The Judge and the Majorettes.
Midnight, 31st October, Judge James Popcawn crosses from a place unimaginable to us. Tonight is his 410th return to this realm since his death. A man respected and feared in life, he did a great deal of good, building schools, homes for the poor and much else besides, however none of the great public deeds that have been attributed to his name could compensate for even one of the terrible secretive acts perpetrated in the murk of the basement of his grand mansion house.
As a result, when the time came for the judge to be judged, he was cast into a pit in the very copse where he had fallen to his death from his horse. A rare satellite of something we might recognise as hell, the judge’s other worldly prison exists tantalisingly close to our world, however the man’s spirit remains in total isolation, with one exception, a ‘mercy’ permitted by unseen forces in recognition of his good deeds and his wife’s piety. Once a year at this time, the judge is free to return to this world and take one cock’s stride closer to his wife’s tomb, that he might at last rest beside her and perhaps find forgiveness and salvation. He has twenty four hours to take his step, if he fails to do so, he will lose the opportunity for one more year, the moment he has taken the step he must return to his limbo.
The judge glared balefully at the mist wreathed town below him. 410 years and he had advanced scarcely more than 100 yards. 410 years in the cold ground with only his own rotting corpse for company, and once every twelve months, this torture, this tantalising glimpse of life, with only the promise of another death in a seemingly impossibly distant future.
Yet he would stand and wait until the last possible moment to take his one painfully short shuffle forwards, savouring every moment of this twenty four hours in the land of the living. Filled with rage and bitterness, yet still able to marvel at the beauty of the world where he had once wielded such power, he found it impossible to relinquish even one moment.
The Judge noted the growl of an approaching engine, one of the extraordinary vehicles used by even the lowliest commoner of late, it seemed this one was moving at considerable speed. The mist brightened as the car drew closer, its lights illuminating the area.
Directly before the judge stood a magnificent oak tree which he had first observed as nothing more than a seedling, it seemed to burn with white heat as the lights of the car fell upon it. The vehicle did not slow as it careered off the road behind the judge, striking the tree with a shattering cacophony of rending metal and shattered glass.
The Judge gaped in shock at the dying driver of the car who had not been wearing a seatbelt, the impact had reduced the driver’s face to a bloody pulp and crushed his chest, he exhaled a final, bubbling breath.
The Judge took his step.
For the first time in 410 years Judge James Popcawn experienced physical sensation, sensation in the form of excruciating pain, forcing his spirit into the recently vacated body of the dead driver and by sheer force of will, making it live. He stared with unfamiliar eyes that, disorientingly, seemed to see both forwards and downwards at once, through the shattered windscreen and at the foot well of the car. He had taken his step and was still at large. He sensed the spirit of the dead driver being dragged screaming into the pit.
He had made a spontaneous decision with no real hope of success, however it had worked, by some extraordinary chance, he had hoodwinked the forces that controlled his fate, someone else had been taken in his place, and The Judge had an actual physical presence in the world. He doubted this turn of events would remain unnoticed for long, he had to move quickly.
He shouldered open the crumpled door of the car, screaming in pain as he tumbled to the ground. Scrambling to his feet, he looked down at his new body, his hands were mostly fine, though at least two fingers were broken on the right one, the legs seemed to work reasonably well, though both knees were quite painful. He did not want to think about the chest, which was agony with every breath, many of the ribs being broken, however he was breathing, really breathing, sucking in cold, fresh air, in comparison to that extraordinary fact, the searing pain was secondary, almost irrelevant. The nose was smashed, the jaw broken and the skull did not feel quite right, when he pressed the palm of his new hand against the forehead, it felt spongy. Best not to think about that either.
Judge James Popcawn propelled the battered corpse down the steep incline of Lickham Bottom hill and squinted at the world through one fully functioning eye, the other one dangled from its socket and bounced annoyingly against his cheek with every step. With a great deal of concentration and pain, he fashioned something like a smile from his broken jaw, causing several teeth to spill out onto the road and chitter away before him.
Taking real steps now, embracing the pain, enjoying it, wallowing in his new found ability to feel anything, he limped toward the Town. It had changed almost beyond recognition, at the foot of the hill was a wide road upon which many cars were travelling despite the advanced hour. He lurched across this road and found himself in an unfamiliar maze of streets, hundreds of red brick houses clustered together in small blocks. It did not matter, his sense of direction would not fail him, he knew precisely where he was headed.
The Judge glanced dismissively in the direction of St John’s Church, the final resting place of his Wife, and decreed by those unknown, unseen forces that would no doubt soon be hunting him, to be his own final destination. He turned his head and fixed his gaze in another direction, the final resting place of another woman. His mistress, she lay in an unmarked grave, the location known only to The Judge, known to him because he himself had put her there, her hands tied, buried naked and very much alive in the cold earth. He had listened to her restless spirit calling his name every year for centuries. He had ensured no other man could have her in life, and now at last they would be together for eternity.
He started toward the place where she waited, her grave was made in ground that is now beneath the foundations of a large house known as ‘Dead End’, the house at the end of Wintermarsh Street.
The Judge lurched along the streets, admiring the solid brick buildings, the streets were full of the wheeled metal vehicles he knew to be called cars, there seemed to be thousands of them.
‘Nice zombie costume’
The Judge aimed a startled look at a group of people on the opposite footpath, who were dressed in a bewildering array of unusual garb. One of their number was grinning at him and the Judge surmised was perhaps an actor, as he was sporting what appeared to be badly applied greasepaint.
The Judge picked up speed as best he could, shuffling awkwardly toward his destination.
‘Zombie?’ He muttered to himself. ‘What is this flim-flam?’ He eyed the group suspiciously as they passed opposite him. A quite convincing Donald Trump gave him a thumbs up, though of course, the Judge had not the first clue who the character was supposed to be.
‘Fopdoodle.’ The Judge pronounced loudly.
‘Fopdoodle?’ Said a bemused looking Gomez Addams to his wife Morticia. Morticia shrugged and the group carried on their way.
As did the Judge, attempting to affect an air of one who does not wish to be engaged in conversation, shambling onward as hastily as possible. Ignoring further shouted complimentary comments about his ‘costume’, he drew nearer to the place where Wintermarsh Street now stands.
Where a welcome awaited him.
Cecily Gasper, once the mistress of Judge James Popcawn hovered uncertainly in the cellar of Dead End over the spot where her mortal remains mouldered in the ground. She had good reason to desire to see the Judge punished, however the Judge had used this piece of ground to dispose of more than one dark secret. Cecily was surrounded by the spirits of dozens of young girls ranging in age from seven to thirteen years old. They were none of them what might be described as ‘Peaceably Dead.’
As one, they faced in the direction of the approaching Judge, they were calm, silent. Waiting.
