Post by theboyinadress on Apr 5, 2015 12:57:31 GMT -6
Night fell on the strange town of Toole as Peggy Powler crept into the mainstreet and with
assistance -or handicap from the glow of a full moon that was still struggling to climb out
from behind the high cliff face, the Witch scanned the tall-thin houses of dark, candle-less
windows.
The road had improved a little as she'd neared the community and with the warnings from
Howard Hughes swimming in her brain, Peggy had kept close to the cliff and scurried where
appropriate.
It was only as she neared the the large structure that hinted of commerce and politics that
she saw her first 'ghost' The smoky-shape that drifted across the cobbled market place held
a staff of some-sort and as Peggy screwed her eyes up and peered closer, she realised what
tasks the apparation was attempting to play out.
Every so often, the figure would reach up and point the 'stick' at one of the many lanterns that
hung from a bracket on the buildings and then after a couple of seconds, the wraith would drift
along and echo the action again.
"The bugger's a lamplighter!" the Witch whispered softly and shook her head at the failed antic.
The lanterns remained barren of light as the phantom went on it's way.
The Town Hall was silent during Peggy's tentative steps along it's marbled-floor and the high
ceilings cautioned the interloper that they were trespassing on property of serious debate and
civic legislature. Peggy moved like a thief among the shadows towards the room marked
'Records ' and at the last moment, saw the brass plate fixed to the crossbeam of the doorframe.
The poor-light failed to hide the female's smile as she slowly unbuckled the strap that held
the firearm on her back, the operation was undertaken carefully as Peggy didn't wish to alert
the neighbours with the shotgun bouncing loudly on the stone mezzanine.
"Like mice" was all she murmured during the task.
Removing the strap, Peggy turned back to the closed door and turning the tarnished knob slowly,
she readied the flat-belt to snake into the top of the gap being created.
The little bell did not tinkle and as Peggy concentrated on keeping the tiltled carillon from sounding
it's tinny-knell, the Witch of Underhill stepped into the Hall Of Records.
And it was this tiny metal appliance of alarm that brought Peggy to recall the memory of the Gnome
and the lanate-wrapped Demon.
....................................
The little creature called Higgett shivered with fear as he stood behind the the thin bare-legs
of Peggy Powler. The Gnome offered a quick-frown towards her due to her recent baffling comment.
It was a remark on his condition and it didn't boost his confidence of her plot to expel the daemon in
the farmhouse. The items she had told him to collect made even-lesser sense.
"Be still gnome..." she'd whispered as she surveyed the small passageway that led to the inner
-room. "...Yer' shekkin' like a dog shytin' nuts!"
The courageous duo stepped into the abode and panted in the frozen air -not unlike the canine
struggling with discarding it's own bodily waste -that Peggy commented on earlier.
But let's move quickly onwards.
The farmhouse was still in use by it's owners, they had learned that none of the unearthly activities
occurred during the early part of the day and so, the farmer's wife would run in, build a fire in the
hearth, set a makeshift breakfast and dinner and then quickly take it back to the barn that she
and her husband shared with the livestock.
The cow, the donkey and nine chickens.
They had never seen the tall devil that had pitched it's tent in their home and they had never
witnessed the drop in temperature. The couple were just too-scared.
But as the late-afternoon neared, the rooms would become cold... very cold and as ice formed
on the mantlepiece where the white-blue flames roared up the chimney, the Daemon would come.
Peggy entered the room of winter and hoped her trick would work.
"You dare harlot?" the growling-voice asked sexily and the Witch swallowed her spit. "Aye" Peggy
answered -but only to herself.
Higgett formed a dark-stain on those tawny britches and wished he'd never left his mother's bosom.
....................................
The Hall Of Records held massive leather tomes that showed the eyebrow-lifting history of the
denizens of Toole. Trading was a big item listed and as Peggy flicked through the pages of the
book most recently dated, she saw that the comments and official notifications trailed off.
On one page, the words were faded as if a quill refused to give-up it's ink.
'...The effects of the mining is still taking it's toll on Toole...' an item proclaimed '...Mayor Jatter
has announced that the tunnel that held the veins of quartz should not be open at any cost...'
Peggy leaned closer and wished she could afford illumination from a candle.
....................................
The Daemon in the wooly coat did stink and maybe in a better -nay, safer place, Peggy would
have been intrigued that such an horrible aroma could be so prominent in such low temperatures.
The figure toying with the small stone heads on the frosty-mantlepiece bore two huge two-foot
long horns that jutted backwards from his lank-maned head.
