That night I ascended to the forest. I knew and clearly understood that I had been told not to, but I just wanted to ensure that Charlie was alright. It was a clear night. The moon was somewhere between a half-moon and a full-moon: a waxing gibbous Mr Jones had called it. There was some sort of shape on the moon, and it put me very much in mind of a rabbit, but since darkness covered the other half of it, for the life of me I couldn’t precisely determine what the rest of the shape even was. One thing I can tell you is that the moon, to my knowledge and experience, most definitely does not have a face on it.

I mostly kept to the darker parts of the forest, the undergrowth and the bushes, that sort of thing. They made gentle rustling sounds when I came through them. Beside from the fact that the wind rustled in the trees, there was no other noise. The forest was unnervingly quiet tonight. Too quiet even. One would have expected to see animals here, but unfortunately there weren’t any to be seen. No deer, no owls, no spiders, nothing. I immediately found myself remembering what the gentleman on the train had said. “Even animals avoid the area.” I’d often assumed that he was exaggerating, even on the first three weeks of my stay in the village, and it was quite, quite obvious that he was wrong. But he’d also told me not to go into the forest, everyone else had as a matter of fact.

Lights! Yes, there were lights, coming through the trees. They were moving. From far off, in the distance, the sound of drums and ululation could be very faintly heard. I must admit the first occurrence of noise in this eerily quiet wood scared me just a bit. I found myself crawling under a log in terror. I raised my head again to find that the lights were still moving at a very slow pace, and that the ululation was the same. Those noises could not be made by wild animals. No! They had to be made by humans. What was important to me was finding out what exactly was making these noises. Slowly, taking great care not to make any noise lest I should be discovered, I walked through the forest. The nettles did sting, but I mostly just ignored the pain. I wasn’t going to let a cry of pain give me away. I took great care to walk in parallel to the lights, and I held my breath in order not to be given away. In hindsight, I feel that must have been a poor decision, but you have to remember that I was a child at the time all of this occurred.

I walked up through the darkness, and eventually came out on the edge of a clearing. The clearing was mostly empty, except for a large slab of marble at the edge of it. I suspect it must have been used for some kind of altar. I’d seen those kinds of slabs of marble in the local cathedral I would sneak into after school, the ones with those candlesticks burning on them, along with their gigantic copies of the Bible and things like that. I hid behind a bush on the edge of the clearing and waited for what would happen. I didn’t really think anything would happen, at any rate. I thought it had to be my imagination.

As it turned out, the clearing was eventually filled by all sorts of people. I almost wanted to vomit when I recognised the fact that every single one of the people who were congregating here all made up the entire resident body of the village. They weren’t even dressed in some sort of special wear. Rather, most of them were dressed in the clothes they would usually wear every day, with perhaps the noted exception of three people who were dressed in black robes with pointed hoods. Those robes bore pictures of crescent moons on them. This had to be some kind of ceremony. I supposed this explained why there wasn’t a vicar or a village in the church. There didn’t need to be one, because the residents of the village didn’t follow that kind of religion. They followed a different one.

Messrs Harris and Wilson came onto the scene, bearing large staves with acorns on the end of them – I think I heard my history teacher call them thyrsoi – and they were dressed in white masks bearing the likenesses of skulls, although they were no more like a skull than a plastic doll is like a real human being. At the head of the congregation stood Mr Jones, the village postman, dressed in his usual blue suit. There was some muffled wailing, and the crowd parted. Even in the dim light, which was provided by several torches burning around the altar, I could very faintly make out the outline of Charlie Raymond, fifth son of the Duke of Somerset, struggling against the bonds that were tied to him. I watched with some sort of shock as he was led to the altar and placed upon it. Mr Jones inhaled and began.

“And so, our foremothers began our journey to righteousness when they demonstrated to the residents of Limehouse the great mission our goddess had given us. Today, on this waxing gibbous, we celebrate another week in reverence of our beloved Change – the beautiful and kind one, Our Lady of the Moon, whom the hypocritical easterners no longer worship, we who know the truth, we who deserve that great and bounteous reward that our sovereign goddess shall give to us, and we shall overthrow that softie queen and Prince Consort and install a new throne – a throne of reason – our reason! – and a throne of knowledge – our dignified knowledge – and even do so unto the entire world, including those unconverted fools of the USSR! The time will come when even the gods will send us a happier hour, but the Revered Lady of the Moon will dispel, with our help, the evil ones and the rest of the Gomorrah Outside, just as she did when the nuns broke those stupid bonds that had bound them from mating with sons to continue the line.

“Now, we sacrifice a toff, one of those fools who consider themselves superior to us in every single way, one of those who surely oppressed our Generous Lady before she drank the immortality potion, she who deserved the entire thing. Here in darkness, O goddess, accept the blood of this rich fool, let his barns burn beneath the light of your gaze, and of the gaze of thy helper and alchemist, Roger Parsmith, who doth brew at his mortar and pestle in thy great Cold, Vast Palace. Here in darkness! Here in darkness!”

Wilson and Harris grabbed their staves with both hands and raised them up and down, chanting, “Here in darkness! Here in darkness! Here in darkness!” over and over again. Something about this whole thing made me feel somewhat unwell. I looked around and realised that it wasn’t just the men of the village who were present, but the women too. Even Mrs Nollys and Mrs Scratch, the two spinsters were there, sharing what appeared to be a kiss. No! I thought. They shouldn’t be kissing! It feels unnatural! While it felt unnatural at the time, I later found out that some women liked doing it. Anyway, all of this made me feel sick. I wanted to vomit into the bush, but I knew that doing so would give the game away and leave me at the mercy of these people. This can’t be happening! I thought! Please don’t let it be happening! But unfortunately it was happening, and there was nothing I could do to stop it.

Mr Jones walked around the altar and stood over the rich kid, who was struggling pointlessly against his bonds. “And now, rich twit,” he snarled, “who’s paying the rent? Fool. Did you honestly think we’d let you get off scot-free and report us to the bloody police? It would be better – and much more amusing to our purposes - to kill you and provide C----e with the nourishment her Luniness requires. Unfortunately, we have to do this anyway, so that the moon goddess can be appeased. But, when you are dead, and once the goddess has eaten your blood, and once your soul has descended to Hades, you can tell anyone you like down there what happened to you. You can even tell Pluto himself. It won’t affect us here! Because you won’t hinder our divine mission. You will lose your own life, and you shall not expose us before our mission, which we received from the heavens above, is complete, a fate which you shall never live to see. Armed with that foreknowledge, despair and die!” He raised what appeared to be a knife. Even in the light, I could see the glint coming off the blade, a sun sparkling within the night. It looked like one of those Arabic knifes, or one of those things that science fiction books called “Chris-knives” – one of those long, curved affairs you’d think the blacksmith would have a personal obsession with when it comes to ensuring they’re both useful and a work of art.

With one final holler of “DIIIEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!” he drove it straight down towards the rich kid. There came a sound of gagging and choking, and an unpleasant sound of blood being spilled. The final gasps of Charlie Raymond were all too brief, but they were enough to convince me that the unfortunate rich kid was well and truly dead. I cupped one hand to my mouth and felt my eyes bulge. Already my vision was beginning to dim, because my eyes felt misty and wet. Quietly, I crept back into the forest and hid under the log again, and there, outside of the company of the others, I was free to let loose a gasp of horror.