It was the worst part of Sam's day.  Every day.  Each and every weekday afternoon, around five minutes after three o'clock.  That inevitable moment in which he had to daily force himself to kill his survival instinct, clench his fists, set his jaw, and keep his feet shuffling, shuffling, shuffling forward, forward, forward past the end of Wall Street and around the corner to the right, following the slope of Hoover Avenue downhill to his home.  Sam had to traverse this same junction each morning as well, on his way to school -- which probably qualified for the second-worst part of his day -- but his mother usually walked with him in the mornings, and somehow it wasn't quite as scary with her.  Even though he was nine years old, a proud and powerful fourth grader, Sam would still instinctively reach for his mother's warm, soft hand as they summitted the hill and rounded the corner.  Most mornings, she would accept his extended hand, offering a warm, motherly, chicken-soup smile.  But lately, she had also been offering occasional remarks about how he was getting a bit too old for that and such.  This, of course, did nothing to diminish his anxiety.  He still took the hand whenever it was allowed, but he had been starting to realize that the day of reckoning would soon be coming, when he would have to endure the dreaded encounter by himself twice a day, every day, both on the way to and from school.

There was really no way to avoid the corner of Hoover and Wall, at least not without needing to cross four lanes of busy traffic or swimming across a river (though he had tried to convince his mother that these were viable options, as far as he was concerned).  Consequently, there was no way to avoid passing the old Dipp House.  And consequently, there was no way to avoid passing the hideous gray gargoyle beast that stood sentry over the corner downspout, closest to the street.

The Dipp House had been built years and years previously as one of the earliest permanent residences in the city of Greenville.  Sam's mother thought it was simply glorious, like a castle in which to live out every girl's princess fantasies.  Sam's father thought it was a magnificent specimen of Neo-Gothic architecture.  But Sam and all his friends thought it was just plain spooky.  They had heard the stories at school.  They clung heavily to every "eye-witness account" of a Halloween dare, a prom-night prank.  Kids reported strange sounds and strange lights flickering around the place at night.  Many parents flat-out told their children not to go anywhere near the old Dipp House.  Pete's grandpa said that the place had established its reputation even back in the days of his childhood -- something about scandal and torture and suicide.  The stories were enough to make one's skin crawl and one's mouth go dry -- and the Dipp House was intimidating even without the spooky stories!  The granite walls seemed impenetrable and impervious to sun, or rain, or wind, or fire.  The eaves were dark and shadowy, suggesting hidden creatures which came out only at night.  And worst of all were the gargoyles.  There must have been a dozen of them -- guarding the front entrance, laughing from the roof supports, sneering from each corner of the house.  Each gargoyle was unique, frightening and grotesque in its own way.  But the one at the corner closest to the junction of Hoover and Wall seemed, to Sam, to be the most terrible of them all.

Splayed out over the downspout, the gargoyle glared daily at Sam with stone eyes that seemed to track his motion as he walked past.  The gargoyle's gray, grimmacing teeth were irregularly sized and shaped -- like a crocodile that's toughened its embrasure by chewing on rocks for breakfast, every morning for the last 150 years.  Starting from the middle of the stone creature's forehead, a row of jagged spiny horns curved up to the crown of the stone head and down its back, all the way to its club-like tail.  A hooked beak-like nose framed flared nostrils that seemed to actually breathe if one looked closely enough.  The gargoyle's ears were pointed and prepared.  Every muscle in the petrified beast was tensed, sinewy, ready for action.  And so, it's not hard understand how Sam was convinced that the gargoyle was going to destroy him someday.  He had tried to talk himself out of this conclusion -- and heavens knows his parents had tried to reason with him as well... But Sam somehow knew beyond the shadow of a doubt that one of these times the gargoyle would smite him, jumping off of its ancient stone perch, ripping into his flesh, and chewing up his entrails right there at the corner of Hoover and Wall.  Sam knew in his deepest being that this would happen; he just didn't know when.

