Marjorie Flowers had never married. Nor had there ever been a significant other in her life. Nor did she have any children. Insular and abrasive; unloved, even by her parents, Marjorie had lived all eighty-seven years of her miserable existence in the same house where she had been born. And miserable is the word that best described Marjorie, who had always been as shrivelled and bitter as a preserved lemon.

A long retired librarian, no other profession better suited her, Marjorie had chosen instead to fill her life (such as it was), and every room of her dormer windowed and thatch roofed cottage with carnivorous plants. They sat in pots on sunlit window ledges. They hung in baskets, at varying heights, from the ceiling's exposed beams. They stood on shelves and occasional tables, as a singular prized specimen, or grouped together according to genus. What it was about them, precisely, that had attracted Marjorie to her obsession she could not define, other than her admiration for their self-contained independence.

It pleased Marjorie to think she could die at any moment and the plants would carry on regardless. An unsuspecting fly, or a sporadic moth, was sufficient to sustain them. The pride of her collection was a Chilean Nightwing. Native to the high desert plateaus of the Andes, the Nightwing was believed to be extinct in the wild. Its three broad and flat glaucous leaves, each tipped with a needle sharp spine, remained tight closed through the day, only opening as the sun was setting to reveal a large flower with three petals of a deep dull crimson, with the texture of velvet,

As the night sky darkened, the flower would detach itself, and with its petals spinning like the blades of a helicopter, would rise into the air and fly out through the dormer window Marjorie always opened as the growing gloom of dusk descended. Unique in its method of harvesting the required nutrition necessary for its survival, the Nightwing would seek out some large mammal and, attaching itself to the neck, would absorb the animal's blood through the pores of the skin while simultaneously exuding a toxic anticoagulant, with fatal consequences.

Climbing the cottage stairs one early evening, the toe of Marjorie's slipper caught on the frayed carpet, causing her to lose her balance, and falling backwards, tumble awkwardly, breaking her hip. Immobilised by excruciating pain, she lay at the foot of the stairs, all too conscious of the approaching hour, when the Nightwing's vampiric flower would emerge, and the fact that the dormer window was still firmly closed.

‘Border folk are strange creatures, you know, Father. But perhaps you’ve already worked that out for yourself.’

Father Georgios Anagnosides smiled politely, but said nothing. He still wasn’t quite sure about his new curate, Father Benedict. Something, he sensed, was veiled behind the other’s genial, jocund exterior. He glanced around the sumptuously-decorated parlour, with its tasteful William Morris-style wallpaper, Pre-Raphaelite prints on the walls, plush armchairs and colourful rugs, Queen Anne drop leaf table with intricately-carved legs, and the gentle ticking of what - surely! - wasn’t a Thomas Tompion longcase clock.

‘Pardon me, but is that a Thomas– ?’

Benedict followed the gaze of the younger priest, and chucked. ‘I’m afraid so,’ he said. ‘I have a Tompion for a grandfather. It once belonged to Sarah Churchill, the Duchess of Marlborough. Well, allegedly. Insuring it is something of a nightmare, and it doesn’t even keep particularly good time: but it’s almost three hundred years old, so I suppose it can be forgiven. I’m impressed - you have a good eye for antiques.’

‘Not especially - but my father was a watchmaker.’ Georgios thought about the furnishing in his own, 1970s-build vicarage, that he had moved into ten days before, and grimaced. His priest-colleague was clearly someone of substantial private means. Perhaps that explained why he had resigned his inner-city living ten years previously, whilst still in his mid-forties, and retired to the countryside, keeping his hand in by covering parochial vacancies along the Anglo-Welsh border. Though he’d heard other rumours too, about Father Benedict Wishart: but he didn’t want to dwell on that…

‘So your partner - what was his name - Oliver? He’s not at home at the moment?’

‘No, he generally comes home every other weekend. It’s a busy life, working at the Bar. Another two, maybe three years, then he’ll retire. Sadly, he won’t be back for your induction service this coming Sunday. He knows the Chancellor of the Diocese quite well: they were in Chambers together, once upon a time. He’s an atheist, bless him. He always says I’m more than devout enough for the two of us. But you must come round for dinner next time he’s here.’ The elegant, smartly-dressed priest paused, then said:

‘Do you have any particular views on the supernatural, Father?’

