Dirty deeds

Only a week past, there had been two rather disturbing occurrences in Wilton. First, there had been the two dead cows. No cause for alarm, certainly, although Tam Denny, the farmer who had owned the beasts, had been understandably upset. What had gotten to the villagers was the fact that both cows had been drained of blood.
The second thing playing on the villagers’ minds was the disappearance of Steve Denny, the farmer’s son. Steve had been out in the fields, the night after the cows had been found, making sure that nothing happened to the rest of the herd. Steve had been a strapping lad, the champion of the local boxing club, and he had taken his father’s shotgun with him, just in case. He’d been planning to go see the Rockin’ Vicars that weekend, but had considered this more important. Sometime during that night, Steve had disappeared. There was no sign of a struggle. No blood on the grass or shreds of clothing. Nor was there any sign of the farmer’s son.
The local constabulary had been put on the alert. Throughout the region, posters were distributed, descriptions were given. Tam Denny had even posted a five hundred-pound reward for information as to his son’s whereabouts. But, so far, nothing had come to light.
Now, a week later, the streets were empty. Some of the villagers were tucked away in bed, seeking the safety that comes from knowing that nothing can harm you once the blankets have been pulled over your head. Others, more courageous or more foolish, were still awake, but safely indoors. Their lights blazed defiantly, warning the creatures of the night that they were no helpless victims. As a further safeguard, their black and white television sets were turned up to full volume, in an attempt to frighten the night-stalkers with the sounds of car chases, gun shots and screams of terror. The noise also served to hide the suspicious creaks and moans which came from the old buildings, and which had been known to keep more than one villager awake at night.
But that did not account for all the inhabitants of Wilton.
For thirteen men were not buried under their bedclothes. Thirteen men were not glued to the square box which dominated living rooms all over town. Thirteen men were, instead, gathered in a basement under the police station.
This basement held no prisoners, or supplies, or anything within the normal day-to-day experience of the rest of the townsfolk. This basement held an altar. It was of black granite, standing strong and cold in the center of the room. The altar, like the basement itself, had been there long before the police station had been built above it. It had been there long before the village had been patched together by the local inhabitants. It had been there, some whispered, since the beginning of time, in those unimaginably remote ages before man had crawled out from the swamps, when dark beings had stalked the earth and carved lairs for themselves from the living rock.
*
“You don’t want to maybe bring in a touch of melodrama here instead?”
“Just write it down.”
“Can we go back and start with ‘It was a dark and stormy night’?”
“Remember when I said I wasn’t going to eat you?”
“Writing it down. No problem.”
“Whose round is it?”
“Must be yours. I’m very busy at the moment, writing things down.”

Extract from Burning Roses, a decadent tale of sex, drugs, rock n roll & magick. Available from www.amazon.com/author/burning

Till next time. Cheers.