Thus, Sam understood that every afternoon was a step closer to death and destruction.  After school let out, he would march silently, like an obedient soldier, through the shady canopy of Maple Street, along the narrow sidewalk beside Wall Street, to his daily moment of destiny.  Thinking of a drummer's cadence -- like from an old Civil War movie -- helped him to be brave.  But without fail, he could not cross in front of the old Dipp House without a moment's pause.  He never could be sure, after all, if this day's crossing would be his last, fateful encounter with the hideous gargoyle of Hoover and Wall.

"Stay calm," Sam coached himself.  "Breathe in.  Breathe out.  Breathe in.  Breathe out."

He knew that he needed to keep his wits about him.  Somehow, he sensed that the gargoyle was like a killer-bee, like a rabid-guard-dog -- smelling fear, becoming incited by fear, feeding on fear and desperation and panic.  He knew that his calmness must be the key to his survival.  So crouching down but never taking his eyes off of the path in front of him, Sam picked up a stick which was hidden in the bushes just off to the side.  It was solid like a baseball bat but longer and slightly hooked at the end.  He intentionally averted his gaze away from the gargoyle and toward the mailbox at the corner, at the crest of the hill that would bring him home.

"Hail, Knight of the Woeful Countenance!"  He sang to himself.  He felt slightly emboldened by the sound of this title he had heard in an old musical that his parents liked to watch.   Assuming a slight British accent, he charged himself:  "Pick up your feet, brave knight!  Move forward to your destiny!"   He did his best to be chivalrous, unafraid, quixotic in his step -- but his knees rebelled.  His legs quivered and quaked.  He was involuntarily cemented to the concrete sidewalk.

"Don't panic.  Do - not - panic.  Just look straight ahead.  Just walk.  Breathe in.  Breathe out.  You can do this.  You can do this..." He said it, but felt the opposite.  "C'mon.  C'mon.  Let's do it.  Let's DO it!"

He started to shuffle forward.  Each movement of his legs, each shuffle of his feet felt like a monumental push forward -- the stuff that inspired balladeers to compose glorious histories-set-to-music -- but in truth, his progress could only be measured in centimeters.  His stomach never stopped fluttering.  His knees never stopped quivering.  But slowly, slowly -- incremental step by incremental step, he kept moving forward.  He could feel the gaze of the gargoyle, burning its hatred into his skull.  He knew its eyes were following him again, relentlessly, ominously.  But Sam would not let the gargoyle see his fear.  He couldn't let the gargoyle see his fear.

"Just - keep - moving - forward.  Do not look over to the side.  Do not let him see your fear.  Just keep moving."  The self-talk had a minimal effect, but it was better than nothing.

At some point, Sam started to feel hope rising within his chest, crossing the half-way point of his treacherous traversal.  He kept his stick extended in the direction of the gargoyle, now pointing perhaps half-past-three o'clock.  His steps were still labored and liquid, but he was making progress.  He was almost there.  The mailbox on the corner was just two arm-lengths in front of him.  But then -- in a tragic moment of doubt and indecision -- Sam shot an involuntary glance to his right.  Unwillingly, he locked his eyes into contact with the savage, stony eyes of the gargoyle, and fear flooded through his nervous system -- mounting exponentially, incredibly, to a state beyond panic.  Sam could actually feel the gargoyle's drool dripping onto his shoulder and his backpack.  Sam could actually feel the fiery breath of the gargoyle and smell the stench of rotting flesh carried on its wind.  Sam could actually see the jaws opening wider, the shoulders leaning forward.  And in the heat of that moment, the boy did what any boy would do.

He ducked his head and ran with all his strength.

*     *     *     *     *

Sam was never the same again after that fateful afternoon in front of the old Dipp House.  His mother asked him, interrogated him, implored him to tell her what had happened -- where those horrible gashes along the side of his face, across his shoulder, and down his back had come from.  What had bruised him so deeply.  What had seemingly ripped out fistfuls of his beautiful blond hair.  What had put that haunted look in her little boy's eye.

But she never got a word out of him.  And neither did his father.  Nor his teacher.  Nor the counselor.  Nor any of the other kids at school.  It was undoubtedly true that Sam was never the same again -- but the reasons for this were strictly between him and the hideous gargoyle of Hoover and Wall.