Don't Forget the Saucer

Photo by Skylar Gordon on Unsplash

“Did Miss Elsie tell you about the saucer?” the milkman asked.

I was still getting used to the country way of doing things. Back in London, I wouldn’t even think of talking to a delivery guy. Out here, however, I didn’t have a choice. “I think that it’s great that she kept up the old ways,” I said diplomatically. “She had a list, and it’s mostly harmless. But milk isn’t good for hedgehogs.” I took in the milk, bread, and large bag of apples, checking them for freshness out of habit. I couldn’t exactly call in to a corner shop if there was something wrong, but I’d had good quality from the milkman so far and I was not complaining, even if he was a little odd about saucers. “That’s what it was, right? I mean, people can talk about fairies, but a saucer of milk is for the hedgehogs.”

The milkman raised his eyebrows. “If that’s what you say,” he muttered, looking over his shoulder. “You’ve been here a week, right? That’s seven nights, in the house?”

I nodded. “And it’s been wonderful and peaceful,” I said. Truthfully, I couldn’t sleep because I wasn’t used to the quiet, the night was too dark, and I was still coming to terms with the lack of pizza delivery services. “I’ve been busy in the garden. I’m sure that… Miss Elsie would have approved.” I waved a hand over the front of the house. “I think I’ve found some flower beds under the grass, and I’m planting some honeysuckle borders, with wildflowers underneath them.” I smiled. “And I’ve just got a whole bed of marigolds in. They always look cheerful, and I’ve got the tomato seedlings ready to go next to them.”

“Those marigolds are doing well, looking very strong, and the Fair Folk would like the honeysuckle,” the milkman said. “But you should still put down a saucer of milk. I can get you a saucer if you’re short of one.”

“I have saucers,” I said. “And I’m not giving that to hedgehogs. It’s not good for them – look it up.” I sighed. “But I can maybe put down some cat food if that makes you feel better. I think that’s what they recommend. Do you bring cat food on your deliveries?”

He stared at me, then rummaged in his pockets. “My name’s Joe, right?” he pulled out a notebook and pen and tore out a page. “That’s my name, and this is my number,” he said. “You can call me any time.” He frowned. “And it’s not right, a young lass on her own with the nearest neighbour half a mile away.” He scribbled a few more numbers. “Jed’s part of the mountain rescue and he understands the Fair Folk. You can ring him if you can’t get hold of me.” He folded the paper over and pushed it into the bag next to the bread. “And there’s Smitty, up the hill. He gets a bit carried away, but he won’t see you hurt.” Joe looked around the garden. “I’m going to give you a bit of advice, seeing as you’re not from here and I know what’s what.” He glanced around the garden and then past me, down into the stone-flagged hall. “Keep a diary,” he said. “Your mind will play tricks on you, if you’re not careful, so if you think that anything’s odd, then write it down.” He looked around again. “And whatever you do, don’t put down any cat food. Please.” He shuddered. “I’ll be back tomorrow, just in case.”

“I don’t think that I’ll need anything,” I said carefully.

“Oh, you will,” Joe muttered. “You absolutely will.”

It was hard getting used to a new place, I thought as I carried the bag into the kitchen. The rent for a room in a shared house in London cost double my current mortgage on a nice stone cottage in the Yorkshire Dales. I had a woodburning stove, a huge garden, sheep in the surrounding fields, and a lot less stress. And while I may be a fair walk from my neighbours, I was on a main road that carried the local internet cables. Working remotely wasn’t a problem. I just didn’t know who to talk to. Back in my last place, I chatted to my housemates as I made my dinner or picked up my mail. Now that I was all on my own, I had to make an effort if I wanted a conversation. The Face Time calls filled a gap, and I had to do a lot of fast talking for work, but it wasn’t quite the same. And while there were times in London where I could go a few days without speaking to anyone, I was always aware that there were people around me. When I decided to move half way across the country, I thought that I liked being alone. I paused before opening the fridge. The sounds of sheep drifted in through the open window, and there was a distant sound of a tractor, but no voices. Maybe I should arrange things so that Joe called every day. I know that he came down the road anyway, travelling past my door as he trundled between two small hamlets, so it wouldn’t put him out.” I opened the fridge and dumped in the apples, then froze for a moment as I hefted the jug of milk.

