Durst dreamt that night he was wandering across windswept plains before reaching the spot where the monumental blue flames burned on Saturday night. The conflagration gone; though the pit dug by the Stranger and his kin remained, as did the bones, and that odd chest the clandestine excavation aimed to reach.

A headless man sat on the edge of that hole.

Like the Roundhead he wore a dented breastplate though his sleeves were sky blue and spangled with white—a blood-stained white-collar hung neatly down over the metal, surrounding his clean-cut stump of neck. It was a Cavalier's corpse then—restless too—fingers encased in brown leather riding gloves tapped upon whichever surface they rested. Booted feet occasionally kicked a spur into the wall of dirt.

When Godric came near enough to spy over the edge—didn't realize he was moving until he stopped—the corpse sprang down into the hole and began to pace about the hole.

The thing was circling its own head with quick steps.

And that displaced cranium of his sat upon the lacquered, ornate chest—a face peering from beneath a wide feathered brim. A stake was driven it's into the mouth—holding it down—fixed to the wood beneath.

This was every bit as restless as the body—a tongue protruded from beneath that stake, winding in unheard speech. Sallow cheeks twitched and grimaced while eyes of true cat's green careened about in their shadowed sockets. Blood pooled around the head and dribbled down the chests sides.

From time to time the wandering corpse would snatch at that head—but it could never seem to get a sufficient grip if the fingers even found it at all—and time and again the head remained pinned despite the frantic pawing.

Soon Godric stood upon the edge of the hole, and those cat-green eyes locked upon him and did not budge. There was something in his pocket too—it began to poke and wiggle. The body too turned to face him with hands clasped behind it's back at the first movement. The severed cheeks began to twitch and rise in greats heaves—the eyes ever-locked and unblinking while a tongue sucked the metal.

With a hand barely his own Durst pulled what writhed from his pocket—a human index finger—twitching and wiggling to draw little lines in his now blood covered palm.

The corpse before him moved once again. With a swift hand it yanked off the leather that encased the other. Raised before Durst a large, meaty hand with but three fingers and a thumb—the index finger missing. Blood poured from the stump.

Laughter louder than any noise he'd ever heard assaulted him from every angle—deep and chortling. Pounded at his ears and penetrated his mind in time with the cheeks throb. He screamed under its might but could not even hear that—even when he threw his hands to his ears.

But then he awoke with a start that knocked the sheets from his bed. Heart pounding, he sat up and stared at the noon-day glow from beyond his window. It was only eleven in the morning.

There then came a small plink from his kitchen counter that almost stopped his breath again and erased any notion of further sleep despite him only laying to it at nine 'o'clock that morning.

Godric stood—heart still pounding—turned in bed to face the kitchenette. A small bowl now held the objects Alan pressed upon him, which had been shoved into a corner and almost forgotten. From this the little finger bone leaped.

It now rested in the very center of the tile surface.

Durst dared not touch it.

Instead, an odd impulse struck him, and he pulled a glass down from the cupboard and dropped it upside down over the human remain—as though it were a stinging insect he wished to arrest.

Left it sitting there and come one'o'clock that afternoon Godric stood near the edge of the same hole he'd dreamt of. Yellow police tape pressing against his chest as he peered through trees to the pit. Days past since the events of azure fire and the place was deserted. Despite there ever-present foot-prints no police or others lingered—the bones scooped up and taken away—the chest too. A small bull-dozer even sat near the tracks of numerous other vehicles to make the hole disappear once the police gave the all clear.

Public curiosity about this ended as soon as it began because forensics dated them as some time between 1400 and 1700. No serial killers at play and no mystery that was likely to be solvable.

"BONES NOT RECENT!"

That was the headline, beneath it ran:

"MASS GRAVE BELIEVED TO BE CENTURIES OLD."

Beneath that—in yet smaller script—read:

"CAUSE OF FIRE UNDETERMINED—ARSON RULED OUT"

Earlier, while he'd crawled up the road to the fire sight another car came careening down and nearly slammed into him. A quick swerve on his part avoided this. In the second it took for the driver to honk he'd seen Mary Lithgow grinning at the wheel—swerving it round and round like a drunk—and made a mere half-second's worth of eye contact with a terrified and white-faced intern next to her before they shot past him and took the next turn with recklessness that made Durst stop his car and listen, window down. Heard no smash, and went on his way, wondering if he ought to inform the police.

Then as he made his way back through the woods after examining the hole, he'd once again met Walter. The somewhat chunky man stood leaning against a tree near to his property and on the edge of the meadow, at the center of which stood the clump of trees where the hole lay. He had a cocktail glass full of what appeared to be iced tea but smelt like gin.

Greeted Durst cautiously—seemed to take a moment to recognize him—but they got to talking anyway. Durst asked if he knew anything of the history of this area, and Walter revealed himself as something of an expert—an unschooled historian—and that his wife often boasted he knew more about Clemsworth's history than anybody else living and that he ought to write a book on it. That he'd even stumped arrogant old Johnathon Beck—the often-absentee chief historian at the museum.