There was one young woman who waited with less patience, a spirit that terrified all the others, She paced the cellar furiously muttering unintelligibly and all the while glaring at all the others with barely contained rage, not it seemed directed at them personally, simply general, unfocussed fury. She appeared ready to blow apart. She focussed her stare on Cecily, actually stopping her furious pacing to stand directly before her.
‘So what is your connection to this vermin?’ She snapped, although she was well aware of Cecily’s connection to the Judge, and certain in her theory the Judge would be drawn to his mistress if he ever escaped his curse.
Cecily flinched at the vitriolic words as they were spat into her face. ‘I was his mistress.’ She whispered.
‘So you were Pop’s tart then?’ The furious ghost shouted, cackling maniacally.
‘One of them.’ Cecily managed, keeping her eyes on the ground. ‘And you?’
‘Me?’ The angry ghost shrieked, then abruptly seemed to sag, her shoulders slumping as she spoke. ‘I was a mere servant. I washed his clothes, cleaned for him, cared for his wife when she was poorly. And of course attended to his more personal needs, which I hardly need tell you were many and insatiable, he did things to me that only those buried in this cursed piece of ground could imagine, and I accepted it all as my lot. It was submit or be out on the street.’
Cecily looked at the other woman for the first time. ‘You do look somewhat familiar…’
The other woman sniffed. ‘I recall seeing you in the mansion I think.’
‘So did he murder you too?’
The still subdued ghost shook her head sadly. ‘That, and Worse.’
‘What could be worse?’ Cecily regretted the question immediately, she did not want to hear the answer, she felt ashamed that in all these years together, she had barely noticed or talked to any of the poor young girls and women around her, as she wallowed in her own self-pity.
‘He got me pregnant, kept me locked in the attic for the whole time, even paid for a midwife when the time came.’
Cecily simply stared at the floor, at a loss as to where this could possibly be leading.
‘Paid her well, very well indeed to keep silent.’
‘About the child?’
‘Yes about the child, about how the moment the cord was cut, he seized my baby girl and hurled her onto the fire.’
Cecily could think of nothing to say.
The furious ghost glared at the wall of the cellar, in the direction from which her former employer approached. ‘I still hear her screaming you know, every day. She screamed for such a long time.’
The cellar of Dead End, profuse with the spirits of Judge James Popcawn’s victims fell silent.
Outside on Wintermarsh Street, as is now the tradition at Samhain, the Undead Majorettes struck up their parade, dressed in their blue and white leotards, frilled skirts and unsettling American tan tights, they marched up the street, turning seamlessly each time they reached the end to march in the opposite direction. Quite an achievement when playing drums, glockenspiels, flugelhorns and other instruments with unlikely names, their secrets known only to the inner sanctum of the marching band aficionado, More impressive still, when one takes into account the cartwheels, backflips and fiery baton twirling, (yes, you read that correctly, FIERY batons, batons that are on fire), all performed with expert choreography and perfect timing. Staggeringly impressive when one remembers they are all dead, and have been for some years.
The demise of this entire marching band of thirty five young girls remains, to the general populace at least, a story of a tragic accident involving breaking and entering at the church hall (meeting and practice venue for the band), an illicit Christmas party without adult supervision, harmful quantities of cheap Vodka, some red Lebanese hashish, many candles, a lot of combustible curtains, stackable wooden chairs, highly polished parquet flooring, chained fire exits and a locked main entrance. It is assumed the girls locked the main entrance to prevent unwanted adult supervision and keep their party private.
Silly girls, no one to blame but themselves, natural selection in action, some less charitable residents have been heard to mutter.
The blaze was a true inferno, it took hold with dizzying speed and burned with a ferocious intensity, helped considerably by the groundskeeper’s habit of storing large quantities of petrol for his ride on lawnmower in the storage cupboard adjacent to the kitchenette, which to compound matters, contained a gas cooker connected to two large LPG bottles. By the time the first fire appliance arrived, the hall was nothing more than smoking ash and one side of the church tower was scorched black.
One day, maybe I will tell you what really happened that night on the 21st December 1990, that is, if you wish to know.
Fire investigators did not mention the key, the one the girls were thought to have used to lock themselves in, away from the prying eyes of well meaning, interfering, fun-ruining adults. I do not know if they even looked for it, but I know where it is now. It hangs on the keychain of a neighbour of mine, it nestles in plain sight, hanging from his belt loop, next to house keys, car keys, the key to his work locker, and the key to his shed, a shed that contains a pc not connected to the internet, a pc crammed with images of Majorettes. Majorettes occasionally clad in blue and white and tan.
The Majorettes haunt Wintermarsh Street for age-old reason. Vengeance. Those same unseen forces that see fit to allow The Judge his annual step, decree the restless spirits of the Majorettes a similar favour. Once a year, at Samhain, the Majorettes have the ability to interact with the human world, to touch, to feel, to gouge, to maim, perhaps to kill. The girls long to take full advantage of this temporary power, their sights set on one particular denizen of Wintermarsh Street, the depraved factory supervisor with the rattling bunch of keys dangling from his belt loop, the resident of number 17 Wintermarsh Street. Justin Green.
Justin Green is not evil, he is not mentally ill, these things would suggest an absence of choice, that which is purely evil cannot help its state, is not responsible for it, the same may be said of one who is mentally ill, such a person cannot control their impulses, the voices they hear compelling them to commit atrocious crimes are too powerful for their tortured minds to ignore. Justin knows what he has done, what he continues to do, what he will do again. He knows and he enjoys it, he chooses it, embraces it, as some people enjoy bird watching or collecting stamps, Justin enjoys defiling, violating, torturing, and of course, dispatching.
Justin Green is cold, ice cold, ruthlessly efficient, calculating and methodical, he has only ever made one mistake, and he dealt with that in spectacular fiery style without a single accusatory glance being aimed in his direction. He has only one regret, that he was unable to watch the hope disappear from those thirty five pairs of eyes, to see the fear, the realisation, the resignation and finally to see the light flicker out at the final delicious moment.
He does not object to the Majorettes haunting him, laughing at their pathetic attempts to frighten him, appearing to him as they do in the most unexpected of situations, waving their blackened arms and making childish ghost noises. Not that it happens much anymore, they mostly follow him around the house looking sullen and glaring at him when he is watching ‘Strictly’. They cluster around when he is in the bath, or in bed, no doubt trying to embarrass him, he does not care. He quite likes the company.
He knows they wait for Halloween, or Samhain as the Pagans prefer, he also knows, because Justin Green is no fool, that on Halloween, something beyond his comprehension occurs that would enable them to exact their revenge upon him, girls talk, and Justin is always listening. It is not that he feels it is unfair of them for wanting to tear him to pieces and send him to hell, he considers it a perfectly understandable reaction to their situation, it is that he is not ready for hell yet, he has so much more he wants to do. That is why Justin is never at home, or anywhere near Wintermarsh Street for at least twenty four hours either side of midnight on the 31st October each year. To be safe, he usually spends a week in an isolated cottage in North Wales, a small slate building originally owned by his Grandfather, far enough from civilisation to ensure no matter how much noise he or his ‘guests’ might make, they will not be heard.
