Fifteen Rules For The Midnight Watchman | Part 2
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Travel is all about choosing your own adventure. With your Chase Sapphire Reserve Card, sometimes that means a ski trip at a luxury lodge in the Swiss Alps.

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"That?" I look at the goo and laugh. "That was an overt attack. Once that happens, you do not need to ask three questions or give three warnings or worry about second chances or mercy. Once an attack happens, all bets are off." "What rule number is that?" he asks. "Ten," I say. "Seven is assume nothing. Eight is anyone within this guardhouse has sanctuary. Nine is report violations immediately.

"Report? You have to make reports?" he asks. "We all answer to someone," I say. Speaking of, I lean over and pick up the telephone handset. "Hello, watchman. How may I direct your call?" the voice on the other end says. "Violations department," I say. "Please hold." The operator responds. Several loud clicks sting my ear, but I don't pull the handset away, despite how uncomfortable the noises are.

"Thank you by the way," I say to the young man as I wait for the connection to be made. "You saved my butt back there." "Of course," the young man responds. "It seemed like the right thing to do. Explain," I say. He frowns at me and I point at the handset. "This could take a while, so please tell me why it seemed like the right thing to do." "Well, you were in trouble," he says. "And?" "And you could have been killed," he says.

"And?" I repeat. "And those tentacles were from the other side and they did not have authorization to come through the gate so they had to be stopped." He says in one long breath. Then his eyes go wide and he blinks at me a few times. "I don't know why I said all that." "Because it's true." I say. Then hold up a finger. "Midnight Watchmen, state your location." A voice says on the other end of the line.

Despite my decades of experience, I have yet to decipher the gender or species belonging to the voice. It merely sounds like gravel being crushed under a car's tires while it flees a burning town, or something like that. "Gate 2," I reply to the voice. "Midnight Watchmen of Gate 2, please report your violation," the voice says.

A grub master, I say. It is camped out directly on the other side of the gate and has assaulted and killed a traveler.

"An authorized traveler?" the voice asks. "Donald Connolly," I say. "He was on the list and going to the eve of the-" "His destination is unimportant." The voice interrupts. "You say this Donald Connolly is deceased?" "Yes," I reply. "His body is now hanging from a tree on the other side of the-" "The location of the corpse is unimportant." The voice interrupts again. "Has the gruffmaster been pacified? Is the gate closed and undamaged?"

"All is good now," I say. "Thanks to tonight's observer." "Elaborate," the voice says. "The observer intervened and was able to free me from one of the Grub Master's tentacles," I say. "Very brave of him." "Noted," the voice says. "Is there any additional information you wish to report?" "No, that is," I start to say, but I'm met with a loud buzzing in my ear as the call is cut off.

I hang up the phone and look at the goo-coated window. "I should clean that," I say. I grab the door's handle but stop as a loud knocking fills the guardhouse. "Oh dear," the young man says. "What's that?" "Dinner, I suppose," I say and open the door. A short, cloaked, and hooded figure is standing there with the steaming delivery bag in its gloved hands.

It holds out the bag, and I take it with a nod of my head. "Empty this on the table while I get it a tip," I say. "Okay," the young man says, and warily takes the bag from me as I turn to my desk. "Let's see," I say as I search my desk. "I have a half-pencil with a chewed-up eraser?" The cloaked figure hisses. The young man startles and moves as far away from the door as possible. I grin, but don't stop hunting for a tip.

"A piece of paper receipt from the handyman who came to fix the hole in the roof?" The cloaked figure waves its gloved hands at me. "No? Oh, yes. I forgot." I pluck the item from the top of the desk and hand it to the cloaked figure. It snatches the bent and twisted paperclip from me and clutches it to its chest, then holds a hand out to the young man. "It needs the delivery bag back," I say.

