Rats drug his severed head to the highest rafters of the hayloft. Wolves ravaged the bloody skull. Ravens feasted on putrid flesh. Maggots licked clean all remnants—save that, his worst evil thought wished upon the children of Grenwitch when they entered his bedroom with rakes and shovels and hoes.
“Bloody kill him!” they shouted.
Whack! Bloody blade of the hoe. Thump! Crushing shovel to the knees. Fingers tearing, fists pounding, terror raging, hate pummeling.
Today, a light shines from Old Man Crankshaw’s hayloft like the burning of a cauterized wound trapped in a sucking black hole.
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