Justin knows that the Majorettes are unable to leave Wintermarsh street, and this Samhain is no different to any other, Justin is nowhere to be seen, his house is dark and empty, his silver panel van he uses when he goes ‘surfing’ not standing on the street or in the car park at the end of the street.
It seemed odd perhaps, that the Majorettes were performing their march with such gusto, rather than simply going through the motions as had become their habit due to their seemingly hopeless situation. Something had changed, there was real spring in their steps, batons were being twirled with unusual intricacy, backflips were being executed with feeling, they were playing upbeat tunes on their glockenspiels, somebody broke into a freeform solo on their flugelhorn Miles Davis would have been proud of. Strange days indeed.
Joan Fenton, late servant of Judge James Popcawn, Mother to his bastard, murdered child knew why the Majorettes were feeling so perky. She struck a deal with them years ago, she had promised that on the night the Judge finally arrived in Wintermarsh Street, if they helped her to trap him, she would return the favour the following Samhain and ensure that Justin Green is unable to leave the street, leaving him defenceless and at the mercy of the Majorettes. Joan has no idea if she has the power to fulfil her side of the bargain, but her fearsome reputation and the fact that she has been so much longer dead than the Majorettes was enough to convince the young girls that she was capable of fulfilling her promises. Joan did not really believe that this night would ever come, assuming that Justin Green would be long dead by natural causes centuries, if not millennia before The Judge reached Wintermarsh Street.
Something extraordinary had happened however, and The Judge was on his way, she could feel him advancing, she did not know what he had done to escape his curse and she did not care. She was ready, the Majorettes were ready, soon she would be face to face with the black hearted Judge and he would be made to pay for his crimes.
The Majorettes marched and twirled and back flipped feverishly as they launched into a glockenspiel inspired interpretation of ‘Highway to Hell’.
The Judge turned onto Grope Count lane, a location he remembered only too well from his previous life, he shambled onward. At the end of the lane a small wood of native trees still exists, this area had mostly consisted of such spinneys and rough pasture during his lifetime, now he turned onto a terrace of red brick cottages, he noted the name of the row, Wintermarsh Street, at the end of which he knew lay an area special to him, a place he remembered visiting often.
The judge gaped at the sight that met him as he stepped onto the narrow Victorian street, almost all of the houses were decorated with strings of red and green lights, carved pumpkins glowing with flickering candlelight and various other decorations, including a seemingly disproportionate number of crows in varying forms, from lifelike models, to childish paper creations.
However, the most arresting sight was the large group of scandalously attired girls performing various acrobatic tricks and playing strange instruments as they danced towards him.
The troupe stopped before the judge, marching in place, raising their knees as high as possible, well aware the judge would be ogling their young, toned thighs.
The Majorettes had spent enough time in Justin Greene’s company to have seen more internet pornography than they cared to remember, as a result they were confident that their recently altered uniforms, comprising of cropped tops, skirts so short they could more accurately be described as belts, and thigh high boots with killer heels would gain the undivided attention of a sexual predator such as Judge James Popcawn. They were not wrong.
The troupe of slutty Majorettes was every deviant’s dream and distasteful to them as it was, they had set their trap.
The leader of the troupe, Beyoncé Nutbeam, fifteen years old at the time of her death and desired by every boy in school, stopped twirling her baton and held up a hand, at which signal the Majorettes became still and quiet, all eyes on the upright mangled corpse before them, each one of them sensing the corrupt spirit inside the body of the dead driver, seeping from it like pus, they felt the gaze from the single eye, avaricious and depraved. They sensed around him an aura, thick and black, humming like a million plague flies, it buzzed like a swarm as it reached out to them, always connected to his essence like a hive mind, it saw them with millions of eyes, touched them with millions of insectile legs and wings, smothering and sickening them.
‘Hello Pops!’ Beyoncé chimed, smiling broadly and winking in what she hoped was a salacious manner.
‘Er’. Said the judge.
Despite his former lofty position in life, his expensive education, his privileged life and the supposed wisdom gained from his long life, Judge Popcawn walked eagerly into the trap prick first. His engorged desire, gigantic ego and staggering arrogance ensured he did not for one moment question why this beautiful young girl and her friends seemed so intent on him. He followed them without hesitation as they turned smartly and began to march down the street.
Mesmerised by the sight of all the pert derrieres bouncing and wiggling and cartwheeling away from him The Judge stumbled after them, now and then breaking into a precarious stumble as he tried to reach out and grab a shapely buttock. The girls were too nimble however, and always remained a tantalising inch or two away, this only increased his ardour as he shuffled toward his fate.
Shortly, they were at Dead End where the troupe abruptly halted, the door swung silently inward and the girls skipped inside. Movement above grabbed the Judge’s attention away from the objects of his lust, he looked up to see the roof carpeted with Crows, they occupied every available space from the ridge, the chimneys, and the open space of the tiles, each carrion eye seemed to be upon him. He hesitated under the weight of their collective stare, something in his lizard brain stirred, a hesitant voice deep inside his skull warned him that even to take another step would be foolish.
The Judge glanced towards the door of the house named Dead End, a Majorette had dropped a Flugelhorn and had leaned over to retrieve it, she seemed to be struggling to grasp the instrument.
He hurried as best he could, hoping to be of some assistance, his lizard brain falling quiet. In the time it took him to shamble the few yards to where the clumsy Majorette had been wriggling in such a pleasing manner, she had retrieved her instrument and disappeared inside. The Judge lurched into a spacious hallway to find it empty, he hesitated once more, his spirit lizard brain coughed politely in a half-hearted attempt to halt the progress of the Judge, however he was currently being led by an entirely different primitive imperative, one that was currently considerably more compelling after centuries of numbness.
He cast his gaze around in time to see a short blue and white skirt flounce out of view through an open doorway. Once at the door, he took a step through to find himself on the top step of a staircase that disappeared downward into the gloom of an unlit cellar, a cold breeze carrying a miasma of damp and rot reached him from below. There was one last moment of hesitation and he almost backed out into the hallway from which he had just come. It was too late however.
Beyoncé Nutbeam, Nutjob to her friends, glided silently into a position inches behind the judge. ‘Hello again Pops, glad you could make it.’ She placed her hands on his back and shoved. ‘Don’t be shy, go on down and join the party.’
The Judge, inside an already horribly and fatally injured corpse struck the staircase at around it’s halfway point, he screamed in agony as he experienced this final insult on the body of the unfortunate driver, then he was outside of the flesh, nothing but a ghost once more. In the dark, now at the foot of the staircase he heard the door above him slam and something else that sounded suspiciously like a mangled corpse being dragged across a brick floor.