"Oh, right, of course," the young man says, and picks up the bag from the table. He stands there, looking from me to the bag and back. "Well, hand it over," I say and point at the cloaked figure. "It has other deliveries to make." The cloaked figure hisses in agreement. "Sorry," the young man says and basically shoves the bag at the cloaked figure. Despite being unable to see its face or eyes or any feature under its hood,

I can tell the cloaked figure is rolling its eyes. I assume it has eyes. I've never seen them personally. The cloaked figure takes the bag and slinks off to its moped. The small rack on the back of the moped is piled 20 feet high with delivery bags. The figure gets the moped turned around and putters off into the night. "What was it?" the young man asks once the moped is lost from sight.

"I'm sorry?" I ask as I close the door and turn to the food on the table. "The delivery driver," the young man explains. "What was it? Who? Todd?" I reply. I open one of the containers and take a big sniff. "Well, I'll be. Isn't that nice? I rarely get Italian. Looks like pesto fettuccine in this container." "Todd?" the young man asks. "Its name is Todd?"

"Yes, it was on its cloak, didn't you see?" I say, and open the second container. "Shrimp scampi! We are lucky tonight, that's for sure!" Without bothering to open the last two containers, I dish myself up some scampi and some fettuccine. "But what was it?" the young man asks, his voice shrill. "Calm down," I say as I take a big bite of pasta. "Todd's a wraith, just like all delivery drivers. Haven't you gotten food delivered in the city?"

The young man stands there looking stunned. "Well, yeah, but I never see them," he says. "They always leave the food on the front steps then leave." "Can't do that out here," I say around another mouthful of pasta. "You leave food out and it attracts things." "Like that tentacle thing you had to call about?" the young man asks. "What did you call it?" "A grub master?"

"They're the worst," I say, as I swallow my third huge mouthful. "Oh, this is so good. They really pulled out the stops tonight. Usually it's peanut butter sandwiches, a persimmon, and sometimes crab chips. This Grubmaster," the young man continues. "This Grubmaster? Are there more of them?" He's not going to let this go. Alright, he asks questions. I have answers. "Tons more," I say.

They're all over the road to hell. You can find them lurking close by any of the gates. But this one decided to attack a traveler. Why? The young man asks. A very good question, I say. We eat for a minute or two. I feel better after a little food is in my belly. I'm more willing to, well, help isn't the right word. Assist? Yes. More willing to assist the young man with his future. Which rule are we on? I ask.

"Eleven," the young man says. "Rule 11. Are you sure it's not 12?" I reply, testing him. "It's 11," the young man says. "Are you sure?" I ask. "Yes," the young man replies, getting irritated. "Ten was once an attack happens, all bets are off. But you didn't say what 11 was." That shrillness is returning, and I wonder if maybe he's been through too much. I had hopes for this one, but sometimes they don't work out.

"Always tip the delivery driver," I say, and set my bowl down. "I didn't say that?" "No," the young man insists. "Interesting," I say, amused at his irritation. "He's starting to care." I look up from my plate and see the young man is staring at the food containers. "Is there a problem?" I ask. "I just didn't realize Wraiths delivered all the food in the city," he says. "And that is a problem because," I ask.

"Is it sanitary?" he asks. I can't help but laugh at him. "What's so funny?" he snaps. He's annoyed, obviously, but I don't particularly care. It's been a weird night, which means it will only get weirder. That's not a formal rule, but it is a personal rule. When shit gets weird at the gate, like a grubmaster going rogue, then odds are the night will just get weirder.

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The young man is glaring at me while I laugh. I shake my head and take a breath. "Sorry," I say. "To answer your question, yes, the food is sanitary. That's why wraiths are used. No one can tamper with the food if it is being delivered by a wraith. Is that rule 13?" he asks. "What?" "No," I reply. "Or maybe it is."

"But it's not a Midnight Watchmen rule. It could be a Wraith rule. I have no idea if they have formalized rules or not. All I know is, once a Wraith takes possession of the food, then it cannot harm the individual it is being delivered to." "What if it's poisoned before the Wraith takes it?" he asks. "Holy Hades, kid!" I exclaim. "Do I look like a Wraith? Ask the Wraith Guild what their rules are. I don't keep up with that. I have my own job to do."

