Black Ceremonies (2 page)

We had finished the brandy, and I excused myself from the room to fetch another bottle. Only to find upon my return that Cairstairs had fallen asleep in his chair. I put a blanket over him and left him sleeping. Then after checking that all the doors and windows were locked, I retired to my bedroom. However, I slept little that night, for I had a madman in my study and perhaps another prowling around my home.

My thoughts raced as I thought of the crazed tale Cairstairs had told. I did not know how much of his bizarre story to believe. I wondered if I should inform the police. At the very least, I felt that Cairstairs should see a doctor, and tomorrow I would arrange an appointment with one.

However, it was not to be, for in the morning I found that Cairstairs had gone.

I never saw Cairstairs again, yet that was not the end of the story. That day I had a visitor; he did not give his name and he was not looking for me but Percival Cairstairs. I have no doubt that he was Frederic Hyde. Even now, I shudder to recall him – oh yes, there was the touch of the wolf to him. I feel sure that if there are such things as lycanthropes then he was the strongest evidence of their existence.

With the passage of time I had dismissed what Cairstairs had said as the ravings of an opium addict.

But I was unaware of the horror that awaited me later that year.

I was on a trip out of London, when quite unexpectedly I happened to see a signpost for Stannard’s Grave. Curiosity got the better of me and I visited the ill-omened village.

Stannard’s Grave, where I was to witness something so unnatural, so impossible that it leads me to wonder how much else of what Percival Cairstairs had told me was not the product of a feverish imagination but the truth.

The village was just as Cairstairs had described it. Oddly though, the place seemed to be deserted. I tried the public house, the Dancing Man, only to find that it was closed. I took a walk around the churchyard where Cairstairs had said Audrey Manning was buried. This is where I found the villagers. They were gathered around one of the graves, and at first I thought a funeral was taking place. As I drew near however, I saw from the headstone that it was Audrey Manning’s grave, and indeed it was open. Cairstairs had never mentioned her having any family alive, and then I recalled his vow that they would be reunited, realising that today was the first day of November, the day after Halloween. For a moment I thought that Cairstairs was dead and was finally being laid to rest with his beloved. Had Frederic Hyde caught up with him?

I stepped closer and saw the coffin at the bottom, but to my horror the coffin had been broken open. I reeled in shock for I knew then that Cairstairs had been reunited with his beloved Audrey Manning.

Ghoulish madness you say; yes, most certainly, but you see the thing is this: the coffin had been broken open from the inside!

Epilogue

Originally, I thought that was where the story of Percival Cairstairs and his obsession ended, but a visit to Henry Farringdon was to set me straight.

“Damn you, Black,” Farringdon roared in anger. “I told you that story in the strictest confidence.”

He suddenly launched himself at me. His attack took me by surprise, and his hands were at my throat. I suppose Farringdon had every right to be angry with me, nevertheless I had not expected such a ferocious assault.

I was unable to prise his hands from my throat, but fortunately, two white-coated attendants were nearby, and they managed to break his hold, and bind him in a straitjacket.

Farringdon was calmer now, the orderlies had been called away and I considered it perhaps best if I were to leave as well. I wished him goodbye, but he ignored me. Yet, as I reached the door, he spoke. “There is a sequel, you know?”

I turned back, curiosity aroused. “A sequel, Henry?”

“Indeed there is. I’ll tell it you, if you like. No doubt, you will fictionalise it for one of your books – but at least I know you will believe me, Black. Anyone else in here will think it just another delusion of my mental state.”

He snorted in disgust. “Fools! You and I, Black, we both have had our uncanny experiences.” He looked at me conspiratorially. “We know the truth don’t we, Black?”

“Yes, Henry,” I agreed. And I assure you that I was not merely humouring him. I am not ashamed to admit that I too have had strange encounters with the outré – experiences that had led to my temporary confinement in that self-same hospital that now held Henry Farringdon. That was how we had first met.

Farringdon took a deep breath, then began.

“It was not long after my visit to Stannard’s Grave that the dreams began”

“Dreams, Henry?”

“Yes, dreams. Or maybe nightmares.”

“Tell me about them,” I said.

Henry sighed. “They were dreams of that woman Audrey Manning.”

“Go on,” I urged.

“Very well,” he said, after a moment. “I am ashamed to say they were of a sexual nature.”

“You are too hard upon yourself, Henry; there is no shame in that.”

“They were of the most depraved nature.” Farringdon shuddered.

“Remember I told you that although Audrey Manning was a physically attractive woman, there was always something about her that I found somehow repellent?”

“Yes, I remember.”

