Welcome to Mewlips Country - 01 - Door-to-Door

by Polydicta

Set in a world somewhere between the Marsh of Tode (The Mewlips) and a Lovecraftian English village, something lurks. Ongoing warnings for smut, language, character death, bashing, torture, mutilation and reader brain-damage. Brain bleach recommended.

Disclaimer:

While this file contains (semi-)original works (Copyright by myself), I cannot guarantee the originality of all of the plot elements - having read so much over the years, some of it is bound to come bubbling out again.

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Welcome to Mewlips Country - 01 - Door-to-Door

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It was getting late, and the sisters, Agnes and Beatrice Scumble had reached the final cottage in the village. Their pastor had set them the task of bringing The Word to this benighted village.

Only a few people had answered their doors at the duo's knock, few had been interested in what they had to say, several had been most uncouth in their rejection of the pair's approaches. Such was the burden of those who brought The Word to the ungodly masses.

They left their car, a pristine, 1968 Morris Traveller (just one careful owner from new), at the end of the path and, passing through the ancient, wooden gate bearing the name Rowan Leigh, along a stone path that wound through a well established cottage garden arrived at an ancient cottage. The cob and stone walls bulged, the deep-set windows were tiny with small, cross-lattice glass panes that scowled out from under an enormous thatched roof. The strange geometry of the building told of extensions, demolitions, modifications and changes across perhaps a millenium of constant occupation.

Their notes, drawn from the Electoral Register suggested that the occupant was a Miss Alison Gross.

The two doorstep preachers heard steps inside the cottage. The ancient, studded oak door creaked inward revealing a woman wearing an old-fashioned black dress and, of all things, a voluminous grey cloak with a hood. The woman appeared to be in her mid twenties and was no beauty by any stretch of the imagination. Beatrice thought that the woman looked like a blacksmith's daughter - strong, solid ... rugged.

"Are you here for the sabbat?"

The spokeswoman, Agnes, spoke up. "Good evening, Miss Gross, have you let The Lord into your life yet ... ?"

The homeowner smiled and Beatrice crinced inside. "Why don't you come in? You're a little early, so we're not quite ready for you, but I'm sure we can make a little sacrifice..."

The door closed on the woman's words with a rather final click.

The silence of the countryside once more ruled ... at least until the screaming started.

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