An Ill Wind

The weather was a fickle beast in these parts. Wayward and cruel. At times, it would create a false sense of security. The sun would shine hard enough to warm the bones and clouds were a thing of distant past memories. But those cruel clouds could swoop in in a matter of minutes though. Carried on freezing winds. It were as though they lay in wait for unsuspecting walkers, intent on catching them unawares and mugging them of their lives. Soaking them, blinding them, draining them of their will to live. Only a fool would be out on the moors in weather like this, but sometimes no one could predict the coming of the storm and so many a walker had been caught out and there were those that did not live to tell the tale.

The reward for hardy walkers was to be at one with nature at her harshest and most beautiful. The eye could not take in the full extent of that beauty, it was more felt than seen. The moors were an experience that haunted a person for the rest of their lives. Called out to them. Drew them back again and again. It was said that there were those who returned willingly to the moors for one last time. Unable to be apart from the place. Laying down never to rise again. Becoming a part of the land.

There were legends of mythical beasts that lurked in the mists. These beasts were not to be trifled with. Their intent was deadly. Never a happy ending, only a painful one. How the legends began was anyone’s guess. To see the beast was to die. But then some legends grew in any case. They rose up from nowhere and took on a life of their own. And these legends were ancient. Maybe as old as the hills themselves.

The recent weather had been fair. Summer’s last hurrah at the back end of a season that had precious little to cheer about. The autumn was approaching, but for two weeks the sun shone and reminded everyone of the job it should have been doing in the preceding months.

Even so, the moors were scarcely populated by folk. The school holidays had ended and there was work to do. Those few who walked the heather bordered paths were rewarded with an eerie quiet that contained whispered warnings from a sad breeze.

The local paper carried a story of two criminally insane prisoners escaping a maximum security facility. Questions were being asked, the predominant one being; how did they escape? No answers were forthcoming. The official line was this was to prevent panic in the local population. The truth of it was that no one wanted to highlight the incompetence that led to three prison officers’ deaths and the awful, life changing injuries to two more. The escapees had brutalised those men. Eaten parts of them whilst they were at it. Their mental deviations imbued them with a cunning and a strength that was deceptive, but it was the deceptions they created that were their most powerful tools. They were arch manipulators, creating silent songs that their prey could not resist dancing to. Their very presence was hypnotic on invisible levels. Their victims slept walked to their dooms, their smiling faces dissolving into confusion as the reality of their painful deaths became apparent to them.

The locals whispered that the two were out on the moors. The hope was that the moors would take care of them. The fear was that there were now two more deadly beasts prowling in the darkness. But would they descend into the villages to feed upon the unsuspecting and innocent. Doors were bolted and windows firmly closed. The villagers peered out into the unknowable night and prayed for deliverance from yet another evil. These folk were hardy, but they held to their superstitions as a mark of respect to the moors that loomed over their small hamlets.

This was the last day of the late Summer weather, but nothing was marked in the calendar. It started well enough, but then the wind sang its song to herald the coming storm. The song grew louder as the clouds closed in and the moor went from light to dark in a matter of minutes. It did not rain. It did not need to. The rain contained enough moisture to soak everything on the moors. That moisture blinded and confused, and it was hellishly cold.

As the storm closed in, growling and barking as it frolicked upon the moors, two dark figures leant into the winds and pushed on towards a small stone building. The bothy was a shelter for walkers and had saved many a life. The door blew inwards as it was unlatched and the storm blasted through the doorway.

“Close that door!” bellowed a voice from within. There were already two occupants inside the bothy, laying in blankets to retain some warmth.

One of the newcomers silently complied, Shouldering the door closed and latching it. The wind now threw rain again the door in its anger at being denied. A wolf huffing and puffing and showing the little piggies who was boss. They would have to wait it out. They were trapped in this small dwelling until the storm abated.

The two men stared at the newcomers without blinking. Watching this new development with interest. The silence inside the single room broken only by the wooden door creaking a complaint at the stresses it was put under by the angry wind, and the bullets of rain ricocheting on the roof tiles.

The dark figures slipped their hoods from their heads revealing ghostly pale young, feminine faces. The men looked to each other for confirmation of this development. The look exchanged, they returned their gaze to the women.

“Not a good night to be on the moors,” said the man who had not yet spoken.

“No,” agreed one of the women, “no, it is not.”

“Lucky you missed the rain,” said the man.

“I suppose you could call it luck,” said the other woman. She had dark black hair that was iridescent, even in the scant light of the bothy.

The other woman smiled, her blonde hair almost matching the pale white of her skin. Both women were impossibly pale. Marble statues made flesh. 

