It's official, I'm addicted to FanFic! And I have way too much time on my hands!

I've been wondering what it is, apart from age that sets an Old One apart. for example, Regus should be an Old One if it's just age but is not. In a Q&A on the Being Human blog Lord Toby said:

'It's partly to do with age and partly state of mind. For example Ivan was well over four hundred years old, but there was something about him – his innate grandeur and status made him an old one. Whereas Regus is probably around the same age but somehow it's difficult to think of him as an Old One.'

But I think it's more than that. The thing with the crucififixes: do you suddenly just wake up on your birth/death day and they don't sting anymore? I don't think so. So here is my interpretation of what makes an Old One, an Old One.

Special thank you to Paperclaire, who's story For The Record inspired me to write in this format. If you haven't already read it then do, it's amazing.

Points to anyone who can guess where I shamelessly stole the name of the village from.

Enjoy x

1779: An Eyewitness Account

To whomever finds this,

By the time this is read, I will be dead. They will have found me. They will have killed me and drank my blood. Why? Because I saw something I shouldn't have. Then again, I don't think they really need an excuse to want to kill me. But, I saw what I saw, and they will silence me which is why I must write this account and prey that one day it is found. People need to know what foul creatures exist in this world. They need to be warned.

My name is Michael Thornton, not that it matters anymore, not to them. I work as an accountant and I was away on business. Part of the journey ment having to pass through the village of Little Hangleton and it was dark by the time we got there so, while the cab driver went to find a stable, I went into town to find lodging for the night.

The first thing that hit me was the smell. It was like decay, like something had died. There weren't any people around, it was like a ghost town. I turned a corner into the main road and well, I found the source of the smell. Once I finished heaving my guts up, I got a closer look at the thing before me.

It must have been fifteen feet high, stretched along the entire street. A huge wooden structure with people tied to it. Dead people. It seemed to depict some sort of story, like the bodies had been arranged into a grotesque work of art. Many of them were on the floor, obviously ment to be what they were: piles of corpses. The other bodies were arranged so that they were standing tall above the others, proud and victorious, dressed in expensive clothes, some seated on thrones, dead horses, carrying swords and shields. And blood. There was so much blood.

I apologise if my description, going into such explicit detail, has caused you some discomfort, believe me, actually seeing it caused me a hell of a lot more but it is important that you know.

I heard voices coming from the other end of the street, cries of celebration, saw torches, banners. A crowd came round the corner, in the centre of which looked to be the person they were celebrating. I say 'person' because that is what I thought at the time but I know now that he was no person, none of them were. I think I was the only living man in the street that night. They were getting closer. I ran.

There was a large barn on the outskirts of the village. It looked like a good place to hide so I ran inside, only to see more banners and a high table was set up in front of a makeshift stage. The table was set for fourteen, with fruit and meat and glasses with a decanter full of blood, although I didn't believe it at the time.

The voices were getting closer so, with no way out, I decided to hide myself behind one of the large banners in the corner near the door. The banner was strange, painted red, all but a circle in the centre which remained pure white and within the circle there was embroidered some sort of symbol, one of which I had never seen before. A rectangle with a line down the centre, looking somewhat like a hammer. I remember wondering who on earth these people were.

The crowd entered the barn and, from my hiding place, I had a perfect view of the table. Thirteen men and women took their seats at the table while one member of the crowd poured their drinks. There was a space left at the end of the table, like someone else was expected.

All these people, sitting at the table, had a sort of air about them. Most of them appeared young but age and confidence just seemed to drip off of them. They drank from their glasses as if they were chalices and sat in their chairs as if they were thrones. In fact, the man in the centre, the one with red hair and a pale, almost inhuman, complexion whom I had seen in the centre of the crowd earlier, really was sitting on a throne. Everyone seemed to bow down to him. He was obviously the leader.

A man, immaculately dressed, with dark brown hair and an even darker look in his eye, sitting at the right hand side of the leader muttered something which I only just caught.

"A barn? I do hope we're not intended to sleep here." To which the man with red hair chuckled.

The rest of the crowd settled around the walls of the barn and once everyone had settled, I heard a voice coming from the stage. At first, I thought it was the voice of a child, but then I thought, it couldn't be, it held far too much confidence. My curiosity won over my better judgement and I shifted my position so I could see the stage. I was right the first time, it was a child. A little girl, no more than twelve years old but she had the same air of age and authority to her as the men and women sitting down. I later learnt that her name was Hettie.

