Woodlington

Harold

In the darkest, most secluded spot of Woodlington Cemetery, Harold tossed aside his spade and clambered from the hole.

He slumped to the grass, chest rising and falling rapidly. His muscles, unused to the exertions of physical labour, were aching. He was weak and feeling faint.

He needed to eat.

The excitement of the past week was catching up with him. He thought back to his last proper meal and was surprised to discover it'd been several days ago.

He'd been too caught up in his plan for food, too focused on the business at hand.

And, of course, he still was.

Wearily, he dragged himself to his feet and approached the hole.

Richard was almost invisible in the darkness.

Returning him to the mausoleum would have been preferable, but under the circumstances, impossible.

From his jacket, Harold took a drawstring bag, opened it, and allowed the object it held to fall into his palm: Richard's finger.

He caressed it softly and smiled.

After tonight, the ball would be in their court.

He turned and made his way towards a lantern, which dangled over a roughly drawn pentacle. On the floor beside it was a silver bowl, containing his own blood - a symbol of his will, his power.

Stooping, he dipped Richard's finger into it, and placed it within the star.

"Bone of Richard Blackmore," he hissed, closing his eyes. "Be now subject unto my will. Obey me, and only me.

Climb now from thy hole."

He stopped to listen.

His smile widened.

Later, after Richard had left, he sat by his lantern, thankful the crows had finally dispersed. Even now, he found their presence unsettling. But of course you couldn't have a resurrection without crows.

As he slowly relaxed, the light exaggerated the gauntness of his features, giving him an almost skeletal look.

He extracted a letter from his pocket, unfolded it, and keeping his voice low, began to read.

"To the Witches of Woodlington,

My name is Harold, and my request is simple:

Give me Rebecca Blackmore.

If you are willing, signify by the burning down of Blackmore Lodge.

Once done, I shall cease activity in your town, make arrangements for the collection of Rebecca, and disappear.

You have until Sunset tomorrow.

Think carefully."

Satisfied, he returned the letter to his pocket, then set about removing all traces of the night's activity.

The hole of course, would have to be left. He'd return in a few hours when it was occupied.

Only then could it be filled.