The piper

A peace settled over me as I slowly made my way back to mother England. Especially, as I wandered through the eye of the storm in the barbaric lands of Germany.  The cold nipped at the nape of my neck, not an unusual sensation, except it wasn’t cold outdoors. It was a reaction, that I seem to have for reasons unknown, to  Spectres. Nasty malicious spirits that have not learned to let go. They tend to group together, but these specific nasty bastards had accumulated a spirit fucking army!
   I had absolutely no idea what was happening to me as they attacked. It felt like my insides were being liquefied and my skin slowly being friction burned off my body. I tried to resist, I tried but I didn’t know what the fuck was happening. Next thing I knew, I was marching through a small village to the south of Germany with a big bastard knife tucked into my trousers, so to speak,  and a flute! I couldn’t even play it, or that’s what I thought. Walking straight into the village with that flute caressing my lips I played a tune so entrancing, so magically inspiring that what little presence or control I still had of my body was carried away and followed the piper gormlessly like the rest of the villagers into the dark forest.


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