Bad moon's rising,
Baleful stars come out;
Roses in the garden
Wither on the stalk.
Screeching ravens encircle
The church tower tonight.
A sudden blast of icy wind
Across Arford common howls.
Within the woods a glowing
Ball of fire appears.
As it rises in the pitch black sky,
You're filled with abject fear.
So run, run, my pretty one
Down Beech Hill's ancient track,
Before Old Nick takes mortal form
To your living Soul devour.
For can't you hear the chanting
Of Satanists pledging you
In exchange for their infernal power
In a sacrificial rite?
As the last virgin in Headley Parish
You are the rarest prize.
So run, run, my pretty one...
And never look back.
There has been an oral tradition of the dark arts being practiced in Arford woods for many centuries.
Both my mother and I have personally witnessed this ball of fire phenomenon.
It was extremely unnerving!