"To the Great Mr Snow and the rest of the Old Ones, we welcome you to England." Through the confidence, you could hear hints of an accent on the girl, a common accent that she made no effort to hide. "We do hope you enjoyed the first half of our tribute to you an I can assure you that the second half is even more… entertaining." She said with a rather evil looking grin. She stepped off the stage and the doors opened again.

Through the doors stepped twenty or thirty children. They looked terrified and they were crying, silently, too scared to make a sound. Men around the children forced them up on the stage where they stood, frozen, under the gaze of Mr Snow and the Old Ones and, after a fierce nod from Hettie, they began to sing.

I will not describe what happened next. It was so horrid that I do not even want to remember it. All you need know is that within the hour, the children had joined their parents in heaven, and their blood had refilled the decanters.

"Thank you, Hettie, for a wonderful evening." Said Mr Snow, once the excitement was over. "Your tribute was most… touching. Now, if you don't mind, could your friends please depart so we can get down to business"

Hettie looked incredibly excited at this. He crowd did as they were told and the Old Ones all sat up a little straighter in their chairs, if that was possible.

Once the barn was empty, except for Hettie and the Old Ones, the stage was cleared away. A sack of, what looked like salt was produced from somewhere and two of the Old Ones picked it up, pouring it so that they made a pattern on the floor, a sort of grid. Once this was done, the Old Ones all moved into, what seemed like their alloted spaces on the grid. Hettie stood in the middle, looking a little confused.

"Hettie. You have been selected to receive this honor for of the fearsome reputation that you have gained over the past two hundred and seventeen years since your recruitment. I feel, just like I felt about your future brothers and sisters, that you will go far and so, we believe it high time that you joined us. I suppose you have been wondering exactly what this honor entails." Mr Snow said. He did not speak down to Hettie, he did not treat her like a child. "Allow me to explain. We are not a cult, or a secret society, or anything that anyone else calls us. The Old Ones are a family. And it is the blood that we share that makes us so." The others had begun to move towards Hettie, circling her. "Do you understand what I mean by 'shared blood' Hettie?" After a few moments, Hettie nodded, took a deep breath and moved her hair away from her neck. "Good girl." Mr Snow whispered.

The next moment happened so quickly that I only just registered what occured. The faces of every single one of the Old Ones suddenly changed. They lost all of their polite, upper class demeanor and became animals. Animals with sharp teeth, and black eyes. And they all pounced on Hettie. She didn't make a sound, she didn't even fight and she showed no fear. It was like she wanted it to happen.

Then the Old Ones stood up, wiping their mouths and walked back to their places on the grid, leaving a bloody and feebly stirring Hettie on the floor behind them. Mr Snow withdrew a crucifix from within his coat. At this, Hettie squealed and covered her head with her arms. Mr Snow smiled. One of the women grabbed the decanter on the table and emptied the remanence of the children's blood on to the floor. The man with dark hair and eyes who had muttered earlier, pulled out a small, sharp, ivory handled knife from his pocket and handed it to Mr Snow.

What happened next was even more bazar than anything that had happened so far. Each of the Old Ones took it in turn to take the knife and slice open their own wrist, allowing their blood to pour into the decanter. Afterwards, they all wrapped a pure white handkerchief around their wrist to stop the bleeding.

Once they had all completed this strange ritual the decanter was almost full to the brim. Mr Snow picked it up and took it over to the girl lying on the floor in the centre of the salt grid. He lifted her head and poured the entire thing down her throat. I looked on in grim fascination as she drank every drop. Mr Snow handed her the crucifix. She stared at it, completely transfixed, it didn't hurt her like it did before.

When she stood up they all cheered, broke ranks, smiled and congratulated her, welcoming her into their fold. They went back to their places at the table, more decanters of blood appeared from somewhere. It seemed to me like a bit of a party was beginning and I thought that it would be a good moment to try and get away, while they were distracted.

I think they knew that I was there all along. Perhaps they had seen me run into the barn at the beginning, perhaps I had been noticed when I shifted my position behind the banner to see the stage, or perhaps these creatures had sensed my presence the entire time. I don't know, but for the split second that I turned back on my way out the door, Mr Snow's eyes were on me.

There is no way out of the village. More of the creatures are everywhere. I have sort refuge in the chapel, it is the only place that they are not, it seems to harm them when they approach. I have not forgotten, however, that crucifixes do not seem to harm the Old Ones, they will find me eventually.

My name is Michael Thornton, and this is my eyewitness account. If you read this then do not let it be forgotten. There are monsters out there.

Signed:

Michael Thornton

1747 - 1779

Thank you for reading. Reviews very welcome.