I glance at the window and at the purple goo. "Speaking of," I say and set my food down. "I need to clean that off." "Is it safe to go out there?" he asks. "Never," I say. "Is that another rule?" he asks. "No, that's life," I say and leave the guardhouse. I take a deep breath of the night air and let it out slowly. The young man is starting to wear on me. He dealt with Donald fine.

He hasn't gone crazy listening to the rules like most have. He was cool and collected and saved my ass from the Grubmaster. It wasn't until the Wraith showed up that he started to lose it a little. Fetching a bucket from the side of the guardhouse, I walk to a puddle of water off to the side of the road. The puddle never dries up and it never gets larger. It simply is a puddle by the side of the road forever.

After filling the bucket from the puddle, I walk back to the guardhouse and toss the contents onto the purple goo. Only some of the goo washes off which is what I expected, but the water will at least neutralize any burning effects when I wipe the window clean. So I fetch a rag from the same spot where I fetched the bucket and get to wiping. Cleaning the window takes a while, a long while.

The goo fights the rag and tries to slither back up onto the glass. But this isn't the first time I've had to clean up after a grub master, so I know the proper strokes and technique needed to stay one wipe ahead of the goo. Occasionally, between wipes, I steal a glance inside at the young man. He still isn't eating. I can understand if his stomach is a little off due to the evening's events, but if it is the wraith thing, then that will be a problem.

It takes two more buckets of puddle water and about three hours of wiping before I have the window as clean as it needs to be so the guardhouse can properly protect itself. Stepping inside the guardhouse, I'm not surprised to see that the young man is still sitting there staring at the food. "The good thing about quality Italian food is that it tastes great cold," I say as I close the door and take my hat off to wipe my forehead. I worked up a good sweat cleaning that window.

The young man doesn't say anything to me. He only stares at the food. Maybe he is already broken, and it was more of a slow break like when you bend a green branch until it finally tears and snaps. "Care to know what rule number 12 is?" I ask, and lean back against the desk, my arms crossed. As I study the young man, he's paler than he was directly after the Grubmaster attack. It has to be the Wraith. "Sure," the young man says, still staring at the food.

"Deal with your issues," I say. There's no response. "Did you hear me?" I ask. "Yes," he replies, eyes still glued to the food. "Deal with all issues." "No," I say and move over to him. I snap my fingers right in his face and he jumps. Then he shakes his head and looks up at me. "There you are. Welcome back. I was," he begins to say, then closes his mouth and shakes his head again. "You were what?" I say.

and we're going to get to the bottom of it, because I just told you what rule 12 is. Deal with the issues," he says. "Again, no," I say. "Rule 12 is deal with your issues. Your issues. Yours." "What does that mean?" he asks. "Like with the wraiths," I say. "You have issues with the wraiths for some reason. That's something you need to deal with." "Me?" he asks.

Rule 12 isn't for me. None of the rules are. They're for you. They're for the midnight watchman. After staring at him for a couple of seconds, I nod, smile, and return to lean against the desk. Okay, I say. Do you want to know my issues? Only if you want to share them, he says. He clumsily tries to move the containers of food so we can get his electronics set back up.

I only lean and watch. Whatever state he's in, it's his mental state, not mine. "The cord," he says when he finally manages to clear enough room for his microphone and his rectangle. "The mic cord? Where is it?" "On the floor there by your feet," I say, and point to a spot under the table. The young man leans down and picks up the cord. His whole body deflates at the sight of the cord.

"It's ruined," he says as he holds the cord up for me to see. "Some of the goo got on it and ate through the plastic." He stands up and rushes at me. I almost grab for my nightstick. "Do you have tape in the desk?" he asks. "I can repair the cord with some tape." "No, you can't," I say, but move aside so he can look anyway. "Sure I can," he says when he finds the tape. "Masking tape. Not the best, but it should work temporarily."

