You (flash fiction)

Let me paint the picture for you.

                You are heading home, walking alone down a cul-de-sac, the dark outlines of the trees shadowing the rows of houses, as if projections secreted into fell solidity by the darkness. The moon is haloed in a clutch of diaphanous vapour, suspended in the firmament like a crystal ball held in the pale bony death-hand of the night.

                Your footsteps echo out before you like lost words in the halls of judgement, the lonely reverberations of wolf-song. Suddenly your skin creeps, as if picking up a signal through the darkness, as if your flesh is folding up along the scaffolding of your bones, breaking in violent waves of skin and fat and nerves, rippling in the memoried fix of sensation.

                You feel you are being watched. You’re sure of it, in fact, as if a pair of eyes are burning in the back of your skull. You recognise that your footsteps are now twinned with the faint pitter-patter of another’s. Your heart drums loudly in your chest, like a prisoner beating on the casing of your ribs, prying them loose.

                As you come to the close of the cul-de-sac, approaching the yellow glow of the lamp-lit alley, the footsteps quicken. You stop, breathing shallowly, the presence lingering behind you. A cold hand reaches out steadily and grips your shoulder. You turn sharply, the hand recoiling, and the shape shrinks back. You don’t recognise the face, and it doesn’t recognise yours. A scream rises to the top of its throat. But you cut it off just short of its forming that primordial shrill.

                You are the monster in this story.

And the Devil Came Out to Play

A Story of Woe and Destruction in Seven Parts

Dedicated to Robert Louis Stevenson, in the hope that some of his talent rubbed off on me.

Prologue

On July 19^th, 1783, in a small village not far from Brighton, in the unending undulations of the South Downs, a man wearing a black suit, his hair slicked back and black, a thin wisp of moustache resting salacious upon his top lip, suddenly appeared. From the first moment this man slunk upon the scene of this small village, the locals thought, yes, this man indeed might be the Devil. His dress, quite remarkable and blasphemous to the uncivilised, prudent country mind, was considered most extraordinary.

            He entered the Fox and Hound, the local haunt of traders, travellers, and carriagemen, now ominously bereft of life, ordered a gin, and stood stock-still staring down at his drink. The few villagers sat, watching the man silently. The stranger then clicked his fingers suddenly, jarring the nerves of one old fellow sitting immediately near him, and then, quite shaken up, as if sediment dispossessed in some unknown vessel, the men about him watched as this dark-eyed figure downed his tipple, now aflame, a purple glow shrouding the glass.

He then smashed down the glass, turned to the men sitting about their drinks, seeking out the lifeless eyes of each one of them, raised his head, extended his arms upwards and out, and said, ‘Praise be to Jesus! Forgiver of sins! Great Redeemer!  His words be empty, his blood bad vin! A dreamer! I am a foreigner to these shores; my sins are yours! Gentlemen, farewell!’

            And with that he smiled, his teeth seeming infinite in number, pointed like bleached thorns, faced the barkeep, turned on his heel, and walked briskly from the inn, a harsh wind seeming to scowl out through the wide-open doors after him.

            Yes, it could indeed be said that the Devil was roaming the lonely, windswept hills of the South Downs, but, as of yet, nobody could be quite certain of the dark perspective that was slowly casting itself down upon this place of endlessly verdant desolation.

Part I: The White Curse of Mrs Mary Parsons Eldridge

In 1783, in the months leading up to the episode I am to document, a great boon smiled itself upon the people of Elmsley Village, East Sussex. A wonderful Christian renaissance had begun in miniature, thanks to the charming, and yet evangelically terrifying, figure of Mrs Mary Parsons Eldridge.

            Mrs Eldridge, a strict Calvinist, had spent her youth in Scotland, in a country home peopled by the pale figures of silent and dutiful servants. Mrs Parson’s governess, Rebecca Hawthorne, was a most vicious figure, from whom Mrs Parsons herself sought much guidance and development. Mrs Hawthorne saw the Whore of Babylon spread-eagled out everywhere about her, the world a shameful and blighted place, craven, and populated by innumerable godless heathen. ‘Wait till it burns, wee Mary: you’ll see tha good Lord shall smite most of his sheep – bad lambs, all e’ them.’

            From roots tangled in epithets of prostration and fear, Mrs Mary Eldridge had become a woman whose breath could be made to become as fire, her benign appearance and modest dress disguising the shimmering scales of a vast and angry dragon.

            In the years leading up to the moment of my story, Mrs Eldridge had scorned Father Peters, the vicar of Elmsley Parish Church, for being far too green; she’d rebuffed him in church, spread vicious rumours about him amongst her devout circle of religious talking heads, and had even gone as far as denouncing him as a charlatan, a religious fraud, a demon in Christian garb. In April of 1782, his constitution weakening, his health now cracked like the foundations of a condemned building, he became an outcast and fled the little village of Elmsley.

Banished from the community, unwelcomed by the church, he died a gaunt and defeated man: on June 28^th of 1872, in his sister’s house on the outskirts of Hove, at 7.12 pm, he had been pronounced dead by a private doctor. The reason for his death seemed mysterious, but the blood that had been lost from his bodily orifices (let us be euphemistic about it) could only mean that he had succumbed to a painful, drawn-out death caused by internal ulcers.

            And so, the figure of a humble and helpful servant of the Lord absent, fear and dejection rife, a small religious orgy began to surface like a boil on the flesh of this village, growing ever larger with time. Soon, stories began to circulate in nearby villages, eventually reaching Brighton within a few weeks.

