There is a nervous possession which overtakes the people in the rural district of West Craven, when the moon waxes gibbous. A fearful expectation which may go unnoticed to the passer-by, unused as they are to the town-folk and therefore not marking the tremulous disconcert with which they hurry homewards and securely bolt the entryways to their homes.

In the still of night, when the streets and alleyways have been deserted by the indoctrinated, the wind picks up. It howls ghostly, as it probes the surety of the doors and locks which shelter those within. And the foolish without feel cruelly abused by its insistent pushing and pulling and the determination it has to disrupt their steady locomotion. Causing them to sometimes sway like drunkards; Then at other times to bend forward on a level pavement, as though walking uphill.

It was on a night like this one, when there wandered into the village of Earby one unsuspecting traveller. Assailed by the winds as he was, he found that he would not be able to walk through the night as he had planned. Deciding instead to find an inn to sup and stay. It was in a way a relief, as he had not predicted how unnerving he had found the dark roads he followed. The connecting highways between the small villages did not require street lamps due to the low traffic during the midnight hours. And the dim, blue silver moonlight was not enough to display the sudden changes in elevation in the pavement, nor the holes in the tarmac, for the walkway was not well maintained. And several times he had been startled by sudden noises from the all surrounding fields. Which otherwise seemed vague and brooding in the phantasmal silver. He was in the prime of adulthood and had the selfless confidence of those who believe in their capability. Nevertheless, walking alone at night in those conditions had been the most unnerving experience he could remember. There was building inside him a growing uneasiness. Something spoke to him, and it whispered that those startling noises which he dismissed as animal were something more. And even though he found it ridiculous to let the dark instil in him a fright, there was a part of him still that held onto the idea.

The village was deserted, and it did not occur to him as overtly suspicious. It was well passed last orders and the last of the revellers must be safely away at home by now. He suspected nothing of the truth, that on these nights the pubs forsook their profits and closed their doors early. The White and Red Lion both alike in this practise. The regulars, being well used and well understanding the necessity, quitted their stools without temper and with unusual friendliness bode their peers a tight sleep. Because on these nights, no one wanted ill wished upon them and took extra care to part on good terms.

He soon discovers the Station Hotel. Ideally situated as it is at the town’s fore. The importance of the building is accentuated with the way the thoroughfare is recessed to accommodate it. This effect is only heightened by the bus shelter, which gives the impression of being there in dedication of delivering passengers specifically to the hotel itself. When in fact the shelter is more significant as a gateway outwards for the few thousand whom reside there. Windows line the outside of the building in pairs and the in betweens are separated by an understated gothic masonry. Above the glossy black fronting door, which dully reflects the orange coloured streetlight, are the words Station Hotel, and underneath the date 1898, in bold white letters. The interior is dark, but he thinks that they would not mind a late customer, being willing to pay over the odds for the inconvenience. And besides, they must surely take pity on someone caught in the whipping winds which seemed approaching gale force.

He readied himself for his appeal, and went to knock on the forbidding looking portal, when, noticing a letter in the right hand window, he stops himself. He takes a closer look. We can take no further lodgers this evening. We apologise for any disturbance this may cause, however if you need a bed for the night, the bed & breakfast at the top of the hill, at North Holme Estate, should be willing. Once again, sincerest apologies. The note was further dated at today’s date.

He considers knocking at the hotel door anyway and feigning ignorance of this missive, but his fundamentally honest nature prevents him. Resisting the inner foreboding which warns against any delay in finding shelter, he makes his way as directed, towards the hillock. The plateau which, like most other parts of the village, houses the destitute and impoverished. He notes in passing, how the houses are functional, but never lavish. At one home an upstairs window is not properly secured and in the strong winds stormily clatters. He pulls his coat tightly around his shoulders and it gives him a little comfort to huddle against himself in this manner, as he starts the climb, impeded by the wind in his face. The leaves of the trees at the roadside provide a constant rustling, which ebbs and dips with the varying wind force. And the branches each sway as a pendulum, independent from the motion of those around them. He, Edward Jenkins, could easily understand how in this atmosphere a person might lose grip of their sensibilities and give over to hysteria. The pressures were unrelenting, and sorely tried his wearied limbs and the whistling in his ear was as a ghastly sonnet.