"You can't repair that cord," I say. "It's already been corrupted." "No, no, I can fix it," he says. He puts the cord in his mouth and tears back some of the melted plastic until he has a clear section that shows only the wires within. I watch him wrap the tape around and around the exposed wires until they are lost from sight. It's less amusing than sad to watch the young man desperately hold onto his notion of self.

He's here to make a podcast, and a podcast is what he is going to do. I don't have the heart to tell him otherwise, so I lean back and observe as he gets everything connected and running once more. "There we go!" he announces triumphant. "It's recording!" "Is it?" I ask. "What's it recording? What do you mean?" he replies. "I mean just what I asked," I say. "What is it recording?" "Us," he says.

"Are you sure about that?" I counter. He frowns then presses a button on the rectangle. The red light turns off. Then he unplugs the mic and holds the rectangle up as he presses a different button. The screeches, clicks, hisses and roars that represent the garbled language of the Grubmaster fill the guardhouse. The young man's eyes go wide. "This must have been recorded earlier," he says. "Hold on." He presses the button again and the noise stops.

I patiently watch him fiddle with his electronics before he presses a button again and the red light comes back on. "Say something," he says and points at the microphone. "Say anything. I'm testing the gear so I can show you that the splice works." "You're testing something, alright," I say and push off from the desk. I lean in close to the mic. "This recording is corrupted. It will not sound like this when it is played back." I return to my spot at the desk and smile at the young man.

"Go ahead," I say and nod at his rectangle. "Play it." "I will," he responds defiantly. He presses the button again. It would be cruel of me to laugh at the look on his face when the garbled Grubmaster language screeches from the rectangle. "What is this?" the young man asks. "That is me," I say. "But because the chord is corrupted, what I said has been translated into the language of the Grubmasters."

It doesn't matter what you record or how you record it. As long as you use that chord, that is what it will sound like.

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He frowns at the rectangle, then turns it off. "I didn't bring another cord," he says. "I had a feeling that might be the case." "Oh well. I'm sure you have plenty of good words from earlier in the night, but I'm supposed to record an entire shift," he says. With a kind smile on my face, I say, "That's not possible." "What do you mean?" he asks. "That's my assignment. I was supposed to come here and stay for an entire shift, recording everything that happens.

"Who gave you this assignment?" I ask. "I, uh, the city?" he says. It sounds like a question. "Let's forget the recording for now," I say. I can tell he's getting ramped up, and I don't want him to snap. We're so close. "I never finished with rule 12." "But I can't record it," he says. "Doesn't matter," I say. I don't add that it never did. Again, I'm trying to be as kind as possible to the young man.

"Can I write it down?" he asks, and looks past me to the desk. "I'd rather you didn't," I say. "This is just between you and me, understood?" He pauses, then nods. "Good," I say. "Rule 12: Deal with your issues." I look out the window and scan the scene. There's nothing unusual that I can see. "When I was about your age," I say as I continue to look out the window. "I did something I'm not proud of."

The words almost get caught in my throat. I'm not expecting it to be so hard to tell this story. "I had a wife and two children," I continue. "One boy and one girl. Twins, in fact. Born on a full moon. Auspicious if you'd asked me then. Cursed if you ask me now. Is that movement outside behind the gate? Is the Grubmaster back? Did it call for some friends to come help? I keep my eyes on the gate as I tell my story.

I had the most beautiful family, I say. My wife was amazing. I couldn't have been more proud of my children. Our life in our cabin in the woods was idyllic. "You didn't live in the city?" The young man asks. "No," I say. "We lived in the forest, and our life was perfect." "Until?" The young man asks. I smirk and snort. "You picked up on that, did you?" I say in a nod. "Yes, until."

