I watch a werewolf moon rise and somewhere out there is a dog hollering mournfully. Back over the way, the belfry bats take flight devouring the night air with their screeching during tolling of the passing bell. I tell you, from where I wait, in the shadows, something is a moving.
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.
You can see the intention, set firm and sealed, I, to witness it so, and might I add to stop what’s inside from ever getting out. They’d not be much to stop this group I wager, for they look somewhat hasty to leave maybe with a promise of ale.
The unkempt looking gravediggers move from their rest preparing to spade in heaps of topsoil, doing so on the signal from a storm lantern waved high above the seers head. In minutes, the undead entombed.
You can see their haunted faces, cut deep, sworn they were to deliver the ritual and now each one, head bowed, skulk off into the darkness.
It takes but a little moment of waiting and under that single moonbeam spot 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 the body. My God from the grave, free is this creature of filth gasping at the night air, receiving its due adulation.
Yes, William Wolfenden, what a man, escapologist from Barnum Flowers Circus of Human Oddity Acts taking his bow before the assembled audience.
story by John Riley