Beyoncé flounced downward, alighting gracefully on the second step, her ample, and barely constrained bosom now directly in line with The Judge’s ravening eyes.
‘You young whore.’ There was no sound, the hijacked vocal chords now no longer available to him, however Beyoncé heard him plainly and felt his lust and rage like a physical thing.
She smiled sweetly, then dropped the façade. The Judge recoiled in horror as he saw her as she really was, as she was the night she died. Her flesh blackened and cracked, her eyes boiled away, lips missing, a pinkish discharge oozing from the cracks in her taught, puckered skin, she shrieked something unintelligible. The Judge heard her only too plainly and felt the rage emanating from her in concussive waves, it made his own anger seem small, insignificant, he turned and ran deeper into the cellar.
He felt, rather than saw that he was pursued by the entire troupe of Majorettes, they shrieked at him, grasping at him with burned, skeletal hands, kicked at him, attempting to trip him, all the while taunting and giggling. His mind reeled, he was nothing but a spirit once more, how could they claw at him, with their terrible talon like fingers? How was he able to smell their awful scorched flesh?
‘Leave me be!’ He screamed as he plunged further still into the gloomy cellar, lunging through a wide, beautifully crafted brick archway into a large vaulted space dimly lit by the glowing tongues of a few sparse candles. The Judge stopped and scanned the room, it was lined from floor to ceiling with wooden racks, filled with hundreds of bottles of wine, many intact, many more smashed and empty. From everywhere sagged Halloween decorations, some clearly decades or even centuries old, the putrid stench of rotting pumpkins filled the air.
Someone, a child perhaps, had been making paper-chain crows for a very long time, they hung from every available vertical service, and almost obscured the ceiling, there were hundreds, perhaps thousands of them whispering quietly, as they fluttered in a cold draught the Judge could not discern the source of.
The Judge glanced behind, the Mob of Malodorous Majorettes shuffled restlessly on the other side of the archway grinning their lipless grins and effectively blocking his way. The stench of their scorched rotting bodies and the sight of their awful injuries nauseated him, he turned his head back to the room before him.
Cecily stood no more than three feet from him, at last, in this dreadful place of spiteful ghosts he had found the one who belonged to him, now she would be his forever, he smiled at her.
‘Hello my love’. He said gently, so as not to startle her. She did not return his smile, nor respond to his words, she only stared blankly at him, the Judge took a step forward and as he did so, noticed a dark shape coalescing from the shadows behind his favourite mistress. The shape appeared to take on the visage of dozens of faces he vaguely recognised before finally settling for one in particular.
Joan Whatsername, he thought. The whore of a servant girl who attempted to ruin me by getting pregnant. The room began to fill with shapes, shapes that became bodies and faces, faces of young girls, some of whom he remembered.
For a moment he felt indignation that these worthless bitches should attempt to intimidate him in this way, the moment was brief however and replaced by another, more appropriate emotion.
The great Judge James Popcawn was afraid. Fear crept over him and enveloped him like a blanket of thorns as Joan Fenton held out her baby, its tiny crisp body issuing steam from wet, pink wounds. From behind him, the Majorettes howled like a wolf pack as he steeled himself for their attack. It did not come, instead they fell silent, the only sound that of paper crows chittering in the draught.
The rustling grew louder, a brittle crackling sound gradually increasing in volume and intensity that at first sounded like a small, hesitant flame set in dry twigs, building quickly to an inferno threatening to consume the entire building and the street beyond. There were no flames however, the sound was of thousands of paper wings brought to impossible life, flapping and slicing at the air in a desperate bid for freedom. The Judge felt it all around him, countless numbers of them flying and swooping and smothering him.
The Majorettes were now in the room with the Judge and his ‘girls,’ They all held a candle, each one sputtered into life simultaneously, illuminating the room and the paper crows that filled it. The paper birds swooped around him, many, to brittle to fly or with broken wings, hopped about the floor on fragile legs. One of the flying crows struck a candle flame and burst into incandescent life, it was swiftly followed by another and another, until every paper crow was alight and illuminating the room as they swooped and pitched through the air, even the floor-bound crows took to the air as the fire gave them life. They flew around the Judge in an ever tightening circle faster, faster, impossibly fast until their shapes were no longer discernible, he was now at the centre of a vortex of spinning fire. They fell on him.
He was sucked into the vortex of fire, his essence torn into thousands of tattered shreds and absorbed by the flames, for a moment the cyclone stopped, hanging in the air, then surged upward through the cellar roof, passing harmlessly through three more floors, the attic and the roof of the house, then high into the night sky where it burst like a gigantic, golden firework, the thousands of resultant sparks transforming into crows, real crows now, cawing loudly as they fluttered gently onto the roof of ‘Dead End’.
The Majorettes faced Joan in the dark, Joan nodded once at them, even favoured them with a small bow to acknowledge her thanks and her debt. The Majorettes turned and trooped upstairs, then outside where they paused to gaze up at the roof, which seemed to pulse with the bodies of thousands of restless crows.
‘What do you think would be a suitable collective noun for that many crows?’ Mused one of the girls, little Shaznay Blenkinsop the troupe’s most accomplished flugelhorn player.
Beyoncé gave it some thought. ‘A Clusterfuck.’ She said. ‘A Clusterfuck of Crows.’
‘I like it.’ Said Shaznay approvingly. ‘Do you think the crows would help us next Halloween, you know, with Justin?’
‘Better get busy with the paper and the scissors little lady.’ Said Beyoncé with a smile.
‘Hmm, sounds like a lot of hard work.’
Judge James Popcawn surveyed the scene below him through thousands of pairs of eyes, heard the conversation through thousands of pairs of ears, then with a disorienting lurch he was flying, his spirit in ragged tatters borne by a clusterfuck of crows high above the streets of his home town. He flew over St John’s Church and stared with nauseating compound vision into the sad face of his wife as she raised her eyes toward him, understanding her vigil was and always had been, in vain.
The crows carried him over his old home, the mansion on the hill, they swooped him low over familiar chimneys, his senses assailed by the cacophony of televisions from the many studio flats now contained within the old walls. Out of town then, toward Lickham Bottom hill and on to the copse containing his other worldly prison, the crows cawed loudly as they pitched downward, he felt the terrified and bewildered spirit of the car driver rush through him as he plummeted in the opposite direction toward the ground.
There was a vast impact of fire and feathers as the crows screamed in triumph, then perfect silence. Pop stood directly above his purgatorial grave, straining to hear something with his own two ears, to see with just two eyes.
‘Take your step Popcawn.’ A voice that seemed to emanate from everywhere at once commanded. ‘See you next year.’
The following mocking laughter sounded like rolling thunder that the Judge thought might tear his mind apart, he took his step just to make it stop.