And then, one month after the death of Father Peters, a small, modestly dressed woman appeared at the front door of some quiet soul’s house the next village over, saying, ‘Good morning, kind sir. I call on behalf of the Eldridge Evangelical Church of Elmsley, and I bring good tidings: I have come to save your soul from eternal damnation.’ As the man went to close his door, the woman said, ‘Brother, do not close your door on me – I will not go so quietly.’ And, flanked by two solemnly dressed men, she entered this poor soul’s abode.

Part II: The Case of the Travelling Man

Strange goings-on in the little village were widely talked about. The village, it was said, had become much more insular, much less welcoming of strangers and travelling folk. Sometime in November, 1782, a nobleman, one P. R. Longfellow, a landowner with a tobacco plantation in Virginia, was making his way from his London address to his second home in Brighton; he had been ordered to convalesce in the midst of that sweet air by his personal physician, Dr Ruthers.

            A curious man with a keen wit, he decided to stop by Elmsley to rest, take up a brief board, and examine the minutiae of this village, his aim to investigate whether the fanciful tales he’d heard about this accursed place had any validity to them.

            Except for the small tavern there, the appropriately named Fox and Hound, he’d found the place to have the air of some forsaken hole, a deserted and unpeopled place, dark and chill. Upon enquiring with the local men who frequented the Fox and Hound, he had been met with rebuff.

            ‘What’s going on here?’ he’d asked the innkeeper. ‘It’s awful quiet here.’ He took a sip of his ale. ‘Is that usual for this place?’

            ‘Nothing out of the ordinary, good sir,’ he said. ‘Now we’d kindly ask sir if he’d keep his nose out of our business.’ The innkeeper then leaned in closer to the man, the bar seeming an insufficient barrier, and muttered, ‘If sir knows what’s good for him.’

            The man stared ‘round at the men in puzzlement.

            ‘You heard ‘im,’ one man piped up. ‘Now go: we don’t like your sort ‘round here.’

            ‘My sort?’ he said. ‘I’ll have you know I’m a respectable man! I –’

            ‘We don’t care what sort of man you are,’ said the innkeeper. He pointed to the door. ‘Now go!’

The man stormed out, going straight to the boarding-house where he’d booked his lodging. He was met by the landlady, a curt old woman by the name of Miriam Weathers, greying, with a weak smile like a defeated old dog.

            ‘Good evening, Mrs Weathers,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry to announce this, but I shall no longer require the services of this boarding-house. I leave for Brighton at once. Please have my things readied immediately.’

            ‘Well, my goodness, whatever’s got into you!’ she’d said.

            ‘A scene,’ he began. ‘A most illuminating and humiliating scene at your local public house. I have never before been treated as such, in such a coarse and ungodly manner! Chased! Chased from the scene! Forced to flee like some pestilent scuttling beast!’

            The woman looked at him silently. ‘Ungodly?’ she muttered to herself. Her gaze became sharper. ‘Ungodly?’ Her blank expression suddenly broke into a vicious snarl. ‘Ungodly! Ungodly! Get out! Get out at once!’

            ‘But what of my bags?’ he’d said in desperation.

            ‘I shall have them sent out to you at once! Now, be gone with you, vile malingerer!’ she said, and as she shooed him out, she spat.

            The gentlemen could see that gloaming was descending, and the greying sky, bruised like dead flesh, looked ready to rid itself of its heavy burden. His things were sent out to him, the coachman came from the Fox and Hound, and they left once his things were stowed away.

            But upon leaving the scene, he heard a most terrifying and blood-curdling scream. Upon looking back, he could see a pale, ghostly face, its expressionless eyes peering out of a seeming dark void, from a window above the arched door of the Eldridge Evangelical Church. Not a religious man, he nonetheless crossed himself, wishing the miles to Brighton few, and the memory of the despicable place forgotten.

Many more tales of woe reached people outside of Elmsley. It was said that a special Christmas Mass was held, at which all manner of horror and debauchery was on display. The child of a young girl by the name of Sarah Miles was baptised in blood on the orders of Mrs Eldridge, her reason being that only a baptism of blood could save this poor bastard child’s soul. Tales of crucifixion, murder and torture also wound their way into the mouths of those living outside the village – stories of castration, forced abortion, rape, and incest, the likes of which outsiders could scarce believe.

            But one especially strange tale involved the proceedings that culminated on that bloody day, the birth date of our Lord, AD 1782. After this bloody mass, a book burning took place. Copies of Principia Mathematica, Leviathan, treatises by Galileo, and Huygens’ Cosmothereos were burned. But one strange addition was a beautiful, green bound volume of verse by William Wordsworth.

            Strangely, Mrs Eldridge saved all of her venom and vindictiveness for this text. ‘Wordsworth,’ she began, ‘tells us that nature is sensuous, that nature encourages us to think romantically - but Wordsworth has debauched nature! Nature is not ever-changing and mysterious; nature is fixed and immutable! God’s law! Nature does not encourage us to be sensuous; he has sexualised it! Nature is a seething and vile pit, and He shows us, in his plan, how we must live! Nature is a fearsome example of His will! Nature is sensuality and death! If we do not abstain, we shall go the way of the myriad creatures that leap to the grave! Abstain, ye heathen! Abstain, abstain, abstain!’

            With these finishing words, Mrs Eldridge was said to have nearly passed out, her vehement admonitions almost causing her to break into tears of proselytising passion. The deafening sound of clapping and wild applause filled the scene, seeming more some sickly pagan display than a religious celebration, and as the flames rose violently from the mountain of smouldering words, whipping and flicking the air, they were said to have almost licked the sky.