“Yet despite that, my thoughts were full of her. Day and night, I could think of little else.”

Farringdon’s face contorted into an expression of anguish. “Ah, Black, I was haunted by a veritable succubus.”

Farringdon groaned. “You can be sure I felt revulsion for myself – you see, Black, I wanted her. It was an insane lust, worse than the lust that controlled Percival Cairstairs.”

One of the hospital attendants had returned to the cell, or rather this was a different man to those who had restrained Henry. And I noticed now what a particularly hairy individual the man was. Perhaps here was the inspiration for Frederic Hyde. Thankfully, Henry had not noticed his entrance.

“I too was becoming obsessed with her. And I vowed I would find her, and make her mine. You can understand that, can’t you, Black?” He looked at me, his eyes full of pleading.

I nodded, and he continued.

“Their trail led me to strange places, and I witnessed strange things.” Farringdon shuddered again. “And God help me, I played my part in some of those strange things, too.”

“What things, Henry?” I asked.

But he shook his head, and would not tell me.

He remained silent, and for a moment I was worried he would reveal no more.

Thankfully, he took up his story again.

“Yet they always seemed one step ahead of me. But I was tenacious; I would not give up my search.”

Farringdon suddenly laughed. “I found them eventually, though.”

“Where was that, Henry?” I asked.

He ignored my question; his smile was grim. “Do you remember how Cairstairs had said Frederic Hyde had discovered the pair of them making love?”

I nodded.

“I too found the pair of them together. Entwined. I cannot bring myself to call it making love.”

Farringdon’s smile disappeared. “Any lingering doubts I had had about what Cairstairs had told me, and what I had seen in Stannard’s Grave were banished then.”

“You mean—” I began.

“Yes, Black, it was all true. Audrey Manning had been dead, and somehow Percival Cairstairs had raised her from the grave.”

“But surely?”

“God, help me!” Farringdon began to wail. “It should be Percival Cairstairs who is imprisoned in this sanatorium, rather than I. Surely it is he who is insane!”

“Calm down, Henry,” I urged. The hirsute attendant was approaching, but I signalled he should keep back.

“You see, Black, Cairstairs had brought Audrey Manning back to life, but it was not a natural restoration to the ranks of the living.”

“What are you saying, Henry?”

“Whilst she may have been living and breathing, Cairstairs had been unable to restore her …” Farringdon seemed at a loss for words.

He began to rock backwards and forwards, moaning, “The decay! The decay!”

The orderly started forward again, and I knew I would have to leave.

“What, Henry?” I gasped; half expecting what Farringdon was about to say, yet needing to hear it anyway.

“Don’t you see, Black?” Farringdon suddenly grabbed me by the lapels of my jacket. “Cairstairs was having sex with a living corpse!”

Like most writers, I am sometimes asked about my influences, and where I get my ideas from. Occasionally people want to know why so many of my protagonists share such similar fates – i.e. horrible deaths or insanity.

I suppose it originates with something that happened one evening, several years ago. I was already penning weird tales at the time but the events that took place that night, and what subsequently transpired were to have a profound influence upon my writing. Circumstances now permit me to reveal what occurred upon that fateful night.

My brother had called round to see me the night it happened. In his usual manner he had just asked what I was working on. “Come up with any more of your horrific tales then?”

“Well, I’ve got a couple of new titles – ‘The Horror in the Hole’ and ‘The Man Who Collected Skin Diseases’ – but no actual stories to go with them so far,” I had replied.

He laughed. “Oh, I’m sure you’ll come up with something suitably terrible.” You will realise that my brother does not hold a high opinion of my writing.

It was at that moment that the telephone rang.

I answered it, and recognised the voice that said, “Ah, there you are. What took you so long?” It was an old friend of mine.

“Hello Julian. How are you?”

“Splendid, old boy. But never mind all that, I’ve got some important news for you.”

“Just a moment, Julian,” I stalled him. “It’s Julian Cavendish,” I informed my brother.

“In that case I’ll be off then,” he said. “You two will be talking black magic all night. Don’t worry, I’ll see myself out.”

“Okay, carry on, Julian; you’ve now got my undivided attention,” I said, after waving goodbye to my brother.

“Hope I haven’t interrupted anything important.”

“No, of course not, just my brother making jokes at my expense.”

“How is the old scoundrel?”

“Oh, he’s his usual self. Listen, I’ve been trying to contact you. Where have you been?”

“Why, in search of the secret tradition, of course.”

Julian Cavendish shared my interest in the occult, but whereas my interest was as research for my stories; Julian was writing an exposé of the black arts.