I still see some movement behind the gate, but I can't quite make out what it is. It's keeping its distance, at least. One day, as these tales often go, I was out chopping firewood in the forest, I say. A mile or so from the cabin, I had just finished for the day and was packing up my sled when a woman appeared. The memory stings even after so much time has passed. "The woman is gorgeous," I continue.

even more so than my wife, which is saying a lot, believe me. Dressed in only flowing silks, she moved through the trees like a vision from above. A flurry of movement from behind the gate occurs when I mention "above." I remember she spoke to me, but I cannot recall the words, I say. All I know is what she said sounded perfect to my ears, and when she disrobed, I knew I had been chosen for something great and wonderful.

"You didn't?" The young man interrupts. "I did," I reply. "I made love to that woman all night long. I stank of her when I returned to my cabin at dawn. My wife was furious. She could smell the woman on me, and she railed and screamed and threw things at me. I tried to explain that what had happened was a gift, not a betrayal, but my wife was having none of that. The children were screaming and crying as we argued. I stop and swallow hard.

Then I took my axe and stopped all the screaming, I say. I stopped all the crying. I look back at the young man, and his eyes are wide and tears are running down his cheeks. The wide eyes I expected. The tears, I did not. I buried them that morning, and then went inside and fell fast asleep. I continue, my eyes on his. When I awoke, the woman was sitting in my wife's rocking chair, tending to the fire in the hearth.

Except, she wasn't the woman I saw the night before. She was the same, yes. But the woman I was looking at when I woke up was an old hag in soiled burlap. Not a gorgeous young woman in flowing silks. "A witch," the young man states. "A witch," I reply. And not one of the good ones. This one had taken everything from me. My willpower, my love for my family, my everything.

The young man nods and I'm surprised by the gesture. "Did she speak to you?" the young man asks. "She did," I reply. "She told me I could stay with her if I liked. I would be her servant, her toy, her plaything, and she would be my new everything." "What did you do?" the young man asks. "I got up from the bed that I used to share with my wife, fetched my axe, and chopped her into a hundred pieces," I say. "Just like I did with my family."

Did you agree to that? The young man asks.

I chopped up the young woman too, I say. And I did that every night for a full month. I chopped up the hag. I chopped up the young woman. I chopped up every single form she took. And I burned all of her in that hearth. There's no movement from behind the gate. But soon my attention is drawn down the road. I see the mist forming and know what is coming. When I finally realized she would not relent, I say and pick up my nightstick.

I grab the clipboard and tuck it under my arm. "Is there a problem?" the young man asks. I hold up my hand to silence him and continue. When I realized she would come to my cabin every night until the end of time, I did the only thing I could think of to do. I burned my cabin down to the foundation that day, and then I sat in the ashes to wait. I open the door and step out into the night. "She never returned," I say.

I wandered the forest for weeks until someone from the city happened upon me and took pity. A week after that, I had this position. "Where are you going?" The young man asks as I walk out onto the road and watch the mist get closer and closer. "Do you understand rule 12?" I ask over my shoulder. "I think so." He replies. "I don't know. Honesty is the best way forward." I say. "Is that an official rule or one of your personal ones?" He asks.

"Personal," I say. "I've learned from experience. You will never go far in this job if you keep lying to yourself. It was decades upon decades before I could face what I did and tell that story to myself without lying." "I'm sorry, but how many decades?" he asks, confused. "Never mind that," I say, and aim my chin at the approaching mist. "Time for rule number 13. The mist parts and the procession appears.

"Who are they?" the young man asks. "The Procession of the Damned," I say. Every night, the mist will appear and out of the mist, the Damned will walk toward the gate. "Rule 13 is we must do whatever it takes to protect the Procession until it passes through the gate." "What about the Grubmaster?" the young man asks. "Yes, that has thrown a wrinkle into the evening," I reply. "But it's part of the job. Six columns of people get closer and closer.

