The neglected stone tower loomed, the waning gibbous moon summoning eerie shadows in the courtyard. Villagers flitted between woodshed and cart, arms aching with his Lordship’s seasonal beneficence. The maiden had celebrated her ninth Michaelmas. Knowing nothing of the ‘arrangement’, she smiled benignly. The owl hooted, swooping lower, circles decreasing, castle walls rising to meet its descent. It had been this way for four score years. As talons alighted on cobbles, one brave villager observed the transformation from behind the departing waggon. As he watched, his daughter noticed the blood on his Lordship’s lips, her haunting scream piercing their souls.
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