“You’ll remember I have been trying to track down a summoning spell to call the demon, Vorosh.”

“Yes, I remember. I thought the spell might be contained in a complete edition of Roland’s
Esoteric Revelations
.”

A publisher by the name of Visionary Press had produced an extremely limited number of a heavily expurgated edition of
The Grimoire of Esoteric Revelations
. Julian and I were both fortunate to own copies of this obscure work.

Written by the Victorian occultist Charles Roland, and described as: ‘the ravings of a madman’, the Visionary Press edition barely hinted at the revelations supposedly contained in the complete text. Roland claimed to have had dealings with ‘all manner of demons and their kindred’, which was why I considered it a likely source for the Vorosh spell.

“That’s why I decided to contact the publishers. I thought it was possible that they might possess a complete version from which they had produced their edited edition.”

“Any luck?” I asked.

“Huh,” he grunted. “I couldn’t even get a phone number, and there was no response to the letter I sent them. So, I decided to visit the premises of Visionary Press in person. Imagine my disappointment when I found Helmount House, an abandoned and decaying ruin. Visionary Press had long gone.”

“A dead end then?”

“Well, yes. But not to be put off, I managed to track down an address for Ronald Kane.”

“Bloody hell, Julian! Kane’s not a man to be meddled with.”

Although the name of Ronald Kane means nothing to most people – somehow he has avoided coming to the general public’s attention – to those involved with the occult however, Kane had become notorious as a practitioner of the black arts.

He was involved in the editing of
Esoteric Revelations
. Some occultists claim that in fact he even wrote it himself, or at least much of that which Visionary Press published.

There were also rumours that Kane believed himself to be the reincarnation of Charles Roland.

“The seekers of recondite wisdom often have to venture along dangerous paths; you should know that, my friend,” Julian said. “Anyway, I found out that Kane lives in a village called Barrow Ashton.”

“Really? I know it, but I had no idea Kane lived there.”

“Oh yes, in a great big Gothic mansion. But Kane refused to see me.”

“I must admit I’m not surprised. From what I know of the man, turning up unannounced and uninvited at his residence would not go down well.”

“I could not even get an appointment to consult him at a future date. Well, despite yet another setback, I would not be thwarted in my quest. I would take whatever means were necessary to gain access to this rare work, even if it meant breaking the law.”

“What are you saying, Julian?”

“Last night I broke into Kane’s mansion.”

“You did what?” I was astounded by my friend’s confession.

“It was, I admit, a most exhilarating experience.”

“You are having me on aren’t you? I know it’s the first of the month but you’re a month out for April Fool’s Day.”

“Of course not, I’m quite serious.”

“Hang on. Last night was April the thirtieth – Walpurgis Night.”

“Exactly, I had watched Kane leave earlier that evening – as I had known he would – to attend a Walpurgis Night sabbat.”

“My God, you are serious. Have you taken leave of your senses?”

Julian laughed. “I believe I may have, but it was worth it. The contents of Kane’s library are staggering – you would have loved it. I thought I had an outstanding collection, but it pales into insignificance compared to Kane’s. It ranges from the mundane to the legendary. Never before have I seen such a collection of rare and obscure occult books.”

“You don’t mean to say he had the
Necronomicon
?”

“Well, he had several, but alas none were the genuine article. I must admit though, that it wouldn’t surprise me at all if he had one hidden away there somewhere.

“However, it was
The Grimoire of Esoteric Revelations
that was the object of my quest, and as I suspected Kane’s library contained the said volume. And it was obviously a complete text.

“I was tempted to take more than just the
Grimoire
but it was too great a risk and I managed to restrain myself. However, I felt that perhaps the absence of just one book might be overlooked, at least until I had managed to make a copy and anonymously return the original.

“Of course, I could not resist the opportunity of studying some of Kane’s ancient and legendary tomes. And I became so engrossed in examining Kane’s library that I quite lost track of time.

“I was roused from my studies by a noise. The strange thing is I am unable to find the words to describe how it actually sounded. All I can say – and I know this doesn’t make sense – is that it sounded evil, utterly evil, and it made me afraid. God! I have never been so afraid in my life. I had to get out of that house, and yet it could only have been Kane.

“It had to be Kane. The alternative is too disturbing to contemplate, for it is well known that Kane has dealings with things not of the sane world. I told myself that Kane had returned unexpectedly early, and I quickly took my leave.”

Julian was right about Kane; several stories circulated among occult circles about the pacts he had made with inhuman powers. There were also whispers of mysterious deaths amongst his rivals.

