MicroHorror

She was so beautiful–so very, very, beautiful. What father would not do all he could to protect her? And so Dioscorus built a high tower and forbade anyone to enter except for himself and one maidservant.

Barbara grew more beautiful year on year but only her father saw it. He was determined that none should sully his daughter. The slobbering youths he saw outside his walls were all unworthy of her charms. He only… only he could love her as she deserved.

She escaped once but was discovered and brought back. Found by some good shepherd and penned.

Susanna brought her food and comfort and also a catechism and told her that her father was wrong to keep her thus locked up for his own pleasure. Dioscorus found the book and was furious for he was a committed pagan. He forbade her to pray.

But when he went away on business, Barbara had a third window put in the tower to represent the Holy Spirit. She swore it was a miracle sent from God. Did she really believe or was this the only voice she could put to her despair?

Her father’s fury now reached greater heights. He denounced her. She was imprisoned once again and this time at the mercy of strangers. Perhaps Dioscorus suspected she was no longer his alone. Sent before the prefect of the province, Barbara was condemned to burn.

Her gaolers had never seen such beauty and they swore that when they’d tried to burn her they found she would not burn. Every time they tried their torches would extinguish, so they said. And so once more she was kept alive. Surely another blessed miracle…

At length she was released back to her father who decided to carry out the death sentence himself. He took Barbara up to a high mountaintop and there he hacked her head off with his sword.

On the way down the mountain, God struck the pagan sword with a lightning bolt. Thus it is told did Barbara become the Saint of all who work with fire or explosives, because she would not burn, while her father was consumed by fire.

***

One might perhaps observe it was a pity God wasn’t “ahead of the game.” Then again perhaps the making of saints just excuses the worst excesses of man and has nothing whatever to do with God. At any rate Barbara’s story is no longer considered authentic and so the 4th of December is no longer her official saint’s day.

Who knows the brief brutality of the life that Barbara led?

One thing I have discovered. You excavate the story. You examine the finds. Sometimes you hear the distant echo of a scream. But history and legend are written by the victors. Thereafter it’s the archaeology of interpretation.

Not everybody gets to be a ghost. It requires strong motivation and iron determination to haunt whatever it is you intend to haunt possibly for centuries. It is certainly within one’s power to frighten people but that is not usually the sole purpose of the uneasy spirit. It is considered bad form. Such souls are shunned by those of us who truly walk the paths of shadow. This is not merely my lot. I remain by choice, as does every ghost. The Powers allow us to linger only at extreme persuasion.

I am–was–very much attached to the house. Generations of my family had been born there; lived, loved, died there. The fabric of it was infused with the history of our lineage–our “house,” if you will.

Randal, Randy, my great-great-grandson by all accounts, had a different view. He inherited just few years ago. I was at his father’s bedside as he passed over, as I have been there for all my sons’ sons. Tried to persuade him to stay here with me–not to abandon our heritage to his wastrel son–but he would not listen.

“I’ve always known you were there,” he said to me.

I knew then he could see me and recognized my presence. He’d been an affable child and I used to pay him visits in the night but I’d never shown myself openly. Sometimes when he was older, he used to stop and listen intently when I was in the room and I felt he knew me and I, him.

“My parents thought I had an overactive imagination,” he laughed.

“So stay with me now. Help me protect the house.”

“Sorry, Great-Grandfather,” he said. “I want to be at rest. Don’t you?”

And his spirit departed.

Well, this Randy started knocking walls down, renovating, rebuilding, putting windows where they had never been. Something called a loft conversion. He destroyed my attic, threw out my things and moved some harlot into my home. I could hear them knocking about at night. Disgusting brat! Whore! There was no sanctity of wedlock and no promise of legitimate heirs in this… this… My house had become a brothel!