Less than five minutes ago, this milk was pristine, gleaming white and icy cold, damp with condensation and with an impressively distant use-by date. The previous jugs of milk from Joe, all three of them, had been equally pristine. I held it up to the light, barely able to believe what I was seeing. The milk was curdled, the thin, greenish liquid floating above the revolting lumps looked diseased and a layer of gunk lay over the opaque mass at the bottom. I shuddered and dumped it straight into the bin. I wasn’t risking pouring it down the drain, it would stink the house out. My stomach lurched and I switched on the kettle. There was still milk left from the last delivery which had been perfectly good this morning, and it would be fine for a strong cup of tea. I went back to the fridge, and nearly dropped the milk. It had been fine this morning, fresh and clean-tasting on my cereal and in my tea. Now it was as rancid as the milk that I’d just brought in.

I pulled out my phone and started making notes. I put my hand in the fridge, and it felt cold enough, and while it was a pleasant, late spring day, it wasn’t that hot outside either. I took a few photos of the contents, just in case, then put the bread carefully in the bread bin, after taking a photo. An alarm went off on my phone and I groaned. It was time for work, but I had so many questions.

I trudged into the small office that I’d created and switched on the PC. At least the internet hadn’t been affected, I thought, as I went through my usual log in. And the study was undisturbed. All my notes were in the same place, my pen was still working as I jotted down the notes for my schedule, and I could find my files. I still felt an uneasy prickle at the back of my neck though. I looked carefully around my office, taking photos. I’d unpacked my books before I’d done anything else. My clothes were still in bags and boxes upstairs, but my bookshelves were neat and carefully arranged. All my pens were working, including the highlighter that had followed me around three jobs and never seemed to run out. I could find all my files on my PC, and there didn’t seem to be any corrupted data. The pictures on the wall were fine, the lampshade was fine, the small electric heater next to my desk was working. My heart broke when I spotted it.

Gladys was my rather ragged philodendron. I bought it when I was a student, named it while drunk, and I’d carried it from place to place ever since. I’d cherished it and neglected it by turns, depending on exam season and work pressure, but I’d kept it going and I loved it. I ran a timid hand over what was left of it. The leaves were a leathery brown, with no trace of moisture, and drooped sadly and finally over the edge of the pot. The stalks were brittle and even the soil in the planter looked dead, drained of all moisture and goodness. I called Joe.

I waited impatiently at the doorstep, a deep, earthenware saucer in my hand. I refused to believe that putting down a saucer of milk for the fairies would make any difference. I refused to bow down to superstition and would swear that it was the hedgehogs. I’d still put in an emergency order to Joe who was trundling back. It was just one of the quirks of living in the countryside, that was all. I still had the peace and quiet, the spectacular views, and the generous garden. I let my eyes roam over the plants, then sagged against the door jamb. The marigolds that had looked so fresh this morning were starting to wilt. I stared at them until I heard the grumble of Joe’s van and rushed towards the gate.

“I’ve got some milk for you,” Joe said. “And I’ve added some honey.” He waved a large squeezy bottle of honey at me. “For the next two weeks, you need to put some honey in with the milk, as an apology to the Lords and Ladies.” He hustled over to the small square of stone by the corner of the house behind a lush fern. “Miss Elsie always left the saucer here,” he said. “If I were you, I’d put some milk and honey down now, and then again this evening, then every evening as you go on.”

I followed him, placing the saucer down and grabbing the milk. “My houseplant died,” I said. “I can’t believe it. I’d had it for years.”

Joe nodded sympathetically. “That must be a blow,” he said.

I filled the saucer with milk. “Do you think that will be enough?” I asked. I fought with the stiff cap of the honey.

