“Twenty years ago, the Manor had far more
tenants than today. When not in Parliament, I was a
personable country gentleman, and I think I was a fair
landlord. A number of shacks housed laborers beyond the
North Ridge, and at the foot of the Ridge dwelt my stable
keeper, with his beautiful wife and two young children. I
was most fond of them, and he was an impeccable hand
with the horses. I would have his family to the Hall on
Christmas each year.
“Ah, but what occurred took place at Samhain—
Halloween. I became aware that the good laborers beyond
the Ridge had borne wicked offspring who were
blossoming into wretched young adults. Rumors swirled
that a group of them had studied the Black Arts and
formed a coven of sorts to practice not nature-worshiping
Wicca but the darkest possible witchcraft. I would have
ignored the gossip if my sheep had not started to
disappear.
“Determined to evaluate this pagan horde for
myself, I rode out to the North Ridge at midnight on All
Hallow’s Eve. Even from afar, I could see they had set a
gigantic bonfire at the very crest of the hill. They were
dancing and softly chanting as they circled the flames hand
in hand. I continued watching from a near copse of trees
for some minutes, debating if I should ignore their ritual,
when suddenly one of them raised his arms, holding a
knife in one hand and my prize lamb in the other.
“Enraged, I spurred my horse into the open and
rapidly crossed the elevation between us. They screamed
and scattered into the night, the tunics they had been
wearing flying like smoke around them. As I reached the
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