Funky Cold Medina - with Everavalon

On a lonely street of buckling cobblestones, time has passed by. An elderly lady moves into an old Victorian-style home across the street from an abandoned cemetery overgrown with weeds and shadows of dark clouds overhead echoing a muted pendulum as if thunder with strep throat and the trees shorn of leaves were suffering from gout. Approaching the house, she could sense that the house resented her company. With every step, the house screamed from the bottom of its throat. She thought the house, her Funky Cold Medina, aphrodisiac. a gothic order of nuns teaching the dead. The dead, the voices in the convent's brothel where the nuns applied their pleasures with catechism.      
 
Vacant for almost 50 years the house was in bad repair and infested with memories that would bring down the order of the cloth that Mother Superior Bess once represented. Her memories were reminiscent of the crucifix on the wall, dripping stigmata of blood leaking through the floorboard. She seethed when she thought about it. It was deep into November and the old steam boiler wasn't working. The air was crisp but the old woman liked it that way.  
 
Dressed in lace and chiffon, black was the tincture of her sophistication. The creases of her age ran deep and grainy. Her lips, brushed in dark crimson seemed to rest in a choleric manner as the vapor dancing from her slender cigarette filled the room with a stagnant haze. A smile hadn’t creased her cheeks in 70 years. Her skin, the color of porcelain.    
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She considered the cemetery her courtyard or her garden of Gethsemane paying attention to a stone leaning over at a 45-degree angle. She had been hardened by ghosts that haunted her for 50 years. Now the ghost was in the house. Just this morning a tricycle was lying on its side next to the grave. One wheel was spinning. She could hear crying from the street, the weeping of a small child. "Mama, can I come out and play?"  
 
She had a certain aversion to children ever since Sister Margaret came up pregnant back in 1974. She remembers clearly, the chaos. The lying. The deceiving. The whispers in the halls. The convent had a dirty secret and it all happened under her watch. She was hard on herself— and Sister Margaret. Her fury was palpable as she tread the halls with a militant promptness. She wanted nothing to do with the child and would stop short, of extinction to wipe the stain from the convent. She was here and she was ready. In the tail end of November, Sister Margaret, with the help of the Mother Superior aborted the fetus in the dank soil-laden cellar of the convent and buried it in the unhallowed ground of the cemetary. The fetus had red eyes and a questionable birthmark in the middle of its forehead suggestive of a half-finished pentagram.  
 
With a shade of psycho, the parish priest who impregnated Sister Margaret now lays idle in the attic of the old house, embalmed with several other members of the order's academia. Most of which spoke in a tongue in the middle of the night echoing, "Something ain't right." Now the fetus child would pay nocturne visits to the house like a mole burrowing across the street rising to all occasions, skipping a rope, playing hopscotch, or swinging from the old apple tree.  
 
Mother Bess spent much time rocking in her wooden chair peering out into the mist that often rolled off the marsh adjacent to the cemetery, and obscured the child’s feverish activity under the moon’s muted glow. She sat there, silently seething, rapping her jagged nails across the arm of the chair. With the completion, of twelve chimes from the grandfather clock, 50 years passed since her world plunged into the depths. The sand of the hourglass had birthed its last grain. It was time to lay that child to rest once and for all. She rose from her chair and made her way up the slender stairway, to the attic where Father McIntyre was gathering dust to collect the cross from around his neck. The treads whined under her girth. "You don't play around with the Funky Cold Medina.!"