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It seemed the snow was cautious this year, blasting the country momentarily, testing, before releasing its full pay load. The people of Crafton learned this, and when the flakes of ice began to parachute lazily from the lost clouds, they knew to salt their drives and get the pets in. But this was village life, everyone banded together against this natural invasion; the shop owner opened later to sell last minute supplies, the butcher prepared larger cuts of stewing meat, and the pub cracked opened more warming liquor. Crafton was well aware of its fate, its isolated location meant it was too far to travel in the blizzards, and the small country lanes became ice rinks for the wild life, which darted across them. If this village were to survive the turbulent winter this year, they would have to work together. Spitfires cut open the sky, displacing the fully loaded clouds, sprinting to a safe location to land, before the snow and ice took its effect on their engines. The troops from the local barracks had long abandoned the area, long left their homes, their country; this left the village open to the onslaught of the weather, no help would come until its fury diminished.

Giles pulled his coat tighter, pulling his scarf to near strangulation, desperate to keep the bitter cold from his weakening body. His limp restricted him from getting home before the snow fell, and it was evident the cold was already eating at his body, causing immense pain to his already ruined leg. Giles’ wound had never healed properly; the attending surgeon had botched the operation, causing permanent damage to the nerves in his leg. The bullet had been removed, but had been replaced by a negative reminder of his time in France, where with every step, he relived the very moment when the shaped lead trespassed into his aching muscle. However, this double edged sword meant he could come home early, he was no use on the front line with a limp, he’d merely provide easy sport for snipers or a marker for artillery crews. Because of this, he didn’t hate the German rifle that caused this wound, it could have been worse; the bullet merely provided a ticket out of the army, and the horror of war. Giles pushed the thoughts from his mind, and continued his perilous trek home, concentrated on the hole in his belly, and its gurgling reminder that he hadn’t eaten since this morning. 

The Whistling Henchman had been steadily emptying, earlier than normal, due to the increasing likelihood of a blizzard. People wanted to prepare their homes for hibernation. However, the landlord continued to stoke the fire, offering more life to its soul, burning, emanating a warm and cosy glow throughout the eating area. Shadows danced merrily behind well polished ornaments, giving life to each and every inanimate object that busied the windowsills, beams, and shelves, of this ancient village pub. Last orders were called early, James the miller bought several cigars and a bottle of rum; Lewis, a generally disagreeable old man, bitter at his recent loss of his son in France, finished his beef stew, slurping the rich brown liquid off his spoon, before mopping any surviving taste from his bowl with crusty, buttered bread. Caroline, the Butchers wife, lifted herself off her stool, half cut from the home-made sloe gin, and stumbled out of the pub, almost forgetting her prized fur-coat, which she claimed was originally made for a young Princess Elizabeth as a gift from a wealthy French ambassador.
Finally, everyone had left, and John Hipp, the landlord, closed doors. Closing the pub was as good as closing the village itself; the Whistling Henchman, named after the particularly jolly bodyguards-come-singers employed by the local land-owner during the reign of Victoria, was the real village centre, and acted as not only a place to eat and drink, but also a village hall, games room, and most importantly, a temporary outpost for the military commanders from the local barracks, who wanted to discuss tactical information over a pint of country ale. John, wasting no time, mopped the tables, and collected the empty glasses, some still holding the dregs of customers lost dreams, ambitions, and fears. John always said “the way a man drinks can tell you a lot about his situation; I once watched a young man nurse his pint for two hours, didn’t even take a sip, must have just held that pint until it was tepid… three days later they found him hanged”. This story was regaled to all the regulars, even some unsuspecting visitors, who took this story with a pinch of salt.
Once the pub was clean, John sat, and stoked the pub cat, and village mascot, Ben the cat. Ben had become used to people, and would often share seats with customers, and wouldn’t take kindly to being moved. With a whistle and hiss, the warming glow of the fire was extinguished, even the embers had settled. This caused everything in the room to become unnaturally still, as if the soul had been devoured, leaving a life-less husk. John ignored this, and poured himself a tall glass of whisky; drinking deep, he peered out of the window; the snow had already covered the pub garden, leaving silhouettes of benches and tables, flowers struggled to make themselves noticed through the carpet of white. Birds sprinted silently across the lawn, digging, mostly in vain, for any worms foolish enough not to seek safety in the deeper recesses of the ground. The sky was a light grey, and moved quickly across the void, spreading its seed far and wide over the area; John waited in the darkened room, and felt the chill slowly creep up his spine, causing the hairs to stand to attention. John sighed, and downed the rest of his whisky, and continued the preparations.