The buildings at the top of the hill were the sorriest looking yet. They made the grand sounding name of the estate seem like a sardonic joke. Some of them had boards, instead of glass at their windows and many of the gardens were overgrown with weeds. Disrepair was evident, but Edward didn’t take long to survey all the details. He must press on and find the bed he thought must be waiting. The note at the hotel hadn’t given any specific directions, but up here there didn’t appear to be many streets. So, he simply picked one of the few there were and decided to follow it.

He felt like there was behind, something following. Even though each time he looked over his shoulder the nightly deserted street was expectedly empty. The sounds he thought were booted heels striking the concrete could easily be explained away in the cacophony stirred by the wind. As, from every angle, all hangings and protrusions were battered by the tempest. But the lurking dread he couldn’t shake and he quickened his pace in respect to the superstition.

What relief then, he feels, when he sees the double-legged wooden sign, Grange Fell, Bed & Breakfast, standing at the front of a pebble dashed Edwardian property. Hastily he unclasps the gate and shutting it behind him feels as though he has shed some influence which might have had hold of him. He shakes his head at the thought and wonders at the vulnerability he would never before had thought he had carried. Yet he takes no more than a moment to ponder, as he wishes only the haven of sheltering walls away from the untamed element. He approaches the door and knocks loudly. He waits for what feels like a minute, constantly looking about as though seeking something. He strikes the door again, this time louder and with sustained knocking. From a second storey window he notices a light appears and from inside the heavy footfall of one disturbed from their sleep.

Moments later the door in front of him was opened and stood before him was a robed gentleman. He had a leathery face but not unkind. It was gaunt and his eyebrows seemed like grey steel brush. His mouth was surrounded with a sharp white shadow and there was a lack of focus to his eyes. Despite those features it was not unkind.

“Hiya, I’m very sorry-”

“-Bed, i’nt it? Get in. No sense standin’ out ‘ere in this state. Better to talk inside, much better.” The old man beckoned him inside and he followed. The door was closed behind him and Edward immediately felt how inviting the warm, calm air inside was. He became aware of his ears tingling and realised how cold they had been under the lash of the wind. His nose too felt especially warm and he imagined that it was red with the hot blood underneath the skin. He cupped his hands around his nose and mouth and exhaled a few times to help warm himself.

“It’s very late, I apologise for coming here when you must have been sleeping but I didn’t expect the sudden turn in the weather. I’d planned to walk until daylight but it was too difficult. I can pay you extra for the trouble, that’s no worry.”

“No need to meck a fuss. The usual charge’ll be fine. It’s forty pound fer the night and a fiver for a full English in the morning. Lets ‘ave ya coat.” Edward unzipped himself and handed it dutifully over. It was taken and hung on a stand beside the door, between others both male and female in design. “I don’t suppose you’ll be wanting to stand around talkin’ an’ that. The guest room is just down the hall there,” he pointed.

“Thanks and Good night.”

“Yes, sleep well.” The old man was making to return up the stairs when he paused. “I almost forgot, she’d play ‘eck at me if I did… I’m Arthur and my wife upsturs is Millen, you’ll see her by the morning I’m sure. She’ll be mecking your breakfast and whatnot.”

“My name’s Edward. I’d hope to talk more with you in the morning, if you shouldn’t mind.” He said this more out of politeness than any real desire to learn more about the old couple that he would likely never meet again but that wasn’t to say that he would mind speaking with them further.

“Why not. Let’s see ‘ow this night takes us first though, ey? Ya can’t ‘elp feeling like thurs something up to no good when the wind howls so strongly. Bloody frightful, i’nt it?”

