Saturday 24 March 2012

Opinions Wanted!

In this current period of austerity; opinion matters. Bloggers worldwide are making comment on the impact of the  `Global Recession` and how we can pull our failing finances back into the black. Since the creation of the written word people have shared their views with others. The exchange of ideas and opinions has shaped the society we dwell in today. Unfortunately the same cannot be said of this particular blog. Designed to enable would be poets and authors a platform where their work can be hosted and commented on was the original intention. The irony of course is the material presented here is in abundance, however the critiques and comments are sadly lacking. Writers require external opinions in regard to their work, critiques and observations are necessary to allow the artist to develop his particular style, his voice and of course his form. Criticism permits the artist to flourish at the same time it offers the commenter a form of catharsis. This particular blog is an eclectic mix of poetry, short stories and personal opinions which has taken the individual artists’ considerable time to compile. Surely then, we as readers can spare a few minutes to offer back encouragement or opinion immaterial if that opinion be negative or positive?

Tuesday 6 March 2012

Perilous Peak



 Darren Roberts, Royal Marine, was unconscious, he was bound hand and foot and clad only in boxers and a sweat shirt. The evening was mild but as it got later, a chilly wind was rising. Darren shivered and opened his eyes. His first thoughts were; where the hell am I? He rolled over and looked about him. He was on a mountain top and he was almost naked his main concern was to get down and seek shelter before he got hypothermia.

Darren checked his bonds, they seemed to be made of tape and looked tough, but after rubbing the ones on his wrists against a lump of granite, a rip appeared and he was soon free. Quickly he began picking at the restraints on his ankles. They too parted and he stood up letting the blood run back into his hands and feet.

Looking down at the countryside that lay below him, he tried to plan a route down the mountain. Darren could see several cottages below him with lights in their windows, but they looked so far down that he knew that they might as well be on the Moon.

Darren carefully picked his niches and crannies to aid his descent. The peak was a solid block of granite and offered few footholds. The wind too didn’t help his descent but plucked at him and caused him to shiver.
Gradually he got of the peak and was faced with the lower faces which too sported large boulders and sparse vegetation. Darren slipped into a crevice to catch his breath and get out of the wind chill.

Swinging out under a rocky outcrop Darren was able to bypass a large overhang which had suddenly materialised out of the darkness. Bits of rock broke off as he made his descent and he could hear them crashing down the rock face below him.
A few straggly bushes gave him handholds but Darren was wary about putting his whole weight on to them in case they broke away.


As the dawn coloured the eastern sky, Darren was approaching the nursery slopes, the grass was soft underfoot and he headed towards some silver birch trees that grew in the damp soil. His vest was badly ripped and his boxers covered in mud where he had slipped. Surely, he thought, I will find shelter soon.
Looking back up, in the dawn light, from where he had climbed down from Darren recognised the Kerglas Maol, a mountain of over three thousand feet. He had climbed it two years ago with a climbing party.

Suddenly he heard voices and saw lights. Darren ducked down and hid behind a small bush. He waited trying to keep his heavy breathing as quiet as possible but a large hand pushed through the bush and gripped him by the shoulder. “You’re caught!” said a deep voice.
Standing up, Darren realised he was surrounded by five burly men. They shone torches in his face and laughed loudly when he tried to cover his eyes.
“OK you guys,” said Darren ruefully. “You got me, but which of you buggers got me drunk and left me almost naked on top of a mountain on my Stag Night?”

Monday 5 March 2012

Descent into Madness




The man sat on the floor mewling like a cat. He rubbed his curled up hands against his mouth as if he was cleaning it. James DeSquire watched him over the top of the broad, oak desk behind which he sat.
“Very good, Mr. Dawson. Now, sit back on the couch please.” James said crisply.
The little man collapsed on the couch breathing heavily. He looked around the room suspiciously and then sat up straight.
“Mr. DeSquire, am I getting better? Only it seems as if I am as confused as ever.”
James stroked his chin and smiled weakly.
“I have told you before, Mr. Dawson. Recovery takes time and we can’t rush it.”
The psychiatrist wrote a couple things in his notebook then looked up at his patient. Mr Dawson had suffered a stroke and for some unknown reason had begun emulating the characteristics of a cat. James realised right away that he was onto a money spinner and had decided to milk it for all it was worth. Dawson was a rich man and could easily afford the cost of treatment.
Britain’s mental health was going to make James a wealthy man. He had a large number of patients who were receiving ‘prolonged’ treatment costing the N.H.S. a lot of cash.

