The snow lay deep outside Farley Village Hall the night of the annual clergymen’s bridge party. At the six tables, the local clergy were engaged in highly competitive card games. Their parishioners would never have recognised their local vicars in t-shirts, jeans and rubber boots battling over tricks and trumps. The villages of High Peak and Chelsham, whose football teams were archrivals, had been drawn to play together. The Reverend Archibald Campbell, the best fast bowler on Godstone’s cricket team was paired with the Reverend James Marmaduke Baldwin, bowled out first ball in the annual match with Godstone. But each pair was playing in the spirit of the game. The noise level had definitely risen, according to how many empty claret glasses had accumulated on the baize card tables.
Suddenly, the doors of the hall blew open. A blast of freezing air and a scurry of snowflakes blew over the players nearest the door. They protested that bringing the elements into the game was against the rules.
The doors were locked, the bridge match continued. They were coming to the last rubber. A clap of thunder suddenly shook the building to its foundations. This was so ear-splitting; it was impossible to ignore.
Just as the club President was about to announce the winners, the whole hall was lit up by a powerful bolt of lightning which cut across the sky. For the third time, the doors opened. This time such was the force that the oak doors bashed against the walls as if some hellish force was present.
In the flash of lightning a dark, hooded figure stood in the doorway. Its eyes burnt with a red light; its cloven hoofs echoed over the floorboards. Despite the snow, a hot draft of air followed this terrible shadow. A weird laugh rang through the hall.
Chairs and tables were turned over. Shouts and screams of terror filled the hall. Most rushed out through the open doors into the deep snow without even taking their coats and jackets.
Bottles of wine, undrunk cups of coffee, half-eaten sandwiches lay abandoned or trodden into the floor. The magnificent silver trophy rolled among the discarded food and pools of red wine which looked horribly like blood.
No one waited to see the doors slowly shutting or the bolts being quietly drawn. Only at midnight did his housekeeper report the Reverend Underwood missing. By the morning most of Farley learnt the vicar had not returned.
A group of villagers watched nervously as the doors of the hall were hacked down by the caretaker, wielding a heavy axe. He stepped over the splinters into the empty room. Tables and chairs had been stacked up. The floor was swept and polished. Then he saw the bloodstained outline of a man on the wooden floor.
The floor was scrubbed and re-scrubbed. In the spring it was re-laid. Nothing could remove the blood. The missing vicar was never found.
INSTANT NOODLES 