I tried to scare them–something I abhor. It didn’t work. He thought a ghost would “put value on the old place.” There was practically nothing of the old place that I could recognize. Anyway, when, by his words, I knew he intended to sell, I took the ultimate step. I showed myself. I took corporeal form and summoned my gravest tones. “You will not sell. You will die before I let you sell!”

I don’t know why I said that. I couldn’t bear his smug expression a moment more. He looked vaguely alarmed for a moment, and then do you know, he looked at me and said, “Are you a genuine ghost, old fella?”

“I am.”

“Ooooh, not half scary!” he said and he guffawed.

They both laughed at me–laughed! That was when I knew I meant it.

Now I preside over charred remains.

It gives me no great satisfaction to have put an end to the family line. I lost control and with it, everything I valued. The Powers recalled me to review my spiritual status. I asked to remain a while, to contemplate what I have done and its consequences, though it torments me. I have been lessoned by young Randal, his father, his father’s father. I see now what I should have seen long ago. There is perhaps wisdom in letting go of the past.

Randy saw me clearly as his soul departed. I made sure he did. And I can tell you–he looked frightened then. But that is not the image that haunts me. No, what I can never forget is the confusion in his eyes. Why would anyone choose this living death?

There is nothing left for me to cling to. Yet I cannot let go.

Is the present secure?

Affirm.

You’re sure because…

Affirmative. How many times, Starski?

And you remember the greeting?

We come in peace. Still sounds a bit overdone to me.

It’s what they like. It’s what they want to hear.

Yeah, whatever… Are you getting any readings? We’re within one light year.

Negative. I’m receiving noise but no communications.

We come all this way. Suddenly it’s like they stop transmitting.

Not suddenly. I mean we’ve been traveling towards the telemetry so it’s been getting closer all the time, but even so I haven’t seen any coherent communications for the past several hundred light years. They may be covert but…

So we abort?

Aren’t you curious?

***

Okay, we’re here. Scan for the bipeds.

Negative scan.

People of planet Earth, we come in peace. I repeat, we come in peace. What’s going on down there? Maybe we should just take a look.

Negative. I’m reading high levels of toxins.

Life forms?

Arachnids.

Spiders? Well, that does it. I hate spiders!

Agreed.

What do you suppose happened?

My guess is it just took us too long to get here. We missed civilization.

Yup. Looks like they wiped themselves out.

***

What now?

Go home, I suppose.

You do realize that by the time we get there…

Shit, you’re right. Centuries will have passed. Nobody we knew will be there any more. They may never even have heard of Starski and Bach… Look at all those points of light out there, Bach. Amazing, isn’t it?

Yes, it’s a beautiful sight.

I didn’t mean that. I meant the vast horror of it–that no matter where you look, you’re looking into the past.

Time. You mean it’s all about time. All this space and there’s no future in it.

So you think maybe we should just go on out there? Do a little prospecting?

Why not? We still have the present.

Some trees are all bark, no bite. Their center, a hollow bole enough to shelter in, but the tree itself is dead; home to ivies and lichens; a nesting hole for rats.

This tree was just the opposite. It had been stripped by time and harsh conditions, yet was as vital as it had been two hundred years before and would perhaps continue so for centuries. It was a survivor.

“Why’s it called the Boney Tree,” asked one of our group. As if a child could not see from its form, devoid of bark, that looked much like bone?

On this ridge-way above the river it stood, the countryside spread all around, overlooking Vilnius. I left the tour to admire the view and didn’t hear our guide’s caveat against lingering there. I have to say it looked a pleasant spot. That was my undoing.

They continued unaware of my absence. I ambled up to the tree and stood admiring the panorama. I clicked away with my camera so that I would remember. How I wish now that I could forget!

I first became aware of a low moaning which made me look at the sky. But there was no breath of wind, only spring sunshine. I heard it more clearly a second time and felt as surely as I could that the sound had emanated from the tree. No doubt its fabric expanded or shrunk according to the season. The creaking of the wood was like the timbers of great ship–a ship of the damned. I could hear the chatter of the group drift back from the river. There is safety in numbers.