Edward shared a smile with him and said it was indeed and they both bade each other a good night once more before quitting to their rooms. In the guest room the din outside could be heard, but it was a comforting sort of noise, here in the warmth. The room was very clean, the bed sheets sheer white and looked autumnal yellow by the light of the bedside lamp. The view out of the window was black in contrast. Impenetrable to his best efforts to make out any detail. There were long stretches of fields out there, he thought. Any manner of occurrence might be happening and it must surely pass out of notice. On nights like these the countryside kept it’s secrets and the animals that dared venture from their holes could not betray them.

It was evidently late, and Edward was exhausted from fighting for each step. He laid on the bed without taking his clothes or shoes off. Crumpled back from a sitting position, laying with his feet still on the floor. He would just close his eyes for a moment before getting undressed but he was now asleep and still in the same posture.

Ten or twenty minutes later the door opened slowly, just a crack. Whomever did it was taking pains to hide the noise and they winced at the creaking of the hinges which always seem louder to one attempting stealthy movement. Two keen eyes looked through the opening. The light had not been turned off so she could see clearly inside. He was asleep. She thought he was asleep and she watched for a minute before daring any further in case he wasn’t. He was asleep and so she opened the door, bringing the belt with her.

He wasn’t ideally positioned but it would have to suffice. The belt was long and had a mechanical clasp which was used to quickly tighten the loop. She gently lifted his feet and slipped half of it underneath, wrapping it about the underside of the bed. She pulled it up to his chest and secured it with the clicking of the tightening mechanism. Arthur also came in with another binding which he used to fasten Edward’s feet tightly together.

“Give ‘im the shot and we’ll get ‘im on ta stretcher. We need to ‘urry, those fuckin’ bastards won’t wait. ‘e looks a strong un so make sure ‘e’s good an out,” Millen intimated to Arthur. He nodded his head and didn’t criticise her for directing him as he already knew. They were both under considerable strain and the task at hand was more important than angry words with his wife. He took a syringe he had placed on the bedside table and with his fingers isolated a vein on Edward’s arm. Skilfully he inserted the needle into the skin, drew back the plunger until he could see the dark red of blood being drawn into the chamber, and then pushed it forward emptying everything into the arm.

“Do it then. An’ careful not to wake ‘im.” Millen intimated to Arthur. He nodded his head and didn’t criticise her for directing him as he already knew. They were both under considerable strain and the task at hand was more important than angry words with his wife. He took a syringe he had placed on the bedside table and with his fingers isolated a vein on Edward’s arm. Skilfully he inserted the needle into the skin, drew back the plunger until he could see the dark red of blood being drawn into the chamber, and then pushed it forward emptying everything into the arm.

“It’ll work, do yah think?” Arthur whispered and in response to this Millen flashed him a baleful glance, taking no pains to hide the contempt that had germinated within towards her husband.

“Don’t be absurd, of course it’ll work, you just be quiet and watch ‘im. I ‘aven’t the foggiest ‘ow it works but ‘e’ll be drawn thur, sure as anythin’. An’ when Demdike sniffs it in ‘is blood and sees it in ‘is eye she’ll know ‘ow to arrange matters. It’ll all be for the best. Now lets untie ‘im and leave, it shan’t be long now.”

So doing, Edward was left in the position he had been found, only slightly askew from the meddling of the prior two and entirely unaware of the treatment he had received. The close observer might have noticed how his eyelids twitched and also, now and then, the muscles in his neck or brow, much like that seen in one dreaming deeply. And, by inches, how he becomes restive and less contented with a singular posture, turning this way and that and never seeming satisfied with whatever aspect his arms fell into. Moments later and there is now an uncommon sweat which darkens his shirt and falls in cascading droplets from his skin, leaving trails in their wake; and to any listener the sound of chattering could be heard like the clicking together of teeth of one in shivers. Indeed, Edward was displaying an alarming array of sudden symptoms which might have been the least alarming in respect to his arousal, not from sleep but from his laying position. Eyes still tightly shut he marched out of the room, as though at the beck of an inhuman calling which unerringly guided his step due to how easily he navigated the unfamiliar corridors and doorways despite his lack of familiarity with the place. He was out and in the street, and although the wind bit at him fiercely, and though it filled his ears with its mournful wailing, his eyes remained firmly clamped and still he walked with an extraordinary certainty.