“I can’t make promises,” Joe said. “No-one can. But you’re not skimping, and you’re going to add honey, right?”

I squeezed out a lavish quantity of honey into the saucer, splashing milk over the stone. “Yes, I think that I’ll be adding honey for two weeks, to make it right,” I said. I looked at the depleted bottle. “I’ll add another couple of bottles to my next order,” I said.

“It’s always good to have honey in,” Joe said. “It’s nice with lemon and ginger if you have a cold.”

I stood straight. “Thanks for coming,” I said. “I can’t imagine what would happen if I hadn’t got the milk in place.”

“I’m happy to help,” Joe said.

“Listen, I’ve got to get back to work,” I said. “But I’d like to say thank you. Why don’t you and your wife come around for dinner sometime. It won’t be too fancy, just some good food to show I’m thankful.”

Joe blushed. “I’ve no wife,” he said, avoiding my eyes. “And I’ve no girlfriend. It can’t be too late as I’ve got to be up early in the morning for my rounds, but I’d love to come for a meal.”

I smiled happily. “I finish work at 4pm on Tuesdays, so why don’t you come around and I’ll make something nice.” As we walked back to the gate, sorting out the details, I noticed that the marigolds were recovering nicely. Things were definitely looking up, but I couldn't help wondering what other traps were out there for the unwary. I'd need to make a list, a very careful and detailed list, just in case. And I mustn't ever forget the saucer.

Elfshot at Dawn

Photo by Mario Álvarez on Unsplash

They got Jenkins just as dawn broke and the mist was sidling away from the valley.  It was elfshot, straight in the chest above the heart.  We carried him back as he raved, our legs dampened and cooled with the morning dew and the light spilling golden through the mist and down the valley.  Into the farmhouse we took him and put him near the roof with a Bible next to his bed and a rosary over the bedstead.  The priest was slow to come but prayed hard when he came and someone was always watching as Jenkins told us about the sky kingdoms sailing through the skies like swans and cooed at pictures on the walls that only he could see.

The hen keeper could hear his shouts as she collected her eggs and topped up the water trough.  The cows being milked in the cool dairy with rowan twigs hung above the stalls could hear his cries.  Neither the doctor not the priest could pull the elf shot as Jenkins sang wildly as if under a mackerel sky.

He died at sunset, not well, and we did not bless the day the Shining Ones, the Fair Folk, the Faerie returned.

Impish

Image courtesy of Thomas Marlowe

"Don't worry about a thing." Trevor smiled with deep reassurance at the nervous store owner.  "The restoration will be completely sympathetic and we will be using authentic materials and techniques throughout. It will look just like it was first built all those centuries ago."

"I was warned about the little imp figure." Mr Oliver had only recently bought the shop and was beginning to get unnerved by some of the unexplained happenings. "Apparently if he isn't painted red bad things happen."

"Red is the authentic colour for a figure of that type." Trevor mentally added another £100 to the eventual bill. "And we will, of course, be using the type of paint authentic to the period. You would not believe some of the shoddy attempts we've seen.  People think it's find to go slapping modern gloss paint over medieval plasterwork.  It's a shame really."

"I'm not really bothered about the paint type," Mr Oliver said faintly. "As long as it looks a bit better.  Of course as it's in a conservation area I have to be a bit careful."

Internally Trevor sighed and took £100 back off the bill. "We are craftsmen, aren't we Ryan? We like to live up to the skills of the old masters who painstakingly put together these amazing works of art. We think it's important to keep the old traditions going. It would be tragic if the old skills were lost."

"Tragic." Ryan agreed from up the ladder next to the imp. "I mean, who puts an early twentieth century piece of chain on a medieval carved figure? It would make you cry. I'd say this chain was about 1932."

Trevor made a mental note to warn Ryan about overdoing it and all three followed the chain with their eyes as Ryan threw it down on the floor.  As one they froze as a wicked chuckle came from out of nowhere.  Then they all slowly looked up at the red imp. It wasn't there.  Trevor swallowed. "Of course I do know someone who does a very good rate in absolutely authentic carved wooden figures."