The door of James’ office shut quietly as Mr. Dawson left. He had been pencilled in for a further ten appointments and at a cost of three hundred pounds an appointment would provide James with a very healthy bank account.
“Is there any more patients Miss Woodward?” James asked through his intercom.
“Just one Mr. DeSquire,” replied Miss Edna Woodward, an elderly lady who James employed for a basic wage. “He was referred to you by a Dr. Wilson who has a practice in Mullwell.”

James scratched his head. This was a new one, he thought. I haven’t received any notification from Dr. Wilson regarding a new patient. He would be working in the dark until he had spoken to the patient. It was late Friday afternoon and James was sure that Dr. Wilson’s practice would be closed.

“Now what seems to be the matter?” said James to the dishevelled man who had been escorted in by Miss Woodward. “How can I help you?”
James’ new patient was about thirty years old. He was dressed in a sports jacket and brown corduroy trousers, both articles looked as if they had seen better days. His shoes brown brogues were badly scuffed and could have done with a drop of polish.
“Ah, Dr. DeSquire. Good afternoon,” said the man politely. “I have been referred to you by Dr. Wilson because I am totally insane.”
James jolted back in his chair. Had he heard correctly? The man was admitting to being insane!
“I think you are possibly deranged but I doubt that you are insane!”
“Semantics, my dear man,” laughed the man. “Surely I should know how I feel?”

James had had enough of this and pushed the button on the intercom.
“Miss Woodward, please ring for the police!”
James received no reply.
“Miss Woodward! Are you there?”

“She can’t hear you,” said the man with a laugh. “No one can.”

James jumped to his feet knocking his chair over. He ran to the door and tried to open it but it would not move. The man just watched him as he charged over to the window and attempted to open it. It too seemed locked. Through the glass James expected to see Spirwell street with the evening dusk descending but instead he looked out on a barren waste where weeds and sand spread over all he could see.

Turning to the man, James shouted, “What have you done? Where are we?”

“Welcome to my world,” said the man.

James staggered back against his desk which immediately turned to sand and fell to the floor. As he watched the floor became granular and then turned to sand. Green shoots began to sprout up and soon they became weeds or exotic cacti putting out blooms with powerful scents. The walls of his office on which hung his certificates of competence began to lose shape and then stream down to the now – ground. Soon James stood in the middle of a desert where the wind shrieked and wailed. He dropped to his knees by the man. “Make it as it was, I beg you!” he screamed.
The man reached down and laid his hand on James’ head. He smiled benignly down at the psychiatrist. “You don’t like my world?”

James was grabbed by some swarthy men who appeared from behind a large sand dune. His hands were tied and he was dragged by a rope behind a horse which was ridden by the man who had brought him to this world. The man had donned a turban, a cloak and a piece of cloth that covered his face. James lost conscious after a mile, fell and when he came to he was lying in an area in the centre of a large group of tents. He struggled to stand but his legs were badly cut and bruised and he fell back to the ground.
“You cannot stand?” said an imperious voice. “You must stand for El Shaakdom!”
James looked up into the face of a large, fat man. He was dressed in flowing robes and carried a scimitar in his hand.
You are worthless like this!” he screamed. “Stand or die!”
James somehow forced himself to his feet and stood swaying a bit. The blood ran down his legs from his wounds. He knew that if he fell he would be killed.

Later James was taken to a tent and his injuries were washed by some of the women. His smart suit and shirt had been reduced to rags and he had lost his shoes.
“Please, please tell me where I am,” pleaded James to the women, but none of them spoke.
The women made up a bed for him and gently laid him down on it. They brought water and food to him and laid fresh clothes out for him to wear.

