It ended with the clock striking three, so I'll pick it up again from that point:
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Glong! the clock strikes three...
A sliver of moonlight peeks through the moth-ridden curtains, creeps its way across the sleeping forms of the children of St. Jacinta's Orphanage, beds all in a row.
The orphanage is very old (none of the children are sure how old), and it stands resolute on top of a tall hill in the country; the children are never allowed to leave the grounds.
Deep below the sleeping children, in ancient catacombs that most people have forgotten, the two spidery black-clad spinsters who run the orphanage make a deal with a blue-eyed devil. "Give me children to eat," he says in a voice sweet as honey, "and I will let you live forever, and your youth will be restored." Giggling in high-pitched voices, they sign with blood a contract written in the language of demons, not knowing that under the Terms and Conditions they will be eaten too (only after the last child is gone of course...).
The devil sits back and smiles quickly, then disappears in a puff of smoke and sulfur-smell; he takes his contract with him.
Glong! the clock strikes four...
The witch shrieks, her cries chill the hearts of those around despite the overbearing heat. She is tied in an embrace with a stake, the last embrace she will know, save that of oblivion. Or hell.
Her skin blackens and cracks, burning; now melting, liquifying in the flames as they rise higher and hotter around her. The moon, low and gibbous, frowns on the earth, and the clouds, looking angry rain blood down from the crimson skies.
The High Inquisitor stands, black cloak whipping around his gaunt frame. Pushing a lock of greasy hair out of his face, he allows a smile to play upon his thin, ugly lips.
Justice is being served.
The work is hard, and thankless.
But it is God's work.
And it is good.
*
As the Angel burns it sings a sweet song, and those who are responsible feel the weight of guilt upon them. The Trumpet sounds like a voice from the heavens condemning man for his sins. The angel's wings crumple and become charcoal, their beauty lost and blown away by the wind. Golden garments are tattered and hang loosely on the broken form of the holy being.
Stars fall from Heaven, God is angry with man and his wrath is growing.
A time of reckoning is coming.
This is the work of the Devil.
*
The Demon feels the bindings of the Tetragrammaton, the name of God, loosen; its wings unfurl and it flexes muscles long unused.
It tears at the ties around its neck, ichor flows freely from its wounds, but it cares not. The scent of Hell is in the air, scorching the nostrils of the onlookers.
Terrible bat-like wings beat the air, lifting destruction above the earth - it is free!
The horror is loose, death is coming.
This is man's work.
Glong! the clock strikes five...
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So that is the next little bit of The Witching Hour, hopefully there will be a bit more coming early next week. I am happier with the newer edit of the "snapshots of disturbance" post - it's a little more interesting, I think (it also makes a little more sense - to me, anyway).
Have a great weekend folks. Blake.
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