Ritter was a happy boy.
He lived a charming life in the forest of Bohemia.
He would spend days and days running and skipping through the trees, the dells and the rivulets that made up the wood on the edge of the world.
"Don't go beyond the forest!" shouted his Mother as he set off on another adventure.
"I won't" he replied as he skipped past the cottage garden and into the sunny glade near the stream.
The boy would saunter along winding paths and old fence lines meandering through the tall oaks like snakes and ladders.
He would pick wood anemones and sorrels for his Mother and sing madrigals he'd learnt from his Father as they sat together by the hearth on winter nights.
Occasionally he would stop to eat a sandwich from his bundle and drink some elderflower all made by his Mother that morning.
The sun would shine through the canopy and the warm light would dance and pose around the forest floor. Ritter would follow the bobbing sunlight as it made its way through the trees.
It was on one such day that the boy, shuffling along humming and hopping in the dapples, came to the edge of the forest.
He had never been this far before and felt the yawning distance between his home and where he stood.
"Don't go beyond the forest!"
His Mother's warning echoed through the watching trees.
Ritter sat down at the edge and ate a sandwich.
It was then that he heard a haunting plaintive sound like the sad whispers of a golden harp.
He stood and felt an urgent desire to find the source of the lament and breaking his Mother's cardinal rule, left the forest.
He walked out onto a vast undulating board of gently rolling wolds, which when entered, had a charming effect like the welcome he felt in his father's arms.
The boy walked on summoned by the aching notes drifting across the low hills.
He clasped his food bundle and looked back once towards the dark boundary of the woods and went on into the new land.
On he went until he came to a small grassy hill.
The haunting melody seemed to emanate from here soothing the very air and the ground around it.
Ritter stared at the mound and thought he saw part of it open up slightly.
It had and what's more in the opening was a large .... eye!
Ritter was flabbergasted and was about to turn and run home when he heard the plaintive song again. It was so sad, so moving. He sat down to listen to it properly now that he was here.
In his reverie he thought he saw another eye open up at the base of the hill. Now two large eyes with red pupils were staring at him in a sort of sorrowful way.
"Are you the eyes under the hill?" asked the boy.
"I am," said the hill, "and there is more of me."
"Then do not be afraid Mister Hill. Come out into the sunshine", replied Ritter cheerfully.
"I am not afraid young Sir. I am stiff and find it hard to move, but I shall try now that you are here", explained the hill.
At this the eyes closed as if some huge edifice was straining to rise and the boy could see spiral rents appearing in the grass around the mound.
The spiral tears grew bigger and after much creaking and groaning a colossal grassy creature was standing in front of the boy, a shower of soil and roots falling from him like snow.
"You are so big Mister Hill!" said Ritter as he craned his neck to see the creature's head in the bright sky.
"I am," it agreed "I am as tall as a castle, if not taller."
"I have never seen a castle I'm afraid. I live in the forest and there are no castles there, just my parent's house and my den," explained the boy.
"I once lived in the forest too, many years ago," replied the creature now stretching in the sunshine and shaking off some mice and voles that had nestled in his creases.
"But how could you have lived in the forest Mister Hill? You are so big and the gaps between the trees are so small!" asked Ritter.
"I was once a boy like you young Sir. I had a home and I lived with my dear parents far away on the other side of the woods, where the brook babbles and the robins sing. My name was Wurm,"
"But you aren't a boy at all. Your'e a .....," remarked Ritter.
" ...... dragon. Yes. I am a huge dragon with wings and four legs and a vast toothy mouth," agreed Wurm as it began to walk round the boy, grass still covering its massive form.
"But why did you change from being a boy Mister Dragon, I mean Wurm?"
"Like you young Sir I once wandered far from home, with some food from my dearest Mother wrapped in a cloth. I wandered and sauntered through the tall tress until there were no trees left and the forest ceased."
Wurm went on, licking some dead leaves from his claw.
"It was then that I heard the most sorrowful music I had ever experienced in all the world. Even the sad winter robins could not produce such a sound as this. I stepped out of the forest and the notes lead me to a grass-topped mound, where like you, I sat and listened to the sad song."
"But what happened to you Wurm? Why aren't you a boy now?" inquired Ritter feeding grass to a dizzy vole.
"I met the dragon under the hill and the dragon explained how he had once been a boy and strayed out of the trees and met a dragon under the hill ..... and so it goes back into the mists of time to the beginning of the world," explained the Wurm.
"So you ..... became the dragon?" asked Ritter with the first nibbles of fear in his voice.
"Yes," replied Wurm, "As you will too."
"But I don't want to become a dragon under the hill Wurm, I don't. My parents will be worried sick and I need to go home," implored the boy.
"I'm afraid you can't young Sir for it is the way of the hill that you must now take my place under its roots and keep some of the world's sadness locked away. You will be a Sorrow Dragon like me and sleep deeply in your bed of herbs singing your own sad song as you dream forever," explained Wurm.
"Oh no, Wurm, please! I beg you, I do not wish to become a Sorrow Dragon and keep sadness locked away. I want to go home to my Mother and Father and hug them again and again!" cried the anguished boy now standing below the giant dragon's head.
"But if you do not become a Sorrow Dragon then I shall stay a dragon forever and ever, for it must be the first child who strays that can release me. That child is you I'm afraid," soothed the Dragon stroking the boy's brow gently with a huge blue claw.
"I do not want you to stay a dragon forever Wurm but I do not want to be a dragon either. Please, please do not make me one for I shall miss my parents terribly and it will break their hearts that I am gone", sobbed Ritter.
"It is ever thus young Sir. I implored the very same but it was to no avail. Sorrow Dragon's are as much a part of nature as streams and mountains and the sadness they keep would overwhelm the world if it wasn't stored away in the hills. There are many of us scattered around the vale and I am the one at the edge of the forest. You must become a dragon and I must be freed as you yourself will be freed in time," explained Wurm sat down on the grass on his vast blue haunches.
The forlorn boy sobbed with such ferocity that his shoulders wracked and his body shook with a sadness he had never known, a sadness born of his parents' distant breaking hearts and his own yearning arms and he knew that must lock such sorrow away from the world lest it overwhelm it just as Wurm had said.
"How do I release you?" he asked the dragon looking up into its sad eyes.
"Firstly, I must say your name."
Then say it.
"Ritter."
"Now, you must lie like an an unborn child in the bowl in the ground where I once lay."
The boy slowly led down in the soil and stared up at the sorrowful dragon.
"And now last of all I must shed a tear over you."
The boy nodded and lay down his head and snuggled into the earth as its heart broke.
The dragon, sobbing, lowered his vast head over the boy and released an enormous tear that splashed over his curled body and soaked the soil around him.
"Goodbye Ritter." said the dragon.
"Goodbye Wurm." sobbed the boy.
The dragon immediately changed back into a young boy and he ran once more into the forest of his past.
At the edge he stopped and looked back to where Ritter was lying.
All he could see was a grassy mound.
As Wurm turned he thought he could hear the first notes of Ritter's sorrowful song filling the sunlit wolds.
Sunday, March 31, 2019
Thursday, March 28, 2019
NIGHT SCHOOL
Maleva was new in town.
She had moved in a hurry from the last town with her Mum.
Moving around meant she never really got a chance to finish off her schooling.
Now 17, she could go to evening classes or night school as it was known in this town.
The first time she went was that typical social mess: awkward introductions and nervous expectations.
The subject she needed was English Lit and she had chosen a course in Gothic Writings as it interested her and she thought it would be fun.
Her tutor was called Mr. Strange and he was. Strange. But also sweet enough to make her feel welcome. He asked if she had managed to get hold of the three books being studied and Maleva said she had. She had them in her bag: Frankenstein, Dracula and The Werewolf of Paris.
It was a small group. The Chic Lit course was much bigger.
Everyone made their introductions as part of the ritual breaking the ice. There was Elsa, a young bright girl who looked like she'd been in a car accident as she was terribly scarred on her neck and wrists; there was Binford, a jerky young guy, who just couldn't wait to start reading the books; Geraldine, Cornelia and Dorothy, three bratty sisters who just stared at everyone else - obvious rich kids - and then there was Maleva.
The first class went without obvious event. Everyone had their favourite books and Mr. Strange hoped they had a nice week until the next night school. He hadn't noticed the tension in the air when each of the books was introduced. The students really did have their favourites. They all walked off from the school into the dark.
The following week Binford and Elsa didn't show. There'd been no message sent to Mr.Strange and the class felt too small without them. Besides, the three girls were sniggering behind their copies of Dracula.
Maleva stared at them.
"What's your problem newbie?" said Cornelia.
"Nothing. I was just wondering what was so funny," replied Maleva smiling.
"None of your fucking business newbie," replied Dorothy viciously.
If Mr. Strange heard this exchange he showed no reaction to it and after a reading gradually brought the class to an end.
Maleva noticed him speaking with the three girls as she was leaving. The tutor had his head curiously bowed as if he was cowering.
It was a dark cold cloudless night outside and the stars were out in full and shining brightly casting a wan light on those below.
"Hey newbie, keep your fucking big fat nose out of our business, in class or out of it. Get it!" snarled Geraldine as the three girls met Maleva at the corner.
"Yeah, you nosey bitch. We'll laugh all we want to. Those other retards Binford and Elsa were nosey like you and who knows were they are now!" whispered Cornelia.
All three of them began to chuckle again at this.
Mr. Strange turned the corner just then and joined the group.
"Everything all okay girls?" he enquired.
"Maleva the newbie here is asking an awful lot of questions Mr. Strange," explained Dorothy moving closer to the girl.
"Its a small town Maleva and its best not to make any waves I'm afraid," warned the tutor.
Maleva was alarmed at Mr. Strange's obvious collusion with the girls and her hackles were up now.
"Besides, its our town and we don't need no rookie bitches like you and that Elsa spoiling our fun. Isn't that right Mr. Strange," gnashed Geraldine exposing unusually long dog teeth as she spoke.
"That's right. Its an orderly place Maleva and as long as everyone follows the rules we'll all get along. You might say its a well-bled town. Every donation secures the peace and I help keep the donations flowing. Elsa and Binford were most accommodating but they struggled and that was a shame. The girls had to take more than was necessary I'm afraid. We hope you won't struggle Maleva," reasoned Strange as he began to grab her hands.
"I wouldn't do that Sir if I was you," warned Maleva menacingly.