There had been a distinct change in his tone of voice, and - Georgios noted - a slight tremble in his hand, as he lowered his teacup, and leaned forward, with the gravest of looks upon his suddenly-furrowed brow.

‘Please, call me Georgios. That’s a rather surprising question to ask of a fellow priest - but I assume you’re not looking for some conventional theological answer, Benedict. What exactly were you thinking of?’

Benedict drew a red silk handkerchief from the lapel pocket of his jacket, and wiped his forehead. In just a matter of seconds his visage had utterly changed, and his flushed face was glistening with sweat. The aura of comfortable condescending affability that had surrounded him since opening the door to his visitor half an hour before had vanished.

‘Well, if we are to be friends, as well as colleagues, then you must call me Benny. I hope we shall be friends - and that we can trust each other.’

‘Of course, Benny. What’s troubling you?’

‘As I said earlier, people who live on the border are the strangest of people. In the ten years we’ve been here, I’ve found them to be tight-lipped, and inclined to keep their own counsel. The warring may have ceased six hundred years ago now, but people in these parts are still disinclined to take sides. Neither Welsh, nor English. Perpetually suspicious of those who come “from off”. You understand what I’m saying?’

‘I think so.’

These are lands where much blood has been spilt; places of the hinterland, where there’s been so much violence and anger. It seeps into the very ground. The hills and the valleys have long memories of the treacheries and cruelties of the past. They don’t rest easily. As for the people: they cling to the old ways. There were other gods, other forces at work, here on the Marches, back in the days of old. Before the missionaries and the monks came, proclaiming the One God, here they worshipped the many. And - if the truth be told - there are plenty who still do.’

‘There’s nothing new or surprising about that. Folk religious beliefs have rubbed shoulders with the more dogmatic assertions of orthodoxy for a long time.’

Benedict shook his head vigorously. ‘No, Father - Georgios. I mean more than folk religion. This isn’t just a case of popular syncretism, or quaint traditions, handed down from yesteryear. I’m talking about something much older, and much darker. Something that is implacably hostile to the Faith. Something that is deeply diabolical - right to its very core. They worshipped many gods - but the chieftain of their pantheon was always the same. He goes by many names. Do you know the legend of Darkwoode?’

‘Darkwoode– ?’

‘The churches along the border - on both sides - have you not noticed the predominant dedication?’

‘Well, there seem to be quite a few dedicated to St Michael. Is that what you mean?’

‘Yes. And on the Welsh side - and even here and there on the English side - you’ll see that quite a few of the villages are named “Llanfihangel” - the llan (or place) of angels. As in St Michael and All Angels. Curious, don’t you think, all these churches dedicated to the dragon-slayer? Here on the Welsh border, of all places.’

Georgios grinned. ‘He’s not the only dragon-slayer. My own namesake, of course, was slaying reptilian leviathans long before the English adopted him as their patron saint, ousting poor old St Edward the Confessor for someone more suitably martial.’

‘Then perhaps you’re coming amongst us, here and now, is a sign. You’re young - thirty-one, yes? But perhaps you have the vigour and the courage that I lack. I’m tired, and I’ve witnessed too much. Believe me, Georgios, you will be tested if you stay here - and you will need all your wits about you. The servants of the Darkwoode are not to be trifled with.’

‘I’m sorry, Benny, you still haven’t explained. What is the Darkwoode?’

‘Oh, you won’t find it marked on an OS map. But it’s real enough. The ancient woodlands along the Marches have mostly gone now - just a few copses, a handful of spinneys, here and there, remain. You know those puzzles - what do they call them - dot-to-dot puzzles, yes?’ Georgios nodded. ‘Well, join up the churches dedicated to St Michael, just like a dot-to-dot…’

Benedict moved his forefinger through the air, forming a circle as he did so. ‘You’ll find that they enclose the forests of old. They’re markers for the boundaries - the borders of the Darkwoode. The place where the last dragon was driven, it’s said. Waiting for the End of Time. As long as the churches remain, the dragon remains trapped. They stand as shields - as wards - against Evil Incarnate. But if ’ere disaster befalls even one of the churches - the dragon will escape through the gap.’ The older priest sat back, and sighed.

‘That is the legend of the Darkwoode.’