Arthur, looking out from the upper window, watched him go and although he repressed feelings of guilt and trepidation he knew that this method was for the better. Though he bitterly fought with his wife over the burden of their evildoing, he knew that at least by randomly selecting the victims in this way there was no vindictiveness, no malicious motive behind the act. Not for them at least, yet he would be less certain speaking on behalf of her. On behalf of Demdike, she that claimed herself to be the reincarnation of that ancient malefactor, that accursed witch that hung on the gallows nearly four hundred years ago. He, of course, viewed her claims with great scepticism, though the wild, wilful look in her eye and the air of rotten mystery about her restrained him from outright disavowing her claims. She too, held a sway over his wife and it was she, he suspected, who was slowly turning her against him and why she now spoke to him with barely civil tones. Needless to say, he did not question too deeply about the whereabouts of those that left the Grange Fell on stormy evenings; He still, however, suspected the worst and more and more his nights were restless as he pained himself with that knowledge.

In his youth he had been proud; and how strongly he had felt disgust when reading on the atrocities of past Transylvania, where, in the sixteen hundreds Countess Bathory bathed in the blood of virgins and delighted in orgiastic tortures. Never before had he felt that he had borne witness to true villainy as when he read the descriptions of she that could take pleasure in the mutilation of the pure and unknowing. And yet, what brought him to greater heights of impassioned vexation was the diabolism of those who delivered to the Blood Countess those artless lambs to a ruthless slaughter; knowing or suspecting what she and her vile servants did and still presenting them unto her. Was he now so different from them? His conscience told him no, he was as base as the grimmest of those blackguards, more so that he worked in the same vein and not for their simple, needful motives, money and favour, but did it out of cowardice and a lifetimes aggregation of altruistic disregard. His darker half soothed him with pleasant lies on how he misjudged the situation, that he had no way to tell what had happened to the previous ones he had helped along to the care of Demdike and sometimes he indulged himself in these lies and they had helped him to bear it. But lately, he knew, he was coming to a crisis and he must either in part absolve himself of his ills by rectifying as best he could the situation he had helped to create or forget it all, hang himself and resign his existence to oblivion. The latter, with its comparative ease, was the more charming temptation, and though he once considered it remarkable that a person could muster themselves to take their own life when he so dearly feared death and the uncertainty of the void (or what ever else there may be afterwards), he knew that it was only the smallest act of bravery compared to the courage it would take for him to stand opposition to the quaking fear which filled him in the presence of that despicable woman.

He looked upwards and there in the blackened sky, with all the clarity you could wish for, hung the moon. Usually he was not given to such thoughts but the exquisite radiance with which it shone forth and paired, as it was, with the disorder of the wind seemed to him something of an ill portent. He could feel the conflict inside him coming to its climax and he knew he would soon be resolved, one way or the other.

He came away from the window and descended to the basement, telling Millen that he would not sleep tonight and instead would busy himself with his models. Rather, he dislodged the fake bricks amidst the mustiness down there and pulled out the case that he had hidden inside. He opened it and under the dim light inspected his prize, the revolver he had acquired away from Millen’s prying eyes. It was an old pistol, likely some keepsake from the war, but the action was still good and beyond the details of how it should be operated, he had not inquired any more about its origin. It was black and had a reassuring weightiness to it and when examining it on previous occasions, as he often liked to do, he had enjoyed the resolute clicks the ejection and reinsertion of the barrel made. He loaded it with brass coloured bullets and once more shut the barrel, deciding that he would follow closely behind Edward. Either way, this night would be the deciding of his fate and he was determined to end himself or deliver Demdike, and whomever else involved themselves in her malignant schemes, to their just damnations.