While the village folk scurried around franticly, one house remained silent and still, its chapped cracked white window frames glared down, mocking the outside, and shielding those within. The house was tucked neatly between two cottages of differing size, one a tiny annex, bright white in colour, the other a larger house, covered in copper ivy, with smoke perpetually billowing from its large chimney. These three houses were typically unmatched, and seemed to be like a badly fitted jigsaw. However, the village folk avoided the centre house, no one spoke to its inhabitant, and even the next door neighbours had erected a large fence, or grown hedges, in a desperate attempt to separate themselves from the house. Nature itself refused to settle on the house, and snow seemed to melt quicker, when falling on the hairy green moss that slept comfortably on the roof. The house had a sense of etherealness, and even the innocence of the soft driven snow couldn’t bring the bricks and mortar and sense of reality, in-fact it just made the house seem even less within the boundaries of human perception. As the snow fell harder, Giles limped ever-so-slightly faster up the lane, carefully treading his path, as to avoid the steadily increasing ice on the road. Resting, he looked into the sky, and it looked back, millions of tiny eyes swarming towards him, icy to the touch. Blinking the snow from his eyes, he looked at the middle house. Giles felt uncomfortable, as if the icy weather had retreated from cooling his spine, to be replaced by another kind of cold altogether. The old curtains were all pulled shit, Giles could see they were worn; the original pattern had faded, to be replaced by a new pattern of tears and holes. No warming glow escaped through these holes, as if the house itself contained held the vacuum of space. Giles had often contemplated knocking on the door, to check on the witch who lived there. Of course, he didn’t know if she was a real witch, but since he was a child, old Ms Moor was avoided, but then she did a good job at avoiding other people. Not once did she visit the pub, not once did she attend church, not once did she offer to help the village. However, she was sometimes seen wondering the outlying fields, starting emptily into the valleys. Giles, being the bravest child, had often been cajoled into throwing stones at her window, or knocking on her door and running. But however big the stone, or loud the knocking, not once did the lady peak her head from behind those curtains. The only reason people still knew she was alive, was that every Wednesday night, they would hear her singing, a mournful and somewhat long song. The local children, and some of the more gossipy adults, believed she was singing to devils, inviting them into her bed; thus she was branded a witch forever more. Giles house was but yard away, but something drew him to the house in the middle. The ominous structure stared at him, willing him to walk away, be a coward. But Giles’ conscience got the better of him, this was going to be a particularly bad winter, and with the war raging, rations were tight. Giles gingerly crossed the road, his feet crunching through the ever thickening layer of snow, readily settling on the rough dirt road. The small green gate of the house remained open as always, practically inviting mischievous children to play pranks on the house. Giles passed the gate, the sense of original dread lifting slightly. He had survived war, blood, death, why was he scared of knocking on a door? The small garden was over-grown, but the blanket of snow had created a serene sense of the wilderness and a sense of calm over the normally chaotic mess. Giles approached the door, its green paint chipped and worn, looked as if it may take offence to being knocked too hard, so Giles rapped lightly. A flake of paint stuck to his knuckle, which he brushed off, landing on the snow next to his feet. Giles waited, almost praying he was not answered. He waited, just a bit longer than the standard time for waiting at someone’s door, before, somewhat relieved, he limped away.

As his back was turned, a thud was heard in the house, as if someone had fallen from their bed. A creaking, creaking like foot falls on the broken spine of a crooked house edged around front of the house, ever louder, and then, silence. Giles didn’t turn round, but when the singing started, that soul piercing singing, Giles almost ran, ignoring the pain in his leg. Thanking God the gate remained open, and the garden vines didn’t somehow pull him back towards the door of that house. Giles broke into a run, all pain drowned, as all the childhood rumours flooding back to him, causing him to fear that horrific beautiful sound far more than he ever feared a German rifle.

