Black Ceremonies (3 page)

I also found a warning: ‘That at the time of the Great Sabbat merely to say the words of the summoning spell is enough to call forth Vorosh.’

Perhaps Julian had inadvertently mouthed the words of the spell whilst at Kane’s house, that Walpurgis Night, and brought forth the demon himself – even before he had tried to perform the ritual at his own home.

Or perhaps Ronald Kane had already made a pact with the demon.

Although no trace of his body has been found, Ronald Kane disappeared in mysterious circumstances and is presumed dead.

Perhaps, now that I have repeated my testimony, and if Kane is not really dead, I shall hear that evil sound again.

I will be listening.

“Okay, so you don’t believe in ghosts?” Dr Andrew Maitland stood at the window, looking out at the moonlit grounds of Endor House.

His host, the businessman Roger Hilton, sat in a comfortable leather armchair. “Correct.”

“Well, what do you think happens after we die?” Maitland drew the burgundy-coloured velvet curtains closed.

“We get put in a box in the ground, and rot. Or our bodies get cremated.”

“Hmm.” Dr Maitland turned his attention to one of the paintings that adorned the study walls. He shuddered. And yet, “Remarkable,” was his verdict.

“What’s that?”

“This painting.” Dr Maitland indicated the picture in question.

Hilton rose from his seat, and joined his friend in examination of the painting. “Dear God!”

The painting was a night-time scene of four figures in a cemetery. At a glance, it appeared they were grave robbers, but closer inspection revealed that these charnel defilers were something less than human, bestial, and disturbingly obscene. By the light of a gibbous moon, the hideous creatures engaged in acts far fouler than the theft of a corpse.

Maitland was impressed. “It’s a remarkable piece of work, and a remarkable likeness.”

Hilton grunted. “Damned grotesque, if you ask me. Do you think it’s worth anything?” Hilton had recently inherited the house and its contents, and this was his first visit to the property. Much of what he had found, he had found not to his taste.

“I don’t know.” Maitland looked closer. “I can’t quite make it out but I think it’s signed. Could be Pickman?”

Hilton shrugged. “Doesn’t mean anything to me. You like it?”

“No, I don’t. I find it terrifying,” Maitland paused, “and yet, I also find a certain comfort in it.”

“What are those creatures supposed to be anyway? You have some idea, Andrew?”

“Ghouls, I should think.”

“Ghouls? Since when did you become an expert about
the children of the night
?” said Hilton doing his best to mimic Bela Lugosi.

Despite his serious mood, Maitland had to laugh.

“Come on, Andrew. My impression wasn’t that bad, was it?”

“Roger, the children of the night are wolves.”

“Ah, well, ghosts and ghouls. Vampires and werewolves.” Hilton snorted in disgust. “Load of rubbish if you ask me.”

“You think so?”

“Of course I do!” The businessman sat down again. “The undead. Is that what this is all about?”

Maitland remained contemplating the painting. “Hmm?”

“You asked me, what I thought happened after we die.”

“It was the fate of the soul, I had in mind.”

“Oh, you mean Heaven and Hell.”

“There are other possibilities,” Maitland said.

“Heaven or Hell?” mused Hilton. “That’s a big question,” he said, lighting a cigarette. “Build up the fire, would you, Andrew?”

Dr Maitland added some coal to the flames, then sat in the other armchair.

Apart from the ticking of the clock, and the roar of the fire, the two men sat in silence. Hilton smoking, considering the question, whilst his friend gazed deep into the heart of the fire’s flames.

Eventually Hilton delivered his verdict, “Nope. Don’t believe in either.”

“How about reincarnation?”

Hilton frowned. “What? The belief that we have lived previous lives?”

“Yes, that’s it. The rebirth of the soul. The cyclical return of a soul to live another life in a new body.”

“No! I most certainly do not.” Hilton threw the remains of his cigarette into the fire. “Reincarnation, ghosts and ghoulies, all rubbish. I can’t believe we are having this conversation, Andrew. Either we’ve had too much to drink, or not enough.” The businessman reached for the decanter. “How about another?”