Part III: The Curious Life of Jonathan Holt

Jonathan Holt was a simple man. He lived with his mother on her small farm, left to her after the death of her late husband, and worked himself drear for her, tilling the land, tending the animals, and maintaining their small cottage. To earn his keep, he also worked as a woodcutter for a local timber trader called Phineas MacManus, who lived in a small woodcutter’s lodge three miles east of Elmsley.

            Their farm was nestled in the total blackness of those undulating hills, nights darker than dark, swallowed into the leviathan landscape as if nothing could overpower its monotone immensity.

            His mother, worried about her son’s journey from the woodcutter’s lodge, would leave a single candle in the front window of their cottage. The building was crested on the brow of a hill, known as Holt’s Bluff, after his great grandfather, overlooking farmland and the seeming infinity of those verdant green hills. And, far off, appearing like some heavy load sinking into a mire, was the little village of Elmsley, tucked away in a small valley, but still visible by the steeple of the now darkling and tainted church.

            One day in late February, the season now on winter’s edge, nestling like a solitary bird on a snow-specked branch, naked before the judgement of winter, Jonathan had got home, guided by that single candle so affectionately placed, to find his mother sitting by the fire hearth. When he stepped in, hanging up his jacket and removing his heavy boots, he said, ‘Mother, you seem odd, your air like one who has cracked before the visage of a ghost!’

            After a few moments, his mother stirred: ‘Sorry? Oh, you’re back.’

            ‘Yes, mother,’ said Jonathan. ‘Are you okay?’ He paused. ‘Shall I make some tea?’

            ‘Oh, that’d be nice.’ She seemed unable to focus on anything, her mind possessed by some terrible thought.

            ‘Mother, what’s wrong?’

            ‘I’ll tell you presently. Some tea would be nice.’

            He brought the tea, placing it on the small oak table between the two brown-leather armchairs sat before the broad fire. They sat, and Jonathan looked down at the right arm of his chair, the leather peeled away, revealing the soft down beneath it.

            His mother began, telling him about the strange man who’s suddenly appeared in Elmsley Village, the way he’d comported himself so strangely and debauched their faith. ‘These are dark time’s, son,’ she’d said. ‘First the coming of this Christian resurgence, the way those cackling beasts had scorned Father Peters, that horrible, wench, Mrs… Mrs –’

            ‘– Eldridge?’

            ‘Yes, Mrs Eldridge – the way she’d stirred up such hateful sentiment. She professes to be a good Christian; a good Christian, no less!’ She paused, taking the hand of her only son. ‘And now this. I tell you, things are bad. I don’t know what’s to be done, but I tell you the good Lord must be soon to intervene. It’s a godless situation! Only the Devil could’ve conjured it up, Jonathan!’

            Perplexed, Jonathan asked his mother to better explain what’d happened. She’d mentioned a strange man making an appearance in Elmsley Village, and, after she’d calmed down, Jonathan asked her to tell him the entire story.

            He’d sat there, horrified and confused. It seemed like he’d been sat there hours, because the twilight that loomed on his way home had now given way to total darkness. He stepped out of the house briefly, scanning the hills in the distance, and he could make out a single light coming from Elmsley Village, and it came from the Eldridge Church. The wind seemed harsh and strange, and he could almost make out faint words floating upon it. He stepped back into the house, wished his dear mother good night, and went to bed, barely sleeping at all, but rather imagining the menacing figure which seemed to haunt this quiet corner of nowhere.

Part IV: A Strange Meeting

The next morning, a Saturday, Jonathan awoke to find the weather outside a rainy sort of bland. The irregular cottage windows, aslant and warped, were clouded by rain, and the air outside was hazy, the sky a barren grey.

            Jonathan found his mother in the kitchen preparing their supper, a roast chicken dinner, followed by an apple pie. She’d peeled the vegetables, put the chicken in their small oven, and was now peeling and coring some bramley apples, later to make the pastry crust which would embalm the apple in its hot grave.

            ‘Jonathan, dear, would you fetch some more wood from the pantry?’

            ‘Won’t it be damp?’ asked Jonathan.

            ‘No, no, I shouldn’t think so.’

            He put on his shoes and Jacket and stepped out into the drizzle and mist which seemed to overpower the hills. He walked ‘round the side of the house to their pantry, opened the door, but then paused. He could hear some faint noise on the wind. I’ll be, he thought. It seemed to be a human voice. In fact it almost sounded like someone singing. He looked out over the Downs but couldn’t make a thing out. He grabbed some wood, shut the pantry door, and took it into his mother.

            ‘There you are,’ he said, and he placed the wood down on the kitchen side. ‘Mother, I’m just popping out,’ he said.  ‘I won’t be long – I think there’s someone out there, on the Downs. I heard this strange sound yesterday evening, and I just heard it again as I went to fetch the firewood.’

            ‘Oh, Jonathan, I think I know what you mean. I fancy I heard the very same thing yesterday evening. But it’s probably just some silly soul out taking a walk or something – I wouldn’t fret over it.’

            ‘No, mother,’ said Jonathan. ‘I must be sure. It could be anyone out there. If it’s someone in peril, I’ll aid them; if not, then I’ll chase them away, I’ll threaten them with the promise of several large dogs giving chase.’

            ‘But we haven’t got any dogs, you green thing!’

            ‘I know that, mother,’ he said, ‘but they don’t, do they?’

            ‘Oh, now that you put it that way....’ She paused. ‘Okay, but don’t be long, dear. Don’t make your old mother worry – I’ve enough to deal with without the aid and love of your father.’