The next morning if this place had such a thing, Jmes awoke and hoped that when he opened his eyes everything would be back to normal, but he was to be disappointed. El Shaakdom stood at the mouth of the tent he looked annoyed.
“You sleep to long! Get up and show me that you are a man!” he shouted stepping out into the light.

James put on the clean clothes and took a sip of the now tepid water. He staggered to the mouth of the tent and threw the tent flap open. The harsh light blinded him and he covered his eyes with his hands. Gradually he was able to see, but what he could see terrified him.

El Shaakdom stood across from the tent and he was stripped to the waist. His bronzed upper body gleamed in the light and the sword he carried shone brilliantly.
A servant handed James a sword and stepped back leaving the two men facing each other.
Suddenly, El Shaakdom gave a scream and holding his sword over his head rushed towards where James was standing. James gave a yelp, dropped his sword and ran! He was grabbed by three of his captors and brought back to where El Shaakdom stood.
“You are a lily livered coward!” he shouted at James. “Prepare to die!”
James raised his sword above his head just in time to deflect the blow that El Shaakdom had swung at him. The swords screeched as they slid by one another and some sparks fell to the sand. El Shaakdom then thrust his sword at James’ chest, but once again James was able to deflect it. This went on seemingly endlessly for James and eventually he collapsed unconscious on the sand.
When he awoke the women were bathing his head. They looked at him nervously. Food and water had been brought in.  
“Please tell me why I am here,” he begged the veiled ladies.
“Either you will kill El Shaakdom or you will die,” one of the women whispered.
“But, why?” James asked, but no one answered him.

This situation continued for the next few periods of light and James knew that the end was near. El Shaakdom had been toying with him since he had arrived but now James knew the man was losing patience with him and needed to save face by killing him.

As James lay in his bed on what seemed to be the last period of dark, he realised that either he had to kill or be killed. He was bone weary and ached everywhere so the chance of him immobilising El Shaakdom was a million to one. Perhaps he could trip the man and while he lay on the sand, kill him.
But, as the arrival of the period of light drew near James came to a decision.

The light was as bright as white hot metal. The sand was burning to the touch as James made his way out of the tent.
El Shaakdom stood where he had stood for the previous encounters. His sword looked freshly polished and honed. The man looked a fearsome adversary.

“Yaaaaaah!” screamed James hurtling himself towards his foe. El Shaakdom was caught off balance and staggered back. James’ sword grazed his chest, narrowly missing, plunging into his heart. James regained his stance and swung his sword in an arc. The tip of the blade cut a furrow out on El Shaakdom’s shoulder and blood spurted out.
James once again swung his weapon and this time totally missed his enemy. He slipped and fell to the ground.
With an exultant shriek, El Shaakdom raised his sword over his head and looked down at James who was kneeling before him.
“To conquer the fear of death, all a man has to do is to die!” shouted James and laid his sword down.
El Shaakdom’s blade whistled as it began its descent.
James looked up at the man, this El Shaakdom and laughed.
The noise of James’ skull splitting and the sword penetrating his brain produced a singular sound and terminated James’ laugh. James saw a bright light that was followed by darkness.


The desk felt cool beneath James’ head and as he lifted it and gazed groggily around the room where his certificates hung on the wall. He had fallen asleep. It had all been a terrible nightmare, he thought to himself. He laughed aloud as he got to his feet and walked over to the window. Life on Spirwell street was drifting by as normal. The evening dusk settling on the town like a blanket.
He walked over to his diary and read his last entry. Mr Dawson, the cat person!

James thought that a couple of gin and tonics at his club would just finish the day right and remove any fragments of that very vivid dream from his mind.
He leant over the desk and pushed the button on the intercom.
“Is there any more patients Miss Woodward?” James asked through his intercom.
“Just one Dr. DeSquire,” replied the elderly lady. “He was referred to you by a Dr. Wilson who has a practice in Mullwell.”