All rights reserved.
Midnight, 31st October, Judge James Popcawn crosses from a place unimaginable to us. Tonight is his 410th return to this realm since his death. A man respected and feared in life, he did a great deal of good, building schools, homes for the poor and much else besides, however none of the great public deeds that have been attributed to his name could compensate for even one of the terrible secretive acts perpetrated in the murk of the basement of his grand mansion house.
As a result, when the time came for the judge to be judged, he was cast into a pit in the very copse where he had fallen to his death from his horse. A rare satellite of something we might recognise as hell, the judge’s other worldly prison exists tantalisingly close to our world, however the man’s spirit remains in total isolation, with one exception, a ‘mercy’ permitted by unseen forces in recognition of his good deeds and his wife’s piety. Once a year at this time, the judge is free to return to this world and take one cock’s stride closer to his wife’s tomb, that he might at last rest beside her and perhaps find forgiveness and salvation. He has twenty four hours to take his step, if he fails to do so, he will lose the opportunity for one more year, the moment he has taken the step he must return to his limbo.
The judge glared balefully at the mist wreathed town below him. 410 years and he had advanced scarcely more than 100 yards. 410 years in the cold ground with only his own rotting corpse for company, and once every twelve months, this torture, this tantalising glimpse of life, with only the promise of another death in a seemingly impossibly distant future.
Yet he would stand and wait until the last possible moment to take his one painfully short shuffle forwards, savouring every moment of this twenty four hours in the land of the living. Filled with rage and bitterness, yet still able to marvel at the beauty of the world where he had once wielded such power, he found it impossible to relinquish even one moment.
The Judge noted the growl of an approaching engine, one of the extraordinary vehicles used by even the lowliest commoner of late, it seemed this one was moving at considerable speed. The mist brightened as the car drew closer, its lights illuminating the area.
Directly before the judge stood a magnificent oak tree which he had first observed as nothing more than a seedling, it seemed to burn with white heat as the lights of the car fell upon it. The vehicle did not slow as it careered off the road behind the judge, striking the tree with a shattering cacophony of rending metal and shattered glass.
The Judge gaped in shock at the dying driver of the car who had not been wearing a seatbelt, the impact had reduced the driver’s face to a bloody pulp and crushed his chest, he exhaled a final, bubbling breath.
The Judge took his step.
For the first time in 410 years Judge James Popcawn experienced physical sensation, sensation in the form of excruciating pain, forcing his spirit into the recently vacated body of the dead driver and by sheer force of will, making it live. He stared with unfamiliar eyes that, disorientingly, seemed to see both forwards and downwards at once, through the shattered windscreen and at the foot well of the car. He had taken his step and was still at large. He sensed the spirit of the dead driver being dragged screaming into the pit.
He had made a spontaneous decision with no real hope of success, however it had worked, by some extraordinary chance, he had hoodwinked the forces that controlled his fate, someone else had been taken in his place, and The Judge had an actual physical presence in the world. He doubted this turn of events would remain unnoticed for long, he had to move quickly.
He shouldered open the crumpled door of the car, screaming in pain as he tumbled to the ground. Scrambling to his feet, he looked down at his new body, his hands were mostly fine, though at least two fingers were broken on the right one, the legs seemed to work reasonably well, though both knees were quite painful. He did not want to think about the chest, which was agony with every breath, many of the ribs being broken, however he was breathing, really breathing, sucking in cold, fresh air, in comparison to that extraordinary fact, the searing pain was secondary, almost irrelevant. The nose was smashed, the jaw broken and the skull did not feel quite right, when he pressed the palm of his new hand against the forehead, it felt spongy. Best not to think about that either.
Judge James Popcawn propelled the battered corpse down the steep incline of Lickham Bottom hill and squinted at the world through one fully functioning eye, the other one dangled from its socket and bounced annoyingly against his cheek with every step. With a great deal of concentration and pain, he fashioned something like a smile from his broken jaw, causing several teeth to spill out onto the road and chitter away before him.
Taking real steps now, embracing the pain, enjoying it, wallowing in his new found ability to feel anything, he limped toward the Town. It had changed almost beyond recognition, at the foot of the hill was a wide road upon which many cars were travelling despite the advanced hour. He lurched across this road and found himself in an unfamiliar maze of streets, hundreds of red brick houses clustered together in small blocks. It did not matter, his sense of direction would not fail him, he knew precisely where he was headed.
The Judge glanced dismissively in the direction of St John’s Church, the final resting place of his Wife, and decreed by those unknown, unseen forces that would no doubt soon be hunting him, to be his own final destination. He turned his head and fixed his gaze in another direction, the final resting place of another woman. His mistress, she lay in an unmarked grave, the location known only to The Judge, known to him because he himself had put her there, her hands tied, buried naked and very much alive in the cold earth. He had listened to her restless spirit calling his name every year for centuries. He had ensured no other man could have her in life, and now at last they would be together for eternity.
He started toward the place where she waited, her grave was made in ground that is now beneath the foundations of a large house known as ‘Dead End’, the house at the end of Wintermarsh Street.
The Judge lurched along the streets, admiring the solid brick buildings, the streets were full of the wheeled metal vehicles he knew to be called cars, there seemed to be thousands of them.
‘Nice zombie costume’
The Judge aimed a startled look at a group of people on the opposite footpath, who were dressed in a bewildering array of unusual garb. One of their number was grinning at him and the Judge surmised was perhaps an actor, as he was sporting what appeared to be badly applied greasepaint.
The Judge picked up speed as best he could, shuffling awkwardly toward his destination.
‘Zombie?’ He muttered to himself. ‘What is this flim-flam?’ He eyed the group suspiciously as they passed opposite him. A quite convincing Donald Trump gave him a thumbs up, though of course, the Judge had not the first clue who the character was supposed to be.
‘Fopdoodle.’ The Judge pronounced loudly.
‘Fopdoodle?’ Said a bemused looking Gomez Addams to his wife Morticia. Morticia shrugged and the group carried on their way.
As did the Judge, attempting to affect an air of one who does not wish to be engaged in conversation, shambling onward as hastily as possible. Ignoring further shouted complimentary comments about his ‘costume’, he drew nearer to the place where Wintermarsh Street now stands.
Where a welcome awaited him.
Cecily Gasper, once the mistress of Judge James Popcawn hovered uncertainly in the cellar of Dead End over the spot where her mortal remains mouldered in the ground. She had good reason to desire to see the Judge punished, however the Judge had used this piece of ground to dispose of more than one dark secret. Cecily was surrounded by the spirits of dozens of young girls ranging in age from seven to thirteen years old. They were none of them what might be described as ‘Peaceably Dead.’
As one, they faced in the direction of the approaching Judge, they were calm, silent. Waiting.