            He kissed his mother on the cheek and left the cottage.

Jonathan started over the hills in the direction of this sweet and sonorous melody, but as he progressed he found the rain to increase, seeming to cut inwards like glass thrown aslant as it swept over the barren landscape. As he walked, the voice seemed to grow louder, and now, the rain throwing itself violently across the landscape, he couldn’t make out anything farther than a few hundred metres.

            He had walked into a slight valley, when he heard the voice more clearly. In front of him, the rain still thick, he could make out barely the visage of a man, and he could hear the sound of earth being moved. He approached quietly, not disturbing the man, and he could make out his song:

                        Moustachioed in a ribbon of black,

                        Dark secrets up my sleeve,

                        Mephistopheles I am, a being of tack:

                        The Devil takes not his annual leave.

And then the strange man noticed Jonathan: ‘Oh, helloa, young chap!’ said the man, his entire body soaked with rain; he seemed barely able to see through the thick watery lens which rolled down and off his face.

            Helloa? Thought Jonathan. What an odd turn of phrase this man has. ‘Excuse me,’ said Jonathan nervously, ‘but what are you doing?’

            ‘The man propped himself up on his shovel: ‘Digging!’

            ‘Digging?’ said Jonathan.

            ‘Yes! For damnation.’

            Jonathan seemed not fazed by this strange concession, and instead said, ‘But it’s raining. Aren’t you afraid you’ll catch something?’ He maintained a caring and passionate air, but wondered at the mental sanctity of this poor fellow.

            ‘Rain? A bit of rain? Ho-ho-ho! That won’t stop me!’

Jonathan thought about this. ‘Just then, I heard you saying that you’re digging for damnation – what do you mean?’

‘I’m digging for your damnation, dear boy! Or, more specifically, the damnation of the villagers of Elmsley. Although I hear it maintained in various places that they dig for themselves!’ He paused. ‘Does the name Eldridge ring any bells, young man?’

‘Yes,’ said Jonathan. ‘She’s a crazed old bat who’s taken to warping the minds of her flock.’

‘Very well done!’ sneered the Devil. ‘She’s got right up my nose, so the old bat has! And what can one do when something gets up one’s nose? Well, the natural reaction is to sneeze.’ He laughed, obviously appreciating some hidden joke lost on Jonathan.

‘I heard you say your name’s Mephistopheles,’ said Jonathan, ‘like the character from Goethe’s masterpiece. Is that your real name?’

The Devil looked him over carefully. ‘You think I’m mad, don’t you? You think I’m a madman!’ Jonathan’s silence provided the answer to his question. ‘I’m not a madman! No, I’m much worse than that.’ He paused, ready to instruct Jonathan. ‘I go by many names: Lucifer, Satan, Beelzebub, Mephistopheles, The Devil... but I prefer Megiddo. Do you know what that means, young man?’

Jonathan thought carefully, knowing the word from some hidden refuge in his past. Yes, he’d heard it in Sunday school as a young boy: ‘It’s the final battling place between good and evil – in Christian lore, that is.’

‘Very good!’ sneered the Devil.

Jonathan looked the Devil over. ‘And are you here to do battle, then?’

The Devil stood very still. ‘In a word, yes. But my battles never end.’ He looked Jonathan over. ‘Are you frightened, young man?’

Jonathan’s countenance alone answered that question, but he took in a large breath of air, and replied, ‘No, sir.’

‘Ah! Please,’ replied the Devil, ‘call me Megiddo. And you are?’

            ‘Jonathan,’ he said. ‘And I am not afraid.’

            ‘Good,’ he replied. ‘And tell me, what do you know of my work? Do you think me an evil thing?’

            ‘Well, I’m led to that answer,’ said Jonathan. ‘You are a figure of death, temptation, fear – in every culture upon the scarred face of this world.’

            ‘Death?’ replied Megiddo flatly. ‘Temptation? Fear? No! Not I! That is your God – the one to whom you all prostrate yourselves! The one before whom that whore in Elmsley village flagellates herself!’ He paused. ‘I am but a cleaner, an arbiter – the eternal maintainer of the balance!’

            Fretful and panicked, Jonathan said, ‘No, I refuse to believe it. Why have you come here? Is it because of that Eldridge woman? I’ve heard the stories, but I assumed they were all hokum.’

            Calmly, Megiddo said, ‘Yes, that is why I have come here, but that is merely one fine detail amongst many. Young man, you might have heard it said that the Devil is in the details.’ He stops, raising one hand from the handle of the shovel to wipe his brow. ‘The Devil cares not for details; he is everywhere – I am everywhere. Much like your God, but the cause of your actions. I am both the fire and the blanket – do you understand that?’

            ‘No! It can’t be,’ said Jonathan.

            ‘’Tis the state of affairs,’ replied Megiddo.

            ‘But, but can’t things alter?’

            ‘No, no they can’t. You see, as long as fire courses through men’s veins rather than blood, as long as heat rather than light is the product of thought, I shall be there, waiting; cleaning up the mess, as it were.’

            ‘But you paint yourself as a necessary being! Some sort of benevolent, evil martyr! How can that be!’

            ‘Evil?’ said Megiddo. ‘To whom? I am necessary! I am, in effect, the essence of the suffering and dispossessed of this world.’

            ‘Really?’ said Jonathan. ‘I thought that was Jesus.’

            ‘Oh, no; don’t be silly!’ said Megiddo. ‘He was just some fool whom I impressed some two thousand years back.’

