Woodlington

Harold

Digging up Richard for the second time had been easier, but riskier - mostly because he'd done it early afternoon.

The risk however, had been minimal.

All day, the graveyard had been silent and still. Apparently there was a crazed killer on the loose, and everyone was staying indoors.

Harold chuckled as he watched the animated corpses digging away feverishly. There were now sixty-four of them.

Not even the crows could spoil his mood today.

It'd started with Richard unearthing a girl. After resurrecting her, Harold had instructed them to dig up another two.

Thus two had become four, then eight... then sixteen... thirty-two... sixty-four.

The supply of spades was seemingly endless. He'd brought in hundreds that morning (all magically duplicated from the sturdy original), driving along the empty paths and placing them at strategic intervals.

Unlike him, it took the corpses only minutes to dig up their fellows.

Before he knew it, the sixty-four were done. He opened his bag, and one at a time freshly plucked finger bones were dropped into it.

Harold went through his ritual, and minutes later, the sixty-four had become a hundred and twenty-eight.

He sent them out again, no longer worried if they were seen.

The need for secrecy was over.

In truth of course, it would be the volume of crows that attracted attention, not the corpses. The birds, now numbering thousands, were as silent as ever, watching events through unblinking eyes.

When the hundred and twenty-eight had become two hundred and fifty-six, he gathered them close.

It was time for the mausoleums.

Harold half hoped there'd be a guard at the Blackmore one. He doubted it though. The place had seen 'some' activity yesterday, but in reality, there hadn't been much for the police to do.

The mausoleums were a simple affair. Doors were ripped from hinges, gates bent open, coffins smashed to pieces.

Within half an hour, Harold's army was complete.

Harold's Army.

He smiled and spoke the words aloud.

Sounded good.

They stood around him - a silent crowd of willing bodies, ready to do whatever he, Harold, asked of them. Magic had no effect on the dead, bullets would only slow not stop, and even if flesh were burnt from bones, still they'd carry on. They were unstoppable. They were his.

As usual, Harold's timing was perfect.

Sunset had finally arrived.

It was time to check The Lodge. See if it was still standing.

He surveyed the crowd, chose a relatively fresh-looking member, and gave instructions.

Closing his eyes, he saw through hers as she raced over the grass. Soon, the Blackmore wall came into view. Vaulting it, she tore through the garden, not slowing till she caught sight of the house. She came to a sudden halt (obeying the command not to be seen) and peered from behind a bush.

Blackmore Lodge was unblemished.

Relieved, Harold instructed her to return.

They hadn't agreed to his terms.

Of course they hadn't. He'd have been devastated if they had.

While the woman headed back, Harold selected a further six, each larger and stronger than the others. One of them was Richard.

He turned to the rest.

"Stay here, and if anyone sees you, kill them."

Whistling, he set off, the chosen six following in his wake.

There was one more task before the final onslaught.

It was something he was very much looking forward to.