"Why not, Your'e just some punk bitch from trashville. Do it Strange, we're hungry!" hissed Dorothy.
"I'm a .... werewolf!" explained Maleva, "Things could get very ugly for you!"
"You fuckin what! A werewolf! So fuckin what if you are! There's no full-moon tonight. You've got your fuckin periods mixed up slag. You can't harm us, we're the Brides of Dracula himself!" shrieked the three girls together as they began to levitate.
Strange loosened his grip a little at the unnerving news.
"I'm not a lunar werewolf," continued Maleva, "I'm an astral one."
Strange loosened his grip completely even though he didn't know what that meant.
"What the fuck is an astral werewolf you piece of shit? You're just stalling 'cos you know your'e ass is ours. Get her sisters!" cried Cornelia.
"An astral werewolf is one that changes not by moonlight .... but by star-light. And the stars are full tonight ladies!" explained Maleva as the Brides approached drooling and clawing.
They stopped and Strange stopped too.
Maleva transformed into a huge snarling howling shirt-tearing wolf girl in seconds and ripped all three Brides and the tutor to shreds in the darkness of the street corner next to the Night School.
The she-wolf ate and drank until her gut was distended. There wasn't a scrap left when she'd finished.
Maleva turned back and picked up her book off the floor, the Werewolf of Paris.
She chucked Dracula in the bin and walked off smiling under the pale glow of the starry night.
"I like this town," she thought to herself and wandered home.
She had moved in a hurry from the last town with her Mum.
Moving around meant she never really got a chance to finish off her schooling.
Now 17, she could go to evening classes or night school as it was known in this town.
The first time she went was that typical social mess: awkward introductions and nervous expectations.
The subject she needed was English Lit and she had chosen a course in Gothic Writings as it interested her and she thought it would be fun.
Her tutor was called Mr. Strange and he was. Strange. But also sweet enough to make her feel welcome. He asked if she had managed to get hold of the three books being studied and Maleva said she had. She had them in her bag: Frankenstein, Dracula and The Werewolf of Paris.
It was a small group. The Chic Lit course was much bigger.
Everyone made their introductions as part of the ritual breaking the ice. There was Elsa, a young bright girl who looked like she'd been in a car accident as she was terribly scarred on her neck and wrists; there was Binford, a jerky young guy, who just couldn't wait to start reading the books; Geraldine, Cornelia and Dorothy, three bratty sisters who just stared at everyone else - obvious rich kids - and then there was Maleva.
The first class went without obvious event. Everyone had their favourite books and Mr. Strange hoped they had a nice week until the next night school. He hadn't noticed the tension in the air when each of the books was introduced. The students really did have their favourites. They all walked off from the school into the dark.
The following week Binford and Elsa didn't show. There'd been no message sent to Mr.Strange and the class felt too small without them. Besides, the three girls were sniggering behind their copies of Dracula.
Maleva stared at them.
"What's your problem newbie?" said Cornelia.
"Nothing. I was just wondering what was so funny," replied Maleva smiling.
"None of your fucking business newbie," replied Dorothy viciously.
If Mr. Strange heard this exchange he showed no reaction to it and after a reading gradually brought the class to an end.
Maleva noticed him speaking with the three girls as she was leaving. The tutor had his head curiously bowed as if he was cowering.
It was a dark cold cloudless night outside and the stars were out in full and shining brightly casting a wan light on those below.
"Hey newbie, keep your fucking big fat nose out of our business, in class or out of it. Get it!" snarled Geraldine as the three girls met Maleva at the corner.
"Yeah, you nosey bitch. We'll laugh all we want to. Those other retards Binford and Elsa were nosey like you and who knows were they are now!" whispered Cornelia.
All three of them began to chuckle again at this.
Mr. Strange turned the corner just then and joined the group.
"Everything all okay girls?" he enquired.
"Maleva the newbie here is asking an awful lot of questions Mr. Strange," explained Dorothy moving closer to the girl.
"Its a small town Maleva and its best not to make any waves I'm afraid," warned the tutor.
Maleva was alarmed at Mr. Strange's obvious collusion with the girls and her hackles were up now.
"Besides, its our town and we don't need no rookie bitches like you and that Elsa spoiling our fun. Isn't that right Mr. Strange," gnashed Geraldine exposing unusually long dog teeth as she spoke.
"That's right. Its an orderly place Maleva and as long as everyone follows the rules we'll all get along. You might say its a well-bled town. Every donation secures the peace and I help keep the donations flowing. Elsa and Binford were most accommodating but they struggled and that was a shame. The girls had to take more than was necessary I'm afraid. We hope you won't struggle Maleva," reasoned Strange as he began to grab her hands.
"I wouldn't do that Sir if I was you," warned Maleva menacingly.
"Why not, Your'e just some punk bitch from trashville. Do it Strange, we're hungry!" hissed Dorothy.
"I'm a .... werewolf!" explained Maleva, "Things could get very ugly for you!"
"You fuckin what! A werewolf! So fuckin what if you are! There's no full-moon tonight. You've got your fuckin periods mixed up slag. You can't harm us, we're the Brides of Dracula himself!" shrieked the three girls together as they began to levitate.
Strange loosened his grip a little at the unnerving news.
"I'm not a lunar werewolf," continued Maleva, "I'm an astral one."
Strange loosened his grip completely even though he didn't know what that meant.
"What the fuck is an astral werewolf you piece of shit? You're just stalling 'cos you know your'e ass is ours. Get her sisters!" cried Cornelia.
"An astral werewolf is one that changes not by moonlight .... but by star-light. And the stars are full tonight ladies!" explained Maleva as the Brides approached drooling and clawing.
They stopped and Strange stopped too.
Maleva transformed into a huge snarling howling shirt-tearing wolf girl in seconds and ripped all three Brides and the tutor to shreds in the darkness of the street corner next to the Night School.
The she-wolf ate and drank until her gut was distended. There wasn't a scrap left when she'd finished.
Maleva turned back and picked up her book off the floor, the Werewolf of Paris.
She chucked Dracula in the bin and walked off smiling under the pale glow of the starry night.
"I like this town," she thought to herself and wandered home.
THE KING OF THE SLUGS WILL GET YA!
Schlimm was a horrible kid.
From the off he was soured; a punch thrown in a skin bag.
Like all young psychopaths he was cruel to other kids and animals.
Especially animals.
Schlimm had burnt, torn, stamped, crushed, ripped, pulled, gauged and skewered his way through the animal kingdom of his local town.
He was a biocidal maniac, an apocalypse in the verges and borders.
Schlimm had tortured larger animals like cats and dogs but he preferred to practise on smaller fayre to get full satisfaction.
Insects were his real area of expertise.
He'd started by pulling the legs off spiders. His young mate back then said the spiders would get him. Shut it you soft bastard or I'll pull your fuckin legs off he threatened.
He liked reducing those spiders. Creating useless torsos; He moved onto ripping the wings off flies and smiling as they ran across his desk flightless and scared. Next came cutting up worms with scissors and relishing the jerking of every severed slice.
He then discovered the cleaning cupboard.
"What are doing with my vim boy?" his Mother would shout.
"Nothing Mum, just cleaning my desk!" he'd lie.
"You've not got any creepy crawlies up there have you again? Be nice or the King of the slugs will get ya Schlimm!" Mum warned thinking that her son was simply interested in ant farms and wormeries for perfectly normal reasons.
But his reasons were far from normal and his delight in causing distress to insects knew no limits.
His pies-de-resistance was what he did to snails.
He'd got the idea from his Grandad gardening.
"What you doing Grandad?" he said hovering like a stuck moth.
"Setting a beer trap" replied the old man "to kill snails. They're eating my damn begonias!"
The thought of snails drowning in drink fascinated Schlimm and he hit on an idea that sent frissons of pleasure up and down his spine.
"The king of the slugs will get ya Gramps!" he shouted to his Grandad as he left the garden.
The idea was simple enough. He'd set up a stack of beer traps using glasses. A pyramid it said. He'd seen it in one of his Mum's glossies. A champagne fountain or something. It was the summer holidays too. Time to celebrate!
But it wouldn't be champagne he used. Too dear. For toffs that. It'd be coke, Coca cola. Lots and lots of the burpy stuff. Yes, He'd pour and pour until each glass was full an' overflowing.
There'd be a snail in each one. A soft pearl.
He did it that night in the shed and went to bed more satisfied than he'd ever been before. The snails had fizzed and bubbled like chickens in little ovens. It was great! One got away but what the hell. Slimeball!
He must have melted two hundred snails and slugs that summer before the snails ran out in the area. He'd dissolved them all in coke. It's the real thing after all. He'd killed the lot.
Drawn to the sickly gloop in the final glass he put it to his lips and ...... drank!
Drawn to the sickly gloop in the final glass he put it to his lips and ...... drank!
He left the shed licking his lips and eventually went back to school at summer's end. Year eleven.
He'd been thinking about girls at night in his room, his hands covered in slime. He was horny. Horny and uncontrollably evil.
He'd been thinking about girls at night in his room, his hands covered in slime. He was horny. Horny and uncontrollably evil.
Maybe it was time to move up the ladder. Bump off bigger stuff than dogs. Like a girl maybe! Yes!
She was standing by the lockers like an anemone staring at him. A young lady of shining marble. A girl with glossy long hair. A girl he could drip feed coca cola to alright. And worse!
"You new?" Schlimm asked.
"Yes. Just arrived in town," she replied in a silky, echoey, wet voice.
Schlimm was smitten and began planning her demise almost immediately. He would need the best plan ever. A plan that required many night's hard deliberation.
"You wanna come back to my parent's trailer?" she asked him one day after school. "We could go over cell division for tomorrow's exam."
Schlimm was thrown by this offer. He hadn't yet perfected his plan for her and here she was - asking him on a date!
He went along for ideas. Maybe something in her room might inspire him to give her the sticky end she deserved.
"We live in a trailer park just off the heath. You can ride on the back. I'm used to having something on it," she explained getting on her pushbike.
They arrived at a vast field full of caravans. In the middle was an enormous clubhouse. The vans and the house were all strangely domed and coloured a strange dull grey-silver-blue.
Schlimm knew he couldn't murder her just yet. Not on her home turf. He would have to wait. In the meantime he would plan the method of execution and felt excited just imagining her sloppy end.
"Let's go to the clubhouse. There's a big turn on," she explained dragging Schlimm along a trail, which was covered in an odd silver scum as if snot had been sprayed along it.