Durst then asked if he of anything that might connect with Saturday's events. Walter had been smiling and jovial at first but then his face straightened out and he became grave—attentive.

"Actually, I'd known there'd been something of a skirmish here in the summer of 1648..." said Walter, pausing to gaze at the trees and hole before sipping from his glass, "...Or rather near to here. Never thought it would literally be in my back yard."

"D'you know why there'd be a chest?" said Godric. "Or what might be in it? Were they bandits?"

Walter clicked his tongue, and stared a moment longer, before saying, "I guess no, not really. Though it's a confusing incident you know. Yesterday afternoon I re-read a lengthy letter from the era sent by a captain at a nearby garrison. This captain said that it was at first thought to be royalist forces... Or rather a royalist officer perhaps leading some sort of irregular militia band on a guerilla-type action or some such nonsense."

"Why is it nonsense?"

Walter smiled, "This is where things get a tad medieval. You see some self-styled witch-hunter exposed them to the garrison. Claimed they were witches in disguise seeking to do some deviltry and that he'd tracked the band all the way from the west, but such weren't always the most scrupulous fellows you know."

"Saw the movie," murmured Godric.

Walter smiled and said, "This one wasn't Hopkins or anything but still might not have been honest. My first thought when I read it before all this was that he was trying to exploit the civil wars to make business for himself. But maybe he wasn't."

Durst glanced at him, but he needed no further prompting.

"The captain gathered a small force and along with this witch-hunter they tracked this pseudo-royalist band to the woods—these woods exactly I suppose," he smirked then and looked back, "I bet they even came up the road we have now... D'you think? But anyway, they found them all digging," he gestured with his three-quarters empty glass, "Right over there... Must have been."

Walter seemed amazed as he said it and continued with an almost dreamy lilt after a gulp, "It all happened quite literally over there," he smiled, "History right at your doorstep." A sigh followed. "Is this how it feels to live near Waterloo?"

"Digging?" prompted Durst.

"But they'd only just begun the task," the lilt remained, fading as he continued, "The captain and his force approached them, and soon as they were spotted—must've been in those trees," he pointed with his glass, managing to slosh it. "These false-royalists let loose some muskets at 'em and they were off to the races. Now that little island of trees would've been a half-decent defensive spot," Walter paused a moment, "If it was even there at the time I mean! And the fact the band didn't know how to use it very well made the captain think maybe they weren't royalists after all—poorly trained if they were—you follow? He managed to pry them from their position with ease and overcame the meager force with the death of only one of his number—few others lightly wounded—even though they were about even size-wise. Captains reckons he had a little less than them actually."

"What sort of soldiers did this captain have?" said Godric with a squint, think of one falling dead. Perhaps shot in the head. Had an urge to glance around for things with red sleeves and green hats creeping through the underbrush.

"Oh..." said Walter, "Was a Parliamentarian of course. This was deep in their territory, you know?"

"Roundheads," said Godric. His voice was low.

"Very likely. Anyway, well over-half of this band was killed in the skirmish—though their numbers were always uncertain. The witch-hunter said between ten and twenty when he came to the garrison, and then when the fight happened eight of them died, three were captured and a few more slipped away in the chaos. Not many—and two of them were found and captured days later. Could've been more though."

"So, who were they then?" said Durst, "Royalists or no?"

"Doesn't look they were true Royalists to my eye," said Walter. "They did have a captain of their own who dressed as a royalist—those feathered hats and dandy attire, I mean. But this person was never identified as one positively—may indeed have been an imposter. The Roundhead captain managed to do it himself too—the kill I mean—boasted in his letter that he severed his head with one stroke from astride his horse. Stuck his body in a gibbet and left his head on display near the garrison's main redoubt."

The words sped up Godric's heart rate.

Walter continued, "Two of the captured men later broke and apprised their names and all save one of the captured were identified as scum."

"Huh?" said Durst, roused from a dark reverence.

"They were street thugs essentially—or seemed to be. Believed to be bandits in fact—accused of hideous crimes in multiple parts. Another captured man—he appeared to have some authority in the group—claimed they were under the orders and command of a certain Royalist officer. That proved a mistake. The captain thought it a thin story as this man they claimed as master was known to him—the very man the letter was addressed to had slain him at Naseby three years prior! Stranger yet was that on the persons of a few of the living—and dead—were objects meant to be used in witchcraft. At least according to the witch-hunter. The captain didn't go into detail besides that. All the captured were later hung."

Godric nodded at this, and asked, "What were they digging for—or burying perhaps?"

"The captain didn't say in his letter," Walter shrugged, "And that's the only primary source I've ever seen on this incident."

"Have the police told you the box was?"

"Oh, yes—artifacts apparently—probably from a monastery given their type. A few interesting pieces, according to Mary. Shipped them off to the museum only a little while ago. Took the bones to forensics and will probably give them over to researchers in time."

"That's it?"

"Well yes, why shouldn't it be?"

