ‘Balthazar, the guardian of forgotten souls,’ I declared with a newfound sense of conviction.

‘Let’s get you somewhere safe before The Order sees you.’

I set off to a place I thought we could hide and when I turned to call my new companion, he was gone. He vanished silently, with haste. Over and over, I called his name. There was no possibility that a creature of his size would be able to move through the city unnoticed for very long. If The Order were to catch him, I’d never see him again. Then the realisation came to me. Balthazar must be connected to the watch. I wound it and waited. The shadows bunched again and out stepped the huge hound. By what magic this was made possible, I knew not. But what I understood was that I could move through the city freely and call upon Balthazar when it was safe to do so.

As we ventured through the dimly lit streets, Balthazar became my unwavering companion — a loyal sentinel who stood guard against the cruelties of the city. With each moonlit night, we traversed the labyrinthine alleys, our shadows melding with the darkness, united.

One moonlit night, as I sought solace near a dilapidated cotton mill, a ruffian armed with a blade emerged from the gloom. His malicious intent was shrouded by the darkness, his laughter echoed off the mildewed mill walls.

But before he could lay his hands upon me, I wound the pocket watch. Balthazar manifested, his baleful gaze directed upon the assailant. He issued a long, low growl from deep within that sent shivers down my spine. He didn’t even take a step and the ruffian dropped his weapon and ran for his life into the city. Myself, with Balthazar padding beside me, took off in the opposite direction. His tongue draped over his ferocious fangs and dangled from the side of his mouth. His glowing eyes met mine and I laughed as we ran. He took greater and greater strides and moved ahead of me into the darkness. The padding of his powerful paws ceased, leaving me alone. But safe.

After that night I felt invincible. I’d never been safer in such a dangerous city than I was now that Balthazar was by my side.

Several days later, I was heading to a secluded spot to summon him when I ran into a gang of Scuttlers down a dim, narrow road. It was too late to avoid them and they didn’t like that I’d drifted into their territory.

They knew I didn’t belong but before I could react, their onslaught began. One of them knocked me down with a strike to the back of the head. White spots appeared in my vision. Blows rained down upon me, striking with merciless force, their belt buckles inflicting pain and injury. The first hit between my eyes, lacerating the flesh on my forehead. Another belt swung towards me but I managed to raise my hands. The buckle crashed into my knuckles, breaking the skin. Then the rest of the gang joined in, buckles hitting from every angle. I was overpowered, my frail form at the mercy of their sadistic whims. 

I scrambled for the pocket watch as my world darkened with the onslaught of their violence. It fell from my weakened grip and the words of the old man who gifted the watch came forth. Guard it, and be guarded. I flung myself on top of it as more blows reigned in. My fingers closed around the pocket watch and I turned the crown once more. In an instant, Balthazar manifested, his gaze alighting upon the assailants, his presence a harbinger of retribution. With a mighty growl that reverberated through the night, he lunged forth, teeth bared in an inescapable maw of ferocity.

The hound's vengeance was swift and unrelenting. He mowed down the nearest attacker, his fangs tearing through flesh, his claws mauling, a tempest of wrath that swept through the Scuttlers’ ranks. The cacophony of the Scuttlers' desperate cries sounded into the night. Each blow from Balthazar's powerful jaws brought retribution, tearing through flesh and bone, his claws leaving crimson trails in their wake. Each attacker met their grisly fate as their cries rang through the deserted streets. With every one of Balthazar’s attacks I was reminded of the times I’d been beaten and I let the sweet feeling of revenge flow through me. Blood stained the cobblestones, and the air hung heavy with the stench of death. Balthazar's wrath was an unstoppable force that swept away the danger. One of the last living attackers was picked up between his jaws with ease and shaken to death like a rat.

As the last of the assailants fell, their malice extinguished, Balthazar turned his attention to my battered form. His eyes shimmered with an unexpected tenderness, his instincts urging him to tend to my wounds. With gentle licks, he caressed my injuries, his touch carrying a mysterious healing energy that soothed my body. Satisfied with his ministrations, he withdrew into the inky depths from whence he came, leaving me frozen with shock yet grateful for the respite from the savagery that had befallen me. Over the course of a few moments, my injuries began to heal. The slashes closed, the pain receded, and time passed.

I didn’t think I’d ever learn of how the watch and Balthazar came to be connected. Nor did I think I would know how he was able to heal me. Questions whirled around my mind about the old man from the antique shop and what information he had about the watch.

With a sense of purpose, I resolved to seek answers to the enigma that surrounded the pocket watch and its spectral guardian. The memory of the antique shop and its elderly proprietor remained etched in my mind, like whispers from a distant realm. I embarked on a journey through the city, retracing my steps in search of the shop and the man who had gifted me this extraordinary companion.

But as I arrived at the spot where the shop once stood, a sense of desolation engulfed me. The storefront had vanished, replaced by an empty shell — a mere reminder of the ethereal encounter that had shaped my destiny. It was as if the shop itself had been an illusion sensitive to time, woven by unseen forces to set me on this extraordinary path.

With an anguished heart, I realised that the shop and its mysterious owner had been mere phantoms, wisps of the ethereal realm, as transient as a wisp of smoke. They had graced my path for but a fleeting moment. I began to question if the attack I endured that evening was a reality as I had no observable injuries since Balthazar tended to me. Yet, in my soul, I knew that the watch, my faithful companion Balthazar, and our journey were not but figments of my own mind.

A heavy burden now lay upon my young shoulders — an understanding that the forces that dwell beyond the veil of mortal comprehension are not always meant to be comprehended. I carried the weight of the supernatural within the confines of the watch's mysterious mechanism. And so, I embarked upon a new path, clutching the pocket watch as a reminder of the macabre bond that had both saved and forever changed my destitute existence. And as proof to myself of the bond that can be formed between the mortal and the supernatural.

In the whispers of this forsaken city, the legend of a homeless boy and his spectral hound, Balthazar, would endure — an inscrutable tale woven within the fabric of Violshire and told through the streets, forever concealed within the shadows of forgotten antiquity.

Balthazar, the guardian of forgotten souls. My watchdog.