With Halloween just around the corner, I thought I'd post a very short P&P piece about spooky goings on at Hunsford. I designed this as the prologue to a larger story - which I may even one day get around to writing - but I think it works on its own. This is my first piece of creative writing in about 30 years, so feedback is very welcome.

Kent, October 1812

They wondered afterwards if he’d sensed it was coming. If there had been some sign, some omen, foretelling of his fate. Had the owl screeched thrice outside his window, or the black dog crossed his path? Had he glimpsed the blue-lit candle; watched it, dancing in delight, as it hunted for his grave? Had he looked up, into that ink black sky, and seen it wished to swallow him whole?

If asked, Mr Collins would have scoffed at such talk of signs and portents. After all he was a clergyman, the chosen of the great Lady Catherine de Bourgh. So he trod on, uncaring of all around him, on that last, lonely walk along the lanes of Hunsford. He didn’t stop at the old willow tree, to hear if its branches whispered out his name. He didn’t notice the shadows move, shifting fickle and quick, like long fingers reaching to grab him from thin hands.

His mind was otherwise engaged. He was thinking of the torment of sinners, of the final judgement and the eternal fire, of the weeping and the gnashing of teeth.

The wind bit hard that night, the earth frost beneath his feet. He was cold. Cold and tired. He felt it more and more these days. He felt it in his bones. Sleep too often eluded him. That night he’d been too unsettled to rest. He could still scarcely believe what had happened. How they had defied him, made a fool of him. To punish them would be right. It would be just. On the morrow he would tell it all to Lady Catherine. She would know how to act.

He stumbled and let out a curse. It was then that he heard it. A scratching and a scraping, and then a long, low sound. Almost a moan. It had come from the barn to his left, the one where he kept his tithes. A place no man should be.

The noise came again, higher now, sharper.

The heavy oak door creaked as he pushed it open. He slowly moved inside.

‘Hello’, he called. ‘‘What goes on here’?

It was pitch black. All was still. Still, and black, and mocking.

He felt the ice run down his back, and the bumps rise upon his flesh. He could hear nothing now. Only his heart, as it hammered faster and faster inside his chest.

He wanted to run, but something gripped his legs. He wanted to shout, but something stilled his tongue.

He held his lantern aloft before him, a light to drive away the darkness.

That was when he saw the eyes.