Note: My apologies for those wanting more - but it’s just the beginning of a new story! The supernatural is largely off-stage as yet - only time will tell if (and how) it becomes more prominent…

Sarah jumps awake and leans over to peer at the clock on her night table.

12:05 am! Where is he? He should be home by now.

She gets up and goes to the bathroom, listening for movement. All is silent and still in the house.

Crawling back into bed, she burrows under the blanket, missing Sam's warmth. She closes her eyes, fighting worry as she tries to sleep.

An hour later, the wind howls. Sarah shivers. Reaching out, she finds only his pillow. Her heart pounds as anxiey assails her.

He shouldn't have made the long drive home so late. He should have gotten a room. Maybe he left a message...

Glancing at her cell phone, the solid light taunts her.

In the same moment, the lamp she'd left on for Sam in the living room goes out.

Thank God.

She hears the thud of his footsteps on the stairs, the squeak as he reaches the last one.

"I was so worried," Sarah says as Sam slips into the room.

He crawls in beside her and she wraps herself around him.

"After thirty years, I don't sleep well when you're not home," she whispers, kissing his cheek.

I love you, baby.

"I love you," she whispers. Feeling his stillness, she smiles. He is asleep already. She closes her eyes.

"Mom!"

Startled, Sarah sits up and tries to focus. "Andy? What are you doing here, sweetheart? What's wrong?"

"Mom, the police are downstairs."

"What?" Looking right, she sees the empty space beside her.

"Is Dad downstairs with them?"

Confused, he replies, "No, Mom." He kneels down in front of her, holding her hands in his. "I was Dad's emergency contact." He clears his throat. "There was an accident. That's why I'm here. That's why they're here."

"Wait, what? There must be a mistake. Check the bathroom. Dad was here." She tries to get up and leave, but Andy pulls her into his arms.

"A tractor trailer lost control and shot across the divider on the highway. He was killed instantly."

"No. No, that's impossible. He was here. HE WAS HERE. He came home. I fell asleep in his arms. He said 'I love you.'"

"Mom..."

"Oh, you guys are playing a joke on me for being such a worrywort. Not funny, guys." She pulls away and runs out of the room and down the stairs. "Sam!! You are not funny. This is not funny!"

She sees the officers standing just inside the door.

I'm so sorry, baby. I love you.

"Sam!"

She moans, crumbling to the floor.

"Sam."

Something or someone had been eating Bob's watermelons. Figuring it was more likely someone, or two someones in particular, he stood over a pile of gnawed rinds and spat out seeds and cursed.

'It'll be them Phitzer boys, I spect.' He grumbled to himself, scratching his sweating scalp under his white straw hat.

Now, Bob would never begrudge a child a melon on a hot summer day, but it were manners to ask. And hadn't he told them 'xactly that the time afore, and the time afore that?

'Please and thank you don't cost nothin'.'

It was time to learn them boys a lesson, and Bob knew 'xactly how. He found an old zinc tub in the barn and picked up his hammer, and then he went and sat behind a blackberry bramble to wait. When those Phitzer boys came back to help their selfs to his melons again, Bob would bang the tub and holler, and scare the be-jiggers out of them!

Only they didn't. The day grew longer. And the sun burned hotter. And Bob dozed off. Waking up when the cool of the evening had raised goose-bumps on his bare arms. He waited a half hour more, before he gave up and went back to the house for a bite of supper and a sip of whiskey, telling himself he'd try again later.

The moon was high and bright when Bob crept back to the blackberry bramble. And dress him up and call him Loretta if the pile of gnawed melon rinds weren't higher! Somebody had gone and beat him to it. Somebody who didn't wear no shoes, if'n the footprints in the dust-dry red soil between the rows weren't figments of his 'magination.

That was when he heard it - The soft sweet pickin's of a guitar. Only it didn't sound right. It was too tinny. The kind of twang steel strings might make on a hollow tin. But that weren't possible.

Only one person in all the world ever played a biscuit tin flat-top.

Bob's voice caught at the back of his throat. 'Stumpy?'

'Ain't nobody else,' came the Pan-handle drawl.

'But you're... '

'Dead,' said the ghost of Stanley "Stumpy" Hollers. 'I spect so.'

'Is there really a heaven?' Asked Bob. 'What's it like?'