They walked in and the place was dark. There was an unpleasant odour and the space was filled with a sort of squelchy background noise. Schlimm imagined it to be the sound she would make as he did what he needed to her.
At the centre of the huge room he could make out the silhouette of a towering tiered structure in the gloom.
"The light's coming on or what?" he asked his new friend in an irritated tone.
Suddenly the switches were thrown and the place was flooded with light. Schlimm had to close his eyes for a second but when he opened them he saw a sight which he simply could not fathom.
Before him was a tower of huge champagne glasses all stacked up like a pyramid. Just like the one he'd made in the shed. But these glasses were massive, as big as doors and inside each one was a thing. A moving thing.
Schlimm stared at the things and tried to work out what the hell they were when the nearest one to him moved enough to look straight at him.
It was his Dad for God's sake! His Dad was stuffed into a giant glass, naked and trussed like a cherry on the end of a long stick and staring straight at him!
In a state of increasing shock he stared at the other cherries and realised with mind-crunching horror that they were all his family: his Mum, his sisters, his Grandparents and .... noooooooooooooooo!
..... at the very peak of the stack, in the top glass was a figure smaller than the rest, a figure small enough to be a ..... it was his baby brother!
Schlimm let out a blood-curdling scream all his mind reeled to maintain a grip on sanity. Even he could not comprehend the contraption before him, a pyramid of his relatives.
He continued to scream as all around him movement began in the shadows as things started to slither towards him.
His new girlfriend glared at him, mucus dribbling from her widening toothless mouth.
"How do you like our handiwork Schlimm? We call it the family tree. Its your family tree really. A champagne fountain made specially for us. We're sooooooooo thirsty" she said just as her back bent and a monstrous shell erupted from under her shirt.
"Yes, it'll be a family fountain to be proud of, for grand guzzling and one fit for a .....King!" the shell girl hissed through thickened lips as her eyes began to stalk.
The entire company of things turned with a slithering sound to face a colossal snail sliding towards Schlimm.
"You really shouldn't have dissolved my family .... boy" hissed the giant as he towered over him. "Its only fair that I ... dissolve yours!"
The boy was held fast by two snails as the King of their kind muscled its way up the wall and positioned itself above the uppermost glass. Clinging to the ceiling it began to rub and squeal and shudder and enormous quantities of thick slime started to pour into the glasses, filling one, then the others and then the others in a Niagara of snail saliva.
Schlimm saw with horror that each of his family members were bubbling and sizzling in the viscous stuff, writhing in agony and screaming silently into the gloop as the stuff filled their mouths and slowly began to dissolve them.
The boy was lost in a twisted world even he could never have conjured and he shrieked out at the top of his lungs "I'm soooooooooorry!"
"Too late murderer!" whispered the shell girl and Schlimm was dragged by strong probosces toward an opening at the base of the fountain where a long pipe dangled. On his back, he was held flat and the pipe was cruelly inserted into his mouth.
Schlimm now had a view of everything that was falling out of the glasses overflowing above him, gurgling down the flutes and pouring into a wide funnel at the bottom, a funnel to which was attached ..... the long pipe now stuffed in his mouth! The irony of it, his own lethal idea was going to kill him too.
When the slime entered Schlimm's throat he screamed once again. The acidic fluid burnt his insides and the pain was completely unbearable. His body began to convulse violently and when the first holes began to appear on his skin as the snail slime dissolved him he knew that death was near, a death he now craved as the agony of being liquefied was more than his sanity could withstand.
His final sight was of a wet scrum of snails and slugs gliding over the slime fountain above and slurping up all his melted family members. Within the glasses he could see a little hand twitching and his Gramp's set of false teeth swirling round the thick red and pink ooze as if they'd been through a blender.
A huge moist tentacle slapped upon his face and began to drink his cheek juices. The girl-snail still had her face and she smiled at Schlimm as she drank voraciously.
"Not so fuckin' clever now are we you murderous human scum!" she drooled as the one that had got away gargled his bubbling scalp and brains.
The king of the slugs just got ya!
Sunday, March 10, 2019
IT REALLY DOES TASTE LIKE CHICKEN!
Rudis had always been a horror nut.
Ever since he could remember monsters had ruled the world.
He'd thought about them at school, in church, in the bath, in work and even at his wedding, where he'd imagined his wife to be the Bride of Frankenstein before he snapped out of it and gave her the ring!
Yes, Rudis was monster mad and in particular he loved the classic types; vampire, werewolf, ghoul, mummy, creature and Frankenstein. He'd seen all the films and attended countless conventions to do his favourite thing, to acquire the autographs of his 'scream' idols as he called them.
Rudis had the signatures of all the horror celebs of his generation like Robert Englund and Clive Barker. He'd even spent a fortune on long dead stars' scribbles like Lon Chaney, Boris Karloff and his prized possession, Bela Lugosi.
He dreamed of having a collection to rival anyone else and fawned over photographs of famous collectors like Forry Ackerman and his famous monsters Ackermansion. The Ackermonster even had a copy of Dracula signed by Bram Stoker and Bela Lugosi, not to mention Christopher Lee! Rudis thought this the coolest, most desirable thing in the world and he would have happily given his left arm to possess such a book!
On his jaunts around conventions Rudis had recently met Hands. Hands was also a big horror fan and introduced Rudis to a new character type that he'd not considered before, the cannibal.
Hands seemed to know all about the sub-genre and they spent many a happy evening together watching the classic films of the Eighties italian boom: Cannibal Ferox, Cannibal Man, Eaten Alive and the mother of them all, Cannibal Holocaust.
Rudis was a little sickened by what he'd seen but he had to admit there was something in it. Hands says it is the fascination in us all, whether we could eat another human being. Even mainstream movies like Alive, about the plane crash in the Andes, had covered the subject and there were many instances of real-live cannibalism in Western society.
"But aren't cannibals just the same as ghouls?" mused Rudis.
"No. Ghouls eat the flesh of the recently deceased." explained Hands.
"So what about Zombies then?" countered Rudis.
"Zombies eat the living, that's true, but they are undead, like Vampires. Foolishly they prefer guts and brains to actual meat. Besides, the Zombie genre is dead. When a zombie sunk its teeth into a shark it sunk to new depths!" retorted Hands, chortling at his own pun.
"No" continued Hands, "Cannibals are real people who covet the taste of living flesh, either raw or cooked. To the everyday person a cannibal is an Amazonian native with a loincloth and a bone stuck through his nose. But cannibals are real modern people enjoying their strange tastes in today's world, often in secret, but sometimes in plain sight."
"Oh Come on Hands. Are you telling me that there are cannibals here in our town eating its residents right under our noses? Its bollocks!"
"Rudis, just look at the slew of modern cannibal flicks. OK, Hannibal Lector made it sexy for the masses but it was Ravenous that really kicked off the new wave - or the new craving as I like to call it - an ace film, set in the Mexican -American War. Have you seen it? Its a good place to start but the new stuff is a cut above. Stuff like Green Inferno and Raw take it to the next level I'm telling you".
"And there's the whole Snuff thing." said Hands
"How do you mean, snuff?" replied Rudis
Hands went on."You know, did people actually snuff it in some movies! There was talk of actors and natives being murdered in Holocaust but the director, Ruggero Deodato, provided evidence to disprove the claims. Even so the rumours persist and there has been speculation whether real cannibals have sneaked onto some film sets as extras and that the films are actually being made for a whole new horde of fine young carnivores!"
"Good grief. I thought Shadow of a Vampire was a clever satire, the Vampire vamping on set and all that but real cannibals in films watched by cannibals, that's just gross, but kind of cool at the same time!" considered Rudis.
"If you want to find out more about cannibal flicks there's a convention-cum-disco this Saturday night. Its strictly by invite only but eager folk will be coming from all over the country. There's a strong chance some of the actors from Cannibal Holocaust will be there. I know one of the organisers and I reckon I could get us in. You fancy it?" asked Hands
"Do I! Sounds ace. Will Deodato be there? I'd love his autograph," said Rudis already imagining bagging such a notorious name in his book.
"Could be. The guests at these things are always kept under wraps. Its an underground thing, sort of edgy. Totally left-field. Out there. They can attract some real nutters and some unwanted attention from the cops. You know," explained Hands.
"Let's do it!" Rudis exclaimed.
Saturday night came and the two friends made their way to the outskirts of town. They arrived at an abandoned abattoir and knocked on the huge metal shutter. The shutter flew up and in front them stood Leatherface from Texas Chainsaw Massacre.
"Tickets?" he growled through his mask.
Hands handed them over, two unusually worn cards with "It's Splatterday Night! Movies, Dancing and Food for Discerning Tastes".
"Leatherface eh! Nice touch Hands" extolled Rudis.
"Yep, he's the doorman and the chef." Hands explained.
"And an old slaughterhouse! That's genius!" continued Rudis clutching his autograph book in his coat pocket.
They strolled past stalls rammed with DVD's and old VHS, zealous fans stooped over them. Then came a few stands of meat cleavers, kitchen knives, bone saws, skull saws and boning knives.
"All prop replicas," explained Hands but they looked pretty damn real to Rudis.
There were aprons and huge plastic sheets for sale as well as waders and skullcaps.
"All for effect. To keep the fans happy," continued Hands.
Next were rows and rows of photographs of famous cannibals like Bundy, Dahmer, Meiwes and Ed Gein, the cult's poster-boy, inspiration for Psycho and Texas Chainsaw. Rudis was getting excited. They were getting closer. He could feel it.
"Where are the actors Hands?"
"Over there in the corner by the ceiling hooks."
Rudis squinted but it was too dark in the corner. They continued to stroll through the abattoir, which was stuffed with fans jostling for the best merch. They walked past further stalls of cooking equipment, huge chest freezers, plates, jars, decanters and masses of cutlery.
"What's all that lot for Hands?"
"All props mate," he replied but Rudis thought it a bit odd, modern kitchen gear at a film con. He felt his autograph book in his pocket and carried on.
The far end of the place was a dance floor. People were dancing to Maneater by Hall and Oates. There was a glitterball and something was being sprayed over the crowd from the sprinklers in the roof between the meat hooks. Whatever it was, thought Rudis, it was making them go wild.
A blob of it landed on his face. He tasted it.
"Ugh! Yuk!" It tasted like blood and snot and God know's what. "What the hell is that Hands?"