The talker of the two returned the smile. His face was weather-beaten, but not harsh. His friend was smooth skinned, but somehow managed to look older. Both had keen eyes and they had not once stopped appraising their visitors.

“It’s cold,” said the blonde. She eyed the blankets the men lay under.

“We should lay together to keep warm,” said the craggier of the two men.

“Do you think that is a good idea?” asked the raven haired woman.

“Up to you,” said the smooth man, “your funeral, if you freeze to death.”

The two women smiled. Then looked from the men to each other, seemingly making up their minds. They closed the distance between them and stood before the prone figures. Blankets were raised by way of invitation. The women lowered themselves to the ground, accepting the silent invites.

“You’re not wearing appropriate clothing for the moors,” observed the smooth man as he draped the blanket over the raven-haired woman.

“Neither are you,” she countered.

The man nodded, “still, you look like you’ve been on a night out on the town.”

“Who says we haven’t?” asked the blonde.

“Long way from any town,” answered the craggy man.

An expectant silence descended upon the four. There was something brewing, but the flavour of it was uncertain. The women had snuggled into their chosen partner, but there was nothing relaxed about how they lay together. There was a strange energy in the bothy, and it was building towards something.

“They say the moors are haunted,” said the craggy man.

“By what?” asked the blonde.

The smooth man spoke next, “not haunted as such. There are mythical beasts that roam these parts. Monsters from antiquity. Creatures that once seen will never let the observer go. Or live, for that matter.”

“Monsters,” said the raven woman, “there are plenty of monsters in this world without the need to make any more up.”

“What do you mean?” asked the craggy man.

The raven smiled, “there is a monster inside every man and woman. Those who deny this are monsters themselves.”

“Really?” asked the crag, “how so?”

The raven continued to smile, “denial of one’s nature is the lie that frees the dark beast inside.”

“And these people are the worst of monsters?” asked the smooth man.

“No,” said the raven, “the worst monsters are the betrayers. They lie and manipulate and use those around them. They are the worst. The wolves that skin sheep alive and wear their hides as disguises.”

“Those monsters are rare though aren’t they?” asked the crag.

The raven shook her head, “they are legion. This world teems with them. They say there is one in every hundred, but there are far more.” She gave forth of a mirthless laugh, “they think themselves special. Unique. Godlike. Set apart from the herd. But they are base and simple. The most predictable of insects.”

The two men exchanged a dark look at this and the atmosphere in the bothy now had a razor sharp edge to it.

“You seem to know a lot about this,” said the crag, “what are you? A shrink or something?”

The raven shook her head, her dark eyes sparkling, “no, I am an observer of men.”

“Not women?” asked smooth.

“Those as well,” she answered, “they can be even more monstrous than their male counterparts.”

“I doubt it,” said smooth.

The blonde laughed, “because you don’t hear about them in the news?”

Smooth nodded, “they’re rare.”

Now both women laughed, “most of them are not stupid enough to get caught!” crowed the raven.

Now the men’s anger was tangible. There was a heat to them both that was dangerously close to boiling point.

“Are you taking the piss?” asked smooth.

“Now why would we do that?” asked the raven.

“You know don’t you?” asked the crag.

The raven eyed him, “we have eyes and enquiring minds. We are not dullards.”

“You think you’re better than us?” asked smooth.

“No, not at all,” said the blonde.

“We are better than you,” added the raven.

Smooth looked down at his female companion, “you’re trapped in here with us and you’re goading us. Do you think that’s a bright idea?”

“It’s fun,” she retorted, “besides, who says we’re trapped in here with you? Couldn’t it be said that you’re trapped in here with us?”

Smooth chuckled, “you’re so full of yourself. But you won’t be.”

He made to roll towards the raven and overpower her, but the movement eluded him, instead he groaned wearily, “what’s…” he said as a cloud of confusion descended upon him.

“You think you’re so clever with your parlour tricks and perversions of human traits, don’t you?” challenged the raven.

“What have you done?” he groaned the words out pitifully.

“That allure you have? The way you charmed your victims?” the raven had smooth’s full attention now.

“You’ve done the same to us?” he asked.

Raven was nodding, “only we’re really rather good at it.”

“My body,” smooth sighed, “I can’t move.”

“And you didn’t see it coming did you?” raven asked, “you lay there and it crept up on you. You didn’t stand a chance.”

“What are you?” asked smooth.

“We’re like you, only we’ve been doing this for a very, very long time and we actually are special.” She raised her head now and looked deeply into smooth’s eyes.

“No,” he gasped, “you’re not real!”

