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my first erotic horror
requested by @poetrymylife
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He’d told me that it was to rain, soon. Although I do not know the man, I still remember his face well. The old timer obviously hadn’t aged well, as his beard was shaggy and knotted in places. His face had been slightly distraught, when he’d told me this, as well.
My first thought was simply that he was mad. It wasn’t uncommon in this day and age to find someone who was so.
T’was the year of our Lord, 1695. I was currently taking up residence in the Massachusetts Bay Colony, who had just grown in size after the absorption of the Plymouth Colony, some four years prior. The New World was in a state of loss, left in shambles by a number of madmen who’d allowed their own prejudices and paranoia to destroy their sense of self-reason. They’d hung and burnt many in what had come to be known as the Salem Witch Trials.
My name is Richard LeBair, and I was but little more than a weary traveler, although a well-known skeptic, in those hard times.
Word of witches and devils had traveled the countryside like the plague, reaching even back to Mother England, herself. I’d not traveled to a single village that prostitutes and whores had not found themselves accused of the black arts, or some other damned thing.
On the date in question, October 30th, I’d found myself in a small pub, enjoying a fine ale for the eve. I’d just returned from a long journey to Old Hampshire, and was now merely interested in my ale and a good night’s sleep. I’d drank until my eyes watered, paid the barkeep, and stumbled onto the streets, where the Harvest Festival preparations were being made.
"Good Eve, Richard! How is my favorite bar patron?" A man’s voice rang out. It had only taken a wink before I’d recognized the voice, and groaned in disgust. T’was Jonathon Paisley, a man that I’d detested for years, out to oversee the preparations of the Harvest Festival.
I watched as he trotted up, as pompous as ever, followed, like usual, by Father Kimbell.
"Good Eve, Jonathon. Father. I see the decorations are almost complete. I would’ve thought that with all the talk of witches and goblins, that the festival would’ve surely been cancelled, this season." I smirked, quite snobbishly.
Father Kimbell frowned at my skepticism, but remained silent. I could feel Paisley smiling down at me. That hypocrite. How smug.
"Now, now, Mr. LeBair. You should show more respect in sight of recent events. Who are we to decide whether or not witches or spooks exist in this world? A hasty decision can often become a costly one." He teased, obviously amused by my drunken state.
"Yeah, right. Witches and Werewolves are little more than poppycock. Stories that are told to little boys and girls to make them behave. The day you find a real witch is the same day Father Kimbell, here, takes confession from a savage." I sneered, fighting the urge to vomit. Father Kimbell didn’t seem to share my amusement with the conversation.
"Well, whatever, whatever. You will be joining us for tomorrow’s festivities, will you not?" The old fart asked me, before throwing an arm over my shoulder. He knew I couldn’t stand when he touched me.
"I’m afraid not. I’ll be needing my rest after the sail back from England." I growled, pushing his arm from my shoulder. "Perhaps next year. Now, if you will, I must be heading back to my home for the eve."
"Be weary, Mr. LeBair." Father Kimbell called to me, as I staggered away from the two. "God knows you."
Ha! Right! God knows me? Was that meant as a threat, or a pleasure? Bah, I chose to forget it and move on. I still...
.
.
He’d told me that it was to rain, soon. Although I do not know the man, I still remember his face well. The old timer obviously hadn’t aged well, as his beard was shaggy and knotted in places. His face had been slightly distraught, when he’d told me this, as well.
My first thought was simply that he was mad. It wasn’t uncommon in this day and age to find someone who was so.
T’was the year of our Lord, 1695. I was currently taking up residence in the Massachusetts Bay Colony, who had just grown in size after the absorption of the Plymouth Colony, some four years prior. The New World was in a state of loss, left in shambles by a number of madmen who’d allowed their own prejudices and paranoia to destroy their sense of self-reason. They’d hung and burnt many in what had come to be known as the Salem Witch Trials.
My name is Richard LeBair, and I was but little more than a weary traveler, although a well-known skeptic, in those hard times.
Word of witches and devils had traveled the countryside like the plague, reaching even back to Mother England, herself. I’d not traveled to a single village that prostitutes and whores had not found themselves accused of the black arts, or some other damned thing.
On the date in question, October 30th, I’d found myself in a small pub, enjoying a fine ale for the eve. I’d just returned from a long journey to Old Hampshire, and was now merely interested in my ale and a good night’s sleep. I’d drank until my eyes watered, paid the barkeep, and stumbled onto the streets, where the Harvest Festival preparations were being made.
"Good Eve, Richard! How is my favorite bar patron?" A man’s voice rang out. It had only taken a wink before I’d recognized the voice, and groaned in disgust. T’was Jonathon Paisley, a man that I’d detested for years, out to oversee the preparations of the Harvest Festival.
I watched as he trotted up, as pompous as ever, followed, like usual, by Father Kimbell.
"Good Eve, Jonathon. Father. I see the decorations are almost complete. I would’ve thought that with all the talk of witches and goblins, that the festival would’ve surely been cancelled, this season." I smirked, quite snobbishly.
Father Kimbell frowned at my skepticism, but remained silent. I could feel Paisley smiling down at me. That hypocrite. How smug.
"Now, now, Mr. LeBair. You should show more respect in sight of recent events. Who are we to decide whether or not witches or spooks exist in this world? A hasty decision can often become a costly one." He teased, obviously amused by my drunken state.
"Yeah, right. Witches and Werewolves are little more than poppycock. Stories that are told to little boys and girls to make them behave. The day you find a real witch is the same day Father Kimbell, here, takes confession from a savage." I sneered, fighting the urge to vomit. Father Kimbell didn’t seem to share my amusement with the conversation.
"Well, whatever, whatever. You will be joining us for tomorrow’s festivities, will you not?" The old fart asked me, before throwing an arm over my shoulder. He knew I couldn’t stand when he touched me.
"I’m afraid not. I’ll be needing my rest after the sail back from England." I growled, pushing his arm from my shoulder. "Perhaps next year. Now, if you will, I must be heading back to my home for the eve."
"Be weary, Mr. LeBair." Father Kimbell called to me, as I staggered away from the two. "God knows you."
Ha! Right! God knows me? Was that meant as a threat, or a pleasure? Bah, I chose to forget it and move on. I still...