“Surely, if Kane realises that his copy is missing, the first person he will suspect will be the stranger who had come seeking a meeting with him. You’ve taken a hell of a risk, Julian.”

“It was a risk I was prepared to take. Roland’s book is much more disturbing than the admittedly disquieting expurgated edition. My God! The things he writes of, surely he must have passed beyond the veil. You must see it, my friend. You must come round tomorrow.”

“Of course I shall. How could I not?” Even I could not resist the lure of a complete
Grimoire of Esoteric Revelations
.

“And you were right, my friend; the incantation to call Vorosh is among its pages. Although I’m sure you can imagine my disappointment when I performed the spell and it did not work.”

“What? Julian, I do not know which was the more foolish – stealing from Ronald Kane or attempting to summon Vorosh. I shall have to write a story warning of the dangers of meddling with black magic – a cautionary tale. Why on earth would you want to summon a demon anyway?”

“Nonsense. I haven’t stolen from Kane. Just borrowed.”

I interrupted. “I doubt he’ll see it that way.”

“And anyway, as I said, the spell didn’t work. Although I’m unsure whether the spell was at fault, or if I got something wrong in the casting.”

“You probably had a lucky escape.” I noticed that he had not answered my question, but I let it pass.

“Not at all. We shall try the spell tomorrow when you come round. Hello? What’s that? That’s strange.”

“Julian, is everything all right?”

“Yes, of course, my dear fellow. It’s just that I can hear something a bit odd.”

“Julian, what is it?”

“It’s that sound. That evil sound that I heard last night at Kane’s house.”

“Are you sure? I can’t hear anything.”

“Of course I’m sure. It’s in my house. I can hear it getting louder, coming closer. But I’m being fanciful. There is no way Kane could know that it was I in his library last night. Is there?”

“To be honest, Julian, I wouldn’t put anything beyond Kane.”

“Look, hang on just a minute, old boy, I’m going to put the phone down a moment to go and investigate. Don’t go anywhere, I shan’t be a tick.”

“Julian, be careful. Remember Kane’s reputation. I think it might be a good idea if you got out of there.”

“Good God! I’ll not run again, last night was one thing, but I’ll not be driven out of my own home. I won’t!”

“Julian?” But he wasn’t listening to me, and I heard the clunk of the phone being put down on his desk.

I continued to listen though, and I heard my friend’s footsteps, the opening of his library door. And then I too could hear that strange sound that tormented Julian. I should be able to describe it, its pitch or tone, after all I fancy myself a writer, don’t I? And yet I cannot. I cannot even think of anything that it sounded remotely similar to. Julian had described it as evil. And it needs no more description than that, for that is what it was – evil!

Suddenly I heard my friend’s shocked cry, “Begone, spawn of the pit!”

Perhaps there was something I could have done to have helped him. But I remained, as if bewitched, on the end of the telephone. Listening to his panicked recitation of what sounded like a banishing spell. A spell that obviously did not work, for I heard Julian begin to say the Lord’s Prayer. A last desperate appeal, the words getting louder and louder. Until finally he must have been screaming them at the top of his voice.

And then suddenly silence.

When I got to Julian’s house, I did not bother ringing the doorbell but instead forced the front door open. The hallway was in darkness, and I tried the light switch – but it did not work.

I took a few steps forward, calling Julian’s name, but there was no response. The only sound: the crunch of glass under my feet – the light bulb had shattered.

Feeling my way, I went in further – half expecting something to attack me – instead I almost stumbled over something. I crouched down to feel what – although I suppose I already knew that it was my friend. But was he still alive?

Julian always kept a lighter in his pocket, and I managed to find it. Its flickering flame revealed that there was no way that my friend could still live. There were fragments of his skull and brain splattered everywhere. It appeared as if Julian Cavendish’s head had exploded.

Of
The Grimoire of Esoteric Revelations,
there was no sign.

Unbelievably, the coroner’s inquest deemed Julian’s death as death by natural causes.

Because I was a writer of horror fiction, my testimony was dismissed as ‘the ramblings of a mind, already prone to macabre thoughts, which had been further disturbed by the death of a friend’. And for my own good, it was decided, that I should spend some time in a mental asylum, to recover from my shock.

I try not to be bitter about this, and instead look upon that period of my life as a positive experience. After all, I suppose I did garner quite a bit of material during my stay, which inspired several of my strange stories.

I recently acquired my own copy of the complete version of Charles Roland’s book, and I learned more about the demon called Vorosh. Including a description that described Vorosh: ‘Sometimes the demon takes a non-corporeal form that cannot be seen, but only heard. Only the result of its actions can be seen.’