Mr Oliver sighed a little with relief. Looking into the shop it already seemed a bit emptier. "I think that's a splendid idea."

Dimming

 

Photo by Elijah O’Donnell on Unsplash

He left yesterday morning. He wanted me to go with him, but I insisted on staying. Someone needed to look after the chickens and keep an eye on things. He said he would be back before I knew it with someone to sort out the generator.

It seems a long time ago. It’s been a while since I had a charge on my phone, and longer still since the last log burnt out of the fire. Now all I can do is watch the flame ebb on the lamp and wait.

And all the time the pad of paws pacing around the house grows louder. I hope the lamp lasts the night.

Everything Changes

 

Photo by Victor CHABROL on Unsplash

Hal pressed himself against the cold stone wall and tried to catch his breath. He had to risk using the torch on his phone. He didn’t want to run the battery down, but he needed to know if he was safe. The quick sweep of light showed bare stone. The fan vaulting overhead told him he was in the Chapter House. Surely Kirkstall Abbey was a safe place from werewolves. Surely they wouldn’t be able to come onto sacred ground.

Hal tensed as he thought he heard a growl near the bare stone doorway, but his mind caught up with his terror, and he realised it was just the sound of a motorbike. He leant back against the rough stone. Surely they wouldn’t come in here. This had to be a safe spot. He ran a reluctant hand over his left forearm. It felt damp and sticky and far too warm. His body ached.

If he could just hold out until morning, that would be alright, wouldn’t it? Hal knew he wasn’t thinking straight, as whatever was in that werewolf bite ran through him, but he felt himself holding on to a tiny core of rational thought. Werewolves could cope with sunlight, he thought, but this was Kirkstall Abbey. It wasn’t some remote spot out on the moors, but only ten minutes from the centre of Leeds and next to a busy main road. Werewolves wouldn’t want witnesses, would they?

Hal found himself sinking down the cold stone wall and slumping on the damp flags. All his bones throbbed and he hunched smaller, trying to ease the pains shooting through him. He had been bitten by a werewolf. His head felt like it was on fire. He felt his thirst was ripping his throat, but he didn’t dare look for water. He just needed to hold out until morning.

***

Lord Marius looked around in irritation at the man stumbling across the damp grass towards Kirkstall Abbey. “You are not Sergeant Anson.”

“I’m DC Jamie Flint.” He held out his hand towards Lord Marius who completely ignored it. There was an awkward pause. “Sergeant Anson is on leave at the moment. I’m covering for him.”

Lord Marius looked at him carefully. Jamie was in his late twenties, with thinning hair, an oversized uniform jacket, and an anxious expression. “Did Sergeant Anson tell you everything?” he asked.

“I’ve read the briefing notes.” Jamie shifted uncomfortably. Half an hour earlier he had been trying to convince an old lady to turn her music down because not all of her neighbours were fans of Frank Sinatra. He’d wanted more excitement, but the brief skim of the notes left by Anson hinted at more than that.

“Come this way.” Lord Marius gestured imperiously and Jamie followed. They skirted the main building and headed towards the river. A man in a battered raincoat and holding a large sports bag was there, surrounded by an orderly pack of very large dogs. “We have an incident, and I think it best that you deal with it.”

“Me?” Jamie nodded to the man standing around the back of the main structure and automatically held out a hand to the nearest dog. They were immaculately groomed and in peak condition. “Good boy.”

“Don’t call him a ‘good boy,’” Lord Marius said, sardonic amusement dripping from his tone. “That is Mark Davies, leader of the local pack. I’m sure he will have much to say when the moon is not full.”

Jamie went cold. As the moon came out from behind the clouds and added to the reflections of the local streetlights, he could see the pack a lot clearer. They looked like wolves. They looked like huge, well-muscled, well-fed wolves. “I’m sorry, my mistake,” Jamie said. What was it that they said in college? Never show fear? It was easier said than done. The wolf gave a sharp bark. Lord Marius shrugged.