            ‘Never! I refuse to believe it! What about the meek, the – won’t they –’

            ‘–Inherit the Earth? The meek, eh? Well, there’s a lot to be said about the meek, but they have no place in power. To them, power is something slippery and burdensome. No, the Earth shall inherit the meek, unfortunately . Unless, that is... no.’

            ‘Unless what?’ said Jonathan.

            ‘Unless the meek rise up, will themselves to power, as equals – or more.’ He paused, seeming to look tenderly at Jonathan. ‘The meek are a limp horse, but they must become the essence of horse! Until then, the meek shall inherit only the suffering they’re given.’

            Megiddo could see the blankness in Jonathan’s eyes, but he knew that blankness was merely confusion, and did not stretch down into the pit of his soul. He continued: ‘Allow me to expand, Jonathan, with a story. You don’t mind if I tell you a story, do you?’ Jonathan remained silent. ‘Good. I once met a merchant man, a nice, pious man, from the fair city of London. And I asked him, ‘Are you monied?’ And he said, ‘Yes, I have wealth.’ And I said, ‘Are you a Christian man?’ And he said, ‘Yes, I am a most evangelical man.’ And I said, ‘That’s funny, because most Christians pay their interest in hell. I’ve seen them,’ I told him, ‘like you, and they all deny that money burns.’ He paused, preparing to finish his train of thought. ‘This man scurried away, more a beetle than a human being, and I could already feel the warmth rising from him, ensnaring him in the fires of hell.’ Then Megiddo showed a look of consternation, not looking directly at Jonathan, and, quietly, he said: ‘But it’s strange: I never know when to expect them. That is beyond my knowing – but I know they will come, and I prepare  for them a warm welcome.’

            ‘Jonathan,’ began Megiddo, ‘I shall explain the situation to you: there are gods, but they care not for human trifles. The God to whom the Christians, Jews, and Moslems of this world pray is elsewhere – and I am left to pick up the pieces. It is an unfair job, but someone has to do it.’

            ‘You speak lies!’ said Jonathan, fire seeming to erupt out from the bowels of him. ‘You are a treacherous, vile creature! If you’re all there is, then why should we go on living!’

            ‘Well, perhaps I am all there is - and perhaps not. You see me standing here before you, plain as this cold rain, and yet you question my power. Jonathan, you are a strong man – that will bode you well. My quarry is not with you. I would advise you to leave this place. If you remain, you will witness my power. You have been warned.’

            At once, Jonathan ran from the scene in fear. The rain had cleared somewhat and only a fine drizzle now descended upon the hills. He could hear Megiddo laughing viciously into the wind behind him, some mad and barren thing. Before he made the crest of the hill, he turned back, and what he saw shocked him: a dyke, seemingly miles long, stretched into the distance – the valley he’d found Megiddo in was no valley, but some immense construction which ran out for miles upon the Downs. The fear of God was in him, night was descending, but he ran home with such haste that he arrived before his mother had the chance to place a candle in the window.Ho,

Part V: Thou Shalt Reap What Thou Soweth

It was not long before Mrs Eldridge heard about the activities of this strange and menacing intruder, and she came to the decision of confronting him, with the aid of her myriad followers.

            Exactly two weeks after he’d first made an appearance, a gathering was held in the Eldridge Evangelical Church of Elmsley.

            ‘What shall we do?’ shouted one man.

            ‘Will fire kill him? What if he is the Devil!’ shouted another.

            ‘What does this mean for the Church, Mrs Eldridge?’ shouted a woman from the back of the building.

            ‘Hush-hush!’ shouted Mrs Eldridge. ‘Hush now! We shall address all these questions presently. But first it must be made plain what it is that we face. Ladies and gentlemen, kind followers, it is Satan that we face! Satan has manifested himself here because he knows we are winning! Our glorious revival has made him weaker, and I hope upon all hope that he is now a moribund and damned figure!

            Several people applauded loudly, and then dozens more joined in.

            Mrs Eldridge shouted over the top of them: ‘We must face this menace as one! We will confront him on the Downs once and for all! Gentlemen, women, gather your bibles, your weapons, your torches, and join me! Let us send this fiery demon back to Hell!’

            A crowd erupted from the Church, lit by myriad torches and led by Mrs Eldridge, and slowly began their trudge up into the hills of the Downs.

            As Jonathan came back from the woodcutter’s lodge, he could see a bright stream ascending through the hills, from what looked like the village of Elmsley. The gloaming quickening, he ran towards the crest of the hill that overlooked the immense trench of Megiddo’s construction. In the half-light, he could see Megiddo peer up at him, and then suddenly his eyes seemed to glow red, and a most deathly and unnatural screech resounded from his lungs: ‘No!’ The sound seemed to almost topple Jonathan, wind rushing up from the deep gulley he had fashioned for himself.

            Jonathan turned around, seeing the candle his mother had placed in the cottage window in the distance cresting the hill, and he could hear the crowing of a single cockerel. And then Jonathan saw a different glow climbing towards the trench and spilling into it: several dozen men and women stood a few hundred metres from him, staring down into the cavern in which Megiddo stood.

            ‘There he is!’ exclaimed Mrs Eldridge. As they descended towards Megiddo, he bellowed again, but this time he seemed to grow larger. Horns erupted from his skull, several feet long, and he seemed to metamorphose into some towering beast, at least twelve feet tall, cloaked in a magnificent and fiery cloak that shimmered red, filling the cavern with the brilliance of sapphire, as if it were a lake of blood rather than an earthen hollow. Standing tall, a lengthy staff clutched between the long, claw-like fingers of his right hand, he approached the crowd, striking Mrs Eldridge head-on, her large Authorised Bible brandished out at arm’s length, as she approached to confront him,

            At once the villagers stopped, several women screamed, and they all tumbled out of the cavern and advanced at speed towards Elmsley, some falling helplessly, others seeking desperately to find shelter or cower down on the ground.