From the landing above, Arthur was haunted by the crafty body of his sour faced wife Millen. How the hatred for that spineless toad had blossomed within her, weakly acceding to Demdike’s wishes with that constant, disgusting visage of malcontent. If only he, like her, had been shown a glimpse of the terror which would soon oppress all within the valley, the malform hatred which existed out of time, he would sooner blow his brains out than consider any foolish stance against it. There was a part of her, she knew, that had become unhinged with the vision of that misshapen horror, it had somehow infected her brain and made her different but she could not, for any amount of trying, remember what part of her had been altered; whether she had been at all she was only fairly certain. She knew how Arthur would yammer on about the new configuration of her personality, how she would fulfil that which Demdike ordered without the least compunction and she did not disbelieve that she had become something reborn since that frightful experience. But he was wrong in the sense that he accused her of being the puppet of that arrogant peon, she who thought only herself knew of the entity which jealousy coveted the potential for suffering this England had. Millen arrived at her devices through her own intuition and acted herself entirely autonomously from Demdike, who had become too intoxicated on her gluttonous self approval to notice the small actions she took which by turns would obfuscate her goals.

He was coming back up! Quietly Millen retreated into the blackness of the kitchen, he wouldn’t look in here and she had an idea what that insipid rat was about. He thought he had been careful but the frequency with which he had comforted himself by examining the revolver had caught her attention and once she had harboured doubt it had become all too easy to find the place of concealment. She had left the gun undisturbed, partially curious what foolish measure he sought to take. Although at first she had qualms that he thought to extinguish her life in fits of remorse over the wrongs they had perpetuated, she soon reassured herself that he was much too hopeless to bring himself to do so. She knew that he could not help still thinking of her in terms of the woman he had married and had spent many long years with. Even should he point the gun in her direction with that consideration in mind, she knew that she could put on airs of pleading repentance and that would be all the manipulation required to stay the trigger. If only he had the determination that had been gifted to her, he could as easily enact screaming, inhumane murder on his progeny as he could the most deserving delinquent.

She stole away out of the rear exit and the chill wind in her face was to her like the reinvigorating taste of youth, it made her feel strong once more and if she paid close attention to its rhythmical sighing she thought she might be able to pick out words from an unearthly tongue. The sharp moon in the sky seemed a beacon which urged her onward, promising a higher grace than divinity if she but moved as assuredly as that august satellite gleamed and she entrusted herself to these pleasing signals. She would arrive at the gathering point by round-a-bout roads, as it would be best, she thought, if none suspected her involved in treachery. It would suit her the most if her two enemies eliminated each other, or at least caused the other injury and as for Edward, it would be Millen, not Demdike, who offered his entrails in sacrifice to the outer thing; and she could not help the saliva which escaped her lips at imagining his scattered innards.

It had been 25 minutes that Edward had been walking, still entirely unaware of the journey he was undertaking. All he knew of was an insistent pulling and he could no more resist it than magnetised iron could, by its own volition, draw away from the poles. Arthur had caught up with him now and trailed behind him in full view, taking no pains to disguise himself. At first he had been more furtive in his stalking but once convincing himself of the thorough mesmerism that had overtaken Edward, found that creeping was unnecessary. The night still carried the anguish of the dead and no sane person would risk the eminent misfortunes of wandering abroad on one such as this. There was, therefore, no risk of discovery until at Blackhaw where, he had heard it rumoured, the abhorrent gorgon committed herself to whatever atrocious rituals it was that she did. Even from this distance he felt the gripping in his stomach at the prospect of confronting that she-devil and, fortunately, did not fathom the one that followed behind. At times he grasped inside his coat pocket for the handle and the heftiness of it helped him to muster himself and carry on in the face of his fear. Then he cursed himself for his yellowness in having misgivings of what one woman may do, when here he was armed with a weapon capable of dealing a quick and certain death.