“Neither are you,” she said smiling down at him, “you crawled into your own darkness, too cowardly to face reality and there you reside. No longer able to be real. You trap your victims in your sordid fantasy, lie after lie as you clumsily beguile them and drain them of the life you so envy. You attempt to extinguish the light, but you never can. You’re too weak and pathetic to do that. Whereas us. Well, that’s a whole other game.”

She paused and looked across at her companion, “why don’t we watch the show and maybe you’ll get a little more idea of what awaits you. You are after all the leader here. The worst of the two.”

Smooth was laying at an angle where he could see crag and the blonde. The tableau presented to him was intimate, but somehow out of step. He knew the ending would not be pleasant and it painted everything with a grim finality.

The blonde was stroking crag like he was a pet. The man’s eyes were glazed over, just like the guards’ eyes had been. Another dumb animal to the slaughter, but this was all wrong. It was the wrong way around. Crag was supposed to be using the blonde. That was how it worked. Crag was special like smooth.

Smooth wanted to call out, but his vocal chords seemed to be asleep. The idiot was thinking with his dick and allowing his judgement to be clouded. The blonde’s hand went down under the blanket and after a moment of fumbling about there was a familiar, slow regular movement and smooth reckoned that was crag’s lot. The point of no return where things would play out the way the blond wanted. He knew it well, had gotten a bunch of slow-witted people in his traps and played with them to achieve as much of a high as was possible.

The blonde was whispering to crag. The words were rhythmic. An incantation or a spell. Crag was moaning and saying yes. She climbed over him and began riding him. Crag’s moans were signalling another point of no return and as his back arched and he bucked under her, the blond lowered her head to his neck. 

Crag cried out and writhed under the woman, but couldn’t displace her. She was latched onto him. Pinning him. And soon enough, his struggles subsided and with a sigh he embraced her and pulled her closer. She moved against crag rhythmically, and smooth realised that she hadn’t stopped riding him.

“Funny thing that,” raven noted, “a man remains hard throughout. There is pain, but the pleasure is exquisite. That pleasure is the lie that sees the victim all the way to death and they embrace it willingly. It’s almost too good for the likes of you.”

She raised her head and moved over him. Staring into his eyes as she unbuttoned his shirt. Her hand going lower and unbuttoning and unzipping his jeans, “did you kill all those nasty guards with your bare hands?” she asked in a mock-innocent voice. 

He wanted to defy her, but his ego wouldn’t let him, “yes I did,” he said proudly.

“Good on you, my brave, strong protector,” she was moving downwards, trailing kisses along his chest until she reached his nipple. The thrill of her mouth and tongue was beyond anything he’d ever felt before. He knew he was being played and the danger she presented to him, but he found that he didn’t care.

Oh! She was good! She really was. She’d switched off or switched down parts of his mind that had always served him well. She was reprogramming him with a callous ease that he admired. He’d done this sort of thing to his long-termers, but she was different class. Her power inflamed him. He wanted her in a way he’d never wanted anyone before. Only he wasn’t going to get her. She was taking him and she would take everything he had.

He sighed as her hand snaked down and enveloped him. She looked up at him and the look in her eyes aroused him even further, “I’m going to take my time with you,” she whispered in the most sultry voice he’d ever heard. 

His hand slipped to the back of her head, “do it!” he groaned and in the next instant, he felt her teeth entering him. Now his body was alive again and he experienced a wave of pleasure that was so intense he thought he was going mad. He barely noticed the blonde drawing near until she took his free arm and started kissing and licking the crease at the top of his upper arm. She teased and played with him until he couldn’t bear it anymore and then her teeth pierced his soft flesh. As his gasps subsided he heard their moans of pleasure as they fed upon him.

The raven was true to her word. They took their time. Breaking off from their ministrations. Trailing kisses and then biting down again to feed. It was when the raven was teasing his inner thigh that he knew he was in trouble. He saw the hungry look that she gave him. This signalled his point of no return. He was about to struggle, but the blonde anticipated this pinning both his arms, staring down into his face as the raven sank her teeth into him. His back arched and he shuddered with the pain and the pleasure of it, his eyes glazing over as the blonde lowered her head and her mouth found his neck.

By the morning, the storm had subsided and the sun shone in a pale and lacklustre manner, as though it had been drained in the night of some of its vitality. The door to the bothy lay open and by the grey morning light there could be seen two blankets made dirty with something that looked like ashes. 

Of the raven and the blonde, there was no sign. A fantasy that had inflicted itself on two cruel men in retribution for all their foul deeds. Vengeful ghosts that haunted the moors riding the world of a little evil whenever the opportunity arose.