“Um, yes, please.” Maitland held out his glass for a refill.

“So, where’s all this leading?” Hilton topped up their glasses.

“I’ve been doing some research—” Maitland began, Hilton interrupted with a groan.

“Oh, for goodness sake, Andrew, don’t tell me you’ve been dabbling with some sort of spiritualism.”

“No, not spiritualism as such.”

“A world of charlatans and fools. I don’t know which I despise the more.”

Maitland’s smile was brief. “Ah, like you, there was a time when I too, would scoff at such things. But that was before—”

Hilton butted in again, “Oh, come on, Andrew. It’s nonsense. It must be. I mean, haven’t you noticed that everyone who believes in reincarnation has always been someone famous from history? How many of them were Cleopatra or a Roman emperor? Without exception, they have all had previous lives that were glamorous or important. They have been kings and queens, at the very least a Red Indian princess.”

Maitland smiled again. “You’re exaggerating, Roger. But as I said, I was sceptical myself. Then a colleague told me about a patient of his who claimed to have lived previous lives.”

“I don’t suppose this was a mental patient was it, old boy?”

Maitland sighed. “Yes, as a matter of fact it was.”

“There you are then.” Hilton grinned.

“I would have put it down to a delusion myself but the patient was so convincing, and quite lucid – well most of the time – a scientist, who specialised in recondite matters.” Maitland shrugged. “I was curious and looked into the matter a bit further.”

“A lot further by the sound of it.”

“I read some strange books.”

“Undoubtedly written by a bunch of cranks.”

“Then I began to experiment with a drug called Liao.”

“Liao? I’ve never heard of it. And I’m surprised that you have. I never had you down as someone who would be seduced by this New Age counter culture. You’ve not been seeing someone behind Barbara’s back have you? Having an affair with some young hippie girl?”

“No, of course not. Barbara and I are very happy together.”

Hilton hastily apologised. “Of course you are. Sorry, Andrew.”

Hilton poured fresh drinks. “Well, tell me about this Liao stuff,” he said.

“It’s an Oriental concoction known to occultists and alchemists.”

“Ah, the mystic East.” Hilton smirked. “So, what’s it do?”

“It enables the user to travel in time—”

“Travel in time?” roared Hilton, interrupting.

“Not physically of course.” Dr Maitland sighed. “It’s rather difficult to explain the effect.”

“Try.”

“Well, I suppose the best analogy would be that it’s a form of astral projection.” Maitland held up a hand to forestall the comment his friend was about to make. “Roger, the how is not really the important thing. What is important is that it works, and I have found that I had lived many other lives.”

Hilton was about to say something about Indian princesses, but Maitland’s serious expression changed his mind. He decided it was best to humour his friend.

“All right, suppose I said: prove it to me. Did you bring any of this Liao down here with you?”

“No.” Maitland shook his head. “You’d take it if I had?”

“Maybe. Maybe not.” Hilton lit up another cigarette. “You did, and came through it unharmed, didn’t you?”

“Maybe. Maybe not,” Maitland echoed Hilton’s own words.

Hilton frowned. “Okay, so how are you going to convince me?” He cut his question short, the rest of it – the words: you haven’t gone mad – remained unspoken.

“I’m going to tell you about an occurrence that happened when I was not Dr Andrew Maitland but George Prendergast, a soldier …”

Before putting it back in his jacket pocket, Private George Prendergast kissed the picture of his sweetheart Sally-Ann. Would he ever see her again? he wondered.

He took out his cigarette case, and lit a woodbine, then returned the case to the same pocket as the photograph – over his heart. Prendergast had never smoked before the war. But he had taken up the habit after hearing how Tommy Morsan had escaped death, when a bullet meant for his heart, had struck the cigarette case that he carried.

Around him, his fellow soldiers were going through similar rituals, checking weapons and equipment, and saying prayers. The bombardment of enemy lines had been going on for some time. It would not be long before the signal would come and they would attack.

The signal eventually came, too soon for some, not soon enough for others, and over the top, they went. Charging the enemy. Charging Death himself.

