The Final Act

The date was 1836, the month was October, the day was the 31st and the night was coming. The wind was howling at the moon as it ran through the trees and the rain drops punched the delicate leaves of the oak tree forest, cascading down like shards of glass from the opium sky. Crackles, Crunching, Choruses of lightning shook the murky clouds that infested the sky, snuffing out the stars and covering their tracks; thundering claps rung in the abyss as it applauded the rain for drowning the wasteland; purifying the earth once more. 

Streaks of brilliant white shot across the sky in synchronisation like guns firing in the heavens, but it caused something sinister to stir in the pits of hell. As if the wind had held its breath in anticipation, the clouds held back their tears and the thunder had stopped its standing ovation, the night became silent. 

In the midst of the oakland was an old church; tall, looming, brick walls, a pier as sharp as a spindle and stained glass windows, stained with the blood of the massacre victims. Many years ago on a similar night, numerous lives were taken from the village at a Sunday church service and their bodies were buried around the cemetery. Their bodies had been put to rest but their spirits still lingered in the borders of the church grounds, in limbo, stuck with unfinished business, stuck with regrets, stuck with the desire of revenge. Men, women and children’s blood leaked from the cracks in the walls and nourished the soil where the flowers bloomed: plenty of ions, numerous proteins, enough carbohydrates to fill glasses of wine and enough evil to fill a hearse.

From the night sky came a cry, a shriek, a cackle; and in disgust the sky spat at the ground a crisp, electric bolt of lightning. CLASH!

As if the bolt of electricity had brought it to life, the church lit up in a heavenly glow that diseased the surroundings in an infectious shine; all was still; all was quiet; all was wrong.

As quickly as it had come, it went and the church was once again shrouded in darkness along with the rain, wind and thunder that couldn’t hold back anymore and like a flick of a switch the chaos emerged once more.

Although the storm passed the next morning and many storms passed after that day, none were as significant as that single bolt of lightning, and no one knew it until many years later.

“From the sky the bolt did come,

Striking its victims one by one,

First the window, next the door

Lastly the blood that smeared the floor,

Dried up iron ions from the remains

Began to react in cascading chains,

A dash of electricity, a hint of skin,

A handful of revenge and a bucket full of sin,

Comes from this night,

A horrible sight,

The flowers that bloom from the blood-soaked soil

Bring magical properties that bring about toil

For once one sniffs the pollen 

Their spirit is possessed by the fallen

Like undead zombies they will walk the earth

Killing lives and resting with mirth”

The children read this allowed to each other on all hallows eve, crouching behind the gravestones of the deceased in costumes as they ate their first round of candy.

Jack was the first boy to go. He wore a black silk cloak with a scythe in his hand; he called himself Death- the bringer of doom and destruction. His cloak was made from his dining room curtains and his weapon, an old gardening tool from his grandpa’s shed. Crouched next to an ornate headstone he picked up a blood red flower and took a sniff. As if on cue the thunder stood up once more, it had been waiting for the end of the interval, and the second act was about to begin. 

Small grains of yellow pollen, like pixie dust, danced in the space between the flower and his face, synchronizing prances in the billowing wind, until they reached their target and ran up his nose. They swam through his windpipe, pushed through his lungs, bled into his arteries and infested his mind. Jack the Ripper was born.

Thunder was amused and cackled once more, the tale unravelling before it in a twisted sight. The pollen, one by one, took hold of each of the children, corrupting their brains with ageless demons who were out for blood.

As if nothing had happened, they walked back home, 

claiming it was too scary a night to be out alone,

But little did their parents know

That lurky in their minds not so far below

Was an old bloodthirsty spirit 

All whom should fear it

Because every so often, they do emerge

And cause the host to strike and purge,

One by one the children went crazy

In their own mind it was dark and hazy

For the spirit came out to seek its reward

And target the innocent like a dartboard

After all their dark deeds were done and the host body had moved on, the spirits returned to that frightful church, that dreadful gravestone, that wretched soil. But their work was not yet over, they couldn’t end the show so soon; what would the audience think?

The evil that diseased the world manifested in the soil, the spirits were not yet at peace, they had had a taste of revenge, a lick of desire, a crumb of freedom and wanted a feast of souls. Last Halloween night, it happened again, the thunder, wind and rain came together to watch the lightning’s dance and hear the chorus of screams. As if on cue, the lightning jumped and pirouetted on the earth, and all went silent as the end of the show was drawing near.  Out from the soil came beautiful blooming buds, popping up like zombies from the earth awaiting their next victim; multi-colored, shades of blood, pain and anguish stabbed the ground. So next time you see a graveyard; don’t pick the flowers because they might just pick you.