'There ain't no doors,' said Stumpy. 'No windows, neither. It's all just sunbeams and rainbows. And don't nobody wear shoes. See?'

Stanley wriggled his toes.

Bob hitched his bib-n-braces and scratched his stubbled chin. 'So, your crazy ol' Granny had the right of it?'

'No,' said Stanley sadly, shaking his head and spitting out a watermelon seed he'd been working away at with his tongue. 'But ain't it pretty to think so?'

Once upon a time, there was an old dark forest, which was home to a whole host of scary monsters.

And in the deepest part of the old dark forest lived a powerful Wizard: the old, old Man in the Moon.

The Man in the Moon had retired to a gloomy castle that stood decaying in the heart of this ancient forest.

And all over the walls of the decaying castle there grew a evil ivy that was very much alive. When any intruders came near, the vines would entrap them.

Now the old Moon Lord was very ugly. Of course, you’ll understand that already, if you’ve ever looked up at the moon in a telescope, with all its cracks and craters and wrinkles! And he knew that anyone who saw him would straight away take fright.

So that, you see, is why the bitter old Wizard would only ever come out of his castle at night, wearing a strange evil mask, so that even the scary monsters of the forest would not see what he looked like.

One night, the monsters of the forest decided to hold a contest to see who was the scariest monster of them all, and to find out who was willing to challenge the Moon Lord. Boastful Count Dracula, of course, was quite certain it would be HIM.

One after another they journeyed to the castle, and tried to scare the Man in the Moon. But even the biggest and most scary of the monsters went running away, wailing and crying, when they came face to face with the powerful old Wizard.

The Jack-O-Lantern’s light blew out when he encountered the Wizard; and the poor Zombie returned a little later, shuffling along the leafy floor of the forest. ‘I was so frightened,’ he said mournfully, ‘my legs fell off and I had to crawl away!’

The Vampire was the next to come forward. He flew disguised as a bat to the castle battlements, and tried to sneak up on the Wizard to take a bite out of his neck; but instead, he was attacked by the pack of Demon Wolves that roamed the castle grounds.

‘Ouch! Fangs for the memory!’ cried Count Dracula, and he shut himself away in his coffin, refusing to come out.

The monsters gathered together once more, and wondered what to do next. But as all this was happening - with no warning at all - a super-loud scream came, way up high, from the tall tower of the castle.

The old Man in the Moon had called for reinforcements - and the young Man in the Moon (his son) had sent a shooting star. And inside the shooting star, there was an entire legion of Space Spiders!

Hundreds of red-eyed Space Spiders came down on the monsters, and started biting them all with their big blood-covered fangs. The battle was fierce - for the monsters knew now they were fighting for the very survival of their forest!

The monsters retreated, and they realised that they would need help if they were to defeat the vicious old Man in the Moon. Reluctantly, they realised they needed the aid of a SUPERHERO!

The monsters decided to send three of their number in search of the Superhero, but the Zombie refused to go without his legs (which were being slowly pulled apart by the evil ivy), and the Count was still hiding in his coffin. So the first to volunteer was the Dragon.

The Dragon had always been brave and was willing to go on this mission. He flew up into the skies, his wings making a noise like a rushing wind. Soon after, the bellowing bad-tempered Ogre became the second monster to set off on the Superhero hunt.

But for a long time, no other monster was willing to come forward. At long last, Ghoulie the somewhat timid Ghost decided he would join the Superhero quest too.

‘W-w-well, I’ll t-t-try my b-b-best,’ he stammered.

Meanwhile, the Moon Lord looked out from the castle. The Wizard could see hundreds of fearsome red and yellow eyes shining in the darkness. Would the Space Spiders listen to him, and do his bidding? Even he started to feel fear in his black heart.

The old Wizard felt tired. How he wished he had been left alone in his crumbling castle! Standing on the battlements, he shivered as he saw more and more giant spider-webs, glistening with moonbeams, spreading amongst the trees of the forest.

The old Man in the Moon raised his arms to cast one last mighty spell. Another loud scream came from the castle tower. The monsters looked up, and saw an army of Flying Monkeys pouring out of the window at the very top of the tower.

Some of the Monkeys were entangled in the tightening moonbeam webs, but others jumped onto the backs of the Spiders. Trees came crashing down, and streams ran black with spider-blood. The monsters were very worried indeed...