Mr. Rollins, a mild mannered man who was having trouble with his memory and had been referred to James by his doctor, a Dr Wilson, watched in terror as the ambulance men carried a strait jacketed Dr DeSquire out of his office. The psychiatrist had gone stark staring mad when he had received the reply from his secretary. He had locked his office door and refused to open it for anybody. When the door was unlocked by a locksmith, Dr DeSquire was found hiding under his desk. As he was pulled out he screamed,
“El Shaakdom is coming to kill me! Save me from El Shaakdom”


As Mr Rollins made his way slowly home he marvelled at the mysteries of the human brain, its complexity and fragility, features that could cause a clever man to lose his place in life. Mr Rollins was sure that madness existed as a place that could be visited and often imprisoned in for all time.
When Mr Rollins looked about him he realised that once again he had forgotten where he was and where he was going to, so he sat down on the nearest bench and waited for someone to find him.



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Your Time (poetry) By Dr. manhattan




Who took time away?
Robbed the child of play

Made sport of losers and winners
Proclaimed the saints and sinners

Divided days for treasure
Cloth cut down to measure

Who? If not you and I
Painting blue the sky

Or was it them not us
Who should have made a fuss?

What happened to the time?
Should have made it mine

Instead of making haste
Should have set the pace

It’s a game that can’t be won
If the running is no fun

Who robbed you of your day?
Is it too late to say?

If you don’t know
It’s your show

Your time is now
Take a bow

Take your time…


Thursday 1 March 2012

Shades of Luck

SHADES OF LUCK


Rodney Blenkinsop laughed aloud when Mr Drysdale, the Latin teacher pointed at him and said, “Translate for us, Mr Blenkinsop please.”
“No problem sir. Where do you want me to start?”
“At the beginning, would be usual, Mr Blenkinsop. Oh, and a little less hilarity please.”
Rodney was the best Latin translator in the class. He was a natural and proved it by rattling off the first paragraph of Caesar’s Gallic Wars. When he sat down the class gave him a round of applause to which he acknowledged with a bow.

It was the last class before half term and an air of tomfoolery pervaded the normally staid surroundings. The windows were open and the sound of hay being reaped in the neighbouring fields could be heard. Flies and bees buzzed about in the languid air and the roll of thunder echoed in the distance.
Later in the day, Rodney and I intended to visit a recently discovered temple dedicated to the Roman god Hecate, goddess of magic, witchcraft and necromancy. The Romans had brought various religions with them when they invaded Britain and archaeologists were always discovering artefacts relating to various gods and goddesses during their ‘digs’.

The sun was high in the summer sky as we made our way across the fields which lay like a patchwork quilt all about us. Birds sang in the trees as we neared the site.
“Think it will be in the next field, old thing,” said Rodney striding ahead of me towards a rather battered looking gate.
“Hold up,” I shouted running after him. “What are we going to do when we find it?”
Rodney stopped, swivelled round and said,” we are going to investigate it!”

As we climbed over the gate the first thing we noticed was a massive hole in the centre of the field. The plough must have caught on some buried stonework and tearing it away had caused a cave in. It was fortuitous that we had brought ropes and lamps for it looked like we might have to climb down into the hole. Great! I thought sarcastically.
My misgivings were confirmed when we lowered one of our lamps into the void. The beams lit up early architecture in a dilapidated condition, but ripe for exploration.

A large oak tree grew quite close to the hole and after securing our ropes to its stout trunk both Rodney and I lowered ourselves slowly down into the ruins. At the bottom we lit the other lamp and began to inspect the area.
Most of the damage was restricted to the roof which had originally been hit by the plough. Some of the stonework lay within the altar area and earth and weeds had fallen in through the breach.

Rodney shouted to me a few minutes later. When I reached him I saw he was indicating some writing on the wall.
“Look Carruthers, Latin inscription!”
“What does it say?” I asked.
“Cave Creperum. It warns of the darkness! Yes,” he said pausing. “Beware of the Darkness.”
“How strange,” I replied looking about. “Where will we go now?”

