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Sally Death Post:
In a hole in the ground they shoved their Sally. Yes, a nasty, dirty, wet hole, filled with the ends of worms and an oozy smell, rather than a dry, bare, sandy hole with things in it to sit down on and to eat: it was a lynching-hole, and that means discomfort.
It had no perfectly round door like a porthole, painted green, with a shiny yellow brass knob in the exact middle, opening on to a tube-shaped hall like a tunnel: it was a very uncomfortable tunnel with smoke, with grubby walls, and floors dank and moldy, with no polished chairs, and absolutely no pegs for hats and coats – this hole was meant for prisoners, not visitors. The tunnel wound on and on, going fairly but not quite straight into the side of the hill. The Hill, as all the terrified people for many miles round called it, lacked doors opening out of it: there was nowhere for Sally to go but in. No going upstairs for Sally: the tunnel went only deeper and deeper down.
As she clawed her way lower, driven onward by the shouts of the village and the rats they were releasing behind her, the tunnel collapsed over her head, burying her tragically.
In the hole in the Hill, died an ordo.
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