I had an urgent need to touch the tree and approached closer. I put my hand flat against its trunk. “Hello, old friend,” I said aloud and did not know why. The tree responded with a deeper exhalation than before; such a contented sigh, I felt it knew me. It quivered beneath my touch.

All voices now were quenched. I felt suddenly isolated and afraid. Unbidden tears streamed down my face and splattered the ground, creating an inexorable cold fog that sprang up consuming the landscape. Exhaustion overwhelmed me. I shuddered, put my back to the tree for support and slid to a sitting position at its base.

It was then I saw them: war weary troops, a staggering, spectral army lurching past towards the river with a few emaciated horses in tattered ranks, and many bloated corpses all around. I knew I was seeing through another man’s eyes. The stench of putrefaction was nauseating.

Such misery as I had never known possessed me. The sky darkened. I could no longer feel my legs or stand. I heard scuffling at my feet and as my eyes accustomed to the gloom, I saw the rats. Beady eyed, ravenous, they tore at the cloths which bound my feet. I could do nothing to discourage them. They gnawed away my toes, their ochre teeth tearing strips of flesh.

I screamed a scream that would have startled hell. It did not deter the rodents from their feast. Yet I was aware it did not hurt. Only the pain of hunger seemed to gnaw me to the bone, and bitter cold and utter desolation.

What if I ate the eaters, I thought. If I could grab a rat… but no, for that would prolong the agonies of death. Better let them have their meal in peace. Peace. Ah, peace! I longed for it above than all else. Yet, what peace can there be for souls that die thus in vain, their sufferings nowhere acknowledged? Their only epithet, missing…

I prayed that I might come back to myself. A sob that started deep in my stomach, made its way out in an earnest cry of sorrow. I truly mourned that wretched, nameless victim through whose dying eyes I witnessed these horrors.

In that sacred moment, the Boney Tree released me to bear witness, his living memorial.

“You can’t make me! I won’t!” Billy Marchant’s tone was hysterical and his eyes housed defiance. He thrashed about, flailing wildly at anyone who came near, and he was stronger than his thin frame presaged. Eventually three burly police officers dragged him into the van.

***

Sergeant Dawn and Doctor Sorenson spoke in low tones. “He’s been admitted here before but he responded well to treatment.”

“So it seems. There is no reason he shouldn’t live normally in the community provided he keeps up his medication.”

“Well, we can’t police that, of course.”

“Of course not…”

***

“Mr. Marchant, back with us again, I see…” The doc’s tone was friendly.

“You can’t keep me here!”

“Oh, but we can. You’re a danger to yourself and others so the police have asked for another assessment. What was the chainsaw for?”

Billy Marchant folded his arms.

“The chainsaw, Mr. Marchant? Can I call you Billy? What was it for?”

Marchant sat sullenly silent.

“Okay. Obviously you don’t want to deal with this now. We’ll wait until you’re ready. Nurse Fellows and the officer will see you to the ward, see you settled. Get him a wheelchair, Fellows, and see that he’s fed.”

***

“What’s wrong with his legs?” asked ward manager O’Malley.

“Elective non-ambulance, it says on his file.”

“Non-ambulance. I like that,” he chuckled. “Is this is the one who thinks he’s Napoleon?”

“No, apparently he thinks he’s a Polish soldier fighting in the Napoleonic war–name of Lolek Borisov. Real name’s Marchant.”

“’Cept he won’t march, eh? What are we to call him?”

“Billy, I think. No point in reinforcing a delusion…”

“All right. We’ll put Billy in the side room with Ferdynand Novak. They should get along fine.”

“Marchant only thinks he’s Polish.”

“It’s the only bed that’s free, okay?”

“Sorenson said he’s to be kept sedated for now.”

Fellows was used to O’Malley’s slipshod attitude but one of these days something was sure to blow.

