All Praise onto Thee
Coven cohorts assembled; hands held hellbound. The skull knows more… more than those thoughts of thine. Somewhere, at some time, a banshee cried abashed… who in heaven hailed with that wail? Bleed onto me! All praise onto thee! A blood drop dripped summoning the demise of the ritual - it had all passed as wished: a mockery, no less - performed to appease the thrill seeking youths who has assembled at Gary Kingston’s country house. Though Melissa Thornby had seen more in those minutes than ever in her youth: an enlightenment in the murky smouldering rivers of smoke that charred upwards into her; nostril channeled into a mind henceforth filled with dark thoughts that would realise themselves in the slaying of Henry Maston and Ulrika Johnston, her flatmates, that eve. Oh, Gary, how could you be so careless? Oh, Melissa, how could you be so carefree?