First of all, ouch. I don’t think my head is actually going to fall off, but a couple of hours ago I would not have objected if it did. Two gallons of water, four acetaminophen, and a very cautious breakfast later, I’m feeling... well, better, anyway.
The final review of the business with the Corpsewalker finished yesterday. The coven - I never did figure out if they were actually Wiccans, or just something that looked superficially similar - is essentially gone, and we lost a total of seven Watchers. The ceremony was successful in shifting the Corpsewalker back out of our reality, or possibly the Worms took care of that; either way, nobody can find any sign of its presence. Anne and Father Peter escaped successfully; we saw them at church on Sunday, but nobody said anything. I think we were all too tired... and maybe Father Peter cautioned Anne against letting people know that she knew about anything beyond our world.
Our local law enforcement has tentatively decided that (despite unconfirmed reports of gunfire) the coven was just in the wrong place at the wrong time, and were buried when the earth collapsed into a previously unsuspected sinkhole. We get sinkholes in this part of the country, so nobody’s asking too many questions. The local news has mostly stayed away from the story; I’m not sure if someone is influencing them, or if they’re just distracted.
I start back to work tomorrow, so it’s time to finish sobering up. And probably time for a long soak in the bath. And definitely time for more Tylenol.
Reflections of a Deranged Cultist is a work of fiction. I am not actually hung over.