***

It was after lunch next day by the time Sorenson did his rounds. “How’s our patient, Fellows? Responding well to treatment?”

“That’s just it. He seemed to be. He’d calmed down, was fine, walking a bit around the ward, which we were glad to see, then suddenly he legged it! About an hour ago.”

“Legged it? He wouldn’t even walk to the ward yesterday–said I couldn’t make him. Wasn’t he sedated?”

“Until this morning, yes, just as you said. Anyway, he’s gone. We’ve called the police. They’re checking his house…”

***

“Doctor, I think you’d better take this call in my office. They’d like you to attend at General straight away.”

“General? I’m a consultant psychiatrist, not… Who is this…? Marchant? Yes… I know him… Oh dear God, no! Both legs? …a chainsaw? I’ll be there right away.”

“Doctor,” called Ferdynand from the doorway, “is regarding Lolek, yes?

“What is this client doing here? Are you totally incapable of running things properly on this ward?”

“He tell me he is going to do this thing. Is because of the war, you see. His both legs freeze in the war… It hurt so bad… so bad… and he no want walk no more so he cut them off but he born with the same legs, over and over…”

“He told you all this?”

“Yes, Doctor. In my home tongue, too!”

Rather my mother had not borne me than that this grim remembrance be the price of life! I blame myself for horrors seen, my friend–for horrors merely endured. Such endurance was a sin itself. Had I had the courage of my brother Yves to end it, the first time at Smolensk, I ought. I recall the very musket shot that rang out in the woods. I see his tear-stained and beloved face beg for the mercy I could bestow, and I did, and stripped him there on the field and took his clothing for my sorry rags. His feet came away in his boots. I thought I would bring up my very lungs, so great was the stench. My heart I left there with him in the mud and blood and promised I would tell our mother only that he loved her.

We were an army of the living dead. Our glorious songs, long silenced in our parched throats, had been choked in heat and dust. Our eyes, painful and encrusted, saw only death, not battle. Columns before us foraged all they could take. Cattle behind us died of stroke and dearth. Then came the rains and wagons of supplies were swallowed, horses-whole in claggy mud.

Our enemy led us on a-dance. They stood to fight one day, then disappeared like spirits into the night, deeper beyond Smolensk, until we stood depleted in the midst of ruin in Moscow. Nothing of value was there. Great works of art, silver and fine goods there were a-plenty but what are those to hunger? I saw many a wagon laden with suchlike trinkets, abandoned soon upon the road. I took a Russian coat and some good cloth to wrap my feet against the coming cold. I ate a dog that was half starved like me–remembered how we’d thought ourselves so poor, back in my mother’s house where there was bread and beer. Now I wished only to see her face once more and feel her gentle hand upon my head and the warmth of her tears for my brother. That would have been sustenance enough.

We left Moscow burning and turned back along that desolated path whence we had come. Southern lands were full of plenteous harvest but our number was now small. We were forced to follow the Baltic Route west. The bloated corpses of those who had perished on the assault became pillows to bivouac. Discarded weapons littered the way. Men too weak to fight need no weapons. Many I saw drop and never rise again for lack of will. I saw them stripped naked before they’d exhaled their final breath, nor did they curse their looters. We did not smell or taste or feel or weep for we had no saliva or tears. Alas! I would cry yet if I could.

Smolensk the second time was execrable. I have not told you of the freezing cold; minus thirty on November 11th. My feet no longer hurt for want of feeling but remembering my dear brother, I did not remove my bindings; such was my fear. That night I wished to die but I chose to survive. I will never forget that night. I crawled towards a faint snorting noise in the dark and suddenly my body came upon the great bulk of a fallen horse. I felt its breath warm but uneven and knew neither of us might live out the night. So, I took my knife and slit its belly open and it screeched so that I cannot forget the sound. I put my mouth to its warm blood that oozed. I took its entrails in my hands and dragged them from it, living, and inside I crawled for warmth, curled up as it were my mother’s womb.