“Mark Davies is remarkably understanding. Of course, he has a lot on his mind. Inside the ruins of the abbey is a man who has been bitten by a werewolf. You need to bring him out.”

“Is he badly hurt?” Jamie asked. “Do I need to call for medical back up?”

The man in the middle of the pack walked up to Jamie and shook his hand. “I’m Dr Dave, and I’m the medical backup.” He turned to Lord Marius. “The stray didn’t make it. His heart gave out. Perhaps it was for the best.”

Mark gave a series of sharp barks, and for some reason Jamie felt chills running down his back. “Stray?”

Dr Dave looked between Lord Marius and Jamie. “You’re new, aren’t you. Never mind. In brief, a stray is a werewolf that isn’t attached to a pack. They usually turn bad if they spend too long alone, and this one managed to pick up a case of white jaw – it’s a little like the werewolf version of rabies. There’s been the first outbreak in decades running around the country, and it’s causing havoc. It’s treatable, if caught in time, but the stray wasn’t able to get treatment. He may not have even realised he had it. The trouble is, the condition comes with delirium and hallucinations, and he bit a normal – someone who doesn’t know about werewolves. They ran inside the ruins.”

Mark gave a few staccato barks and a deep ‘woof’.

Lord Marius nodded. “Quite.” He turned to Jamie. “The pack can’t get into the building as it is too holy. They can manage most churches, but there have been some great, if unknown, saints here over the centuries who have left their mark, and it is out of bounds to the pack. Besides, they can’t risk getting the white jaw themselves. Dr Dave can treat the man if he can reach him, but he may need help restraining the victim. I’ve asked for help from the Knights Templar, but they’ve been caught up with a nest of vampire fledglings in the north of the city, and it will take time for them to get here.”

“Will you be able to save him?” Jamie asked.

Dr Dave looked worried. “If I get to him in time, I can treat the white jaw. I can’t stop him changing, but Mark is a good leader and will look after him. I just need to get to him first.”

Another deep ‘woof’ from Mark was translated by Lord Marius. “And as he transitions – which may be tonight or at the next full moon, depending on his infection – he’s going to be affected by the site. He won’t be able to stay there long.”

“How many exits can he reach?” Jamie asked.

“Just this one,” Dr Dave said. “We’ve blocked all the others with silver, so he should come out here.”

Jamie was not reassured by the uncertainty in the doctor’s voice. He looked over the ruins. Kirkstall Abbey was a mass of broken walls, uncertain pillars, dark shadows and council railings. The roof was intact over large parts of the medieval building, creating unlit, inky caverns. In the uncertain light, it was impossible to check all angles. “I think I need more support. Like, animal control…” He flinched as Mark took a pace forward and growled. “Sorry, but I don’t know what I can do.”

“You can help save a man’s life,” Dr Dave said briskly.

Jamie peered into the matt black shadows. He couldn’t see a thing. He pulled a torch from his belt. “What are we waiting for?” He had never been so scared in his life.

There was a yelping sound from within the building, then a growl. The pack took a collective step back as the whimpering and yelping came closer. Dr Dave pulled out a syringe. “You may not have to go in.”

Jamie stared, transfixed, as a large, bedraggled wolf limped out, its left foreleg stained and matted with blood, and the great jaws drooling foam. He groped for his taser. “Everyone stand clear.” Did he give the standard warning to a rabid werewolf? Where was the damn taser? He took a quick look around. All the wolves were standing alert and with hackles raised. Lord Marius had taken a step forward and had a large and illegal knife held in front of him. Dr Dave was moving slowly towards the new werewolf.

“Hello, I’m Dr Dave. Let me help you. All you need to do is relax and I’ll…” Dr Dave paused at the rising growl from Hal.

“I’m DC Flint.” Jamie dredged up his courage and stuck to his training. “If everyone stays calm then no-one will get hurt. Lie down on the floor…” Jamie stumbled to a halt. Hal didn’t have any hands to keep in sight. He had four paws and a tail that was stiff and angry looking. The huge head turned towards Jamie. He took a breath. “Stop there.” Jamie held up the taser. “Get down on the floor and allow the doctor to give you treatment.” His hands closed on the handle of the taser. “Police! Taser! Taser!” And Jamie fired.