But the Flying Monkeys were outside the castle for the first time, and so the Moon Lord’s spell on them started to wear off. Angry with their former master, one by one they flew down to where the monsters of the forest were gathered, led now by Spooky the Skull.

The remaining Space Spiders had fled. Monsters and Monkeys together encircled the castle. The Zombie had found some new legs, and even the Count had emerged from his box again. Then Spooky pointed to the skies: ‘Look! THREE Superheroes - come to our aid!’

The Man in the Moon looked at the army surrounding his castle, and he knew in his heart that he could never win. Even with his remaining evil powers, he knew that that with the coming of the Superheroes he was sure to be defeated.

‘I surrender!’ he cried. ‘I’ll leave in peace, if you let me go!’ The monsters quickly agreed, and the Moon Lord promised to go back to the moon (to make sure his son was behaving). With his last magic, he turned the Demon Wolves into lovable puppy dogs.

The evil ivy was torn down from the castle walls, the last of the spider webs burnt, and even the meanest of the monsters promised the Superheros they would try to be good.

‘We promise - no more fighting Wizards!’ they said.

The castle was rebuilt by the Flying Monkeys, the Dragon and the Ogre, and made to look splendid again (though the Count insisted on his coffin being put in the basement). But how did the Wizard get back to the moon, without his magic?

Simple.

By rocket.

THE END

Crunch! Crunch! Crunch! Crunch! Crunch! Crunch!

The weremonkey is having his lunch.

Strange being out in the sun,

But oh my, what delicious fun!

Hunting for food in the park.

So many meals when not dark.

All he can eat. No waste!

A feast of such exquisite taste.

Munching on mortal flesh still alive.

One, two, three, four perhaps five.

Who's next? You dare ask who?

Let me tell, it'll be you!

you remain hollow,

a tempered spirit.

you are the one who severs bone and flesh, rendering your victims withered and cold.

though you are not warm. you are temporary and brash.

you are pain. you are dying. yet abide by the rules of infinite melancholy.

send stardust planes careening towards my ill-fated heart.

grant me the bittersweet release.

i ache and i forever long for your absence.

i feel clamored and uneasy. when will this sinking cacophony of fear end?

though your spirit cannot be tamed.

it is still very much bruised.

do not forget that.

The bell rings, directing the rest of the children to come into the auditorium. I’ve been here for the last half hour, pacing back and forth as my nerves flow through me. This is the most important moment of my life so far; I might cry or vomit or faint or run away. Am I prepared enough for this? Will I embarrass myself?

“Are you ready to go on?” It takes me a moment before realizing that my principal was talking, however, I couldn’t seem to get any words out, so I gave him a nod. The bright red curtains begin to squeak open and I quickly run my hands across my blue dress.

“Hello everyone, I’m Lacey Berks, and I’m running to be your eighth grade class president”

After successfully completing my speech (with only a few stutters), another girl who I haven’t seen before confidently strutted across the stage bearing a purple dress, blonde hair, and glasses. I didn’t pay much attention to her speech, given that I was in almost every school club and she was unheard of. Instead, I thought of my winning speech and imagined my name on the board at the front of the school.

But now, from backstage I could hear  the crowd cheering horrifyingly loudly, to the point where it made my shoe buckles rattle. Since when were thirteen year olds this enthusiastic about school government? With curiosity I peeked through the curtain as she reached for the principal's hand, who was coincidentally wearing a tie that matched the color of her dress.

A few days later I was crushed to find out that the mystery candidate won, but she had invited me to the student council meeting that afternoon. My hopes and expectations skyrocketed, while the logical side of me knew that no sane person would ever give up the power that comes with being student body president.

With that being said, the meeting held many surprises. I walked into the student council room to her just standing there, now in jeans and a hoodie, with her back to the door. She turned around as if I had scared her, and for a split second her eyes were wild with huge pupils that revealed no color.

“Oh, hello Lacey! Great speech the other day!” Her voice struck me as odd; as if she were a teacher or parent talking to a child. The teenager instincts in me wanted to run to my friends and explain that she was trying to belittle me.

But I’m not one to judge. “Um, hi,” once again I failed to suppress my stuttering. “I haven’t really seen you in school. Do you—are you in any clubs?” I’m trying to be polite, but I have thousands of questions.