Ah, God forgive me! I cannot look her in the face again. After that date, I dined on human flesh. So tell me, of those 600,000 souls, can I truly say this soul survived?

The man had to duck as he entered the bar.

“Hi. You do rooms, right?”

All eyes turned. American.

“That we do, sir. How long would you be wantin’ one?”

One of the three domino players laughed and called to the landlord, “Maybe three meters longer than any you’ve got, Michael.”

“And a bit wider, too,” suggested another.

The American looked bemused. He carried his six-foot-seven well.

“Two, three nights, tops. And I’ll need a meal.”

“They stopped serving about twenty minutes ago…”

He was about to protest. It was only nine o’clock.

“…but I’ll talk to Missus. It’ll be no trouble, I’m sure.”

He found the Irish propensity for too much irrelevant information irritating.

“Dom, show this gentleman the room.” Michael turned to the register. “Just come down when you’re ready then, Mister…”

“Yana-browf-sh-ki.”

“Right then, so…” said Michael. “See you in a minute, sir.”

Michael told his wife to serve double portions of whatever was still on and laid a place. The American sat, with his long legs folded to either side of the chair. Having demolished the Irish stew and two helpings of apple tart with whipped cream, he looked a deal tamer.

“So,” ventured Ardel McArdel, “What would you be doing in Kilnaquiln?”

“Lookin’ for my ancestral home, I guess. Kilnaquiln Manor. D’you know it?”

“Everybody knows it,” Ardel said and warning glances told him to leave it at that.

“Was that it among the trees as I drove down into the village?”

Looks were exchanged, this being the fairest excuse for a town within fifty miles–village indeed, ancestral home–“Aye, on Knock Quiln itself.”

“Well, it’s sure been good meeting you folks, but I’ve had a long day so I guess I’ll turn in. I’ll go visit with the folks tomorrow. It looks like a fine house.”

When he’d gone Ardel broke the silence. “He’s joking, isn’t he? Is nobody for tellin’ him? There’s been nobody but wild cats in the auld manor for centuries.”

“Sure, he’ll find that out for himself,” said Michael.

“He’ll be fine,” said Colm.

“He’s maybe not even a Quillan,” added another.

“He’s a Quillan all right, plain as the head on that Guinness,” said the landlady. “Look at the size of him and the grey of eyes of him. That cold, they’d drain yer very soul in a wink.”

“His name’s Yana-browf-sh-ki,” Michael mimicked, and everybody laughed.

“Aye, but he said ‘ancestral’, didn’t he? And he could see it, Michael–like it was a house–not a ruin–a house. I’m tellin’ you–he’s one. It’s where the Quillans come to die.”

“That’s superstitious nonsense, woman. Hold your tongue.”

“Shouldn’t somebody tell him?” said Ardel.

Even the American’s long legs couldn’t make short work of the path up Knock Quiln. He’d had to leave his car several miles below at Felin Farm. From there he cut over stiles and across fields til he reached the lonin that led upwards. This path rose oblique and rocky, back and forth between dry stone walls. Windswept, tenacious trees with twisted bark and gnarled roots dug into the soil for dear life. That and gorse were the only vegetation on the windward side of the hill but they grew thickly together, taking on the appearance of a tangled maze. At last, where the land flattened out on the approach to the house, they closed, impenetrable and hostile.

Quillan Janabrowski woke in just such a thicket. It was now late afternoon. He remembered struggling up towards the house. Then something had attacked him–something that came at him shrieking and yowling. He’d stumbled–hit his head… Eyes… He thought he’d seen hundreds of pairs of eyes… Clearly he had hallucinated.

He shook himself and casually twisted round to lick his balls. The thought crossed his mind that this was… an unusual circumstance. As he looked up, he found himself encircled by cats–peculiarly long-bodied, lithe cats, all with piercing grey eyes–and exceptionally tall tails.