“Thas nothin’ to worry misself about. Thurs not a thing she could do to meck ‘er skin ‘arder ‘an steel. An though ‘er veins run on the blackest sort of oil, thur ain’t anythin’ that malice alone can do to keep ‘er life when it all drips out.” And although he believed fully that she was as permeable to bullets as any other made of marrow and sinew, he yet dreaded what arts she might employ to cripple his resolve and make him meekly cower. Thus, rife with superstitions and mindful of the doleful whistling wind which whispered more and more of enmities the magnitude of which were incomparable, Arthur matched the step of the benevolently unaware one ahead. They had, for a while now, left the alms of the street lamps which cast the world into a yellow feyness and looming on the dark hilltops was that forbidding tower, the nest of who knows what form of creatures. Blackhaw tower it was called and to the residents nearby known simply as ‘Blacko’. It was opaque from this angle, as the moonbeams fell on the opposite side, making it a creeping silhouette against the skyline and although Arthur would fain not have gone near it, he was obliged to quicken his pace when he noted the sudden run that his charge had broken into.

As for Millen, who by and by came upon the same spot he had just left, her eyes twinkled at the sight and she greedily drank it in and cherished its familiarity; the place that had been her birth, her renewal. It might have been surprising to note how sprightly she clambered over wall and fence to approach it from a differing angle and how clearly she seemed to recognise the contours of the landscape with just the aid of the moonlight, like the cat which recognises all in the darkness. She hid herself amongst the high grass which grew unchecked in the untended meadows surrounding that shunned spire and, with great pains to do so silently, crawled closer so as that she could watch and listen unobserved and then realise her chance and take it, leaving herself the unrivalled master. Yet she would be patient and the foreign one would be pleased with her if she could manage to subdue as many as she could at the gathering for unhurried torment later.

Demdike was stood, her one hand pressed against the wall in support as though that was all that prevented her from falling. She had all the confidence that her namesakes inheritance bestowed upon her and inwardly her spirit cackled in delight that it was only she that had glimpsed the maddening beast; of course it was her! She knew it could be no other way, no other had the benefit of the occult like she had, that she had diligently inferred from the scriptures of wanton heretics. From whose quill and ecclesiastical debauchery she had discovered the name that had incited her ever onwards until she had found the method with which it could be contacted. The Shambler, they had called it, the ambling psychosis, whose dread eye could shutter the world and keep it forever. Yet she knew it was more than that and barely held herself back from the lunacy which the knowledge tested her to. Perhaps she had already broken and had not seen it but that mattered little, soon all would come under his gallant sovereign and of humans she would be the highest and all would exult in her magnificence.

Her deliberations were interrupted by the latest offering who dreamily wandered into her circle. He was young and strong and she knew it was best when they stubbornly clung to life through the harrowing tortures she devised. It was best and it was how she preferred it which was, thankfully, one and the same. She watched him without sympathy as he racked himself on the floor and his stomach was evacuated amidst the heaving; and she felt a certain envy when she imagined that even now, though the subject himself wouldn’t know it, he was instructed by the ancient being and tasted something of his presence. It would not reveal itself entirely, she thought, but it would pay him gentle seductions to soothe the disturbance of his spirit. The drug she had given them to administer would facilitate the bonding and soon enough he would be pliable to the mind rape that would follow.

Yet, Edward was not quite under the throes that Demdike thought he must be and she did not suspect the simple alteration that Millen had contrived, that by diluting the admixture he might keep enough of his senses to cause her trouble thereby giving Millen the opening she desired for. She regretted this measure retrospectively, as she had not predicted that the dull wit of her husband would be excited to recklessness on this of all nights; that impotent meddlesome sod!

I wanted to show the differing psychology between the characters and their independant desires. I was trying to contrast Millen's delight with the dark atmosphere with Arthur's foreboding. So I thought to show that with their different interpretations of the scene about them and what it portends for the rest of the story.