“Speaking of clubs,” her smooth voice hit me again, “you seem to be in quite a lot of them. You must know this school very well, which is why I would like to elect you as vice president.”

I don’t really think she can do that, but who cares? I have a high position and input and just everything a successful student could need! She reaches out for a handshake that I happily give her, and I notice her bright purple nail polish. Suddenly an anxious feeling rises in me, and my stomach tells me that I’ve made a mistake. I look up at my student body president, who once again has violently wild eyes. I watched her pupils grow larger and larger; are her eyes even that big?

“Well,” I say, letting go, “my mom is waiting in the parking lot and I need to go to the bathroom. See you at the meeting next week?”

She snaps back like she had been zoned out, then smiles at me. “Yes! I’m so excited to be working with you!”

I smile back, then try (and fail) to casually walk away quickly. On my trip to the restroom, the school was different. The garden that could be seen from the window now grew lilacs instead of the bright sunflowers, the blue lettering on the school banner had been replaced with violet lettering, and the rainbow notes that had once hung outside the music room were a deep plum. Nothing major had been changed, so I wasn’t going to make a big deal of it. Besides, purple was obviously this girl’s favorite color, and she has the right as president to do some small redecorating.

Finally, I pushed open the bathroom door. I know it’s impossible, but I felt a breeze when I walked in. Soft humming echoed off of the tile. I walked in a little further, and the humming swelled into a chant. It shocked me that all three stalls were actually being used, given that not many students stay after. I looked under the stalls to see if it was true, and my heart stopped. Three pairs of bright purple heels were standing there. My stomach filled with a sick feeling and I ran all the way to the front door of the school. A devilish female laugh came over the loudspeaker, followed by the same chant I heard in the bathroom. I run out I make sure to close the door in a desperate attempt to prevent any followers.

A car pulled to the front, and immediately recognized the license plate as my mother’s. Just as I let out a sigh of relief, I come to the realization that this cannot be her; my mother did not have a purple car.

I have to contemplate what I should do. What options did I have?

The door swung open on its own, and the student body president was standing about twenty feet inside. She began to laugh, then shouted “A practicing witch of a thousand years, and you think you can escape?”

My “mother” rolled down her window just a crack to reveal that she is listening to the chant on full blast.

I’m standing here completely frozen and on the verge of tears. Please help me before the purple surrounds me.

Every time I close my eyes

they are there

Surrounding me in my bed

they are there

Their mouths are open

in a silent scream

I wish it were

all a dream

But they are there

Their hands reach for me

as though they have a need

Something they want or

some kind of deed

They are there

My eyes open all the way

Hoping the people

will just go away

But when I close them again

they're all still there

Reaching for me

with a blank stare

They are there

What do they want

what do they need

Why do they think

they can get it from me

They are there

What will happen

if they touch me

Why can't they

just let me be

When you close

your eyes tonight

cover your head

hold your pillow tight

You need to know

and be aware

When the sun goes down

they are there

I should have seen

The midnight black

Coat of some loathsome cat

As it snuck into the church

On a path which must have

led under a ladder.

I know you saw me

In my ball gown dress,

Watched me from somewhere

Behind my back;

Though you didn’t see

The red bleeding from within it

Staining the pearl colored dress I settled for

Since it’s too late now to wear white

Curse the clock

Ever ticking clock

Louder and louder

Racing toward the inevitable,

The day that it will burst

Set in stone

And curse the knives

Expertly sharpened, expensive,

Blade as thin as ice on a lake

Blade as thin as eggshells

Dashed against the ground

Though somehow we managed

To dull them

Before the warranty was up

Both hexed items sat unassumingly

Wicked obscenities harbored among gifts.

How I despise that bearer of rings

Who fumbled our bands

Unable to keep them

From leaping

Back to the earth.

It seems one of us must have shed a tear,

Of love,

Of joy,

Of shame,

Of despair,

Of regret.

What a mistake we made

Joining lips

On that saturday

As the sky poured forth

tears of its own,

For the rooster that was late to crow.

And even in the May showers,

The peonies I held

Wilted to waste.

Damned be that faceless nun

That crossed our path,

Shrouded

Hidden under her black habit

As she was no daughter of God,

Rather,

Lucifer’s Lady of Luck