Jonathan watched as Megiddo, now a fearsome beast, sprouted wings and took Mrs Eldridge up into the talons of his feet. He flew upwards, out of the valley, giving chase to the crowd, raining down plumes of fire and meteors of brimstone, people everywhere protecting themselves in vain as they puffed up into clouds of ash.

The stragglers barricaded themselves in their homes, but it was useless. He approached Elmsley, dropping Mrs Eldridge from a height, and she fell downwards, crashing though the roof of the Eldridge Evangelical Church; and then Megiddo began circling the village, summoning a swirling cloud of black fire that seemed to engulf it. Mrs Eldridge crawled from the church, helpless, and protracted thud as Megiddo landed.

The black orb spun above the village disappeared, retracting from the darkness of night, leaving in its wake a collection of buildings razed to smouldering ruins. Megiddo took hold of Mrs Eldridge, and a rumbling could be heard for miles around. The ground opened up, and a pit opened beneath Elmsley Church, engulfing it.

Helplessly, Mrs Eldridge was dragged by Megiddo down into the fiery chasm, screaming and clawing at the ground in vain. Eventually, both of them consumed in the fire of this hole, the ground closed up, and all Jonathan looked out upon was a tinderbox, where once was the village of Elmsley.

            As Jonathan stood and watched all of this, the colour seeming to drain from him completely as disbelief filled brimmed over inside him, he heard a voice: ‘It’s not all bad. They had it coming; don’t worry.’ He turned, and there stood Megiddo, the fire in his eyes calming like dying embers. Megiddo explained that he hadn’t been able to finish the Dyke, that he wanted to flood the whole area to wipe out all traces of this despicable resurgence, that the flood would last for a thousand years, a lake of water hiding the ruins of Elmsley from the world. He told Jonathan that he could not be before the rising Sun – that dawn would have killed him. That single candle in the window, and the cocking of the crow, of his mother’s cottage had misled Megiddo. He also told him to forget all he’d told him, to live his own life, and not to brood on what had transpired in this small corner of East Sussex. And, with that, he disappeared for ever.

Epilogue: The Legend of Devil’s Dyke

After this episode, people from miles around stayed clear of Elmsley. It burned for several days, until all that was left was crumbled ruins and cold ash. The place stayed abandoned for several decades, until, in the early twentieth century, it was ploughed over, a reservoir built over the barren ground.

Some experts would tell you that the Devil’s Dyke, as it is mysteriously known, due to such folklore as this very story, is an Anglo-Saxon phenomenon, built over two thousand years ago. Others would tell you that it was caused by glacial runoff and gouged into the landscape by the action of a long-vanished river tens of thousands of years ago. But that isn’t the whole story, the true story.

            If you ever wander the hills of the South Downs, listen to the wind - keep an ear out for fragrant and alluring song – and watch for the visage of a lone man, his black suit the colour of the coldest coals of hell.

Little Red

‘Don’t forget the eggs! Did you take the eggs?’

     ‘Yes, mama,’ said Little Red in exasperation.

     ‘Okay, now, stay on the path, you hear? And don’t stop – not for anything. Especially strangers. Do you understand?’

     ‘Yes, ma – don’t talk to strangers, don’t shake wolves’ paws, don’t stray from the path... all that.’

     Her look of consternation passed and she smiled. ‘Good, ‘cause you know what’s been going on of late – two cows slaughtered, chickens gone missing, and Mary-Sue’s been missing for ten days now. I know the Devil’s at work in all this – we all know Mary-Sue’s whorin’ ways, though her mother pretends she’s as white as the Virgin Mary herself....’ She caught her daughter’s pleading look. ‘Look, jus’ be careful, honey, and I’ll see you tomorrow morning, okay?’

     ‘Okay, mama,’ replied the girl. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow.’ She turned, opened the gate, and started on the path. Jesus-Fricking-Christ!, she thought. Why does my life have to be so - fucked? Why does everything about it seem so ridiculous – taking groceries to granny... why does she have to live out so goddamn far in the woods? God, anyone would think I was livin’ in some fairytale or one o’ Aesop’s fables!

     Little Red began walking. The woods were ancient and eerie, the sky was purpling with evening’s approach, and she thought she could hear the faraway death cries of wounded Indians or the howling of coyotes. Ain’t nothin’ to bother me, she thought. She looked through the basket: two dozen eggs, bread, a chicken, two jars of preserves, four apples... all accounted for. But then she took a fancy to one of them ripe red apples bursting with juice, wiped it on her coarse woollen shawl, coarse as her virginity, and bit into it, the juice dribbling slightly down her chin.

     Jeez! How long does this path go on for? She turned around. She could just make out the chimney of the house, a haze of blue smoke rising through the barren trees. Behind them, way in the distance, she could see the brow of the Appalachians, beautiful and ominous.

     The path was soft underfoot. It was October, and the trees were bare. But the woods were so thick with trees that they gave the appearance of abundance, fooled one into thinking they were lifeless and naked – there were horrors in the forest that could turn one’s blood to jelly. But that excited her. Ever since she’d turned fourteen, she’d been pining after Earl, a local boy, feeling these flushes, these moods, these – urges. They felt so unnatural, so blasphemous, but she entertained them. She was becoming a woman – she’d had her first period seven months ago, her breasts were growing larger, and she’d been getting hair in new places.

