Mr. Darcy had enjoyed the wait. The world sliding by was always an interest to him, and he enjoying the occasional pat from passers-by, plus the odd tit bit that was infrequently offered up to “such a good dog”.
His dietary intake of souls was well looked after. Many a lone, and wayward, pedestrian of the two and four legged variety had succumbed to his wiles and terrible ferocity. Blood was a far superior tipple to water he had always believed.
Yet, it wasn’t ‘her’ tree, hence the attachment of a date to place to person made it slightly more difficult to nail Gentle Annis down to.
Still at the magnificent oak, he walked twice around it, and then trotted off to the paddock beyond the big tree, jumped through the tumble down wooden fence.
Mr. Darcy reached the well. It was an old friend really. Since the well had been dug, very few people had used it for extended periods. Locals throughout time gave it a wide berth. Too often had a wife and mother not returned from the daily grind of drawing and carrying water. Many a berated child had gone, never to return home, but always good enough to leave the wooden water carrying vessel somewhere near the well. All were assumed to have fallen to their deaths within the freezing, black embrace of the slime coated stone confines of the well. And, some had had this as a fate. But far from all.
Mr. Darcy did what the well could not. The well couldn’t chase children to exhaustion, all the while working along the lines of a sheep or cattle dog. Pushing, driving those before them either into culverts or holes nearby. Those damned souls, reduced to tangles of bloody, screaming, and often broken limbs, with nothing more than a pathetically feeble fight and scream left in them.
There were occasions when he felt he was due slightly more upbeat sport than would be generally encountered. With that he would guide his desired cuisine away from holes, toward the fence, and then drive them back to the well. He would let them run, cat and mouse, to the fence, and then bring them back to the well again and again and again, and hope in his horrible black heart of hearts they would succumb and throw themselves in.
When they did, Mr. Darcy was in his most favoured element. Sometimes he would join the poor wretch in the water, chasing them and worrying them until they finally went under, at which point he would dive below, bringing the near drowned to the air of salvation, or the air of prolonged agony and despair. Over and over and over.
At last, when the near drowned had just started to pass out, giving up on the chance of further life, preferring the option of death to the one that was ultimately the same thing, just the much slower and exceedingly more painful option, that was Mr. Darcy.
Mr. Darcy would blur, and the drowned would imagine themselves lifted from their watery grave by an angel, or some hypoxic hallucination of a bird to return life back to their weary bones. All too exhausted to realise that it was Mr. Darcy himself that extracted them from a certain watery grave. Once back on the ground, he would slowly eat them alive with utmost relish. Fingers hands, women, children, those too weak to prevent it. No more screams, blank eyes staring beyond the rim of submission and despair. After sport and limb were spent, Mr. Darcy would lovingly, gently, roll them onto their chests, and chew through the spine at the junction of the base of the skull, eliciting one last primal howl from the beaten. The soul would be drawn out, long and slender and the length of the spinal cord. Variously coloured in accordance with the moral fibre of the slain. Darcy would dine on that, the soul, his most favoured part; the finest cuisine of all. And in his opinion the very finest of the finest cuisine was the souls of children. Tender and young.
The remaining parts of the beaten went into the well a piece at a time, this, his preferred aquatic carnal pit.
Then he would sleep.
He was a good dog.
Time moved. Night, and then day, and now it was day, and Mr. Darcy felt magnificent, invigorated, well rested, and better fed. He dined twice more last night. He would need the protein and energy for today. He hoped it would be a long day. He loved the sport. He was a terrier, could anyone expect less?
Mr. Darcy climbed back through the tumble down fence, chased a moth, and then moved onto the great oak. On reaching it, he ran around it twice looking for the best place to climb it. Once he had figure that out he climb up via knot holes and scribbly bark to the point where them limb vacated the trunk, and walked its own path. Mr. Darcy stepped along the branch that was roughly the girth of a horse, until he reached the halfway point between trunk and end. He then abruptly lay down. Legs extended directly ahead of him, head up, ears pricked. He moved from happy Fox Terrier looking for sport, to beast struggling to maintain thin veneer of dog.
‘Patient’ wasn’t a strong enough description for Mr. Darcy’s trembling state of heightened readiness.
Gentle Annis felt it centuries away.
You. I know you. You worry. You worry so much about what those around you think of you. So much so, that you, YOU, feel sick at the thought. You, doing your very best to fade into every back ground available to you. You think you are ‘odd’. You believe you are not good enough. I know you. And YOU are wrong. YOU inspire me. Thank you, YOU. Click the picture or it will remain un-clicked and nothing else will happen. Throw your arms around me.
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