A/N: warnings for blood, implied sexual assault and very verrry minor spoilers. Nothing here that you wouldn't find in the show, or in Eerie Indiana.

The year was 1969. The day was unusually humid, the sky was clouded and thunder rolled all day long, without a drop of rain in site. The heat was overpowering, and most of Ballarat ended up locked in their bathrooms, pressing their hot faces against cool, damp tiles. A thick oppressive atmosphere filled the houses in town. Everyone walked around in shirts unbuttoned at the top and skirts lacked petticoats.

Time slowed to the speed of honey, and by the time the sky was finally dark, everyone hoped the heat would break and the rain would come. Despite their prayers, the heat remained, and the residents took to fans and cold baths in an attempt to get comfortable. Eventually, the hot and sticky residents of town went into their rooms and tried to sleep. Despite the heavy air most of them were taken to sleep quickly.

Alice Harvey woke first, emerging from a sea of hands clutching at her face and thighs and hair. She lay in bed, taking a series of deep breaths, and attempted to calm her frenzied heart. It was just a dream, she'd gotten away. She assured herself that by the time morning rolled around, she would be okay. She extracted herself from her sweaty sheet, and despite the heat, she made herself a cup of tea. It was warm in her palms and her cat Sappho took up residence next to her. She watched as a shooting star streaked across the open sky, and supposed that there was still good in the world. That's where she falls back asleep, stars still twinkling.

It was a sharp kick to her shins that woke Jean Blake, she found her husband fighting for his life against his pillow, and her leg an unfortunate casualty. Carefully, she wakes him up, not daring to try and calm him tonight. He lay still and sweaty in his sheets, eyes glazed for a long time. His breath is heavy and worrying. Eventually, he calms, and she can touch him again. They strip the sweaty sheets together, and she puts them into the washing machine, conscious of the sweat on the back of her neck from the humidity still unbroken. They go back to bed, and hold enough other close. She counts the scars on his bare chest with her fingertips, and he breathes in the smell of her hair. She neglects to think about her dream, where she was alone on the farm, covered in blood.

Dignified to the last, Agnes Clasby woke alone, hands clutched in her sheets. The sky is dark and the air is heavy. She lay still for several moments, before getting up, and making her way down the hallway. She lives in a house full of memories, and finds herself drawn to pictures of the past. Her nephew especially. She has his stuffed bear sitting on her mantle, among other pictures and things she'd deigned to keep in her life. After several moments of smiling back at his frozen face, embalmed behind glass, she returned to her bedroom. She lay in bed, trying to comb over her memories of a dream about women made of paint, before falling back to sleep marginally more peaceful.

A journalist awakens at her desk, face resting in her arms. She was dreaming about something to do with Edward Tyneman. She can't quite remember what, the dream was already fading into the disgusting haze that has covered the town. Rose sat up, and looked at her half-finished article in surprise. She hadn't thought she was that tired, but apparently, she was. She wiped saliva from her cheek, and looked into the living space, where Elaine was furiously painting with inky black splatters. She wasn't the only one then. After a moment, she cracked her knuckles, stood, and went to her bedroom, stripping out of her clothes as she went, before sliding onto her bed, neglecting the covers in the sickly heat. Eventually, she too can drift off to sleep, thinking about all the things she wanted to print in the paper.

It is the cry of a child that awakens Mrs Tyneman (the last of her kind) from her fitful sleep filled with dreams of cars and red lakes. In the bed, close to her, her granddaughter is tangled in the sheets and whimpering in a nightmare. The photographs they'd been looking at were strewn around the bed, and the floor. She makes no move to gather them up, even though she probably should. She smoothed her fingers over the child's arms, and fusses over her until she seems settled. Once she was, she lay back, and thought about her son, and how she looked just like him. Patrick would have wanted a son, and the fact that he didn't get one fills her with spiteful joy that makes her feel sick as soon as she finishes thinking it. There's no point in dwelling on the past when she has her granddaughter to raise. This time, she'll do better. That thought comforts her as she drifts back off into a light sleep.

Though he isn't exactly sure what, Bill is grateful to whatever woke him from the swirling, hazy memories of his father that his mind was trying to shape into a coherent dream. He's still got another couple of hours on duty, and the station doesn't empty just because it's hot out. The window is open, and the outside is all but silent, as even the trees can't be bothered to stir in the oppressive heat. He splashed water on his face in the mens bathroom, and tidies up his hair a little bit. His father is long dead, and even if he wasn't, Bill was pushing forty, and what was he going to do anyway? The back of his thighs sting from sweat, so he goes for a walk until they feel better. Against his will, he falls back asleep almost as soon as he sits down.

In the bedroom of a little flat that rattles whenever a train passes, Danny Parks was shaken awake from his dream about snakes and pulled into the realm of consciousness by the choking breath of Charlie Davis. In a smooth, practiced movement, he took Charlie's hand and put it on his chest, where he can feel the proof that Danny is alive, taking deep breaths along with him until he can calm down. He doesn't have to ask what he was dreaming about, he knows. Endless hallways and the vacant eyes of long gone friends. It's curious, he was certain that he'd stopped having the snake dream back in '66, but all things must come full circle eventually. He fell back asleep, comforted by Charlie's rhythmic taps on his chest in time with his heartbeat.

The important men of Ballarat town do not sleep, not when there is work to be done. Instead, they pile into cars and make the drive to bushland on the outside of town. They trek through the bush and meet inside Serpent's Head, and don their traditional robes. Their unwilling sacrifice cries the whole time, begging to be released. A great rumble blows through and the ground under their feet shakes. They all close their eyes, praying to their own God that they should live through this.

And they do.

As he left the Head, Matthew Lawson was carefully wiping the blood off of his spare hand with a cloth, it begins to rain. The humidity breaks, and the skies break too, showering the town clean. He follows the others out of the bush.
"It's for the good of the people." The mayor said, as the rain left imprints in the dirt by their feet. The dirt is quickly turning to mud, and Matthew's cane is slowly being rendered useless.

Matthew felt bad for what he'd done (just like he did every time) It was to keep the serpent under the bushland kept sleeping for another ten years, and with any luck, they might have done enough. He has family to protect, a niece, the two sons he inadvertently adopted, his best mate and his best mate's wife.

At first, when Doug Ashby brought him out here he was angry that his future had been taken from him, but he understands now. It's all a matter of understanding. Of seeing the bigger picture.

"We still need to find someone to replace Master Tyneman." Cec pointed out as they emerged from bushland. Has it been nine years since he died already? Jesus. They haven't had a new member in nine years. Time was a thief.
"How about one of your boys?" The mayor asks, looking over at Matthew. The idea of recruiting Charlie or Danny for this was something he had hoped he could wait until one of them took over the station to do, but time was not on his side it would seem.
"Which boy?" He inquired, using his thumb to pick at the stubborn blood that was dried in his cuticles.
"The blonde one is too kind, he won't be able to see the bigger picture." Someone points out.
"The other one isn't from here, will it still work?" Someone else asks. Matthew has a headache already, but he has to agree, Danny is too soft for this sort of thing. And that Charlie isn't from around here.

"We have ten years to decide." He informs them, "Let's come back to it in five years." He puts out, already making a list of other men, desperate already to spare Charlie and Danny this at least.

The men nod, agreeing as they left the bush and went to their cars. The sun peaks up over the horizon, welcoming the day. When Matthew gets home, he goes to bed, and he does not dream.

…

A/N: So this fic was heavily inspired (and by inspired I mean it follows the same structure) by one of my top ten fanfics 'Winter Solstice' by Deifire (on A03) who very kindly agreed that I could write something with the same premise.