NIGHTYLY NIGHT MEAL
A chilling shriek, more like a scream; muffled, startled, piercing through the impenetrable frigidness of darkness. Pith darkness it was, laced amply with embedded willowy shadows that rested at ease in space as if it was its time. The moon was on a French leave, wanting in its illuminating duty of grazing the night clouds. At least for tonight and for the other nights when the old Churchyard’s gate opened in eerily creaks. It ushered in ghostly figures with their elegant outlines casting along the hallway; elongating towards the Cremation Room. The ash contents of the ceramic urns were never the same after such nights. When morning came, they would have perfectly shaped concave hollows that daring gaped in stark conspicuousness.
Not too distant from the churchyard, a glass of something thicker than water shattered. It must be blood because it flowed in a sticky viscosity. Grunts, sleepy beings adjusts their pajamas for more comfort, wimpy kids grasp tightly to the duvets as if they were strands of safety. Howling winds that soon transliterated into cacophonous mingled chattering, cackles and tears became the song of the awakening dead!
Silent; except for Andrea’s breathing.
Still, silent and attentive was what to describe the body on the bed. Feigned sleep induced by pretend fever, sweaty palms. Meddling with death, he sort to catch the prankster that toppled the furnitures in his room, leaving bits of bread and wine sauce that screamed- BLOOD. Yes, blood. They lay in startling sight when he comes back from Tuesday Vigils.
Time tickled away and he scoffs; “So much for an old wives tale that blames this on a hag and her children who were forced out of their land so that the church could be built.”
Yet, even now, the ku Ku chime of the clock became heavier as it struck the damnable hour of midnight. A moist blanket of a darkened world drowned Andrea; neck-deep. Light from the lamp pruned down to a glint enough to illuminate the figures of a hag and her children; a daughter and two sons.
Swirling noises, uncontorted, repressive and unwilling sunk deeper into him. He watched out of the corner of his left eye, an eye now coated in psuedo-blindness- a dense film of horror. The newcomers still played, with reckless abandon. Soon, the hag called them to eat their bread and wine. In the apogee of their ecstasy they chanted:
“We eat bread and wine because the dispossessor came with it!”
Krum krum, the sounds were more like scrapping off sticky flesh from a stubborn human skull than mere breading and wining. Soon, the sounds melted away into the stale darkness.
“Why do we leave so much of our food tonight?” Grumbled the fast-turning-a-hag daughter.
“Manners Celi; my child,” the hag answered. “We reserved these for our hosts- the house owners.”
“What about the naughty boy lying over there? The one pretending to be asleep all these while,” the son inquired.
“Save the best for the last my dear Lawino, he is for dessert.”
With face tightened in a grimace, lips salted in prayers, let us sprinkle dark casks of visual oblivion on Andrea. Back, definitely back to be cremated.
Krum krum, the sound continued. Only this time, they were actually scrapping sticky flesh off a stubborn skull.