Each column is at least 30 people deep. "Are there always so many?" the young man asks. I laugh at all his questions, then look back at him and smile. He hasn't stepped foot outside the guardhouse. "This is average," I say as I turn and go to the gate. "Some nights, there are three or four times this many. Some nights, there are only three or four people in the whole procession. It all depends on how many die in the week and how many of them are damned for all time."

"Why aren't you checking them off the list?" the young man asks. "I don't need to," I say. "If someone is in the mix that is not supposed to be, the checklist will tell me. Is that a rule?" the young man asks.

More like a function of the rule, I reply. So all of these people will automatically be allowed through the gate? The young man asks. Yes, I reply as I bring my hands up in that language I do not understand. I recite the words that were taught to me so many decades ago. For the second time tonight, there is a flash of light around the gate and then a loud clang as the lock disengages and the two halves swing outward toward me.

as I am supposed to. I stand aside and wait as the procession reaches me. "Hey!" The young man calls from the doorway. "It's that thing again!" "How dare you call me that?" A voice shouts from inside the procession. "Dammit!" "Grinlow!" I yell from the side of the procession just as the clipboard vibrates under my arm. The young man was faster than the clipboard. This bodes well for all.

"You do not have authorization to pass through the gate!" I yell at Grimlo. "I gave you your chance! There is no second one!" None of the damned notice the dispute. Their dead, milky eyes are locked onto the gate opening as they walk in step with each other toward their fate. I press my way through the columns until I find Grimlo amongst them. It sneers at me with its stretched face. "Perhaps some of the damned would like to be double-damned, Midnight Watchman," Grimlo says.

With a flick of its thin wrist, it produces a deadly sharp blade. "Take another step toward me and I will begin to slit throats." "They are already dead," I say to the thing. "You cannot kill them twice." "But I can defile their bodies before they reach damnation," Grimlo says. "The Lord of Hell does not like the damned to be defiled by anyone other than he." "And you believe this action will grant you passage through the gate, Grimlo?" I ask and move closer. "You are a fool."

It is you who are the fool, watchman! The thing yells as it strikes out at the closest of the damned with its blade. I block the strike easily with my nightstick, and the blade falls to the ground. The feet of the passing damned kick the blade along the road, well out of reach of Grimlo. The thing watches the blade until it is lost from sight. Then it turns its face upon me and tips its top hat. My apologies, it says. I shall retreat once again.

"No," I say as the columns of the procession flow around us. "You had your chance earlier. And what is rule number six?" "No mercy, no second chances," the young man says from the guardhouse. "You heard the lad," I say and raise my nightstick high into the air. "But I am retreating! I am retreating!" Grimlo cries as it turns and tries to run. Except, the columns do not part for its escape.

The damned stay tightly lined up, and no matter how much Grimlo struggles to shove its way through them, it makes no progress. With its back to me, I bring the nightstick down on that top hat, crushing its slender, pointed skull underneath. Grimlo falls to the road and rolls over, its hands at the back of its head. It brings them around and stares at the blue blood that coats its fingers and palms. "You have undone me," he says.

"Not yet," I say and bring the nightstick down on its face. But soon, it cries for mercy that it shall never receive. I stop after the eighth blow to its head. The procession continues around us as Grimlo's body melts into a pool of pestilence, then seeps through the cracks in the road, lost and gone forever. "Now you are undone," I say, and make my way out of the procession.

I walk over to the guardhouse to explain to the young man what he just witnessed. But, surprisingly, the young man's attention is not on me. It's on the gate and the procession moving through it. "I saw movement," the young man says. "The Grubmaster is back and it brought friends." I race to the side of the gate and peer through, but my eyes do not see anything.

Then one of the damned is plucked from the road and thrown high into the black and dead trees. It lands next to Donald's hanging body. "Son of a bitch!" I snarl and raise the nightstick. "Stop that at once!" More tentacles shoot out of the darkness, and more of the damned are snatched up and thrown into the trees. "Is there nothing you can do?" the young man asks. "No," I say. "That side of the gate is not within the Midnight Watchman's jurisdiction. We are as helpless as the damned.