Peggy took in the sight along with the rest of the artic room and ignored the little quaking man
leaning against her thigh. "This is a bad idea" he whispered and tugged the poncho's hem.
"It's been an age since I set these eyes on a Powler..." the tall poltergeist hissed, the demon's face
was thin with cruel eyes and a stretched-grin.
"...You're of the Underhill Powlers?" he asked with faux-politeness and turned his body to face his
visitors. The strange fire of ice-blue roared like an inferno and yet, no heat escaped into the room.
Peggy nodded a confirmation at the beast and watched his every move.
"Yon sod-pullers were kind enough to let me tarry here awhile, but my true voyage belongs out
there... playing among the rest of the chattel" he informed and followed the statement with a hearty
chuckle. "Oh, we could have so much fun" he whispered to the stoic chunks of carved rock.
Peggy knew you couldn't reason with these dastards or convince them to return to where the hell they
came from. They wouldn't be cajoled, they can't be threatened and they will not accept a material
payment to go on their way. A soul did interest them much these days and the cunning-Witch believed
that the possible cause for this was that superstition was fading away.
Superstition and the shibboleth in Gods.
"You know, your kin hold an eminence in the circles I acquaint" the monster offered and moving closer
to the wide-eyed couple, a long sinewy tail slid into view. "Yes, your ancestors have standing among...
among my friends" he reiterated with the tongue of a snake.
As the Daemon delivered it's oily monologue, Peggy flicked her gaze to the sliding appendage that
tapped impatiently behind it's owner.
And made her play.
....................................
Toole had become contaminated. Whatever the people of Howard Huges' world were doing
had somehow, had an effect on certain minerals -namely quartz in this realm, and caused the malady
that made the town's citizens opaque.
Peggy sighed deeply as she closed the final account book and reflected on what had happened.
Maybe the disease could be reversed? Maybe the sullied-quartz could be cleansed with the correct
incantation?
'It is the duty of a Powler to try' -she heard the credo that her Mother had used and reluctantly set off
towards the mineshaft.
....................................
Relaxing her posture, Peggy asked her first question. "Is it true that you cannot turn your head?"
The hearth barked a fiery barrage of flames from it's grate as the cold-devil screwed his features
at the query. Daemons had huge neck muscles to hold the head of heavy ivory and did not have
the ability to twist. Ergo, Hellions cannot look around -or back.
"Stop it now" he warned angrily.
"You must answer me djinn, there are rules..." Peggy commanded evenly. "...Even for your kind"
The Daemon didn't answer and the bleak room became colder.
"Very well..." the Witch continued " I will ask this" and placed her hands behind her back. "Is it
true that you cannot touch the tips of your rack?" and quickly followed the question with a glance
at the ceiling-scraping horns on the brute's head. The 'in-joke' was stifled by the realisation of the
shaman's true inquiry.
The squirming creature sucked in gouts of air and struggled with his rage and yet, the lucifer knew
he had to give a response. An accurate response. "Yes, it is true" he spat and thrust his tongue out
at the quivering gnome hiding behind the Witch.
"And your garment...? you cannot clean it?" Peggy asked with a note of genuine interest in her
voice and that was when the farmhouse-squatting diablo looked down at his dirt-streaked fleece.
In one swift-movement, this was when Peggy of the Underhills slipped the thick thread across the
gap of the pointed horns and pulled the cord tight.
The sudden jerk of the Daemon bringing his head up to stare with eyes of bewilderment -nearly
tore Peggys' head off and it was only because of Higget tugging her clear with the use of the
poncho, did the horrible-antlers slice only air in their journey.
The bell dangling between the tips of those horns tinkled like a musician at a Faerie Ball.
If the reader ever finds the small doorway that leades down to Hades or stumbles across the
jetty at the edge of the river Styx, one cannot acquire attention by ringing a bell.
There is no tintinnabulum on the doorframe to Hell and there's no dull-metal gong waiting at
the pier to the Otherside. You see, devils and demons hate the sound.
Needless to say, Peggy used all her spells to protect herself and the squealing gnome at her
feet to keep the raging creature that stormed aroud the room from being gored to death or ripped
to pieces by the scaled-tail that thrashed and drummed a beat to the Daemon's frenzy.
It was whole minute later before the familiar 'pop' was heard and the monster disappeared.
The farmhouse returned to the way it was before the heads had been unearthed and the warm
peace slipped back into the home. For this was another rule of exorcism.