Finally, the sky shattered into a million pieces, and fell to the unwelcoming ground. The wind huffed irritably, carrying swarms of winter ice with it, covering everything in the village. A silence so quiet, John imagined he could hear every snowflake hitting the ground, crashing down like a toppled tambourine. John had heard the singing though, it was if the wind carried and caressed the melody, like a new born child, and delivered it straight to his senses. Unlike the others, John had not stoked the blaze of rumours surrounding the old lady, because the fact was, he had met her, and he knew her. John was an elderly man, and although he had a healthy gut, it seemed he was held together by the liquor fumes and the tobacco smoke that permanently hung in the pub. He was frail, and many wondered how he could still run the pub since his wife died. The fact was, the pub ran him; it gave him a reason to go on, and reason for the stopwatch inside him to reset everyday, rather than reach the final second. As the singing floated onwards, as if each note was carried by a drifting flake of snow, he allowed himself to be consumed by memory. He looked back to his childhood, when his bones weren’t infested with arthritis, and he could run, and laugh, and play until he collapsed on soft grass, in the warming glow of a mid-summer sun. He would often enjoy creating his own music on a piano, his family’s source of joy and happiness; which now stood tired, alone, and silent, in the corner of the pub, John’s fingers too stiff to give it life. John allowed himself to daydream further, his rheumy eyes unfocused, creating images that no longer existed. A summer’s day had been when Maggie had moved into the cottage with her two brothers and mother. John had been a child then, and he remembered watching eagerly from his bedroom window, the sunshine illuminating the falling blossom, as if diamonds, as light as feathers were falling to the ground. He ran downstairs; his family were already greeting the new members of the village. It wasn’t often new people moved into these parts, and most of the village had come out for the occasion. The local woodsmen and the some of the apprentices were helping unload the furniture, moving it carefully into the house. It was a day of joy… a knock at the door brought john back to reality, the banging steadily increased, as if nature itself was trying to gain entry. John stood, the cracking in his knees, spitting like burning logs, caused him to grimace. At the door stood a very pale Giles, his grandson, his satchel tangled round his neck like a noose. “Granddad”
“Come in son, ill get the fire going, your leg must be hurting from the cold!” John pushed open the door fully, as Giles hobbled in, ducking under the low beams.
“It’s ok… why are you sitting in the cold? It’s near freezing in this place!” The old man didn’t know why he was sitting in the cold, maybe he felt ashamed to keep himself warm, when the joy and life from this family home had been extinguished years ago.
“Don’t you bloody worry about me, had a ton of washing to do, not to mention the sinks blocked again.” John shut the door, and bolted it. “Just get yourself in. You bring the meat?”
“Yeah, sorry I’m a bit late… I…well I went to check on the old witch...” Giles sniffed, and wiped his nose with his sleeve.
“What have I told you boy, she’s no witch, I won’t have you bringing your rumours back home!” John snapped. Giles had always been curious of why his granddad had never passed comment on the old woman; even the village priest had engaged in banter.
“Sorry, well I went to check on her anyway, but that damn singing started. I’m sorry granddad; it puts the fear of God into me. I may be shivering now, but I don’t think it’s due to the cold” Giles, impatiently started the build a fire.
John pulled the curtains too, and lifted his tired legs towards his grandson. He sighed and placed a hand on Giles’ shoulder.
“You have a good heart my boy; many here don’t go near that house.” Giles finished the construction of the fire, and rose.
“Grandfather, what do you know about her? Ms Moore I mean.” Giles had asked this before, but it seemed a painful subject to his Grandfather, had was an avoided subject. John looked down, he looked at this thick hands. A product of years of hard work, they were thick and calloused, which numerous Knicks and scars. He mulled over the question, as he did every time he was asked. And in the brief space of a few seconds, he had thought over a thousand memories. He licked his lips, and feeling the time was right, he spoke.

Weeks passed, the snow had compacted into thick glaciers, constricting and crushing all that lay beneath. Although the winter sun hung lazily in ice blue sky, the snow had no intention of melting just yet. The village was completely cut off. Only the occasional buzzing of aircraft overhead reminded the villagers that they were not alone. The citizens of Crafton got on as best they could, paying special attention to the elderly and the sick. Although supplies were limited, everyone pulled together, and the pre-winter preparations had made the dreadful weather a little more bearable. Everyday was the same, those who had to work, braved the conditions to support the village. The farmers were up before dawn to make sure the animals were warm, and they were fed. A few of the stock, usually the runts, were found frozen solid in corners, ostracised by the rest of the herd, they died alone. The loggers apprentice was not so rigorous, and would often wait until the sun had risen before he was up. But once up, he would merrily whistle while he traversed the icy slip of the hill to the dense forests that over looked the village. The priest held services, and even though the path to the church was treacherous, his congregation did not suffer. A pious man, the priest spoke of the Lords’ judgement, and that the war was but the great test and the souls of men were forfeit. As he spoke, members of the congregation saw the familiar floating specs through the ornate stain glass windows, which meant more snow was falling, creating the next generation of misery for Crafton.