Even by the dubious standards of Hopeless, Maine, to have a mysterious fissure appear high up between the trees, splitting the grubby air like an annoying chink in the curtains, was more than a little odd. Even odder were the ribbons of sickly green mist that issued from somewhere deep within, mingling promiscuously with the island’s own sickly white mist. 

So alarmed had the islanders been by the sudden arrival of this anomaly that a rota was immediately drawn up, and concerned citizens were recruited to keep a twenty-four hour watch over it. 

To the surprise of all, Durosimi O’Stoat had shown himself to be uncharacteristically public-spirited, adding his name to the list of those volunteering to be watchers. In fact, so keen was Durosimi to help, that he insisted that he should cover those hours of darkness that no one else wanted, and referred to them as ‘The Graveyard Shift’.

As you might imagine, this arrangement made everyone very happy; everyone, that is, except Philomena Bucket. 

Experience had taught Philomena that Durosimi could not be trusted. She had no doubts that he knew more about the anomaly than he was telling, and was up to no good. The fact that just about everyone else on Hopeless, even Mr Squash the Sasquatch, seemed to be convinced of Durosimi’s best intentions, left Philomena feeling isolated and alone in her suspicions. She needed advice as to what she should do; basically, she needed Granny Bucket, but this was a forlorn hope. 

Although her grandmother had been dead for twenty years or more, the old lady’s ghost had invariably managed to show up and invade Philomena’s privacy at the most awkward of times, more often than not causing havoc, embarrassment and generally interfering. On the other hand, however, Granny had a habit of being conspicuous by her absence when her ghostly presence would have been a definite advantage, and this evening was one of those occasions. Granny was nothing, if not consistent.  

“I’m going to have to go down to the anomaly and find out what he’s really doing,” Philomena muttered to herself. 

While wandering around Hopeless in the dead of night would have been daunting to most islanders, Philomena had no such worries. She was the last, and most powerful, of a long line of witches, and wouldn’t put up with any nonsense from the assortment of ghouls, vampires, werewolves and demons who frequented the island after dark.

The anomaly looked stranger than ever when viewed in darkness; a rippling green tear in the fabric of the night. Durosimi was standing in front of it, his arms held aloft and chanting something unintelligible. 

“He’s been doing that for almost an hour,” said a soft voice, no more than six inches from Philomena’s ear. 

Even a witch as powerful as Philomena can be forgiven for jumping with fright, and feeling her bowels turn to water, when an apparently disembodied voice unexpectedly pipes up from nowhere in the middle of the night. 

“Oh, I am sorry,” apologised Miss Calder.

She was hovering by the Ravenstone, a local landmark that reputedly marked a Viking burial, and her wraith shimmered quietly in the darkness. 

“I didn’t mean to startle you,” she said.

“That’s quite alright,” lied Philomena, relieved and  hurriedly composing herself. “Have you been here very long?”

“Ever since Durosimi  arrived,” replied Miss Calder.  “It occurred to me that he might need watching.”

“I’m glad I’m not the only one with a suspicious mind,” said Philomena. “And it looks as though we’re right. What do you think he’s up to?”

Miss Calder’s pale, attractive face went briefly skeletal, a sure sign that she was either excited or agitated.

“I spotted him a few days ago, lurking around here with Doc Willoughby. It was late in the afternoon, and for some reason Doc was wearing a funny costume. They seemed to be casting a spell of some sort, but at the time it didn’t seem to work. A couple of hours later this what-do-you-call-it suddenly appeared out of nowhere, and I’m sure that Durosimi knows exactly what it is.”

Meanwhile, Durosimi was congratulating himself that he had, apparently, managed to create a portal to some other land. The fact that it was situated high in the air and well out of his reach, however, posed something of a problem. He had tried various spells to encourage the thing to slip down a few feet, to somewhere a shade more accessible, but to no avail. Nothing was working. 

“You might as well go home to bed, Philomena,” said Miss Calder. “I don’t sleep, so I can keep an eye on Durosimi, and will let you know if anything happens.”

For once in her life Philomena didn’t argue. 

Durosimi had been sitting on a particularly uncomfortable tree stump for thirty long minutes and staring fixedly at the anomaly, wondering what to do next. Although there were two more hours before Reggie Upton was due to take over as watchman, the sorcerer decided to go home straight away and look again at the Etruscan spell, in the hope that it would provide an answer to his problem. From her vantage point, Miss Calder watched him leave, shaking her ghostly head in disapproval of his cavalier attitude and lack of commitment.

No sooner had Durosimi disappeared from sight than the anomaly began to act strangely. It flexed wildly, bulging and bending until it formed a perfect circle. Then, belching stifling billows of the green mist, it gradually began to expand, pushing aside the trees surrounding it as easily as if they were no more substantial than reeds. 

Miss Calder’s face was transformed into a grinning death’s-head as she watched a long, sinuous shape slip down from what was now quite obviously a portal, though she did not dare to think where it might lead. 

Her attention was, by now, fixed firmly on the ghastly, snake-like creature slithering menacingly towards her. Although, fairly certain that it could not harm her ghostly form, Miss Calder drifted instinctively back, out of its way, then watched in fascinated horror as it crawled up the Ravenstone, all the while shifting it’s shape, and eventually assuming a malevolent and cadaverous human aspect. The odious aberration turned his head to the portal and gave a high-pitched, unearthly call. Within seconds, other shapes began dropping through the green mist; nameless, fanged horrors with writhing limbs and many eyes. 

Miss Calder, agitated beyond belief and totally skeletal by now, slipped quickly away to raise the alarm. 

All the while a couplet from the Scottish play, Macbeth, taunted her…

‘By the pricking of my thumbs

Something wicked this way comes.’

To be continued…

Photo by Crow Shaw