Woodlington

Harold

It had been seven years since he'd seen the face, but he'd have recognised it anywhere: dark hair, thick eyebrows, hooked nose, strong chin. The sight of each feature was like a blow, rekindling the hatred inside him.

Afraid of what he'd do, Harold closed his eyes.

Focus was needed. How was he to proceed if he allowed his emotions to get the better of him?

Taking several deep breaths, he forced every thought, every distraction, from him.

When he was able, he opened his eyes again and reached for the corpse's hand. It looked brittle, as though if he tightened his grip it would simply crumble, but Harold knew better. Taking hold of the index finger, he began wrenching it back and forth. The bones snapped easily, but the connective tissue was a different story. Finally, his brow wreathed in sweat, Harold managed to twist it free.

He straightened and gazed down at the man he'd killed seven years ago.

The seconds stretched into minutes.

At last, forcing himself to turn away, he hurried across the chamber to where a pentacle glistened on the floor.

He had all the ingredients. It was time.

His face, not used to smiling, cracked in a humourless grin.

After tonight, his name would be on everyone's lips. He would create a plague of fear, and such would it be until his plans were completed.

Setting the finger down, he reached into a pocket and pulled out

a creased photograph.

On it, the man from the coffin had his arm around a small girl.

The man was dead.

The girl was not.

Harold began the ritual.