"But Rule 10 is once an attack happens, all bets are off," the young man says. "So jurisdiction doesn't matter anymore." "On this side of the gate, yes," I say, and watch as more of the damned are flung into the tree branches, left to hang like dead and rotting fruit. "But I can only protect the damned on this side of the gate. If the tentacles cross the gate again, then I can take them on. But an attack on the other side is beyond my abilities.

Ridiculous, the young man says. There has to be something we can do. I grin when he says, we. Rule number nine, I say and walk back into the guardhouse. Rule number nine, he says as I push past him, toss the clipboard on the desk and grab for the telephone. Report violations immediately. I lift the phone and go through the routine. While I wait to be connected, I study the young man. He is intently watching the violence being perpetrated against the damned.

It appears that while I study him, he is studying the Grubmasters. "I know what to do," he says and goes to his electronics. I do not see what he does next as I am caught up in reporting what is happening. The voice on the other end is as abrupt and dismissive as usual, although there does seem to be a slight spark of interest due to it being the procession of the damned being violated and not some individual passing through the gate alone.

I can hear the young man saying something into his microphone, but again, my attention is on the voice on the other end of the phone. When I hang up, I frown as the young man disconnects his electronics and walks past me. He steps out of the guardhouse and approaches the gate. "What are you doing?" I ask as I follow him. The procession is almost done, and only a handful of the damned have made it past the gauntlet of Grubmaster Tentacles. The young man holds up his rectangle and presses a button.

The language of the Grub Master erupts from the rectangle, and the tentacles freeze in mid-attack. "It's working!" the young man says to me, his voice filled with excitement. He keeps playing the recording of his corrupted voice. The tentacles release the dam they hold, then they pause.

After a few more seconds, the tentacles begin to pluck the damned from the trees. They leave Donal up there, but the young man takes a step closer to the gate and holds the rectangle out, his hand almost crossing the threshold. "Careful," I say, ready to snatch him back if he dares move an inch more. A tentacle plucks Donal's body from the tree and sets it on the road inside the gate.

The retrieved bodies of the damned pick themselves up and continue their journey toward their fate in hell. The young man stands his ground when the tentacles disappear and do not reappear for at least five minutes. The young man presses the button on the rectangle and turns to smile at me. "I figured it out," he says. "What did you figure out?" I ask as I lead him away from the gate so it does not close on us. "Rule number seven," he says. "Assume nothing."

"I don't understand," I admit. "The Grubmasters," the young man says, and takes a seat in the doorway of the guardhouse. "We assumed they were adults, but they weren't. They were adolescent Grubmasters. How did you know?" I ask, impressed. "They were playing with the damned," the young man continues. "Like children play with insects." I put my hat back on and grin at the young man. "Very good," I say. "I missed that entirely."

Then I point at the rectangle. "So what did you say in the recording?" "I knew that it would be translated into their language, so I acted like an angry adult," the young man says. "I gave them a proper chewing out. Then I told them to put the damned back. Then I told them to put Donald back." I look over my shoulder at Donald's body as it lies motionless on the other side of the gate. "That was generous of you, but I believe Donald is beyond help," I say.

"That's too bad," he says. "Other than wanting to tear me apart and eat me." He seemed nice. "Something will come along and fetch his corpse," I say. "But I cannot say when. It may be tonight. It could be a millennium from now. Hell works on its own schedule when it comes to these things." I return my attention to the young man, and then remember something. "Crap," I say, and rush over to the clipboard. The checklist has dots of blue blood on it, but they'll be gone before long.

It's not the first time the clipboard has been through battle. "Rule number 14," I say, and wave the clipboard at the young man. "No one goes through the gate unless they are on the clipboard. Grimlo knew better and paid the price." "But how does that work with the damned?" the young man asks. "I don't understand that part. The damned are pre-checked in the city by one of the above's emissaries," I say. "The procession is only our responsibility when it concerns rule 13."

