By John Thomas Tuft

He quietly closes the door behind him

Leaving his mistress to her slumber

The stars keep watch when the night calls

Now he must exorcise the spell he is under.

A lone wolf calls for prey’s blood in the distance

Its mournful howl echoing off the canyon walls

The vicar must find a way before the feast of St. Stephen

To slake his thirst for her passion which enthralls.

In the shadows the prince of darkness stalks him

For the hunt he has emptied out all the dogs of hell

Competing for the fire in the soul of the vicar

Against the night calls of the vixen who weaves her passionate spell.

He races now across the shrouded snowscape

His eyes fixed upon the bell tower of the chapel beyond

Fearing he hears footsteps closely chasing him

Panicked, he ventures across the frozen pond.

Fleeing the specters from beyond all reason

Not even the Star of the East comes to rescue as cracks in the ice begin

Spreading in all directions beneath his feet as he stumbles

Calling out “My Angeline!” as the cold waters swallow all traces of him.

It is said that every year now on the night before the feast of St Stephen

If you sit in the tower of the vicar’s chapel in silence as moonshadows fall

You hear the lonely cries of the wolf on the bleakness of the wind

And the echo of the vicar beseeching his lover Angeline when the night calls.