As we rounded part of the outside wall we found ourselves in a small antechamber. In the centre lay a pool of reddish looking water. On a stone which sat in the middle of the pool was carved the word ‘Felix’.
“The Latin for luck,” he said as he rolled up his sleeves and plunged his hands into the water.” It will bestow good luck upon me, don’t you think?”
As he spoke a large shadow moved over the chamber and I looked towards the lamp, positive some animal had moved in front of it, but there was nothing there. Before he left Rodney scooped some water from the pool ostensibly for checking chemically or that was what he told me.

All the way back to the dormitory I felt we were being paced by someone or something which followed us in a parallel course beyond the trees and bushes. Something moving furtively but following us all the same.
The sample of water was fairly ordinary apart from the fact that it had a very high iron concentration. Rodney suggested that it may have once received large amounts of blood, possibily sacrifices.
The rest of the year passed uneventfully. Rodney passed all his Finals and left with a first Class Honours degree, while I had to make do with a second class. Everything it seemed had happened alright for Rodney, but although successful he was unpopular with the other scholars as they felt some sort of presence hung about him. When he left, the sensation left with him and the College breathed a sigh of relief.

I got a post in a lawyer’s office. I started at the bottom, running errands, making tea and delivering payment for bills to other businesses and tradesmen. Soon I had moved up to Lower clerk whose responsibilities included making up the pay for the other office staff, ordering stationery and attending meetings where I took the Minutes.
Life moved fast for me but I filled every second of it. I had a lady friend called Emma and she and I would go on long walks in the country. We were both interested in ruins, standing stones and other ancient monuments. Often we would hire bicycles and ride out to visit nearby villages and towns.
In the summer of that year I asked Emma to marry me and she accepted. We planned on an Easter wedding and I gave Emma an engagement ring with a sapphire surrounded with small diamonds which we wore proudly.

It was in the autumn that I received the letter from Rodney Blenkinsop. He was living across in the northeast of the country. He described the area as beautiful with fenland and marshes where wild birds of every type could be seen. He said that he had married a lady called Sylvia and lived in a large house called ‘Fretlands Manor’. He wanted to invite me to stay with them for a week or two to ‘catch up’ on the time that we had been apart.
The letter rather than being a pleasant account harboured some strange sensations of ambiguity in the script. Rodney was worried about something, of that I was sure, but he couldn’t write about it directly.

Emma asked if she could accompany me, even after I explained that the journey would be interminable.  We started out at first light and soon were well on the way. We broke up our journey by stopping at inns on the road and resting, before continuing on.
It was late evening when we caught sight of Fretlands Manor. The sky was darkening and a light rain was falling. The wind shook the trees as we made our way into Blenkinsop’s estate. The gates sported stone eagles which had seen better days. One lacked a wing and the other was missing half of its head. A curlew wailed its lonely cry adding to the desolation I felt for this benighted place.

Rodney met us at the main door. He shook my hand and greeted Emma with true warmth. The butler carried our cases into the house and we were led to the drawing room by a maid. There was a strange feeling of tension running through the atmosphere of the house. Everyone on the staff who we had met spoke in near whispers and often looked over their shoulders.
There was also a mild odour that pervaded the house. It smelt like a mixture of a ‘wet dog’ smell and rotten eggs.
Sylvia was sitting on a couch when Emma and I entered the room. She was very beautiful and heavily pregnant Her eyes looked red and I knew that she had been crying. I introduced myself and then Emma to her and we sat and made small talk while one of the servants brought in some tea and sandwiches for us.
Sylvia asked about our journey, hoping that it had not been too arduous for us and that we had found the hospitality at the inns, where we had stopped, to be adequate. It was at that point that Rodney joined us.
Stepping into the room he closed the door and walking across to where we were, sat down next to me.
Once again we talked of trivialities until Sylvia suggested to Emma that she might like to ease her tired muscles with a hot bath before she retired for the night. This was accepted with pleasure and the two ladies left the room.