     She looked around at the big yews, oaks, birches all silver-specked, the maples, and the tulip trees all yeller and pretty, and she noticed the brush which lay just beside the path. There weren’t many villages around, and there was a good ten or twenty miles between them. A girl could get lost in these woods and never be found. The thought of that made her uneasy.

     She heard a sudden sharp snapping sound, the breaking of wood or bracken. She peered between the stands of trees and saw a young deer, looking innocently at her. ‘Hey!’ she called out, and it darted into the woods. At this same moment, a single crow flew from the bow of a nude oak overhead, making Little Red jump, and as she turned to continue down the path, she caught sight of a large shadow looming ominous in the late afternoon sun, the owner of which stood behind her. She stood stock still.

     ‘Young girls shouldn’t be all alone in the woods, you know?’ said a sonorous, calm voice.

     She remained still.

     ‘Turn around, young girl. Show me your face.’

     She did so – she put down the basket beside her and turned slowly.

     ‘Now, let me get a good look at you.’ The man’s strange eyebrows shot up. ‘Ah, what a beautiful young girl you are!’

     ‘What are you doing?’ she asked him. ‘Have you been following me? L-look, my house is only a few miles yonder – if I was to scream out loud my papa would hear it. He’d be hear within a few minutes, and he’d –’

     ‘Hush, hush!’ he interrupted. ‘Don’t fret, young girl – I mean you no harm. Tell me, what is your name?’

     She resisted, her lips trembling.

     ‘Come, come. I am a simple hunter. I only ask to put you at calm. Now, tell me your name.’

     She looked at him, observed his calming smile. His eyes were brown, browner than earth, it seemed, and were framed by dark, bushy eyebrows that were joined in the middle. Little Red remembered something her granny had told her as a young girl: never trust a man whose eyebrows meet in the middle.

     ‘My name is Elisa – Elizabeth – Hemlock, ‘though everyone calls me Little Red – on account of this here shawl.’

     The man smiled. ‘Ah, a beautiful name! And tell me, why are you in the woods? Little girl, where are you going?’

     ‘I ain’t no little girl!’ said Little Red. ‘Where I’m going is none of your business, mister! Why do you wanna know?’

     ‘You can trust me, little one,’ he said. He looked down at the basket, filled with groceries. ‘Taking that to someone, are you?’ He paused. ‘Hmm, I know a great spot for a picnic – it’s just a bit farther down the path. There’s a clearing. Shall –’

     ‘Mister, these groceries are for my grandma. She’s sick, and –’

     ‘Please, call me Vincent. Vincent DuBlanche – pleased to meet your acquaintance.’

     She blushed, noticing how his hard features now appeared sensual and calming.

     ‘Will you come? Come with me – I have plenty of food.’ He held up a brace of geese. ‘I have some cookies and nuts in my bag. Come, come, and we’ll talk.’

     ‘Okay,’ said Little Red, ‘I will come with you, but on one condition: we walk side by side - and I can’t stop for long. It’ll be dark soon and – and the forest’s not safe.’

     ‘Not safe? Don’t be ridiculous! Old wives’ tales! Old wives’ tales indeed! There are no horrors in these woods. Besides, you probably thought me a horror when I first came upon you, didn’t you? But I’m all right, aren’t I?’ She settled her gaze. ‘Besides, you’ll be quite safe with me.’ He turned slightly so Little Red could see the rifle on his back. ‘Now, let us walk.’

     They walked for a short while until they came to the clearing and they settled by a spot beneath a yew tree. She ate the cookies he offered and grew more relaxed, all the while succumbing more and more to his casual gestures whilst noticing the dimming day.

     ‘Look, I must go soon – it’s getting dark.’

     ‘Hush, child. Now, tell me all about your granny.’

     ‘My granny. Why should I?’

     ‘Because I wish to make you a bet. I bet you, dear girl, that I can get to your granny’s house before you can.’ He reached into his pocket. ‘Using this.’

     ‘What’s that?’ she asked.

     ‘A compass. It shows one’s direction – one can always find north. Using this, I bet you that I can beat you to your granny’s house – you can follow this winding path, and I shall make my way through the woods.’

     ‘But it’s not very safe,’ she said.

     ‘Oh, but I am one with the woods,’ he said. ‘Once you get lost in them, you find something wonderful.’ He gestured to her. ‘Don’t you want to get lost in the woods, young girl?’

     She looked into his eyes – those big, brown eyes so inviting. ‘I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean. Now, I must be going.’

     As she started to rise, he pulled her back down to the ground. ‘Oh, but I think you do know what I mean. I follow the pulse of the heart, my dear – the moon. The two are aligned! And something tells me you feel the same.’ He inched his way over her, bringing his face level with hers. She noticed his full lips. His eyes seemed to glow a strange yellow in the twilight. He loosened the knot tying her shawl and then kissed her, and she resisted.

     ‘Don’t resist me,’ he said coolly. He kissed her again and she returned it, her arms wrapping around his shoulders pulling him into her. One hand explored her body, starting at her supple neck, then making out the soft incline of a small breast, then settling on her pussy, warm beneath her panties – he could make out the soft hair and the undulations of her labia.

     She brushed his strong hand away. ‘Stop it! No, no!’ she screamed.