Gillian watches them cross the room. Why don’t they come at the regular time? What are they doing here? “Go away!”

“Are you all right?” A honeyed voice beyond reality ripples into her chaos. “Can I get you something?”

The red one with the tiny body and huge head climbs the curtains and starts laughing, peering at her over the top of the screen. The blue one sits on the coverlet, eating. “Would you like one?”

Gillian stares in terror at the black contents of the bag. Spiders. They are still alive. Crawling, scuttling over each other, legs jerking, spinnerets twitching aimlessly, trying to escape.

“Take them away, I don’t want them. Take them away!”

The blue Lilliputian laughs at her agitation and the spiders in his mouth struggle to escape but he pushes their frantic little legs back in and crunches down on them.

Gillian hears them cracking open–screaming in pain. “Pain,” she echoes, “PAIN!”

“I’ll just give you this to calm you down.” The yellow girl with the honey tones draws up a syringe full of spiders.

Gillian screams and the red one laughs even more. “Can’t take her alcopops,” he sneers.

“Spiked. Spiked with spiders!” Gillian hits out against the hand that holds the terror. The syringe smashes on the floor.

Now they are on the bed–black spiders darting over the white covers towards her face. Fear crescendos towards panic. She brushes at them frantically with both hands–twists her legs about to shake them off. Cramp seizes her calf and she screams her distress.

“Be still, be still,” says the honey-voice. Firm hands push her back on the pillow. The yellow girl is like sunshine, a radiation of warmth. Her voice stops the laughter and all the spiders die. “Do you know who you are?”

Gillian’s lip trembles. Her entire body trembles. “No… The visitors… HELP ME…”

The nurse injects diazepam.

Angharad and Dilwyn considered themselves experienced backpackers. For two decades they’d spent a fortnight each year on the road, public footpaths, seaside and cliff paths, the Pennine Way, the Welsh Marches, Coast to Coast–they’d done it.

“I think we should take this road, heading north,” said Dilwyn.

“I can’t find it on the O.S.” said Angharad.

“Looks like an old drover’s road. It’s flagged here at the bottom. I reckon if we follow it up to the tree-line and down the other side of the hill, it’s a shortcut.”

Angharad looked doubtful.

“C’mon, you know I always get it right. Where’s your sense of adventure?”

After a steep incline, the path swept around the side of the conical hill, with its stark cairn high on the left. An hour later the trees seemed no closer. It was hard to get your bearings in such a remote place. These were obviously very tall firs, very far away. They continued north along the road which was quite straight. As they approached the tree-line, the height of the conifers was staggering. Some reached seventy feet into the air, swaying gently in the evening air. The path cut deep between them. Everything was so still that they stopped chatting, as you might in a cathedral. They didn’t notice when the path began to weave off the straight, in and out between tall trunks, around mossy pools, skirting the sides of crags and boulders and by the time evening gathered, they were deep in the forest and totally lost. A convenient overhang of rock provided a dry place to bivouac. They lit a small fire and after a frugal meal of dried fruits, nuts and chocolate, they gathered moss for pillows and wrote the day off.

“Some shortcut,” said Angharad.

She woke to birdsong and grey light at three a.m., stretched painfully, opened her eyes and suppressed a squeal. “Dilwyn, wake up!” She shook him.

He was about to protest when he saw for himself. “What the blazes is going on?” he said. The hill was on the other side of the road. “Who moved the mountain?”

“Don’t let’s panic,” said Angharad. “Yesterday we were heading north, right? The sunrise this time of year is pretty much in the north so the hill cairn should be on the left–”

“Obscured by trees,” Dilwyn finished.

“Only it’s on the right now and we can see it. You’ve got the compass in your pack,” suggested Angharad.

They emptied both backpacks but found no compass.

“Okay, we’ll follow the sun,” said Dilwyn.