Rodney got up and paced around the room. I knew that he would now tell me what had been bothering him, but he was having a problem putting it into words.
“Carruthers, my dear friend,” he started to say. “I really don’t know how to tell you this. I am sure you will think that I am mad, I really do.”
“Look Blenkinsop, I can only help you if you explain what is bothering you. Now sit down and tell me.” I took his arm and pulled him down next to me.
After another long pause, he started to speak,” I and my lovely wife are being haunted. We have no happiness only fear and loathing.”
“When did this nightmare start?” I asked, unsure of what was to come.
“Do you remember several years ago when we were at Ashbrook House? We decided to investigate that temple that had been uncovered by some wretched farmer while ploughing his field.”
“Yes, I remember,” I replied tentatively.
“Well, do you recall I dipped my hands in the water? In the pool where the stone read ‘Felix’ which I interpreted as meaning luck. All the way back to Ashbrook House we felt as if something was following us, a presence.”  
Rodney covered his face with his hands and for a few minutes we sat side by side in silence.
“After I left Ashbrook House I fell in with some bad company. A party of men who drank and betted. Well, I became like them, shady characters, but unlike them my bets always won! It wasn’t long before my colleagues noticed my good fortune and started to match my bets. We all prospered, but the presence we had sensed all these years before, returned. It was always with me, watching, waiting patiently.”
“But what did it want?” I asked. “If it was acting like some sort of talisman for you, you would think that it would want something in return.”
“You would think so wouldn’t you?” he replied. “But all it does is hang about and plague us with its filthy stink!”
“You still benefit from its benevolence?”
“Oh yes, after I left the company of brigands I invested a lot of the money I had won and my fortune grew. It was like the Midas touch, I couldn’t lose. I built this house for Sylvia and hopefully many children, but with the building came the creature. Did you not sense its presence when you arrived, did you not smell its corrupt miasma?” Rodney slumped in his chair.
“Is there anything I can do?” I asked feeling slightly responsible, I had gone to the temple with him, I had just forgone the soaking of my hands.

By the time I got to the bedroom, Emma was already asleep. I stood and watched her as she slept. She was beautiful and I knew that I was a lucky man to have her as my wife.
I began undressing to go to bed, it was quite late and the house was silent. As I hung my clothes on the back of the chair I felt that I was being watched. The hairs on my neck rose and a shudder ran through my body.
I spun round and there just above the bed head, two red eyes glowed.
How long I stood watching them I do not know, all I do remember was praying that Emma stayed asleep.
With the eyes, a feeling of dread began to come over me. Emma and I were not welcome, we were in the way. These thoughts formed in my mind and I felt under the power of some powerful hypnotist.
I am sure that I would have stood mesmerised for the duration of the night had Emma not rolled over in her sleep and called my name out. I was instantly awake and rushed over to the bed head, but the eyes had vanished!

The next day, in an attempt to escape the oppression and odour of the house, Emma and I took a picnic and walked into the surrounding country. We had not walked for more than an hour before we came upon an idyllic spot down by the river. The reeds and bulrushes framed the water rushing by us and the grass was soft and fragrant. We sat and lazed there for the whole day listening to the birds and enjoying the sun’s warm rays.
Gradually the day began to cool as we approached evening and reluctantly we gathered together our picnic things and coats and made our way back to Fretlands.

As we made our way up the drive we noticed a horse drawn carriage sitting outside the main door. Nearing the house, Rodney and a gentleman in a dark suit emerged. They shook hands heartily before the gentleman climbed up on his carriage and rode off.
“Nigel, Emma. I am a father! Sylvia has given me a son!” Rodney cried excitedly.

Over the next weeks the house rang with babies cries. The loathsome odour was often replaced by soiled napkin and sickness perfumes and the  malign influence seemed to slacken its grip on the household so much so that singing and whistling could often be heard emanating from the servants quarters.

In fact things settled down so much that Emma and I encouraged Rodney and Sylvia to go out to dinner at a nearby town. We agreed to babysit young Aldous, the name the baby had been christened.
Sylvia looked very glamorous and Rodney looked dashing as they boarded their carriage.
“Now, you are sure everything will be alright?” fussed Rodney.
“Yes Rodney, everything will be fine,” replied Emma.
“I’ve left milk and fresh napkins out for Aldous…..” Emma started to say.
“Off you go!” I commanded. “Have a lovely time.”
The evening passed reasonably peacefully, Emma and I played a few hands of bridge which I lost dismally. I hinted that she might have mistakenly played certain cards and she took umbrage at this suggestion.
“I will go up and check on little Aldous and give you some time to put together your apology to me,” Emma said as she left the room.
I sat gazing into the fire, thinking about nothing in particular. The room was warm and I must have fallen asleep.