To his horror, the werewolf didn’t go down. For a few awful moments, Hal twitched, then, instinctively, the new werewolf ignored the shaking running through him and crouched to leap.

‘I’m going to die,’ Jamie thought, as the werewolf seemed to rear up, almost in slow motion, then he recoiled as a shot rang out next to him. Whirling around he saw a thickset man with a shaved head and a neck tattoo lowering what looked like an automatic pistol. Jamie looked back at Hal. The werewolf lay limp with a dark stain spreading over the thin fur.

Mark bounded up to the shooter, barking urgently. The man nodded. “It’s okay, it was only loaded with lead. Everything alright?” He looked questioningly at Jamie.

Jamie looked over to where Dr Dave was checking over the victim as the rest of the pack gathered around. He nodded. “I think so. Thank you, I think you saved my life. I’m DC Flint.”

“Sir Dylan, Knights Templar.” He held the gun pointing at the ground, showing an uncomfortable familiarity with it.

Jamie took a breath. Less than an hour ago he had been dealing with a delusional ninety-year-old and her traumatised neighbours while ‘My Way’ had been belting out at window shaking volumes. Now he had seen a werewolf. He had not only seen werewolves, but he had called one a ‘good boy’ and lived, tasered one, seen one shot and seen the shot one starting to regain consciousness, although looking a lot less feral but seriously frightened. In front of Jamie’s horrified eyes, the battered wolf flowed until he was a naked man, blood smeared over his arm and chest, curled up and shivering. And Jamie was standing next to the man who had shot him without hesitation.

Jamie dragged all his training, all his small experience, and all his time as a copper and turned to Sir Dylan. “I hope you have a licence for that firearm.”

The Bells of St Brigit

 

Photo by Kyle Johnson on Unsplash

The bells of St. Brigit's are calling tonight,

The moonlight is sparkling over the sea,

The stars are shedding their magical light,

And my lover's dead soul is calling to me.

The roses are breathing their passion filled scent,

The soft waves are hissing onto the sand,

The bells' chimes are ringing an empty lament,

I feel the blessed touch of my lover's cold hand.

Down the stone staircase and out to the sand,

Across the storm wreckage to the now quiet sea,

My lover steps slowly away from the land,

A final farewell and he's now lost to me.   

A Complicated Visitor

 

Photo by Jorge Campos on Unsplash

“I’m off out,” Egerton called. “I’ve left a casserole in the oven.”

“Right, thanks,” Darren said, Egerton’s voice only vaguely registering. He stared at the blank computer screen, working out where to start. He heard Egerton patter down the hall, the front door open, then a murmur of voices.

“Of course it’s not a bother,” he heard Egerton say. “Go through to the study, he’s not busy.”

Darren scowled. Egerton had an annoying habit of allowing everyone and anyone in, even if Darren was stuck on next week’s sermon. And now it seemed that he had a visitor when he could really do with peace and quiet. He got up, ready to greet the newcomer and froze on the spot.

A demon strolled into the study, oozing evil that trickled over Darren’s skin like an oil slick. He smiled coldly at Darren. “You can’t really complain about me coming in here. I was invited in, after all. And you can’t really blame your servant. Not many would recognise me.”

“I recognise you,” Darren said. “That is, I know what you are, but I don’t think I’ve had the pleasure in person. Who are you?”

“Names aren’t important.” The demon gracefully lowered himself into the armchair next to the fire.

“Names are important,” Darren said, every nerve ending on alert. The demon was young, from the feel of it. He hadn’t learned to hide his nature from those with training, and his attempt at casual assurance was shaky. That made him a little unpredictable.