Peggy carried the fainted Higgett from the building with a content smile on her face.
It was just her duty.
assistance -or handicap from the glow of a full moon that was still struggling to climb out
from behind the high cliff face, the Witch scanned the tall-thin houses of dark, candle-less
windows.
The road had improved a little as she'd neared the community and with the warnings from
Howard Hughes swimming in her brain, Peggy had kept close to the cliff and scurried where
appropriate.
It was only as she neared the the large structure that hinted of commerce and politics that
she saw her first 'ghost' The smoky-shape that drifted across the cobbled market place held
a staff of some-sort and as Peggy screwed her eyes up and peered closer, she realised what
tasks the apparation was attempting to play out.
Every so often, the figure would reach up and point the 'stick' at one of the many lanterns that
hung from a bracket on the buildings and then after a couple of seconds, the wraith would drift
along and echo the action again.
"The bugger's a lamplighter!" the Witch whispered softly and shook her head at the failed antic.
The lanterns remained barren of light as the phantom went on it's way.
The Town Hall was silent during Peggy's tentative steps along it's marbled-floor and the high
ceilings cautioned the interloper that they were trespassing on property of serious debate and
civic legislature. Peggy moved like a thief among the shadows towards the room marked
'Records ' and at the last moment, saw the brass plate fixed to the crossbeam of the doorframe.
The poor-light failed to hide the female's smile as she slowly unbuckled the strap that held
the firearm on her back, the operation was undertaken carefully as Peggy didn't wish to alert
the neighbours with the shotgun bouncing loudly on the stone mezzanine.
"Like mice" was all she murmured during the task.
Removing the strap, Peggy turned back to the closed door and turning the tarnished knob slowly,
she readied the flat-belt to snake into the top of the gap being created.
The little bell did not tinkle and as Peggy concentrated on keeping the tiltled carillon from sounding
it's tinny-knell, the Witch of Underhill stepped into the Hall Of Records.
And it was this tiny metal appliance of alarm that brought Peggy to recall the memory of the Gnome
and the lanate-wrapped Demon.
....................................
The little creature called Higgett shivered with fear as he stood behind the the thin bare-legs
of Peggy Powler. The Gnome offered a quick-frown towards her due to her recent baffling comment.
It was a remark on his condition and it didn't boost his confidence of her plot to expel the daemon in
the farmhouse. The items she had told him to collect made even-lesser sense.
"Be still gnome..." she'd whispered as she surveyed the small passageway that led to the inner
-room. "...Yer' shekkin' like a dog shytin' nuts!"
The courageous duo stepped into the abode and panted in the frozen air -not unlike the canine
struggling with discarding it's own bodily waste -that Peggy commented on earlier.
But let's move quickly onwards.
The farmhouse was still in use by it's owners, they had learned that none of the unearthly activities
occurred during the early part of the day and so, the farmer's wife would run in, build a fire in the
hearth, set a makeshift breakfast and dinner and then quickly take it back to the barn that she
and her husband shared with the livestock.
The cow, the donkey and nine chickens.
They had never seen the tall devil that had pitched it's tent in their home and they had never
witnessed the drop in temperature. The couple were just too-scared.
But as the late-afternoon neared, the rooms would become cold... very cold and as ice formed
on the mantlepiece where the white-blue flames roared up the chimney, the Daemon would come.
Peggy entered the room of winter and hoped her trick would work.
"You dare harlot?" the growling-voice asked sexily and the Witch swallowed her spit. "Aye" Peggy
answered -but only to herself.
Higgett formed a dark-stain on those tawny britches and wished he'd never left his mother's bosom.
....................................
The Hall Of Records held massive leather tomes that showed the eyebrow-lifting history of the
denizens of Toole. Trading was a big item listed and as Peggy flicked through the pages of the
book most recently dated, she saw that the comments and official notifications trailed off.
On one page, the words were faded as if a quill refused to give-up it's ink.
'...The effects of the mining is still taking it's toll on Toole...' an item proclaimed '...Mayor Jatter
has announced that the tunnel that held the veins of quartz should not be open at any cost...'
Peggy leaned closer and wished she could afford illumination from a candle.
....................................
The Daemon in the wooly coat did stink and maybe in a better -nay, safer place, Peggy would
have been intrigued that such an horrible aroma could be so prominent in such low temperatures.
The figure toying with the small stone heads on the frosty-mantlepiece bore two huge two-foot
long horns that jutted backwards from his lank-maned head.
