by John Riley
I watch a werewolf moon rise, and somewhere from the back of beyond, I feel sure it is a dog hollering mournfully?
Is that a night chill or something else rising in the flesh?
Those deep and dark pine forests, spikey tall along the edge of craggy mountainous ridges, hide things best not thought about.
Back over the way, not wishing to linger over things distant, the belfry bats take flight, devouring the night air with their screeching during the tolling of the passing bell. I tell you, from where I wait, in the shadows, something is moving, away there to my left.
My gawd! Grim and mournful are six hunched figures. Walking dead slow until eventually and under much strain, they lower a chained iron bolted coffin deep down six on this chilled November night.
Intent set firm and sealed, I, to witness it so, and might I add, the six determined to stop what inside from ever getting out.
There isn’t much to stop this gathering from staying longer than necessary. I bet hastily to leave with a promise of ale. I’ll wager money on it, for sure.
A storm lantern is raised at arm’s length and waved to indicate the signal. The unkempt gravediggers stir from their rest, preparing to spade in heaps of topsoil.
The signal comes again, a nod from the lantern bearer. The six men heave spade loads into the grave without so much of a break to wipe the brow.
In minutes, the undead entombed.
The six turn to catch the flame. Haunted lined faces, cut deep, sworn they were to deliver the ritual, and now each one, head bowed, skulk off into the darkness.
We remain in hushed silence that all is safe. We wait under that single moonbeam.
How can it be?
The unhallowed ground looks to be rising and turning. A clawing, then the hand, reaching with another to make way for the head, then next to the body. My God, from the grave, free, this creature of filth gasping at the night air.
Yes, William Wolfenden, what a man, escapologist from Barnum Flowers Circus of Human Oddity Acts, taking his bow before the assembled audience.
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