     But he overpowered her. Before she knew it, he was astride her – inside her. It felt wrong – he was big and it was painful. She wept as he worked it in and out, looking away and gnashing her teeth. She could feel a warmth down there, unlike anything she’d ever felt. It hurt like hell – like he was taking a blade to her insides. And yet she didn’t want him to stop. She worked her hips up and down with him in a pathetic attempt at union, and then she felt his back – it was thick with hair; thick like no earthly man’s. She sank her fingers into that hair. Then she looked up into his eyes. He smiled a terrifying grin, his teeth pointed and yellowed. He  sank them into her neck. She gasped in pain as he drove them in, deeper, and then he withdrew, his teeth bloodied, his eyes luminous and wild, and looked into her eyes again. She felt another warm burst down below and then she passed out.

     When she awoke, it was dark. She could make out the shadows of the trees in the faint light – the day was almost over. She could feel a stinging pain down below. She gingerly felt the area and then started whimpering. She recollected the man, on top of her, driving himself in and out of her, and then she remembered passing out. She looked at her fingers – they were crusted with dried blood. ‘Oh, no,’ she sobbed. ‘Oh, no... the fucker! The Fucker! Oh....’

     And then she realised he might still be near. ‘Help me!’ she screamed. ‘Help me! Help! Please, I need help! Somebody!’ She screamed for anyone who might be out there in the woods with her. Oh, God! Oh, God. Oh God! she muttered.

     She grabbed the basket, leaving behind her now defiled and mulch-covered panties, and limped her way up the path, desperately shouting for help, praying for her helpless and imperilled granny. ‘Help me! Help! Is anyone there?’

     She heard a door shutting somewhere in the woods, and then she could hear a voice far away: ‘Who’s there? Do you need help?’

     ‘Yes!’ she cried.

     ‘Hold on,’ said the voice, ‘I’m coming.’

     ‘Thank you! Thank you! Oh, thank God!’ She heard a clambering through the trees and then he came out onto the path. He approached her: ‘Oh, dear God! What has happened to you?’

     She looked fit to collapse, so he swept her up and held her, his arms thick, smelling like a child of the pines, that thick, intoxicating smell of fresh lumber. ‘I – I was on my way to my granny’s house, when... oh, no! Mister, sir... you must help me – we must get to my grandma’s house! I would tell you in full but you would think me crazy! We-’

     ‘Now, now, child, we –’ He  noticed her bloodied neck, the wound like an unholy defloration, and he immediately understood – he’d heard the stories. He couldn’t believe they were real until he saw the beast for himself, though. He left for the cottage at a run, leaving behind the basket, its assorted goods spilled out on the path.

     ‘Yes, it’s this way! Not much farther!’ They travelled through the darkness, illuminated only by the huge moon, full in the sky, pallid and onerous.

     They broke off the end of the path and he could make out the little cottage, smoke billowing from its chimney, a pale yellow light coming from one of the windows. As they approached, the man could make out the broken window. ‘Come, child! I must leave you here. Do not leave this spot – I shall be out soon enough.’

     ‘Mr,’ she said after him. He turned. ‘Be careful.’ He nodded gravely, hiding the terror that seemed ready to billow out from his throat. ‘Don’t worry about me – just you hide ‘hind that tree. Don’t make a murmur, you hear?’

     ‘Yessir,’ she said.

     He faced the cottage and walked up to it, the girl hidden behind the trunk of a huge oak tree. As he approached, he could make out faint slithers of light coming from the bushes outside – a dusting of glass fragments. He could hear an unholy sound – the tearing of flesh – and it was coming from inside the cottage. He burst through the door, axe raised, expecting to find several coyotes or a large wolf, but he was greeted by something far worse.

     The thing shot him a look that felt like a chill hand reaching into his spine. It looked like a wolf, but the thing had the stature of a man. He looked around himself uneasily, preparing himself for the worst. He could see behind this creature the unrecognisable corpse of a person – the nightgown was torn and bloodied, the chest ripped open as cleanly as orange peel. It approached him, swung for him, its jaws snapping, and he shimmied to the right and tore through the air with the axe. He felt the purchase – the creature was down on the floor, snarling and growling in pain. He struck it again, and again, and soon it neither struggled nor whimpered no more. With one final blow, the tree-cutter cut off the beast’s head its head. Covered in blood and breathing heavily, he turned the thing over – it had become a man! This naked person, previously a great hairy beast, was now a man, his flesh gouged and torn in deep gashes.

     The tree-cutter fell to his knees, struggled out of the cottage, falling about, and was immediately sick. He went back to the young girl and held her.

     ‘What’s wrong, mister? What was in there?’

     ‘Child,’ he began, ‘you, you –’ but then he started crying, and, for some strange reason, so did she. They wept until they eventually fell asleep ‘neath the safety of the oak, and soon enough they awoke to the startling sun. They went back to his cabin: she bathed herself; he fetched the basket of things and fixed her up a hearty breakfast.

     The funeral came and went; chatter about the goings-on remained. A story was maintained that a local nut by the name of Cletus Inchbecker had broke in, naked and mad, and had cut her to bits. No one except Little Red’s mother ever saw the corpse, ‘though she knew that wasn’t the true story. Little Red’s wound was healing nicely by now. In fact, it had healed remarkably quickly.

     She never told anyone about what happened in the woods, though – said she fell down; although her mother knew that explanation couldn’t be applied to the wounds between her legs. It was now almost a month after all that had happened – late November – and the moon was waxing towards its fullest expression once more. As that ominous date approached, Little Red’s forebodings increased. She’d started going steady with that local boy, taking it very slow – she’d not even allowed him to hold her hand yet.

     But there was something very peculiar happening to her: hair had started growing in some pretty odd places. She’d put it down to becoming a young lady, but she knew in her heart a strange new hunger – she had started noticing more and more the wolves baying at night, and they had never sounded so beautiful, nor their song so inviting.