The mysterious new squire at Branford Hall already had the locals talking: the village’s social highlight of the year had been moved! The previous squire had been a stout defender of tradition, and the longest day of the year always meant the Masquerade Ball. Through winter and spring the villagers, rich and poor, would work on their costumes. It was a night when, no matter who you were, you were an equal: the flower lady from outside the Green Goose public house was just as likely to be dancing with the squire as his good lady wife.
From longest day to longest night – the move certainly ruffled more than a few feathers. However, they all still attended, even battling through swirling snows to reach the manor. Once inside, the seasons were quickly forgotten. The new squire was a most obliging host. Roaring fires warmed once frozen bones, drink flowed merrily and freely. Lord and Lady, Mr and Mrs danced and laughed all night.
On the stroke of twelve it was time for the unmasking. As was tradition, the squire and his family were first to reveal themselves. A gasp went around the hall: the squire was as white as a sheet. His silk gloves peeled off to reveal pale boney fingers. His family were similarly off colour.
The squire slowly licked his cracked, red lips before two gleaming fangs clicked down into place.
‘Feast young ones,’ he ordered, as the warm, smoky air was suddenly filled with bloody screams and the aching of satisfied, thousand year old bellies.
These words form my entry into this week’s Sunday Photo Fiction challenge. It is over the 200 word limit, but as it’s the first story for the new site, and Al is a fan of the subject matter, I thought ‘what the heck’!