A meenlock cannot stand off-key humming, and the coopers of Rundlet have built a household habit on that one weakness. Every cellar door in the village is opened to a few bars of something flat and tuneless, hummed by whoever carries the lamp. Garrick Sowle, who keeps the stores under the cooperage, hums like a gate hinge and has not lost a jar boy in eleven winters. The creature stands three feet tall when it unfolds. It is gray-blue, long in the arm, with hands too big for the wrists and a mouth that never quite closes. The one in Sowle's cellar wears a rusted barrel hoop on its left forearm, sunk so deep that the skin has puffed over both edges.
In late August the cellars are dry and the meenlocks keep to the Inchmeal Cut, a brick drain east of the village named for how little its floor falls. Nothing moves by day. At night there are only marks: three parallel gouges on the underside of a cellar door, and every apple on the shelf turned stem-down, which it does for no reason anyone has found and never skips. Sowle finds this the most insulting thing about it. By October the rain starts and the cut fills to the ankle. The creatures move up into the cellars, and now they work on the mind. A person on the stairs feels watched from below. A child goes quiet and stares at the door for an hour. The dread arrives the way cold comes through a wet cloth, steadily and from close range, and it is worst where four or five have gathered.
November is the dangerous month. The cold turns the cellars into the warmest rooms in Rundlet, and the meenlocks stop waiting. Anyone sent down for a jar after dark comes up late, or does not come up. The household finds the door shut from below with a fresh set of gouges on the wood. Those who are taken turn up in the cut after the thaw, small and gray and fixed in the face, with the same open mouth. Flour spread on the top three steps shows the trouble early: narrow hooked prints, always in neat pairs, never a single one. The creatures eat nothing in store. They live on the fear and leave the larder alone.
By January the creature goes still. It sits upright in the back of a cellar with its eyes open, and a lamp and a bad tune will carry a person past it. When the thaw drains the cut in March the meenlocks drift back to it one at a time, the hoop-wearer last. Who fitted that hoop to an arm, and how did anyone get a meenlock to hold still for the hammering? Nobody in Rundlet has an answer.
- Classification
- Small aberration, fear-casting cellar stalker
- Habitat
- Cellars, culverts, and drained brick cuts
- Danger
- Moderate
- Size
- 3 ft tall, long-armed
- Activity
- Nocturnal
- Realm
- Cellars and drainage culverts
- Binomial
- Latebrax uncimanus
- Diet
- Fear; leaves stored food alone
- Temperament
- Patient, spiteful, oddly tidy