There was one young woman who waited with less patience, a spirit that terrified all the others, She paced the cellar furiously muttering unintelligibly and all the while glaring at all the others with barely contained rage, not it seemed directed at them personally, simply general, unfocussed fury. She appeared ready to blow apart. She focussed her stare on Cecily, actually stopping her furious pacing to stand directly before her.
‘So what is your connection to this vermin?’ She snapped, although she was well aware of Cecily’s connection to the Judge, and certain in her theory the Judge would be drawn to his mistress if he ever escaped his curse.
Cecily flinched at the vitriolic words as they were spat into her face. ‘I was his mistress.’ She whispered.
‘So you were Pop’s tart then?’ The furious ghost shouted, cackling maniacally.
‘One of them.’ Cecily managed, keeping her eyes on the ground. ‘And you?’
‘Me?’ The angry ghost shrieked, then abruptly seemed to sag, her shoulders slumping as she spoke. ‘I was a mere servant. I washed his clothes, cleaned for him, cared for his wife when she was poorly. And of course attended to his more personal needs, which I hardly need tell you were many and insatiable, he did things to me that only those buried in this cursed piece of ground could imagine, and I accepted it all as my lot. It was submit or be out on the street.’
Cecily looked at the other woman for the first time. ‘You do look somewhat familiar…’
The other woman sniffed. ‘I recall seeing you in the mansion I think.’
‘So did he murder you too?’
The still subdued ghost shook her head sadly. ‘That, and Worse.’
‘What could be worse?’ Cecily regretted the question immediately, she did not want to hear the answer, she felt ashamed that in all these years together, she had barely noticed or talked to any of the poor young girls and women around her, as she wallowed in her own self-pity.
‘He got me pregnant, kept me locked in the attic for the whole time, even paid for a midwife when the time came.’
Cecily simply stared at the floor, at a loss as to where this could possibly be leading.
‘Paid her well, very well indeed to keep silent.’
‘About the child?’
‘Yes about the child, about how the moment the cord was cut, he seized my baby girl and hurled her onto the fire.’
Cecily could think of nothing to say.
The furious ghost glared at the wall of the cellar, in the direction from which her former employer approached. ‘I still hear her screaming you know, every day. She screamed for such a long time.’
The cellar of Dead End, profuse with the spirits of Judge James Popcawn’s victims fell silent.
Outside on Wintermarsh Street, as is now the tradition at Samhain, the Undead Majorettes struck up their parade, dressed in their blue and white leotards, frilled skirts and unsettling American tan tights, they marched up the street, turning seamlessly each time they reached the end to march in the opposite direction. Quite an achievement when playing drums, glockenspiels, flugelhorns and other instruments with unlikely names, their secrets known only to the inner sanctum of the marching band aficionado, More impressive still, when one takes into account the cartwheels, backflips and fiery baton twirling, (yes, you read that correctly, FIERY batons, batons that are on fire), all performed with expert choreography and perfect timing. Staggeringly impressive when one remembers they are all dead, and have been for some years.
The demise of this entire marching band of thirty five young girls remains, to the general populace at least, a story of a tragic accident involving breaking and entering at the church hall (meeting and practice venue for the band), an illicit Christmas party without adult supervision, harmful quantities of cheap Vodka, some red Lebanese hashish, many candles, a lot of combustible curtains, stackable wooden chairs, highly polished parquet flooring, chained fire exits and a locked main entrance. It is assumed the girls locked the main entrance to prevent unwanted adult supervision and keep their party private.
Silly girls, no one to blame but themselves, natural selection in action, some less charitable residents have been heard to mutter.
The blaze was a true inferno, it took hold with dizzying speed and burned with a ferocious intensity, helped considerably by the groundskeeper’s habit of storing large quantities of petrol for his ride on lawnmower in the storage cupboard adjacent to the kitchenette, which to compound matters, contained a gas cooker connected to two large LPG bottles. By the time the first fire appliance arrived, the hall was nothing more than smoking ash and one side of the church tower was scorched black.
One day, maybe I will tell you what really happened that night on the 21st December 1990, that is, if you wish to know.
Fire investigators did not mention the key, the one the girls were thought to have used to lock themselves in, away from the prying eyes of well meaning, interfering, fun-ruining adults. I do not know if they even looked for it, but I know where it is now. It hangs on the keychain of a neighbour of mine, it nestles in plain sight, hanging from his belt loop, next to house keys, car keys, the key to his work locker, and the key to his shed, a shed that contains a pc not connected to the internet, a pc crammed with images of Majorettes. Majorettes occasionally clad in blue and white and tan.
The Majorettes haunt Wintermarsh Street for age-old reason. Vengeance. Those same unseen forces that see fit to allow The Judge his annual step, decree the restless spirits of the Majorettes a similar favour. Once a year, at Samhain, the Majorettes have the ability to interact with the human world, to touch, to feel, to gouge, to maim, perhaps to kill. The girls long to take full advantage of this temporary power, their sights set on one particular denizen of Wintermarsh Street, the depraved factory supervisor with the rattling bunch of keys dangling from his belt loop, the resident of number 17 Wintermarsh Street. Justin Green.
Justin Green is not evil, he is not mentally ill, these things would suggest an absence of choice, that which is purely evil cannot help its state, is not responsible for it, the same may be said of one who is mentally ill, such a person cannot control their impulses, the voices they hear compelling them to commit atrocious crimes are too powerful for their tortured minds to ignore. Justin knows what he has done, what he continues to do, what he will do again. He knows and he enjoys it, he chooses it, embraces it, as some people enjoy bird watching or collecting stamps, Justin enjoys defiling, violating, torturing, and of course, dispatching.
Justin Green is cold, ice cold, ruthlessly efficient, calculating and methodical, he has only ever made one mistake, and he dealt with that in spectacular fiery style without a single accusatory glance being aimed in his direction. He has only one regret, that he was unable to watch the hope disappear from those thirty five pairs of eyes, to see the fear, the realisation, the resignation and finally to see the light flicker out at the final delicious moment.
He does not object to the Majorettes haunting him, laughing at their pathetic attempts to frighten him, appearing to him as they do in the most unexpected of situations, waving their blackened arms and making childish ghost noises. Not that it happens much anymore, they mostly follow him around the house looking sullen and glaring at him when he is watching ‘Strictly’. They cluster around when he is in the bath, or in bed, no doubt trying to embarrass him, he does not care. He quite likes the company.
He knows they wait for Halloween, or Samhain as the Pagans prefer, he also knows, because Justin Green is no fool, that on Halloween, something beyond his comprehension occurs that would enable them to exact their revenge upon him, girls talk, and Justin is always listening. It is not that he feels it is unfair of them for wanting to tear him to pieces and send him to hell, he considers it a perfectly understandable reaction to their situation, it is that he is not ready for hell yet, he has so much more he wants to do. That is why Justin is never at home, or anywhere near Wintermarsh Street for at least twenty four hours either side of midnight on the 31st October each year. To be safe, he usually spends a week in an isolated cottage in North Wales, a small slate building originally owned by his Grandfather, far enough from civilisation to ensure no matter how much noise he or his ‘guests’ might make, they will not be heard.