"That was the prize this band of thugs died for?"

"Maybe it meant something to them?" said Walter with a shrug. "People had odd values sometimes back then."

"Well," the answer repulsed Durst—too simple—and he asked, "What about the blue fire—the two men digging it up again? Were they latter-day Royalists hoping they'd find Cromwell's skull to shit in?"

Walter grimaced at the joke, and Durst immediately regretted telling it, but Walter said, "No. They've gotten away as far the police can tell. Probably won't be much of an investigation honestly, especially since they can't charge them with arson or much else beyond trespassing and perhaps theft or conspiracy or something. Those might not even stick at trial, honestly."

Godric stood silent for a time and asked if they knew the cause of the fire. They didn't. He was on the verge of leaving, when Walter said, "It really is damn strange though."

"Definitely," murmured Godric.

"You know I was disturbed a tad when you arrived that night—because sometimes I people moving about at night. Sometimes they knock on my door even—but no one was ever there. Thought you were it when it was all happening."

"That happen often?"

"No—couple times a year. It'd go on like that for a few nights straight and then stop like it came. Inexplicably."

"Which..." began Godric reluctantly, "...nights were those? Any in particular?" He dreaded the answer, and part of him already knew it.

Walter smiled, and said, "This is where it gets spooky—has me at wit's end sometimes! The noises always happened around the big witch-holidays. Maybe that band of thugs and their officer really were witches in disguise then, eh?"

"When's that?" said Godric, "That doesn't mean much to me."

"Oh! Last time was May Day Eve—Walpurgisnacht—that's the last night of April. It's the really big one to witches, bigger than Halloween actually."

"When did it begin?" Godric's mind was moving in a whirling storm.

"Three, four nights before the eve."

"Did it always come... The same way?"

"Yep—why?"

"I've experienced things similar," his voice was quiet and grave. "I work alone at night and on those same nights as you said, I experience things too. Noises about the museum."

"The Clemsworth Museum?"

"Yes."

"Oh, that must be a lovely place to work," said Walter with newly appraising eyes. "You must know Mary Lithgow—a lovely woman! Are you interested in history?"

"I prefer astronomy," he said curtly, dodging the conversational change, "And then what form does your knocking's take?"

"Oh, well once I began to pay attention to them—which was a mistake! I realized it was always someone trotting about the yard before knocking up my door a few times and then... Moving along. People in the neighboring houses get it too—same nights. Some set up cameras but don't see anything when it happens, nor does it stop the noises. Me and the wife gave up on explanations pretty quick and took to locking the doors and hanging crosses and wreathes about instead," he looked again towards the island of trees, and smiling, said, "Must be them that does it!"

"Yeah," breathed Godric.

"You know the story in the captain's letter reminds me quite a lot of another incident from a few hundred years earlier—especially given what actually turned out to be in the chest—have you been to the monastery ruin?"

"What? No."

"Oh, it's twenty minutes trot due north. The path's easy to find—and marked—really should have a look if you're interested in history."

"What incident?" said Godric, though he felt tired then. Rather tired. The lack of sleep weighing on him, as was the weight of strange connections and too many things to process.

"It was raided and wiped out by a gang of thugs—kind of like that, eh?" he nodded and smiled at the former mass-grave. "Only in reverse. All pretty well unexplained—all we know is they slipped in and surrounded the place in small groups over weeks and then when they had enough men, they mounted an assault. Thought to have been after bits of worth hidden about the monastery like the Viking's were want to do in centuries yet earlier than that," Walter paused to stare the hole again, "Fantastic," he sloshed his glass in the general direction, "Maybe the monks knew something was coming?"

He finished the drink with a gulp, and said, "The thugs hung around after sacking the place and made right butchers of themselves in the ruins—if the accounts are honest. Tortured the remaining monks to death—grim business. They got driven off by a force of cavalry shortly after though. Some of them were put to the sword but more still escaped. Only a few monks survived and to this day a full explanation of the incident is elusive." Walter shrugged again, and then turned from Durst. "I think they were raiders though—the surviving monks said the torture was to find out where they kept their treasure after the attackers became disappointed with what they did find in the monastery. It apparently was not a wealthy monastery, hell even the shit they pulled from that hole isn't that valuable—save maybe once piece."

"Wait," said Godric. "Where is it exactly? Never heard of any of this, and I was born here."

"The ruins? Oh, go north and take the third left off my road here, go on for a bit until you see a turn onto a dirt road through a field by some telephone polls. There'll be a sign on the trail and a small parking area. The trails well-formed all the way to it—only twenty minutes walking at that. Maybe ten for someone young as you."

"Thanks," said Durst. For some reason, the idea struck him that such a place would be perfect for thought before he needed to get ready for work. A quiet place to hide from the world—peaceful. Maybe it might retain more of the monks than their torture, even.

"Say," said Walter, tilting his empty glass about, "Would you like a cocktail?"

"No," said Godric, smilingly weakly, "Thanks though."

"Suit yourself."

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3000 words.

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