‘Beware the stone scribe!’

I read the words again. Usually most gravestones have ‘I love you.’ or ‘Don’t feel good…’ on them. Even my dads stone had ‘I adore you.’ On it in neat lettering.

The stone scribe was a small figure that I had seen maybe three times before.

During a burial it would materialise from nowhere, draped in moss and twigs, only about three feet high. It had blue shells for eyes, worn and cracked but somehow seeing.

One long skeleton hand would emerge, bearing only three fingers.

It would silently glide over the ground and to the gravestone where it’s one intact finger wrote the last words.

Sometimes they came as a surprise, secrets exposed to shocked families. Most times more tears would be shed before the figure retreated into the distance.

Why would someone say that about such a small fragile creature?

I visit my dads grave the next year and hear a noise muffled by snow.

I only glance over but I can see it so clearly -

The stone scribe, devouring a person.

It looks up at my gasp, drops the corpse, and begins to head my way…