"Just a little joke. You know, special effects. Fake blood and quorn blitzed up. For the fans mate!"
Rudis felt increasingly uneasy about this con but he followed Hands to the shadows where the actors were meant to be.
As they approached Rudis could see a group of people stood around a large flat metal brazier of glowing coals. The red light lit up their faces and they laughed and smiled as Hands greeted them with strong handshakes.
"Hands, we've been waiting for you! Where's your friend?" they guffawed.
"Don't worry! Rudis is here, right behind me. He's keen to meet you!" Hands went on "Rudis, these guys were all extras in famous cannibal films".
"Oh, that's fantastic! Great to meet you," howled Rudis reaching for his autograph book. "Would you do me the honour of giving me your autographs?"
"Of course! Of course," they enthused loudly stepping round the brazier.
Each one took the book and signed their name in turn and returned it to Rudis.
He stared at the names and the hairs on the back of his neck began to rise as he read them aloud:
"Back, Cheeks, Face, Breast, Thigh, Legs, Feet and ....."
The book was taken from him by his friend.
"...... and Hands. There you go Rudis. All signed!"
"But why, why those names?" stammered Rudis as the group came closer round him.
"It's what we eat my friend and it's what we'll eat of you!" bellowed Hands as Rudis was grabbed by the drooling company, mean fingers ripping his clothes from him and strong arms dragging him flat and face-down onto the red hot brazier.
"Noooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo!" he screamed as Hands reached for a meat fork and a cleaver.
Some time later, after the chum disco had died down and the visitors had gathered round the barbecue, they'd all had their fill and stood licking their greasy fingers and chucking knuckles and ribs into the coals, where a small book of autographs turned to ash.
"Hey guys!" said Hands raising his arms,
"IT REALLY DOES TASTE LIKE CHICKEN!" they shouted together laughing holding femurs, collarbones and vertebrae in the air!
Ever since he could remember monsters had ruled the world.
He'd thought about them at school, in church, in the bath, in work and even at his wedding, where he'd imagined his wife to be the Bride of Frankenstein before he snapped out of it and gave her the ring!
Yes, Rudis was monster mad and in particular he loved the classic types; vampire, werewolf, ghoul, mummy, creature and Frankenstein. He'd seen all the films and attended countless conventions to do his favourite thing, to acquire the autographs of his 'scream' idols as he called them.
Rudis had the signatures of all the horror celebs of his generation like Robert Englund and Clive Barker. He'd even spent a fortune on long dead stars' scribbles like Lon Chaney, Boris Karloff and his prized possession, Bela Lugosi.
He dreamed of having a collection to rival anyone else and fawned over photographs of famous collectors like Forry Ackerman and his famous monsters Ackermansion. The Ackermonster even had a copy of Dracula signed by Bram Stoker and Bela Lugosi, not to mention Christopher Lee! Rudis thought this the coolest, most desirable thing in the world and he would have happily given his left arm to possess such a book!
On his jaunts around conventions Rudis had recently met Hands. Hands was also a big horror fan and introduced Rudis to a new character type that he'd not considered before, the cannibal.
Hands seemed to know all about the sub-genre and they spent many a happy evening together watching the classic films of the Eighties italian boom: Cannibal Ferox, Cannibal Man, Eaten Alive and the mother of them all, Cannibal Holocaust.
Rudis was a little sickened by what he'd seen but he had to admit there was something in it. Hands says it is the fascination in us all, whether we could eat another human being. Even mainstream movies like Alive, about the plane crash in the Andes, had covered the subject and there were many instances of real-live cannibalism in Western society.
"But aren't cannibals just the same as ghouls?" mused Rudis.
"No. Ghouls eat the flesh of the recently deceased." explained Hands.
"So what about Zombies then?" countered Rudis.
"Zombies eat the living, that's true, but they are undead, like Vampires. Foolishly they prefer guts and brains to actual meat. Besides, the Zombie genre is dead. When a zombie sunk its teeth into a shark it sunk to new depths!" retorted Hands, chortling at his own pun.
"No" continued Hands, "Cannibals are real people who covet the taste of living flesh, either raw or cooked. To the everyday person a cannibal is an Amazonian native with a loincloth and a bone stuck through his nose. But cannibals are real modern people enjoying their strange tastes in today's world, often in secret, but sometimes in plain sight."
"Oh Come on Hands. Are you telling me that there are cannibals here in our town eating its residents right under our noses? Its bollocks!"
"Rudis, just look at the slew of modern cannibal flicks. OK, Hannibal Lector made it sexy for the masses but it was Ravenous that really kicked off the new wave - or the new craving as I like to call it - an ace film, set in the Mexican -American War. Have you seen it? Its a good place to start but the new stuff is a cut above. Stuff like Green Inferno and Raw take it to the next level I'm telling you".
"And there's the whole Snuff thing." said Hands
"How do you mean, snuff?" replied Rudis
Hands went on."You know, did people actually snuff it in some movies! There was talk of actors and natives being murdered in Holocaust but the director, Ruggero Deodato, provided evidence to disprove the claims. Even so the rumours persist and there has been speculation whether real cannibals have sneaked onto some film sets as extras and that the films are actually being made for a whole new horde of fine young carnivores!"
"Good grief. I thought Shadow of a Vampire was a clever satire, the Vampire vamping on set and all that but real cannibals in films watched by cannibals, that's just gross, but kind of cool at the same time!" considered Rudis.
"If you want to find out more about cannibal flicks there's a convention-cum-disco this Saturday night. Its strictly by invite only but eager folk will be coming from all over the country. There's a strong chance some of the actors from Cannibal Holocaust will be there. I know one of the organisers and I reckon I could get us in. You fancy it?" asked Hands
"Do I! Sounds ace. Will Deodato be there? I'd love his autograph," said Rudis already imagining bagging such a notorious name in his book.
"Could be. The guests at these things are always kept under wraps. Its an underground thing, sort of edgy. Totally left-field. Out there. They can attract some real nutters and some unwanted attention from the cops. You know," explained Hands.
"Let's do it!" Rudis exclaimed.
Saturday night came and the two friends made their way to the outskirts of town. They arrived at an abandoned abattoir and knocked on the huge metal shutter. The shutter flew up and in front them stood Leatherface from Texas Chainsaw Massacre.
"Tickets?" he growled through his mask.
Hands handed them over, two unusually worn cards with "It's Splatterday Night! Movies, Dancing and Food for Discerning Tastes".
"Leatherface eh! Nice touch Hands" extolled Rudis.
"Yep, he's the doorman and the chef." Hands explained.
"And an old slaughterhouse! That's genius!" continued Rudis clutching his autograph book in his coat pocket.
They strolled past stalls rammed with DVD's and old VHS, zealous fans stooped over them. Then came a few stands of meat cleavers, kitchen knives, bone saws, skull saws and boning knives.
"All prop replicas," explained Hands but they looked pretty damn real to Rudis.
There were aprons and huge plastic sheets for sale as well as waders and skullcaps.
"All for effect. To keep the fans happy," continued Hands.
Next were rows and rows of photographs of famous cannibals like Bundy, Dahmer, Meiwes and Ed Gein, the cult's poster-boy, inspiration for Psycho and Texas Chainsaw. Rudis was getting excited. They were getting closer. He could feel it.
"Where are the actors Hands?"
"Over there in the corner by the ceiling hooks."
Rudis squinted but it was too dark in the corner. They continued to stroll through the abattoir, which was stuffed with fans jostling for the best merch. They walked past further stalls of cooking equipment, huge chest freezers, plates, jars, decanters and masses of cutlery.
"What's all that lot for Hands?"
"All props mate," he replied but Rudis thought it a bit odd, modern kitchen gear at a film con. He felt his autograph book in his pocket and carried on.
The far end of the place was a dance floor. People were dancing to Maneater by Hall and Oates. There was a glitterball and something was being sprayed over the crowd from the sprinklers in the roof between the meat hooks. Whatever it was, thought Rudis, it was making them go wild.
A blob of it landed on his face. He tasted it.
"Ugh! Yuk!" It tasted like blood and snot and God know's what. "What the hell is that Hands?"
"Just a little joke. You know, special effects. Fake blood and quorn blitzed up. For the fans mate!"
Rudis felt increasingly uneasy about this con but he followed Hands to the shadows where the actors were meant to be.
As they approached Rudis could see a group of people stood around a large flat metal brazier of glowing coals. The red light lit up their faces and they laughed and smiled as Hands greeted them with strong handshakes.
"Hands, we've been waiting for you! Where's your friend?" they guffawed.
"Don't worry! Rudis is here, right behind me. He's keen to meet you!" Hands went on "Rudis, these guys were all extras in famous cannibal films".
"Oh, that's fantastic! Great to meet you," howled Rudis reaching for his autograph book. "Would you do me the honour of giving me your autographs?"
"Of course! Of course," they enthused loudly stepping round the brazier.
Each one took the book and signed their name in turn and returned it to Rudis.
He stared at the names and the hairs on the back of his neck began to rise as he read them aloud:
"Back, Cheeks, Face, Breast, Thigh, Legs, Feet and ....."
The book was taken from him by his friend.
"...... and Hands. There you go Rudis. All signed!"
"But why, why those names?" stammered Rudis as the group came closer round him.
"It's what we eat my friend and it's what we'll eat of you!" bellowed Hands as Rudis was grabbed by the drooling company, mean fingers ripping his clothes from him and strong arms dragging him flat and face-down onto the red hot brazier.
"Noooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo!" he screamed as Hands reached for a meat fork and a cleaver.
Some time later, after the chum disco had died down and the visitors had gathered round the barbecue, they'd all had their fill and stood licking their greasy fingers and chucking knuckles and ribs into the coals, where a small book of autographs turned to ash.
"Hey guys!" said Hands raising his arms,
"IT REALLY DOES TASTE LIKE CHICKEN!" they shouted together laughing holding femurs, collarbones and vertebrae in the air!
Saturday, March 9, 2019
GUTTED
It started with the frogs.
I noticed them after a severe downpour that Winter.
Frogs were being squashed on the roads. Squashed flat till their innards popped out.
I saw the first one in my driveway. It was large and green and ... still alive. I was gutted as unfortunately the frog was. Its entrails were outside of its body in what looked like a wet bag. For a split second I entertained the ridiculous thought that I could simply tuck them back in, sew up its belly and send it on its merry way back to the pond.