"Do whatever it takes to protect the procession until it passes through the gate," the young man says. "Exactly," I say. "I should call this in." "Why?" the young man asks. "You already reported the violation. The procession has made it through the gate, and the damned are on their way to their fate. Job accomplished." I stare at him, puzzled. "He's right."

That is a correct interpretation, I say. Maybe that is why I am treated so poorly when I call. Perhaps I have overreacted too many times. The midnight watchman who cried wolf, the young man says and laughs. I smile and clap him on the shoulder. Then I step past him and set the clipboard back where it goes. I also set the nightstick where it goes. Once the items of my profession are in their proper places, I take off my coat and my hat.

I give the guardhouse one last look before I step past the young man again and out onto the road. "What are you doing?" the young man asks as I hand him my coat and hat. "Why are you giving me these?" "My shift is over," I say and shrug. "Well, almost. Can you recite the rules as you have learned them?" "Um, probably," he says, still confused by my gift of the coat and hat. "Then do so," I say.

He clears his throat and says, "One is, you are the midnight watchman and nothing else. Two is never leave your post. Three is if you hear or see something, you count to 12, wait and observe, then investigate. Four is always keep your nightstick with you when you leave the watchman's house." He pauses and glances over his shoulder at where the nightstick rests. "Don't worry about that," I say. "Keep going." "All right," he says warily, but does continue.

5 is 3 warnings, 3 questions. Nothing else. 6 is no mercy, no second chances. 7 is assume nothing. 8 is anyone inside the guardhouse has sanctuary. 9 is report violations immediately. 10 is once an attack happens, all bets are off. He stops and swallows hard. "11 is always tip the delivery, Wraith," he says with emotion in his voice. "12 is deal with your issues.

He closes his eyes and shakes his head then he opens his eyes and looks directly at me. "13 is do whatever it takes to protect the procession until it passes through the gate. 14 is only those on the checklist are allowed through the gate, no exceptions." "Excellent." I say and look past him. "Can you fetch the clipboard please?" "Yeah, sure." He says, setting the coat and hat down on the steps as he stands up. He reaches in and grabs the clipboard then starts toward me.

"Don't forget the nightstick," I say. Without even questioning my comment, he reaches back and grabs the nightstick as well. "Here you go," he says, and holds both items out to me. "No, they aren't for me anymore," I say. "You should put the coat and hat on." Again, without question, he does what I ask. "Now you look proper," I say, and cock my head toward the gate. "Care to do the honors?" "Me?" he asks. "You," I say.

He nods and follows me over to the gate. "What are we doing?" he asks. "Take a look at the clipboard," I say. "There should be a name at the top. Read it to me." He glances down and says, "Paul Verdon." I close my eyes at the mention of a name I have not heard in so very long. Then I open my eyes and look at the young man. "The 15th rule is your shift ends, when your replacement learns all of the rules," I say.

"Oh," the young man says, then he gets it. "Oh!" "If you will be so kind," I say, and nod at the gate. In a language neither of us understands, the young man recites the words that I taught to him just this night. There is a flash of light around the gate, then a loud clang as the lock disengages, and the two halves swing outward toward me. I walk through the gate and onto the path of my true fate. But I turn first to look at the young man.

"You know my name, but I never did learn yours," I say. "I'm the Midnight Watchman," he says. "Nothing else?" "As it should be," I say and start to turn. But I pause and give the Midnight Watchman one last look. "A word of advice? Pay special attention to rule number 12. Deal with your issues," the Midnight Watchman says. "That," I respond. "I have a feeling your parents didn't just die."

The same as with how my family didn't just die. "Thank you for the advice," the midnight watchman says to me. "Good luck, Paul Verdon. I think my luck has run out," I say as I turn to face the road to hell. I start walking and don't look back even when I hear the gate close behind me.