A Demon In The Mist

A DEMON IN THE MIST

The following story/legend is based on a true story I discovered around two years ago…it is now told in my own words:

On a dark winter’s night in the seventeenth century, a meddling old parson took his leave from the ‘Black Cat’s Lair Tavern’, which nestled in the heart of the tiny hamlet of Vixon Tor.

Fuelled with drunken courage, he hastened across the heather moorland of Dartmoor, where a tide of fine mist spilled across the heath and the valleys between the rugged hills.

His long, white hair streamed out from his wide face as a sharp, northeast wind, swept down from the hillside.

He held out his oil lamp, which flickered and blazed its light
across his path to the last unpilfered Kistvaen (Bronze Age tomb, above ground).

Dead, slimy heather squelched beneath the parson’s feet as he trudged up the hillside. Suddenly, the full disc of the moon appeared from behind dark, floating shadows in the gloomy sky. Its light cast a silver glow over the parson’s face, lined like cracked clay as he sniggered to himself.

High on the crest ahead of him – was the tomb…illuminated and standing in all its ancient glory. Shimmering beads of mist – clung to the grey granite, like lichen.

The parson gazed in wonder. He imagined the hoard of relics he would soon discover and made a mad, scrambling dash towards it.

His eyes were wide and shining like fluorite rocks, as they fleeted over the chiselled warning on the tomb:

WHOSOEVER PLUNDER OR DISQUIET ME WILL PERISH AT THE HANDS OF THE DEMONESS – DELEPITORE – IN A ROARING MOMENT SHE SHALL RISE AND DO MY WILL.

The parson tossed his head back and burst into a roar of laughter. He thought of all the pilferers in the past, who had stumbled upon the tomb and scattered after reading its curse.

He then scanned the ground. At the foot of a huge, dead oak tree, which stood like a sentinel over the tomb, lay a thick branch.

He placed his lamp on the ground and grabbed the stick; he then turned to the tomb and drove it under the lid. He thrust and jammed his heavy bulk behind it – until at last; it was sent crashing to the ground.

The parson stood back, licking his dry lips…he then picked up the lamp and peered into the Kistvaen.

Before his eyes lay the remains. A black tunic clung to the headless skeleton and bronze sandals with bone clasps, covered the tarsals. The skull with the lower jaw removed was placed beside the left femur. Scattered around the tomb, were rowan twigs, a broken knife blade, and two pieces of iron pyrite.

‘Ha! A sorceress I have before me,’ he said.

Suddenly lightening streaked across the dark sky and a huge buzzard took flight from the oak tree.

The parson leapt back, but then scowled in anger at the menacing skies, and jabbed his fist in the air.

The parson then placed his large, hand inside the tomb. Trembling with anticipation, he ran his fingers over the jagged edges of a tablet laying on the breastbone. He removed it carefully and looked over the ciphers of the ‘burning flame’ and the ‘winged skull’.

‘Oh come!’ he bellowed, raising the tablet above his head. ‘How will your wicked hand fall on me? …Come! – come forth and do your -’

Before he could finish his tirade of words – a blast of thick, pungent mist rolled across the crest of the hill and surrounded him.

Suddenly, almighty thunder began raging across the sky like a dam bursting from every crack of its walled prison.

The parson threw down the plaque and gripped his throat…dropping to his knees as the noxious smog began to suffocate him.

Hardly able to believe what was happening, he reached out his arms to the sky and prayed to be saved by a God he had never believed in…so his words just tumbled to the ground…the echoes waning in the damp, bitter air.

Legend has it, the Parson was never seen again.

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By, J Reynolds (aka – eyepriestess)
copyright 2009 @ World Mysteries And True Ghost Tales.