I scooped it up with a spade and placed the frog gently in a flowerbed. I had wrestled with the morality of killing it or leaving it and decided that I shouldn't play God and left it to nature and the doom of the wild night. The whole thing did leave me shaken as I cannot stand to see animal suffering and I remained torn about my inaction for days.
The death of the thing reminded me of Seamus Heaney's 'gross bellied frogs' in his famous poem. Worse, my apathy might have alerted his 'great slime kings' and I shuddered.
Weeks passed and I forgot about it after a while until one day I saw another flattened frog in the drive. This one was smaller and unquestionably dead, its guts completely splattered. Then I saw another one near where I worked and another one near the bakers where I get my lunchtime sandwich.
Now this was odd I thought. More than odd. I was seeing burst frogs on the streets allover the place as if ponds were spewing them out pancaked and they were landing where I walked.
Being a keen nature lover I wanted to understand this phenomenon and maybe even give a talk on the subject at the Naturalists' Club, which I had recently joined. My husband Blut thought I was daft. He had little interest in wildlife. Just the supernatural and cooking. He would boil a ghost if he could.
"Numbles, I just don't know what you see in all those smelly bugs. You wouldn't find me poking around in the dirt. Give me a turkey to cook, giblets and all, any day!"
Blut had always called me Numbles, ever since I'd met him two years ago now. He'd been in the library reading a book about orphanages. It was what we had in common from the start. We were both orphans. Connected to none.
We fell in love. Blut adored to cook and I loved to eat his sumptuous meals. His favourite food group was offal: liver, kidneys, sweetbreads, tripe, heart and toungue. He stopped short at brains, joking that too much thought had gone into them already to think about cooking them.
I'd never really eaten that much offal before. Of course I'd eaten meat but I'd just never really come across the other yukky bits. I'd never really consumed as much food at all till I met Blut. He said he just wanted more of me to love.
Blut once even scraped up some roadkill on a country lane. He said it was fresh and shouldn't be wasted. All fur and bone and gunk; he took it home, prepared the thing, cooked it up.
He said it was hare but I'm not so sure. It could have been fox or badger for all I know. Disgusted with myself, I actually enjoyed it. Blut said it was his role in life to make me the best pluck as he called it.
Not long after eating the thing I was walking down a rain-soaked street in the city. It was early March and Spring was crowning. I heard a plop on the wet cross-roads as if something had landed with a clout. Then I heard another one and another. Stooping under my umbrella I peered at where I'd heard the sound and to my astonishment I saw that it was a bird. Noticing the crested head I realised that it was a skylark, that herald of Spring sunshine. Then I heard the songs.
The traffic lights turned to red and the cars stopped. I could hear the songs clearly. Being a naturalist I instinctively looked up. What I saw made my mind reel with bewilderment. Hundreds of skylarks were congregating in the rain-filled sky above the road I was standing on. They were all singing vigorously and hovering furiously in one spot as if impaled. I thought their little lungs would burst from their mouths.
To my horror the larks began to fall from the sky and drop onto the soaked tarmac, where they landed with a sickening splat. Almost immediately the lights turned to green and dozens of cars and trucks surged forwards from both directions and drove over the larks, flopping and slapping on the wet road. They were all crushed like beetles and their innards fanned out everywhere, maps of blue and grey tissues, the watery surface turning red with bird blood.
I gagged and was sick in the gutter.
There must have been well over a hundred skylarks involved and I could think of no rational explanation for what had happened. Nauseous and upset I stumbled home. Blut made me a hot drink and suggested that what I'd seen was more supernatural than natural and that I should record anything else I saw like that so he could take a look.
After the larks Blut seemed genuinely excited by the prospect of me seeing more 'supernatural phenomena' and asked me to keep him posted.
Life carried on as normal for a while until the visit to the aquarium. I had wanted to see the new exhibit, the Amazonian Manatee, for ages. Blut came along too.
It was a Saturday and despite the threat of Spring sleet Blut and I were enjoying the sea cow lazily curling around the depths of its pool. We had a ring-side seat in front of the huge glass window. The water itself was outdoors but we were inside watching the graceful beautiful creature.
Suddenly the heaven's opened and the sky turned dark. A torrential hailstorm had begun and the surface of the manatee's pool began to get hammered. The water seemed as if it was boiling and the manatee became agitated. It peered up at the commotion.
It was then that we noticed the leeches.
They emerged from the tropical plants at the side and pulsed slowly but surely towards the animal. More and more appeared until hundreds of leeches were heading upwards like an army of lips.
They attached to the distraught manatee at once and began to suck. Within seconds their bodies were filling with the creature's blood and growing bigger. The things didn't stop and the helpless sea cow writhed in agony as hundreds of them drained it of life, which was decanting into the distending leeches at a horrific rate.
The suction of their combined radula was too much for the manatee's weakened belly and with a final shriek of torment it burst open. The leeches filled to horrifically huge sizes with its disgorging guts.
I screamed as if I was watching a vision of hell and buried my face into Blut's chest. I could not watch any longer. He simply stared at the terrible scene.
The shapeless animal, now completely dead, drifted to the bottom of the tank, a limp hollowed disemboweled bag. The legion of engorged leeches floated to the hail-lashed surface and bobbed like sacks. First one, then another, then another - they all began to disgorge their gory contents into the water and within a couple of minutes the top was a deep ooze of intestines, fat and bile.
The horror at the aquarium left me traumatised and I retreated completely into myself. I simply could not understand what was happening. I had stumbled into a nightmare and was scared to go out. I was sick to the stomach.
Blut was a rock. He said it was pure chance that these things were happening. A dose of bad luck that would quickly pass. He kept telling me. I took time off work and Blut looked after me, feeding me, massaging my tummy and keeping me warm in bed.
At the end of my first month off work he asked me if I would like to visit a friend of his.
"She's a an old friend and we go back a long way. I've known her since grammar school days. She's a sort of Queen actually. Of noble blood actually. It'll do you good to get out and meet someone interesting and new. We can sit in her house and drink tea".
Despite still being afraid of things, it sounded surprisingly safe and pleasant so we set off arm in arm taking along a bottle of red. The evening was dark and misty and when we arrived at the house it was swathed in fog.
The detached building was pointy with an unusual tower on its flank. It looked like a gothic castle in the jaundiced gassy air. Blut knocked and the door opened. We were greeted by an incredibly tall, elegant and ancient lady.
She was dressed in a red velvet evening gown and her long white hair was tied up into a large bun, which was pinned with an impressive metal spike. Her face was primeval with a large pursed mouth daubed in black lip-gloss. Her big eyes were like petri dishes but for me the most striking feature were her fingers.
They were long and thin. So long. Twice as long as a normal persons and tipped with ridiculously sharp nails, which were more like talons than anything. They gave the impression of crabs at the end of her arms. Skin crabs.
There was an unpleasant smell coming off her; a mixture of lilacs and hung game. I thought of butchery and funerals.
"Blut. How nice to see you my dear. And you've brought your young lady I see. How very sweet. Please come inside". Her voice was a whisper, a snake grating over the desert.....and her accent; it was so strange. Foreign perhaps. Eastern European maybe.
We entered the dark place were we were offered green tea.
"Its good for the digestion my dear, hot and cleansing. An enema in a cup you might say."
I thought the analogy most unsavoury but simply put it down to the old lady's eccentricity. We walked into a larger gloomier room where the tea was waiting on a tray. I was sure I saw someone small and crooked, holding a jar of what looked like frogs, passing through a side door but couldn't be sure.
I shrugged it off but the whole house and its creepy owner did seem otherworldly and I was astonished that Blut knew this woman at all.
Sitting down I looked round the room through the murk. I began to notice trays everywhere. There were large trays on the floor and smaller trays resting on sideboards.
The trays were punctuated with jars and bowls. I couldn't see their contents fully in the gloom but the glint of a liquids was apparent.
Blut and I were also sat on chairs in what appeared to be a huge shallow tray as well. I wondered if the whole place was riddled with leaks and rain had been pouring in for years.
"Blut tells me you've been plagued by some unexpected experiences of late my dear. How did you feel?"
Surprised that Blut had told her anything personal about me I said that I had been upset and confused.
"Were you frightened?"
"Yes."
"That's good. You've done well Blut".
"Thank you M'am."
I was dumbfounded by this exchange and asked what on earth they were talking about. I put down my tea.
"What do you mean, Blut has done well?"
The old crone stood up to her full height, her sinewy fingers wriggling at the end of her velvet sleeves.
"Forgive me my dear. I haven't explained a thing have I. Blut has been getting you ready you see. He's been fattening you up and guiding you to my, lets say, little pranks and yes, so that you would become frightened. Indeed, the more frightened the better actually. It tenderises the offal!"
"Blut, what is she saying? For God's sake tell me what she's talking about?"
Blut had stood and gone behind the back of my armchair. He was massaging my shoulders slowly but with increasing pressure.
"Don't worry Numbles, everything will be revealed shortly," he replied and to my horror both he and the old lady began to chuckle.
I'd had enough and began to stand. Blut pushed me back down violently and grabbed me in a bear hug from behind. I screamed into the room of trays but no-one was listening.
The old woman came closer and removed the long spike from her hair. She smiled her black-gloss grimace and pricked me on the temple with the tip of the spike. I was immediately paralysed, unable to move a muscle.
"Let me introduce myself dear. I am Viscera, Satan's Haruspex, his Queen of Entrails!"
"Blut is my trusted familiar and he shall be richly rewarded for bringing you to me this night."
"My Arch-Lord requires me to divine his coming; to find the sooth in the guts of those without parents each two years that pass. He waits in Hell for my mancy you see, my best fingering."
She unbuttoned my top with her crabs' legs and exposed my plump belly. I was afraid now, more afraid than I had ever been in my life. Exposed and trapped I began to laugh hysterically as the terrible hair pin was positioned just below the cross of my brassiere.
One edge of the cursed thing was razor sharp. It began to draw a red line - first down, then swiftly across - my bare abdomen. She stepped back.
The line quickly opened up and blood gushed with sickening force. I screamed. My innards followed and they slopped out in steaming links sliding across the shiny floor. I shrieked with indescribable pain and stared in disbelief at the violation of my young body.
"Excellent deary, excellent! A tremendous set of tender pluck; such a mirrored sheen to be proud of too and a lovely pallet of blues and purples. What a treat. And now to work!" she exclaimed towering over the carnage.