Peggy took in the sight along with the rest of the artic room and ignored the little quaking man
leaning against her thigh. "This is a bad idea" he whispered and tugged the poncho's hem.
"It's been an age since I set these eyes on a Powler..." the tall poltergeist hissed, the demon's face
was thin with cruel eyes and a stretched-grin.
"...You're of the Underhill Powlers?" he asked with faux-politeness and turned his body to face his
visitors. The strange fire of ice-blue roared like an inferno and yet, no heat escaped into the room.
Peggy nodded a confirmation at the beast and watched his every move.
"Yon sod-pullers were kind enough to let me tarry here awhile, but my true voyage belongs out
there... playing among the rest of the chattel" he informed and followed the statement with a hearty
chuckle. "Oh, we could have so much fun" he whispered to the stoic chunks of carved rock.
Peggy knew you couldn't reason with these dastards or convince them to return to where the hell they
came from. They wouldn't be cajoled, they can't be threatened and they will not accept a material
payment to go on their way. A soul did interest them much these days and the cunning-Witch believed
that the possible cause for this was that superstition was fading away.
Superstition and the shibboleth in Gods.
"You know, your kin hold an eminence in the circles I acquaint" the monster offered and moving closer
to the wide-eyed couple, a long sinewy tail slid into view. "Yes, your ancestors have standing among...
among my friends" he reiterated with the tongue of a snake.
As the Daemon delivered it's oily monologue, Peggy flicked her gaze to the sliding appendage that
tapped impatiently behind it's owner.
And made her play.
....................................
Toole had become contaminated. Whatever the people of Howard Huges' world were doing
had somehow, had an effect on certain minerals -namely quartz in this realm, and caused the malady
that made the town's citizens opaque.
Peggy sighed deeply as she closed the final account book and reflected on what had happened.
Maybe the disease could be reversed? Maybe the sullied-quartz could be cleansed with the correct
incantation?
'It is the duty of a Powler to try' -she heard the credo that her Mother had used and reluctantly set off
towards the mineshaft.
....................................
Relaxing her posture, Peggy asked her first question. "Is it true that you cannot turn your head?"
The hearth barked a fiery barrage of flames from it's grate as the cold-devil screwed his features
at the query. Daemons had huge neck muscles to hold the head of heavy ivory and did not have
the ability to twist. Ergo, Hellions cannot look around -or back.
"Stop it now" he warned angrily.
"You must answer me djinn, there are rules..." Peggy commanded evenly. "...Even for your kind"
The Daemon didn't answer and the bleak room became colder.
"Very well..." the Witch continued " I will ask this" and placed her hands behind her back. "Is it
true that you cannot touch the tips of your rack?" and quickly followed the question with a glance
at the ceiling-scraping horns on the brute's head. The 'in-joke' was stifled by the realisation of the
shaman's true inquiry.
The squirming creature sucked in gouts of air and struggled with his rage and yet, the lucifer knew
he had to give a response. An accurate response. "Yes, it is true" he spat and thrust his tongue out
at the quivering gnome hiding behind the Witch.
"And your garment...? you cannot clean it?" Peggy asked with a note of genuine interest in her
voice and that was when the farmhouse-squatting diablo looked down at his dirt-streaked fleece.
In one swift-movement, this was when Peggy of the Underhills slipped the thick thread across the
gap of the pointed horns and pulled the cord tight.
The sudden jerk of the Daemon bringing his head up to stare with eyes of bewilderment -nearly
tore Peggys' head off and it was only because of Higget tugging her clear with the use of the
poncho, did the horrible-antlers slice only air in their journey.
The bell dangling between the tips of those horns tinkled like a musician at a Faerie Ball.
If the reader ever finds the small doorway that leades down to Hades or stumbles across the
jetty at the edge of the river Styx, one cannot acquire attention by ringing a bell.
There is no tintinnabulum on the doorframe to Hell and there's no dull-metal gong waiting at
the pier to the Otherside. You see, devils and demons hate the sound.
Needless to say, Peggy used all her spells to protect herself and the squealing gnome at her
feet to keep the raging creature that stormed aroud the room from being gored to death or ripped
to pieces by the scaled-tail that thrashed and drummed a beat to the Daemon's frenzy.
It was whole minute later before the familiar 'pop' was heard and the monster disappeared.
The farmhouse returned to the way it was before the heads had been unearthed and the warm
peace slipped back into the home. For this was another rule of exorcism.
Peggy carried the fainted Higgett from the building with a content smile on her face.
It was just her duty.