Duplicitous Undead
The hamlet was abuzz with the absurd notion that a vampyre had come to feed.
A ridiculous claim I did my best to eradicate, to no avail.
In hysterical tones men and women asserted the undead fiend’s conquests.
Knut the Scout boasted of recognizing it first, noting a lessening of bats massing in the eve.
Shepherd Tarquin reported several of his sheep were set upon, their precious wool stained in arterial blood.
Then there was widow Rosalind, still grieving the loss of Alfwig the Farrier to the cough of whooping, now losing a child to the villain.
Her youngest, Gawain the Virgin, last seen near the marshland three moons ago. After fruitless searches, it was evident his soul was lost.
Beware your hysteria, I implored them, had the lad been a victim of the vampyre would there not be a body to prove it?
Rather than accept my logical advice, the folk went in the opposite direction, raising the dead to confirm it was not they who were instigating the attacks.
As bodies were exhumed to be purified, Phryne the Wise bemoaned the lack of a place of worship.
Many were drawn to her mournful cries, but they knew in their hearts a shrine to their one true god could not save them.
Yet they persisted their futile attempts to defend themselves from the immortal beast they had imagined was upon them.
Every dwelling stank of garlic, garish crucifixes affixed to each door in a feckless attempt to ward off the dæmon.
Some of the fools positioned mirrors at every turn in a ridiculous endeavour to “see” the spirit.
Forsooth, they mulled over these absurd protections until the bovines returned from hither.
As the new moon rose, those not on look-out frantically debated methods of its destruction.
Could they separate the malevolent bloodsucker from its home soil?
Hijack it whilst feeding, pin it to the earth so as to submit it to sunlight?
Plunge a wooden stake through its wretched heart?
A pointless exercise.
Not one discussed their real problem. Their one true problem.
The crux of the matter: how would they catch me?
I mean, him.
Yes. Him. Yea verily. Catch him.
How would they catch him?
About The Author
Stephen Scott. Writer of Words. Yet Another Creative. Many names, some printable in decent company. He’s been plying his trade in copywriting and creative management since, well, before you were born (if you were born in the 90’s). Yes, he’s obviously a Star Wars fan. Connect with him on Twitter, Facebook, LinkedIn and Instagram.