She knelt down; her velvet dress draped in the blood slicking round her knees. She stared at me with the upmost cruelty before hefting my insides and vigorously rubbing her face in them. I screamed in agony. She looked up again smiling, her face basted in my warm blood, her black lipstick smeared across her cheeks.
She then poked her long left index fingernail deep into my innards, displayed like a dinner in front of her. She began flicking intestines and pushing bowels to find the perfect pattern for her master.
"Good, good, good! Lucifer will be so pleased with this, you auger well. So well my dear. This was a fine disembowelment, a rare bowling indeed, one which portends a visit from He himself. You are honoured truly!" the Haruspex enthused, licking bile from the iridescent liver still connected to my body.
"We shall have to keep her alive for our Lord, Blut. Lie her down in her tray with the prize sweeties just so. Her own blood and some meat gobbets will sustain her till Leviathan hears of this orphan's grand pile."
And so I am laid out in the vessel, gutted like a school frog, defiled and desecrated, where I have waited now for days, wracked by unfathomable pain and where I have written my story with my own finger in the blood pooled around me in the tray. No-one misses me but there maybe others.
Today He who will end me comes, so take heed for the sake of your life. Beware Viscera, the Haruspex, Queen of Entrails ..............
I noticed them after a severe downpour that Winter.
Frogs were being squashed on the roads. Squashed flat till their innards popped out.
I saw the first one in my driveway. It was large and green and ... still alive. I was gutted as unfortunately the frog was. Its entrails were outside of its body in what looked like a wet bag. For a split second I entertained the ridiculous thought that I could simply tuck them back in, sew up its belly and send it on its merry way back to the pond.
I scooped it up with a spade and placed the frog gently in a flowerbed. I had wrestled with the morality of killing it or leaving it and decided that I shouldn't play God and left it to nature and the doom of the wild night. The whole thing did leave me shaken as I cannot stand to see animal suffering and I remained torn about my inaction for days.
The death of the thing reminded me of Seamus Heaney's 'gross bellied frogs' in his famous poem. Worse, my apathy might have alerted his 'great slime kings' and I shuddered.
Weeks passed and I forgot about it after a while until one day I saw another flattened frog in the drive. This one was smaller and unquestionably dead, its guts completely splattered. Then I saw another one near where I worked and another one near the bakers where I get my lunchtime sandwich.
Now this was odd I thought. More than odd. I was seeing burst frogs on the streets allover the place as if ponds were spewing them out pancaked and they were landing where I walked.
Being a keen nature lover I wanted to understand this phenomenon and maybe even give a talk on the subject at the Naturalists' Club, which I had recently joined. My husband Blut thought I was daft. He had little interest in wildlife. Just the supernatural and cooking. He would boil a ghost if he could.
"Numbles, I just don't know what you see in all those smelly bugs. You wouldn't find me poking around in the dirt. Give me a turkey to cook, giblets and all, any day!"
Blut had always called me Numbles, ever since I'd met him two years ago now. He'd been in the library reading a book about orphanages. It was what we had in common from the start. We were both orphans. Connected to none.
We fell in love. Blut adored to cook and I loved to eat his sumptuous meals. His favourite food group was offal: liver, kidneys, sweetbreads, tripe, heart and toungue. He stopped short at brains, joking that too much thought had gone into them already to think about cooking them.
I'd never really eaten that much offal before. Of course I'd eaten meat but I'd just never really come across the other yukky bits. I'd never really consumed as much food at all till I met Blut. He said he just wanted more of me to love.
Blut once even scraped up some roadkill on a country lane. He said it was fresh and shouldn't be wasted. All fur and bone and gunk; he took it home, prepared the thing, cooked it up.
He said it was hare but I'm not so sure. It could have been fox or badger for all I know. Disgusted with myself, I actually enjoyed it. Blut said it was his role in life to make me the best pluck as he called it.
Not long after eating the thing I was walking down a rain-soaked street in the city. It was early March and Spring was crowning. I heard a plop on the wet cross-roads as if something had landed with a clout. Then I heard another one and another. Stooping under my umbrella I peered at where I'd heard the sound and to my astonishment I saw that it was a bird. Noticing the crested head I realised that it was a skylark, that herald of Spring sunshine. Then I heard the songs.
The traffic lights turned to red and the cars stopped. I could hear the songs clearly. Being a naturalist I instinctively looked up. What I saw made my mind reel with bewilderment. Hundreds of skylarks were congregating in the rain-filled sky above the road I was standing on. They were all singing vigorously and hovering furiously in one spot as if impaled. I thought their little lungs would burst from their mouths.
To my horror the larks began to fall from the sky and drop onto the soaked tarmac, where they landed with a sickening splat. Almost immediately the lights turned to green and dozens of cars and trucks surged forwards from both directions and drove over the larks, flopping and slapping on the wet road. They were all crushed like beetles and their innards fanned out everywhere, maps of blue and grey tissues, the watery surface turning red with bird blood.
I gagged and was sick in the gutter.
There must have been well over a hundred skylarks involved and I could think of no rational explanation for what had happened. Nauseous and upset I stumbled home. Blut made me a hot drink and suggested that what I'd seen was more supernatural than natural and that I should record anything else I saw like that so he could take a look.
After the larks Blut seemed genuinely excited by the prospect of me seeing more 'supernatural phenomena' and asked me to keep him posted.
Life carried on as normal for a while until the visit to the aquarium. I had wanted to see the new exhibit, the Amazonian Manatee, for ages. Blut came along too.
It was a Saturday and despite the threat of Spring sleet Blut and I were enjoying the sea cow lazily curling around the depths of its pool. We had a ring-side seat in front of the huge glass window. The water itself was outdoors but we were inside watching the graceful beautiful creature.
Suddenly the heaven's opened and the sky turned dark. A torrential hailstorm had begun and the surface of the manatee's pool began to get hammered. The water seemed as if it was boiling and the manatee became agitated. It peered up at the commotion.
It was then that we noticed the leeches.
They emerged from the tropical plants at the side and pulsed slowly but surely towards the animal. More and more appeared until hundreds of leeches were heading upwards like an army of lips.
They attached to the distraught manatee at once and began to suck. Within seconds their bodies were filling with the creature's blood and growing bigger. The things didn't stop and the helpless sea cow writhed in agony as hundreds of them drained it of life, which was decanting into the distending leeches at a horrific rate.
The suction of their combined radula was too much for the manatee's weakened belly and with a final shriek of torment it burst open. The leeches filled to horrifically huge sizes with its disgorging guts.
I screamed as if I was watching a vision of hell and buried my face into Blut's chest. I could not watch any longer. He simply stared at the terrible scene.
The shapeless animal, now completely dead, drifted to the bottom of the tank, a limp hollowed disemboweled bag. The legion of engorged leeches floated to the hail-lashed surface and bobbed like sacks. First one, then another, then another - they all began to disgorge their gory contents into the water and within a couple of minutes the top was a deep ooze of intestines, fat and bile.
The horror at the aquarium left me traumatised and I retreated completely into myself. I simply could not understand what was happening. I had stumbled into a nightmare and was scared to go out. I was sick to the stomach.
Blut was a rock. He said it was pure chance that these things were happening. A dose of bad luck that would quickly pass. He kept telling me. I took time off work and Blut looked after me, feeding me, massaging my tummy and keeping me warm in bed.
At the end of my first month off work he asked me if I would like to visit a friend of his.
"She's a an old friend and we go back a long way. I've known her since grammar school days. She's a sort of Queen actually. Of noble blood actually. It'll do you good to get out and meet someone interesting and new. We can sit in her house and drink tea".
Despite still being afraid of things, it sounded surprisingly safe and pleasant so we set off arm in arm taking along a bottle of red. The evening was dark and misty and when we arrived at the house it was swathed in fog.
The detached building was pointy with an unusual tower on its flank. It looked like a gothic castle in the jaundiced gassy air. Blut knocked and the door opened. We were greeted by an incredibly tall, elegant and ancient lady.
She was dressed in a red velvet evening gown and her long white hair was tied up into a large bun, which was pinned with an impressive metal spike. Her face was primeval with a large pursed mouth daubed in black lip-gloss. Her big eyes were like petri dishes but for me the most striking feature were her fingers.
They were long and thin. So long. Twice as long as a normal persons and tipped with ridiculously sharp nails, which were more like talons than anything. They gave the impression of crabs at the end of her arms. Skin crabs.
There was an unpleasant smell coming off her; a mixture of lilacs and hung game. I thought of butchery and funerals.
"Blut. How nice to see you my dear. And you've brought your young lady I see. How very sweet. Please come inside". Her voice was a whisper, a snake grating over the desert.....and her accent; it was so strange. Foreign perhaps. Eastern European maybe.
We entered the dark place were we were offered green tea.
"Its good for the digestion my dear, hot and cleansing. An enema in a cup you might say."
I thought the analogy most unsavoury but simply put it down to the old lady's eccentricity. We walked into a larger gloomier room where the tea was waiting on a tray. I was sure I saw someone small and crooked, holding a jar of what looked like frogs, passing through a side door but couldn't be sure.
I shrugged it off but the whole house and its creepy owner did seem otherworldly and I was astonished that Blut knew this woman at all.
Sitting down I looked round the room through the murk. I began to notice trays everywhere. There were large trays on the floor and smaller trays resting on sideboards.
The trays were punctuated with jars and bowls. I couldn't see their contents fully in the gloom but the glint of a liquids was apparent.
Blut and I were also sat on chairs in what appeared to be a huge shallow tray as well. I wondered if the whole place was riddled with leaks and rain had been pouring in for years.
"Blut tells me you've been plagued by some unexpected experiences of late my dear. How did you feel?"
Surprised that Blut had told her anything personal about me I said that I had been upset and confused.
"Were you frightened?"
"Yes."
"That's good. You've done well Blut".
"Thank you M'am."
I was dumbfounded by this exchange and asked what on earth they were talking about. I put down my tea.
"What do you mean, Blut has done well?"
The old crone stood up to her full height, her sinewy fingers wriggling at the end of her velvet sleeves.
"Forgive me my dear. I haven't explained a thing have I. Blut has been getting you ready you see. He's been fattening you up and guiding you to my, lets say, little pranks and yes, so that you would become frightened. Indeed, the more frightened the better actually. It tenderises the offal!"
"Blut, what is she saying? For God's sake tell me what she's talking about?"
Blut had stood and gone behind the back of my armchair. He was massaging my shoulders slowly but with increasing pressure.