A charge across a patch of muddy, rutted ground. Ground pocked with great craters, shell holes filled with scummy water. A desolate waste ground where nothing now grew, except the number of corpses. A quagmire of death.

A charge into tangles of barbed wire, and machine guns spitting bullets. Except it could not really be called a charge, the weight of the equipment the men carried, and the treacherousness of the mud, meant that they moved little faster than a walking pace.

Into No-Man’s-Land, the zone of death. Soldiers scythed down by the hail of enemy bullets. Shells exploding, hurling men hither and thither. Prendergast was unsure whether the shells were theirs, or those of the enemy.
It no longer mattered to the dead men.

“Please God, don’t let me die for nothing,” Prendergast prayed, certain that his death was certain.

Prendergast repeated the mantra as he progressed towards the enemy.

An orange cloud was drifting towards the advancing troops. “Gas!” Prendergast shouted, struggling to put on his gas mask. Before he had, the force of a nearby explosion threw him to the ground. He remained unmoving, and the battle raged on.

In the distance the guns rumbled, explosions flashed, lighting the grey sky. But that was far off, the battle had moved on.

Private Prendergast realised he was still alive. He wiped his face with his sleeve, did not notice the blood. Instead, he looked around him, and was sick, adding the meagre contents of his stomach to the detritus of human waste that surrounded him. Bodies, and parts of bodies lay everywhere.

He recognised the mangled remains of friends and comrades. There was Private Bobby Owens, or at least his upper half, the rest of the young soldier had been blown to kingdom come. Prendergast giggled, at least the lad would not be complaining about trench foot anymore. Others were beyond recognition.

He heard a groan – someone else was alive. Friend or foe? he wondered. Unsteady on his feet, Prendergast rose.

“What the bleedin’ hell …?” he muttered.

He could have sworn he saw a severed arm move, its grasping hand pulling it along.

He shook his head, rubbed his eyes, and laughed nervously.

The arm moved again, the hand clawing the mud, dragging the limb behind it.

Prendergast licked his parched lips. His Enfield rifle was near at hand, he wondered whether that was what the limb was aiming to reach. Prendergast crouched down and grabbed his weapon. He pounced, bayoneting the arm. The hand jerked, clawing, convulsing spasmodically, then was still.

There was more groaning now. Prendergast pulled the blade free, and backed away, almost falling over another body. The soldier moaned. Prendergast recognised a comrade – Dennis Trotter.

“Thank God, you’re alive!”

Trotter groaned; his hand reached for Prendergast.

Prendergast bent over the wounded man, shrugging off his army pack. He would not be able to carry that and Trotter back to their own lines.

“Are you hurt badly?” he asked.

Trotter’s blood-soaked jacket answered that question. Prendergast opened the jacket, reeled back, retching again. There was no way Trotter could still be alive with that gaping stomach wound.

Yet Trotter raised a hand, grasped Prendergast by the throat, began to squeeze and pull the private down towards him.

Shock kept Prendergast frozen momentarily, and then realisation that a dead friend was choking the life out of him spurred the private into action. He struggled free, and smashed the butt of his rifle into Trotter’s face.

Around him men of both sides – including Trotter – were slowly rising. Men with terrible wounds. Dead men. Private Prendergast began to back away.

They were closing in on him. Staggering and shambling, men that no longer breathed yet groaned and moaned. Some missing limbs, others with gaping wounds spilling entrails.

Staring with sightless eyes. Ruined faces; one corpse entirely headless.

Prendergast watched dazed and amazed. “This can’t be happening,” he muttered. Hands reached out for him but not all of them.

A Hun, with his guts hanging out, grabbed and pulled free some of his intestines. His intent to use them as a garrotte.

Prendergast fired, his bullet hitting one of the living corpses in the eye. Prendergast was amazed for two reasons. Normally, he would not have achieved such accuracy even if he had tried to aim for the eye. Secondly, the shot had little effect – the walking dead man staggered at the impact, paused a moment, then continued its shambling advance.