Image created by AI in NightCafe Studio
"Come on children, it's nearly evening. Time to get dressed for the Halloween Festival. Charlie, Peter, get those hats on. Where are your gloves, Maria ?"
Maggie Jones fussed around her three children, making sure they were properly dressed and ready to head for the village hall. When they arrived, the place was already busy and most of the people of the village were there gathered around long trestle tables.
The hall was decorated with a mix of Halloween and harvest goodies; pumpkins, sheaves of wheat, and corn dollies in pointed black hats were pinned to the walls. Orange and black wooden ornaments were strewn around the tabletops, and matching crepe paper ribbons were strung cross the ceiling.
As they sat down, Gerald Smythe tapped on the lectern with his pipe to settle everyone down.
"Welcome, welcome everyone to our Halloween thanksgiving evening. It's the fifth anniversary of the terrible Samhain Bombfall and we, the people of Green Valley, have survived another year. The crops are in, and the counters tell us the harvest is safe to eat. Only three of us succumbed to fleshrot this year. We have a lot to celebrate, and must give thanks that our valley protected and saved us when the world ended and all around us perished."
Mr Smythe was wearing his ceremonial suit even though it was so worn that it no longer offered any protection, and he had the hood pulled back so the villagers could hear him speak.
With a gesture, he indicated that it was feast time. A few of the villagers known for their culinary skills wheeled trolleys laden with the best of the harvest into the room. The aroma of freshly baked bread filled the hall, together with the mouth-watering scents of piping hot corn on the cob and casserole.
Everyone tucked into the feast. But then a sound came that they all hated to hear. The tinkling of bells. It meant the weather vane on the roof had turned, and the wind now came from the east. Every building in the village had one. In the distance, other bells could be heard.
"Can we go home mum ? I want to be in my own bed." It was Peter, Maggie's youngest child.
She shushed him. "No Peter, I'm sorry. If the weathercock has turned it's already too late, the wind has shifted. We'll be stuck here for the night, until the counters tell us it's safe. Sorry, love."
Mr Smythe and a couple of the other men went around making sure all the shutters were down and the seals were in place. But apart from that, the feast carried on, although maybe a little more subdued. Some of the older children could already be seen sneaking off with a bit of excitement in their expressions; finding nooks and crannies in the other rooms of the hall where they could bed down for the night. A kind of unexpected sleep over.
Eventually the food was mostly gone, and people settled down for the night as best they could. There were plenty of blankets and pillows to go around; the hall had a supply on hand just for eventualities like this.
With due ritual, Mr Smythe picked the counter up from it's place on the table by the door and walked around ceremonially pointing it at each shuttered window in turn. The quiet staccato clicking stayed at a consistent slow reassuring beat. That duty done, he placed it back on the table.
Within a short while people were starting to doze off or were quietly talking among themselves.
Then came an unexpected sound. Rapid, loud hammering on the hall door.
People looked around in shock. Who could it be ? Everyone from Green Valley was already here, they'd all been at the feast.
There were voices from outside now. Harsh, shrill, insistent voices. But the words were muffled by the thick wood of the door. The hammering continued and got louder.
Mr Smythe picked up a carving knife, went to the door, and shouted through it. "Who's there ?"
The voices outside responded with hysterical laughter and one mocking word called back by all of them in discordant unison. "Witches !"
People in the hall murmured and even shouted in panic. But Mr Smythe held firm.
"The wind is from the east. You cannot come in. I forbid it."
The hammering redoubled in force. It sounded desperate now.
One voice, louder and harsher than the rest, shouted from outside with a tone of sheer malice and hatred of all living things. "Let us in or we'll break open your barns and curse your cattle. Then we'll break open your door here and curse you."
Gathering his wits, and aware that the villagers were looking to him to allay their fears, Mr Smythe knew the door was too sturdy to be broken down by someone outside banging on it. He responded to the threatening voice.
"It is not safe. I can't let you in. I'm sorry."
The hammering stopped.
People looked at each other, wondering if this was relief, if they were safe now, or if those outside would begin again.
After a tense minute they had their answer. A distant crash from outside, followed a few seconds later by another. They knew what it meant; the barns had been broken open and the cattle let out.
Then the hammering on the hall door started up again. But it was different. Not fists this time. It was sharper, more rhythmic. The witches must have found an axe in one of the barns.
It took thirty terrifying seconds. Then with a splintering of the heavy wood, the door was hacked apart and blew open in the east wind.
Standing outside were three figures. Their protective suits were filthy rags, turned grey-green with dirt and mould. Their pointed protective hoods had been turned up at the edges. It did indeed make them look like witches hats. The faces they revealed.... they made the children scream in terror. Grey mottled skin, toothless, framed by straggly dishevelled hair. Hollow dark eye sockets housed dead eyes. Flesh peeling away, sores where the edges of their lips had split and torn dead skin on their noses. Witches.
The radiation counter by the door, exposed to the wind, rattled a crescendo so fast that the individual clicks couldn't be distinguished. Everyone in the hall knew they were all dead.