"Don't worry Numbles, everything will be revealed shortly," he replied and to my horror both he and the old lady began to chuckle.
I'd had enough and began to stand. Blut pushed me back down violently and grabbed me in a bear hug from behind. I screamed into the room of trays but no-one was listening.
The old woman came closer and removed the long spike from her hair. She smiled her black-gloss grimace and pricked me on the temple with the tip of the spike. I was immediately paralysed, unable to move a muscle.
"Let me introduce myself dear. I am Viscera, Satan's Haruspex, his Queen of Entrails!"
"Blut is my trusted familiar and he shall be richly rewarded for bringing you to me this night."
"My Arch-Lord requires me to divine his coming; to find the sooth in the guts of those without parents each two years that pass. He waits in Hell for my mancy you see, my best fingering."
She unbuttoned my top with her crabs' legs and exposed my plump belly. I was afraid now, more afraid than I had ever been in my life. Exposed and trapped I began to laugh hysterically as the terrible hair pin was positioned just below the cross of my brassiere.
One edge of the cursed thing was razor sharp. It began to draw a red line - first down, then swiftly across - my bare abdomen. She stepped back.
The line quickly opened up and blood gushed with sickening force. I screamed. My innards followed and they slopped out in steaming links sliding across the shiny floor. I shrieked with indescribable pain and stared in disbelief at the violation of my young body.
"Excellent deary, excellent! A tremendous set of tender pluck; such a mirrored sheen to be proud of too and a lovely pallet of blues and purples. What a treat. And now to work!" she exclaimed towering over the carnage.
She knelt down; her velvet dress draped in the blood slicking round her knees. She stared at me with the upmost cruelty before hefting my insides and vigorously rubbing her face in them. I screamed in agony. She looked up again smiling, her face basted in my warm blood, her black lipstick smeared across her cheeks.
She then poked her long left index fingernail deep into my innards, displayed like a dinner in front of her. She began flicking intestines and pushing bowels to find the perfect pattern for her master.
"Good, good, good! Lucifer will be so pleased with this, you auger well. So well my dear. This was a fine disembowelment, a rare bowling indeed, one which portends a visit from He himself. You are honoured truly!" the Haruspex enthused, licking bile from the iridescent liver still connected to my body.
"We shall have to keep her alive for our Lord, Blut. Lie her down in her tray with the prize sweeties just so. Her own blood and some meat gobbets will sustain her till Leviathan hears of this orphan's grand pile."
And so I am laid out in the vessel, gutted like a school frog, defiled and desecrated, where I have waited now for days, wracked by unfathomable pain and where I have written my story with my own finger in the blood pooled around me in the tray. No-one misses me but there maybe others.
Today He who will end me comes, so take heed for the sake of your life. Beware Viscera, the Haruspex, Queen of Entrails ..............
Sunday, March 3, 2019
GOATSUCKER
The farmer came home early from the fields that March evening.
It was a hardening dusk: pained, harsh, cold; like a mortician's stiffening hands.
He walked into the kitchen and set his spade next to the walking sticks. He bent to place his muddy wellingtons on the course mat by the door as he always did.
He paused when he stood up to face his wife. She had a visitor.
He was a stranger. A younger man. About 21. Come of age. Handsome, lean, bespectacled, with an intelligent furrow on his brow. Clean hands. A desk jockey.
"Hello deary, this is my friend from the Birdwatching Society, Voytek. You know, the membership secretary. I've told you about him"
"Ah. Yes, Voytek. Nice to meet you. My wife has spoken warmly of your love of .... birds"
"Likewise Sir. A pleasure to meet you. Voytek Vashtuk at your service."
Bauer nodded and began to clunk around the counter making himself a mug of tea. His wife and Vashtuk had wine so he didn't bother asking them about a hot drink. Besides, he'd sweated all day and bled a little ploughing the bottom field. He just had the top one to do that night before the morning crew arrived to sow rape. It had been tough out there on the dragged land but things had got better of late. He hoped he'd done enough.
Keeping it happy took effort so he was tired and irritable hunched over his mug.
He then noticed how annoying it was how they huddled and chuckled together over their red wine at the big kitchen table, a table he ought to be sat round drinking his steaming tea and eating a hot meal prepared by his wife.
"Are you making dinner?" he asked gruffly
Bauer's sudden question startled the pair from their reverie and his wife looked momentarily flustered. She was sorry. They'd been discussing the Society's last talk on rare birds so passionately that she'd forgotten.
The farmer grunted and noticed for the first time how flushed his wife appeared. Her cheeks were ruddy and her brow a little clammy. Similarly, the younger man's complexion seemed reddened and his shirt was oddly buttoned as if done up in haste.
Bauer's hackles rose like a kicked dog and he glared at the couple, now once again lost in their inane chatter of migrants and mating. Their faces were very close to one another's. Smiling. Laughing. Laughing at him he thought.
His animal-like jealousy erupted on the inside and something snapped. A shadow descended upon him but outwardly Bauer was calm.
"There's a rare bird on these fields at night Voytek" he blurted out as a black opening coalesced in the dark. He rubbed his massive soiled hands together and grinned.
"Yes, I've been told by Diebel its a Nightjar and quite rare in these parts. Worth seeing he reckons" Bauer continued.
"A Nightjar! Wow! That is rare round here! I don't know Diebel I'm afraid but I'd love to see one, I agree with him!"
"Yes. Well, that's settled then. Tonight we can see it. If you want. I'll be ploughing the top field and can take you up there. We can meet Diebel. You may be lucky Voytek."
Bauer's wife looked at her husband with aroused suspicion. It just wasn't like him to be so accommodating, particularly to any of her friends from town. And Diebel. He'd recently become familiar with this tramp living up in the ruined dairy. The old goat he called him. She'd never even seen him. But why bring him up?
What was he up to?
Oh No! Surely he didn't think anything was going on between her and this young man!. She was twice his age for God's sake. A boy! But Bauer was as jealous as a ferret and had had run-ins with her friends before. But that was years ago, when they were kids themselves!
No, despite some recent darkening of his mood, her husband had simply made a kind offer because showing this talented young ornithologist something rare would make him feel good and lift his spirits she decided.
"I'll finish my tea and grab a sarnie and we can go up to the fields. How about it?"
Vashtuk looked at Bauer's wife and she smiled. It was a nervous smile but the young man hadn't noticed any of her apprehension. He was already dreaming of adding Nightjar to his life list. He couldn't wait. "Yes please, Mr. Bauer".
They left together, Bauer clutching his sandwich and devouring it with huge bites. "Goodnight," the young man had said gently to his wife. "Goodnight Voytek," she replied with a slight shiver. Bauer fumed. No matter. He'd see to things tonight. It would be a grand gesture.
"Damn! I've forgotten my spade!"
The older man, a widening muscled giant of a thing, reached through the door and hefted his ancient spade from where a wet spot had formed on the flags. "See you later deary," he whispered as he smiled at his wife.
He found the young man quickly in the stewing dark. "Sharp as hell," he bragged pointing at the spade. He strode briskly past him, whistling, up to the barred gate.
"Come on Voytek, That Nightjar's got your name next to it! I can feel it in my bones. Your'e going to get lucky tonight and see that old bird close up after all, just like you wanted".
They trudged side by side up the sinuous shallow slopes of the farm, going deep into the old heart towards the bottom fields freshly ploughed that day, the long furrows glistening in the moonlight like immense night worms.
"Not far to go now lad. I've heard from old Diebel that these birds where once common round here when he was a kid, sucking the milk right out of his Grandad's goats they were. Yeah, Diebel the old devil told me that these fern-owls, as they were called, could curdle the damn herd and kill the whole yield by God. An evil bird he said, an unholy 'un!"
"Your friend is mistaking the Nightjar's crepuscular behaviour for uncanny deeds Mister Bauer. A popular misconception among rural communities, where superstition is still rife I'm afraid. The so-called Goatsucker is sadly mis-represented the world over. If I can do anything tonight I can hopefully convince you that this bird is as natural and healthy as you and me. Will Diebel be joining us?"
"Yes, tonight for sure. At the top, near the tractor. You can see it there waiting on the horizon. A fine thing. And the plough! It's blades are as sharp as razors. Its been hellish land to work lad but with many small sacrifices on my part I've got it licked and up here they've cut through troublesome sods like butter these last few months!"
Vashtuk was unnerved by what he'd said and for the first time felt a rising unease envelope him. Wasn't Bauer simply showing him where a nightjar might be? Surely he didn't think there was anything untoward actually going on between him and his wife, even if he had to admit to having the beginnings of a crush on her? If it came to it he would have to come clean and apologise to the man.
"Hurry up Vashtuk. You'll miss that goatsucker if you don't get a shift on" said Bauer in a much more commanding fashion than he'd intended. He didn't want to alert the young bastard before he needed to, dammit!
But Vashtuk had picked up on the big farmer's harsher tone and especially the use of his surname for the first time on the walk. What was the meaning of that? Maybe the old billy really did think he was at it with his better half!
They ascended the top slope where the tractor stood watch. "Where's your friend Diebel?"
The older man ignored the question and pointed down to the other side, a jet-black shallow incline of earth sweeping away to the river. A standing shadow condensed on the ridge but Vashtuk was engrossed with Bauer.
The younger man peered through his glasses, straining to see what the farmer was pointing at. His binoculars were useless at this hour and it was only when Bauer produced a torch and shone it down the belly of the dark slope that he could make out a squat horned lump on the course ground, a lump with two glinting eyes staring straight at them in the beam of light.
Seeing these eyes relaxed Vashtuk somewhat. What if the old fella had really found a Nightjar? It would look great at the next meeting when he made his bird report to the committee. And Bauer's wife would be there.
The farmer had strode off again, his torch bouncing as he walked. "Come on Vashtuk!" he yelled much to the annoyance of the birdwatcher, who was making his own way silently through the stunted grass.
Bauer reached within ten feet of the thing first, Voytek Vashtuk second. "The sucker's here!" exclaimed the farmer as if informing another.
The young man asked for the torch, then stealthily approached the hump, bent down and shone the light straight at it, hoping the Nightjar would be too startled to fly off.
Its eyes flared in the beam and Vashtuk, finding his focus, recoiled in utter horror.
"It's wings have been chopped off!" he screamed, staring at the bloodied stumps on the bird's flanks and the gored things lying on each side, severed cleanly with some sharp instrument.