“That’ll lead us south for now but then west and eventually north again as it sets. We’d be walking in a circle.”

“What’s that thing you can do with a watch? If you point the minute hand–no, the hour hand, away from the sun–or is it towards…”

“Oh, well, that’s obviously a great help, Dilwyn!”

“Let’s look at the map again–see if we can find this road.”

“If it wasn’t on yesterday, it’s hardly likely to be there today, is it?”

“But we might find the hill and see where the stupid track goes.”

“Stupid track? I am an ancient highway.”

A deep gravelly voice rumbled and the earth beneath them trembled slightly.

The two exchanged glances.

“Am I going nuts or are you?”

“Both, I think.”

“Could you perhaps show a modicum of respect and address me directly?” said the voice.

“Okay, Mr. Highway, where do you go?” said Dilwyn.

“I don’t go anywhere. I’m not obsessed with being somewhere else.”

“Then why did you move last night? The mountain’s on the wrong side.”

“There is no wrong side–and no right side. I thought you two appreciated the journey for itself?”

“But we want to get to…” began Angharad.

“No one has walked here for so long a time,” the voice rumbled on. “I get so lonely. So very lonely…”

With that, a great chasm of grief opened up and swallowed the travellers.

The invitations said:

Jezebel Denfer wanted to go as antimatter–she was volatile enough–but she kept exploding out of her costume so changed to Lileth, Queen of Darkness, instead. Her long red hair was brushed loose, cascading over a pale shoulder in sensuous waves onto her bosom. Her skin-tone Lycra costume she’d made was so tight that the painted-on serpent really had her in a squeeze and its tail ended where… every good tail should. She attracted every snake in the room plus an ineffectual little reptile called Colin who’d come as Lucifer and followed her round like a hellhound.
 
Her twin, Mona, was an angel. Her white catsuit didn’t quite conform to the idea that angels are sexless, as her wings made her throw her chest back in a manner that only served to enhance an impressive H-cup. Skimpy black panties showed through the cloth, giving the lie to any further pretense. She had a “puppy” too–Corby Logan, who was dressed as a little red demon, complete with gold codpiece. (Did you know red demons wear gold codpieces? Corby had had this on good authority.) His pitchfork, however, was of a meager size and that, combined with his rather sparrow-like legs encased in red tights, somewhat undermined the demonic image.
 
When asked why he’d come in an ordinary suit, Tully Freak said he was Tom Hanks. Jody McGrew (Mammon) took him to one side and suggested he’d missed the point–that this party was all about sex and Tom Hanks wasn’t sexy… Tully, whose main sin was gluttony, didn’t care as long as he had a beer, so Jody clinked off to torment someone else.
 
The Denfer twins’ parties were legendary. Every male for miles was trying to get a look-in so the costumes tended to be elaborate. Even so, when Dick Woody, who’d advised Corby, turned up as an Incubus, he took both minimalism and authenticity to unprecedented extremes. Smudged all over in green and black (the kind of camouflage that Incubi are wont to use to avoid detection) he made a grand entrance. The crowd parted in awe as he passed. Woody was well built, and he wasn’t wearing a stitch!
 
His costume consisted only of a bluish-tinged icicle sheath covering the length of what had to be acknowledged as a very impressive erection. Woody seemed to know a great deal about this particular species of demon. They had an unnaturally cold penis, could seduce just about anyone–male or female, and had even been known to take people in their sleep. Of course people had to take some degree of interest in them first…
 
Well, just about everybody was taking a keen interest in Woody! There was a good deal of speculation as to how he could possibly sustain a stiffy with a layer of ice surrounding his… Even the Denfer twins were intrigued–but nobody dared ask. It was fascinating too, that on such a sticky summer’s night, the ice didn’t melt–not even a drip–not even when one…
 
“Severe frostbite in June you say, Nurse Burns?”

“Yes, Doctor. Thirteen cases so far!”