Justin knows that the Majorettes are unable to leave Wintermarsh street, and this Samhain is no different to any other, Justin is nowhere to be seen, his house is dark and empty, his silver panel van he uses when he goes ‘surfing’ not standing on the street or in the car park at the end of the street.
It seemed odd perhaps, that the Majorettes were performing their march with such gusto, rather than simply going through the motions as had become their habit due to their seemingly hopeless situation. Something had changed, there was real spring in their steps, batons were being twirled with unusual intricacy, backflips were being executed with feeling, they were playing upbeat tunes on their glockenspiels, somebody broke into a freeform solo on their flugelhorn Miles Davis would have been proud of. Strange days indeed.
Joan Fenton, late servant of Judge James Popcawn, Mother to his bastard, murdered child knew why the Majorettes were feeling so perky. She struck a deal with them years ago, she had promised that on the night the Judge finally arrived in Wintermarsh Street, if they helped her to trap him, she would return the favour the following Samhain and ensure that Justin Green is unable to leave the street, leaving him defenceless and at the mercy of the Majorettes. Joan has no idea if she has the power to fulfil her side of the bargain, but her fearsome reputation and the fact that she has been so much longer dead than the Majorettes was enough to convince the young girls that she was capable of fulfilling her promises. Joan did not really believe that this night would ever come, assuming that Justin Green would be long dead by natural causes centuries, if not millennia before The Judge reached Wintermarsh Street.
Something extraordinary had happened however, and The Judge was on his way, she could feel him advancing, she did not know what he had done to escape his curse and she did not care. She was ready, the Majorettes were ready, soon she would be face to face with the black hearted Judge and he would be made to pay for his crimes.
The Majorettes marched and twirled and back flipped feverishly as they launched into a glockenspiel inspired interpretation of ‘Highway to Hell’.
The Judge turned onto Grope Count lane, a location he remembered only too well from his previous life, he shambled onward. At the end of the lane a small wood of native trees still exists, this area had mostly consisted of such spinneys and rough pasture during his lifetime, now he turned onto a terrace of red brick cottages, he noted the name of the row, Wintermarsh Street, at the end of which he knew lay an area special to him, a place he remembered visiting often.
The judge gaped at the sight that met him as he stepped onto the narrow Victorian street, almost all of the houses were decorated with strings of red and green lights, carved pumpkins glowing with flickering candlelight and various other decorations, including a seemingly disproportionate number of crows in varying forms, from lifelike models, to childish paper creations.
However, the most arresting sight was the large group of scandalously attired girls performing various acrobatic tricks and playing strange instruments as they danced towards him.
The troupe stopped before the judge, marching in place, raising their knees as high as possible, well aware the judge would be ogling their young, toned thighs.
The Majorettes had spent enough time in Justin Greene’s company to have seen more internet pornography than they cared to remember, as a result they were confident that their recently altered uniforms, comprising of cropped tops, skirts so short they could more accurately be described as belts, and thigh high boots with killer heels would gain the undivided attention of a sexual predator such as Judge James Popcawn. They were not wrong.
The troupe of slutty Majorettes was every deviant’s dream and distasteful to them as it was, they had set their trap.
The leader of the troupe, Beyoncé Nutbeam, fifteen years old at the time of her death and desired by every boy in school, stopped twirling her baton and held up a hand, at which signal the Majorettes became still and quiet, all eyes on the upright mangled corpse before them, each one of them sensing the corrupt spirit inside the body of the dead driver, seeping from it like pus, they felt the gaze from the single eye, avaricious and depraved. They sensed around him an aura, thick and black, humming like a million plague flies, it buzzed like a swarm as it reached out to them, always connected to his essence like a hive mind, it saw them with millions of eyes, touched them with millions of insectile legs and wings, smothering and sickening them.
‘Hello Pops!’ Beyoncé chimed, smiling broadly and winking in what she hoped was a salacious manner.
‘Er’. Said the judge.
Despite his former lofty position in life, his expensive education, his privileged life and the supposed wisdom gained from his long life, Judge Popcawn walked eagerly into the trap prick first. His engorged desire, gigantic ego and staggering arrogance ensured he did not for one moment question why this beautiful young girl and her friends seemed so intent on him. He followed them without hesitation as they turned smartly and began to march down the street.
Mesmerised by the sight of all the pert derrieres bouncing and wiggling and cartwheeling away from him The Judge stumbled after them, now and then breaking into a precarious stumble as he tried to reach out and grab a shapely buttock. The girls were too nimble however, and always remained a tantalising inch or two away, this only increased his ardour as he shuffled toward his fate.
Shortly, they were at Dead End where the troupe abruptly halted, the door swung silently inward and the girls skipped inside. Movement above grabbed the Judge’s attention away from the objects of his lust, he looked up to see the roof carpeted with Crows, they occupied every available space from the ridge, the chimneys, and the open space of the tiles, each carrion eye seemed to be upon him. He hesitated under the weight of their collective stare, something in his lizard brain stirred, a hesitant voice deep inside his skull warned him that even to take another step would be foolish.
The Judge glanced towards the door of the house named Dead End, a Majorette had dropped a Flugelhorn and had leaned over to retrieve it, she seemed to be struggling to grasp the instrument.
He hurried as best he could, hoping to be of some assistance, his lizard brain falling quiet. In the time it took him to shamble the few yards to where the clumsy Majorette had been wriggling in such a pleasing manner, she had retrieved her instrument and disappeared inside. The Judge lurched into a spacious hallway to find it empty, he hesitated once more, his spirit lizard brain coughed politely in a half-hearted attempt to halt the progress of the Judge, however he was currently being led by an entirely different primitive imperative, one that was currently considerably more compelling after centuries of numbness.
He cast his gaze around in time to see a short blue and white skirt flounce out of view through an open doorway. Once at the door, he took a step through to find himself on the top step of a staircase that disappeared downward into the gloom of an unlit cellar, a cold breeze carrying a miasma of damp and rot reached him from below. There was one last moment of hesitation and he almost backed out into the hallway from which he had just come. It was too late however.
Beyoncé Nutbeam, Nutjob to her friends, glided silently into a position inches behind the judge. ‘Hello again Pops, glad you could make it.’ She placed her hands on his back and shoved. ‘Don’t be shy, go on down and join the party.’
The Judge, inside an already horribly and fatally injured corpse struck the staircase at around it’s halfway point, he screamed in agony as he experienced this final insult on the body of the unfortunate driver, then he was outside of the flesh, nothing but a ghost once more. In the dark, now at the foot of the staircase he heard the door above him slam and something else that sounded suspiciously like a mangled corpse being dragged across a brick floor.