The demon laughed. “I know that you’re Darren King. I saw it on the letters in the hall. And I know that you’re an ordained minister.” The demon gently rubbed his hands together. “To think, here I am in a fancy study, come to tempt an ordained minister. My mother, curse her blackened heart, would be so proud. You can call me Scratch .”

“Would you like a drink, Scratch?” Darren said, his mind racing.

“So you can lace it with holy water? I don’t think so. But please get one for yourself.” The demon looked so very average as he lounged in the chair, with a medium build and pale brown hair cut averagely short. His face was pale, but not unnaturally so, and the eyes that met Darren’s gaze were an unremarkable hazel. Darren wasn’t fooled. Evil slid off him like swathes of mud from a riverbank.

Darren strode over to the drinks cabinet and pulled out a bottle and a glass. He stood by his desk and poured himself a drink. “What do you want?”

“What happened to the label?” Scratch asked.

“It wasn’t a good vintage.” Darren took a mouthful. “And what are you doing calling door to door? How desperate are you?”

Scratch stared at Darren, hunger in his eyes. “Not as desperate as you, vicar. I know how much ministers are paid—or rather, how little they are paid.”

“Tell me about it.” Darren waved a hand around his uncluttered study. “They don’t respect the work or learning, just what you can do. They don’t care about my study.” Darren waved a hand at the neatly stuffed bookcase. “All they’re interested in is what I can do for them and for how little. I get sent all over the place, you know, without warning. But the Dean never seems to leave his fancy office.”

“I know how you feel,” Scratch said. “Those with the power don’t run around. They have people for that. The old demons with thousands of souls in their clutches can swagger around, but us with only bare bones have to bow and scrape.” He sneered at Darren. “I’m sure that the Dean doesn’t have to scrabble around for loose change to get hold of research material. I’d bet money that he doesn’t have to struggle to get hold of rare books or access to remote archives. Of course, he’ll look the part, with tailored suits and gowns. And I’m sure that there are plenty in your parish who look down on a threadbare preacher.”

Darren thought about his local Dean, a woman with the sweetest heart and a wardrobe even worse than his. Scratch really hadn’t done his research. Darren looked down at his supermarket jeans. They were clean, not torn, and covered up his important bits, and that was all you could say about them. He looked at Scratch, leaning towards him. There was a gleam of desperation in the demon’s eyes. “I do get told I need to dress the part,” Darren said, waving his glass to keep Scratch's attention while inching away from him.

“I can give you all the money you need, vicar.” Scratch stood and spread his hands, approaching Darren with an attempt at a genial smile. “For a scholar like yourself, the real reward would be the chance to buy some of those obscure texts that come up so rarely and cost so much. You could travel to all the best research centres, and to those lesser known places.” Scratch leaned forward. “You’ll have a list, I know, of those out of the way places that only allow their records to be seen in person. You could travel the world to unearth those arcane secrets.” He waved a hand, conjuring a vision of piled banknotes, heaped casually on Darren’s desk, next to share certificates and a tottering tower of gold coins. “I could do this for you, vicar. For a consideration.” A contract appeared on the desk.

“Surely an ordained minister’s soul is more valuable than that of an ordinary citizen?” Darren askedd, taking a step back. The heap of money doubled.

“I can give you so much,” Scratch said. “Money, jewels, whatever you desire.” He advanced slowly towards Darren. “Have another drink, vicar, and think about it. All that money, all that power for you, just for you.” Scratch picked up the bottle and held it towards Darren. “Just think about it.”

Darren glanced at the contract, watching Scratch out of the corner of his eye. “I’m a minister. I’m not prepared to lose my soul to an overzealous door-to-door demon.” He took another strategic step back.

“Take a look.” Scratch took a step forward and looked down, appalled. “Oh sh—”

He disappeared.

Darren took another mouthful of grape juice and flicked back the rug. The design was there, etched on the floorboards, glowing faintly. He’d spent many hours praying over it, that it might defend his study and his mission, and it had been worth it. Young demons tended to get carried away at the thought of hoarding souls, especially one belonging to a vicar, but few remembered to check to see if the minister was also an exorcist.