A terrified scream echoed through the house. I was on my feet and running
Before I had fully woken up, but I knew that something had frightened Emma badly. She had been going up to the nursery so I assumed that she was there.

As soon as I threw the nursery door open I was greeted with the stench. After its absence for so long, it was disgusting.
Emma cringed in the corner of the room looking fearfully towards the baby’s cot over which shone the two red eyes of the creature. But this time instead of glaring, the eyes looked down greedily at the baby.
I instinctively picked up a brass bowl that had been lying on one of the tables and without thinking threw the bowl at the eyes. It hit the wall with a resounding boom and poor little Aldous, getting a terrible fright gave out a high pitched scream.
The eyes vanished and for a brief second the terrible feeling of tension relaxed. Emma snatched up the baby and ran out of the nursery, closely followed by myself. I turned quickly and pulled the nursery door closed and locked it.

When Rodney and Sylvia returned to Fretlands Manor they found the house in turmoil. Sylvia and I had taken Aldous into the lounge with us. He was sleeping quite soundly on the couch.

“Your creature returned, Blenkinsop,” I said. “I am sure it wants the baby.” I went on to tell him of my feeling when I saw the eyes gazing at Aldous.
“Then we will leave the house!” he cried. “I will not put my family at risk.”

Later after the ladies had gone upstairs to bed Rodney and I sat drinking whisky and pondering the problem.
“If you leave it will only follow you,” I said dismally. “We must stand up to it!”
“And how do we do that?” Rodney asked, shaking his head.
Then I remembered the incident in the nursery and laid out a plan that I thought just might work. Rodney chuckled evilly, “I think it may just work.”

The next morning Rodney addressed his staff, the grounds men, the gardeners and two young boys who had been helping out in the orchard.
“I want you all to get pots, pans, bits of metal, anything that you can hit hard and it make a noise. We will meet here in half an hour and I will show you what we will do with this unholy orchestra!”

In half an hour everyone had reassembled. Even Emma and I had been given large pots and metal spoons.
“Right now,” said Rodney. “I want you up in the attics and gradually work your way down through the house. Make as much of a hullaballoo as you can!”

I will never forget that day. The boys laughing as they climbed the stairs, the cooks banging on their pots and everybody making a din. They started in the highest point of the house and by the time they were coming down the stairs to the first floor there was a large cloud of turbulent smoke moving before them.

“Keep up the noise!” shouted Rodney. “It’s working!”

The smell of that cloud was nauseating, it smelt like rotting carrion and rotten eggs. The colours roiled in it, purple, green, sickly yellow and other hues. A faint screaming could be heard coming from the most turbulent bits of it. The creature was being routed!

Eventually the cacophony reached the main door and the head butler threw it open and the billowing cloud spilled out into the fresh air. The noise makers ran out after it and watched as it rose higher and higher into the air. Soon it was so small that it vanished from sight.

I would like to say that Rodney, Sylvia and Aldous regained their happiness, but the servant of Hecate, as I thought it was, didn’t leave without a fight. Rodney lost his prodigious good fortune and lost heavily both at the gaming tables and on the Stock Market. Emma and I heard later, that Sylvia had left him and taken the baby with her after Rodney had started to drink heavily.

The last report we received about my old friend was that he had decided to emigrate to America ostensibly to try his luck out there. Sadly three days out of Southampton, Rodney fell overboard and was drowned. They recovered his body and a post mortem was carried out, just in case there had been foul play. The surgeon found nothing untoward and recorded it as an accidental death.
The one item that surprised the doctor was that the water in Rodney’s lungs was found to be fresh water- with a high concentration of iron in it.


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