Beyoncé flounced downward, alighting gracefully on the second step, her ample, and barely constrained bosom now directly in line with The Judge’s ravening eyes.
‘You young whore.’ There was no sound, the hijacked vocal chords now no longer available to him, however Beyoncé heard him plainly and felt his lust and rage like a physical thing.
She smiled sweetly, then dropped the façade. The Judge recoiled in horror as he saw her as she really was, as she was the night she died. Her flesh blackened and cracked, her eyes boiled away, lips missing, a pinkish discharge oozing from the cracks in her taught, puckered skin, she shrieked something unintelligible. The Judge heard her only too plainly and felt the rage emanating from her in concussive waves, it made his own anger seem small, insignificant, he turned and ran deeper into the cellar.
He felt, rather than saw that he was pursued by the entire troupe of Majorettes, they shrieked at him, grasping at him with burned, skeletal hands, kicked at him, attempting to trip him, all the while taunting and giggling. His mind reeled, he was nothing but a spirit once more, how could they claw at him, with their terrible talon like fingers? How was he able to smell their awful scorched flesh?
‘Leave me be!’ He screamed as he plunged further still into the gloomy cellar, lunging through a wide, beautifully crafted brick archway into a large vaulted space dimly lit by the glowing tongues of a few sparse candles. The Judge stopped and scanned the room, it was lined from floor to ceiling with wooden racks, filled with hundreds of bottles of wine, many intact, many more smashed and empty. From everywhere sagged Halloween decorations, some clearly decades or even centuries old, the putrid stench of rotting pumpkins filled the air.
Someone, a child perhaps, had been making paper-chain crows for a very long time, they hung from every available vertical service, and almost obscured the ceiling, there were hundreds, perhaps thousands of them whispering quietly, as they fluttered in a cold draught the Judge could not discern the source of.
The Judge glanced behind, the Mob of Malodorous Majorettes shuffled restlessly on the other side of the archway grinning their lipless grins and effectively blocking his way. The stench of their scorched rotting bodies and the sight of their awful injuries nauseated him, he turned his head back to the room before him.
Cecily stood no more than three feet from him, at last, in this dreadful place of spiteful ghosts he had found the one who belonged to him, now she would be his forever, he smiled at her.
‘Hello my love’. He said gently, so as not to startle her. She did not return his smile, nor respond to his words, she only stared blankly at him, the Judge took a step forward and as he did so, noticed a dark shape coalescing from the shadows behind his favourite mistress. The shape appeared to take on the visage of dozens of faces he vaguely recognised before finally settling for one in particular.
Joan Whatsername, he thought. The whore of a servant girl who attempted to ruin me by getting pregnant. The room began to fill with shapes, shapes that became bodies and faces, faces of young girls, some of whom he remembered.
For a moment he felt indignation that these worthless bitches should attempt to intimidate him in this way, the moment was brief however and replaced by another, more appropriate emotion.
The great Judge James Popcawn was afraid. Fear crept over him and enveloped him like a blanket of thorns as Joan Fenton held out her baby, its tiny crisp body issuing steam from wet, pink wounds. From behind him, the Majorettes howled like a wolf pack as he steeled himself for their attack. It did not come, instead they fell silent, the only sound that of paper crows chittering in the draught.
The rustling grew louder, a brittle crackling sound gradually increasing in volume and intensity that at first sounded like a small, hesitant flame set in dry twigs, building quickly to an inferno threatening to consume the entire building and the street beyond. There were no flames however, the sound was of thousands of paper wings brought to impossible life, flapping and slicing at the air in a desperate bid for freedom. The Judge felt it all around him, countless numbers of them flying and swooping and smothering him.
The Majorettes were now in the room with the Judge and his ‘girls,’ They all held a candle, each one sputtered into life simultaneously, illuminating the room and the paper crows that filled it. The paper birds swooped around him, many, to brittle to fly or with broken wings, hopped about the floor on fragile legs. One of the flying crows struck a candle flame and burst into incandescent life, it was swiftly followed by another and another, until every paper crow was alight and illuminating the room as they swooped and pitched through the air, even the floor-bound crows took to the air as the fire gave them life. They flew around the Judge in an ever tightening circle faster, faster, impossibly fast until their shapes were no longer discernible, he was now at the centre of a vortex of spinning fire. They fell on him.
He was sucked into the vortex of fire, his essence torn into thousands of tattered shreds and absorbed by the flames, for a moment the cyclone stopped, hanging in the air, then surged upward through the cellar roof, passing harmlessly through three more floors, the attic and the roof of the house, then high into the night sky where it burst like a gigantic, golden firework, the thousands of resultant sparks transforming into crows, real crows now, cawing loudly as they fluttered gently onto the roof of ‘Dead End’.
The Majorettes faced Joan in the dark, Joan nodded once at them, even favoured them with a small bow to acknowledge her thanks and her debt. The Majorettes turned and trooped upstairs, then outside where they paused to gaze up at the roof, which seemed to pulse with the bodies of thousands of restless crows.
‘What do you think would be a suitable collective noun for that many crows?’ Mused one of the girls, little Shaznay Blenkinsop the troupe’s most accomplished flugelhorn player.
Beyoncé gave it some thought. ‘A Clusterfuck.’ She said. ‘A Clusterfuck of Crows.’
‘I like it.’ Said Shaznay approvingly. ‘Do you think the crows would help us next Halloween, you know, with Justin?’
‘Better get busy with the paper and the scissors little lady.’ Said Beyoncé with a smile.
‘Hmm, sounds like a lot of hard work.’
Judge James Popcawn surveyed the scene below him through thousands of pairs of eyes, heard the conversation through thousands of pairs of ears, then with a disorienting lurch he was flying, his spirit in ragged tatters borne by a clusterfuck of crows high above the streets of his home town. He flew over St John’s Church and stared with nauseating compound vision into the sad face of his wife as she raised her eyes toward him, understanding her vigil was and always had been, in vain.
The crows carried him over his old home, the mansion on the hill, they swooped him low over familiar chimneys, his senses assailed by the cacophony of televisions from the many studio flats now contained within the old walls. Out of town then, toward Lickham Bottom hill and on to the copse containing his other worldly prison, the crows cawed loudly as they pitched downward, he felt the terrified and bewildered spirit of the car driver rush through him as he plummeted in the opposite direction toward the ground.
There was a vast impact of fire and feathers as the crows screamed in triumph, then perfect silence. Pop stood directly above his purgatorial grave, straining to hear something with his own two ears, to see with just two eyes.
‘Take your step Popcawn.’ A voice that seemed to emanate from everywhere at once commanded. ‘See you next year.’
The following mocking laughter sounded like rolling thunder that the Judge thought might tear his mind apart, he took his step just to make it stop.
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