"Yep, and its legs too, the little milk-guzzling bastard! Me and old Diebel got it good and proper!" growled Bauer through a gritted smile.
Voytek Vashtuk turned and shone the torch up at the farmer standing above him, a shadow stood behind. He screamed a blood-curdling shriek as the older man grinned maniacally and began to bring the flat of his spade down hard on the young man's brow.
"Nooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo!"
But the protest was cut short and the birdwatcher rolled onto his back next to the shuffling nightjar.
"I told you you'd be lying next to the old bird tonight Vashtuk!" he said roaring with laughter.
"You won't be bangin' my Missus again any time soon you fuckin' little streak of piss!"
Bauer stomped and raged and raised his huge hands high into the air "Oh! and look, the old devils's here!"
Vashtuk's eyes began to open but only to see the sharp edge of the spade sever each of his arms at the shoulder. The farmer then severed both his legs at the knee.
The young man led there bleeding into the soil, staring with incredulous eyes, glinting red in the glare of Bauer's torchlight. He died next to the bird, its eyes on the goat.
Bauer started up his tractor and set about the night's reward of ploughing the top field. The vast steel curves folded the fed loam like butter just as he'd bragged earlier that night.
The young man's torso was curled over into the earth and was gone.
With the field successfully ploughed and the dark appeased, Bauer returned home.
"All done!" he said to his staring wife and returned his spade to the wet spot.
"I've brought you some goat's milk for supper .... deary."
It was a hardening dusk: pained, harsh, cold; like a mortician's stiffening hands.
He walked into the kitchen and set his spade next to the walking sticks. He bent to place his muddy wellingtons on the course mat by the door as he always did.
He paused when he stood up to face his wife. She had a visitor.
He was a stranger. A younger man. About 21. Come of age. Handsome, lean, bespectacled, with an intelligent furrow on his brow. Clean hands. A desk jockey.
"Hello deary, this is my friend from the Birdwatching Society, Voytek. You know, the membership secretary. I've told you about him"
"Ah. Yes, Voytek. Nice to meet you. My wife has spoken warmly of your love of .... birds"
"Likewise Sir. A pleasure to meet you. Voytek Vashtuk at your service."
Bauer nodded and began to clunk around the counter making himself a mug of tea. His wife and Vashtuk had wine so he didn't bother asking them about a hot drink. Besides, he'd sweated all day and bled a little ploughing the bottom field. He just had the top one to do that night before the morning crew arrived to sow rape. It had been tough out there on the dragged land but things had got better of late. He hoped he'd done enough.
Keeping it happy took effort so he was tired and irritable hunched over his mug.
He then noticed how annoying it was how they huddled and chuckled together over their red wine at the big kitchen table, a table he ought to be sat round drinking his steaming tea and eating a hot meal prepared by his wife.
"Are you making dinner?" he asked gruffly
Bauer's sudden question startled the pair from their reverie and his wife looked momentarily flustered. She was sorry. They'd been discussing the Society's last talk on rare birds so passionately that she'd forgotten.
The farmer grunted and noticed for the first time how flushed his wife appeared. Her cheeks were ruddy and her brow a little clammy. Similarly, the younger man's complexion seemed reddened and his shirt was oddly buttoned as if done up in haste.
Bauer's hackles rose like a kicked dog and he glared at the couple, now once again lost in their inane chatter of migrants and mating. Their faces were very close to one another's. Smiling. Laughing. Laughing at him he thought.
His animal-like jealousy erupted on the inside and something snapped. A shadow descended upon him but outwardly Bauer was calm.
"There's a rare bird on these fields at night Voytek" he blurted out as a black opening coalesced in the dark. He rubbed his massive soiled hands together and grinned.
"Yes, I've been told by Diebel its a Nightjar and quite rare in these parts. Worth seeing he reckons" Bauer continued.
"A Nightjar! Wow! That is rare round here! I don't know Diebel I'm afraid but I'd love to see one, I agree with him!"
"Yes. Well, that's settled then. Tonight we can see it. If you want. I'll be ploughing the top field and can take you up there. We can meet Diebel. You may be lucky Voytek."
Bauer's wife looked at her husband with aroused suspicion. It just wasn't like him to be so accommodating, particularly to any of her friends from town. And Diebel. He'd recently become familiar with this tramp living up in the ruined dairy. The old goat he called him. She'd never even seen him. But why bring him up?
What was he up to?
Oh No! Surely he didn't think anything was going on between her and this young man!. She was twice his age for God's sake. A boy! But Bauer was as jealous as a ferret and had had run-ins with her friends before. But that was years ago, when they were kids themselves!
No, despite some recent darkening of his mood, her husband had simply made a kind offer because showing this talented young ornithologist something rare would make him feel good and lift his spirits she decided.
"I'll finish my tea and grab a sarnie and we can go up to the fields. How about it?"
Vashtuk looked at Bauer's wife and she smiled. It was a nervous smile but the young man hadn't noticed any of her apprehension. He was already dreaming of adding Nightjar to his life list. He couldn't wait. "Yes please, Mr. Bauer".
They left together, Bauer clutching his sandwich and devouring it with huge bites. "Goodnight," the young man had said gently to his wife. "Goodnight Voytek," she replied with a slight shiver. Bauer fumed. No matter. He'd see to things tonight. It would be a grand gesture.
"Damn! I've forgotten my spade!"
The older man, a widening muscled giant of a thing, reached through the door and hefted his ancient spade from where a wet spot had formed on the flags. "See you later deary," he whispered as he smiled at his wife.
He found the young man quickly in the stewing dark. "Sharp as hell," he bragged pointing at the spade. He strode briskly past him, whistling, up to the barred gate.
"Come on Voytek, That Nightjar's got your name next to it! I can feel it in my bones. Your'e going to get lucky tonight and see that old bird close up after all, just like you wanted".
They trudged side by side up the sinuous shallow slopes of the farm, going deep into the old heart towards the bottom fields freshly ploughed that day, the long furrows glistening in the moonlight like immense night worms.
"Not far to go now lad. I've heard from old Diebel that these birds where once common round here when he was a kid, sucking the milk right out of his Grandad's goats they were. Yeah, Diebel the old devil told me that these fern-owls, as they were called, could curdle the damn herd and kill the whole yield by God. An evil bird he said, an unholy 'un!"
"Your friend is mistaking the Nightjar's crepuscular behaviour for uncanny deeds Mister Bauer. A popular misconception among rural communities, where superstition is still rife I'm afraid. The so-called Goatsucker is sadly mis-represented the world over. If I can do anything tonight I can hopefully convince you that this bird is as natural and healthy as you and me. Will Diebel be joining us?"
"Yes, tonight for sure. At the top, near the tractor. You can see it there waiting on the horizon. A fine thing. And the plough! It's blades are as sharp as razors. Its been hellish land to work lad but with many small sacrifices on my part I've got it licked and up here they've cut through troublesome sods like butter these last few months!"
Vashtuk was unnerved by what he'd said and for the first time felt a rising unease envelope him. Wasn't Bauer simply showing him where a nightjar might be? Surely he didn't think there was anything untoward actually going on between him and his wife, even if he had to admit to having the beginnings of a crush on her? If it came to it he would have to come clean and apologise to the man.
"Hurry up Vashtuk. You'll miss that goatsucker if you don't get a shift on" said Bauer in a much more commanding fashion than he'd intended. He didn't want to alert the young bastard before he needed to, dammit!
But Vashtuk had picked up on the big farmer's harsher tone and especially the use of his surname for the first time on the walk. What was the meaning of that? Maybe the old billy really did think he was at it with his better half!
They ascended the top slope where the tractor stood watch. "Where's your friend Diebel?"
The older man ignored the question and pointed down to the other side, a jet-black shallow incline of earth sweeping away to the river. A standing shadow condensed on the ridge but Vashtuk was engrossed with Bauer.
The younger man peered through his glasses, straining to see what the farmer was pointing at. His binoculars were useless at this hour and it was only when Bauer produced a torch and shone it down the belly of the dark slope that he could make out a squat horned lump on the course ground, a lump with two glinting eyes staring straight at them in the beam of light.
Seeing these eyes relaxed Vashtuk somewhat. What if the old fella had really found a Nightjar? It would look great at the next meeting when he made his bird report to the committee. And Bauer's wife would be there.
The farmer had strode off again, his torch bouncing as he walked. "Come on Vashtuk!" he yelled much to the annoyance of the birdwatcher, who was making his own way silently through the stunted grass.
Bauer reached within ten feet of the thing first, Voytek Vashtuk second. "The sucker's here!" exclaimed the farmer as if informing another.
The young man asked for the torch, then stealthily approached the hump, bent down and shone the light straight at it, hoping the Nightjar would be too startled to fly off.
Its eyes flared in the beam and Vashtuk, finding his focus, recoiled in utter horror.
"It's wings have been chopped off!" he screamed, staring at the bloodied stumps on the bird's flanks and the gored things lying on each side, severed cleanly with some sharp instrument.
"Yep, and its legs too, the little milk-guzzling bastard! Me and old Diebel got it good and proper!" growled Bauer through a gritted smile.
Voytek Vashtuk turned and shone the torch up at the farmer standing above him, a shadow stood behind. He screamed a blood-curdling shriek as the older man grinned maniacally and began to bring the flat of his spade down hard on the young man's brow.
"Nooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo!"
But the protest was cut short and the birdwatcher rolled onto his back next to the shuffling nightjar.
"I told you you'd be lying next to the old bird tonight Vashtuk!" he said roaring with laughter.
"You won't be bangin' my Missus again any time soon you fuckin' little streak of piss!"
Bauer stomped and raged and raised his huge hands high into the air "Oh! and look, the old devils's here!"
Vashtuk's eyes began to open but only to see the sharp edge of the spade sever each of his arms at the shoulder. The farmer then severed both his legs at the knee.
The young man led there bleeding into the soil, staring with incredulous eyes, glinting red in the glare of Bauer's torchlight. He died next to the bird, its eyes on the goat.
Bauer started up his tractor and set about the night's reward of ploughing the top field. The vast steel curves folded the fed loam like butter just as he'd bragged earlier that night.
The young man's torso was curled over into the earth and was gone.
With the field successfully ploughed and the dark appeased, Bauer returned home.
"All done!" he said to his staring wife and returned his spade to the wet spot.
"I've brought you some goat's milk for supper .... deary."
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