Mallore

Good evening. As you may be aware, candles are often used in occult rituals. As a matter of fact, I’ve used them myself during out-of-body experiences, but not recently. Take a look at this scarlet candle – tonight’s item. Your eyes do not deceive you – it is lit and steadily burning, though the flame is frozen, unmoving, like a still photograph. That seems impossible, doesn’t it? But this ancient candle is quite real and I assure you (OUCH) hot even - but the red wax isn’t melting and try as I might I just can’t (PUFF) blow it out. An eternal flame. But nothing lasts forever, does it? And if it did, at what cost?

Mallore - by M.O.Granger

Life. An interesting concept upon which we inflict meaning – then what is meaning? A mere concept, too? Who on this earth, or elsewhere, knows? But a candle is not a concept. A candle is solid, tangible, material. When a candle burns you see it. You feel it. There is no doubt.

The match is struck, the wick flickers, and the wax melts, dripping, crying, slivering away until no more. Some are fortunate enough if someone snuffs out their light before others are left to clean up the mess.

But for Mallore, in her castle of ice and stone, her candle was perpetual. It burned but the wax did not melt.

She was too old to remember what she was. A bloodsucker? A reanimated corpse? A fallen divinity, perhaps? The mirror reminded her each morning that she was beautiful. Beautiful and cold, like the sole surviving snowdrop on a frosty morning where all others had perished.

Mallore rose, draped in a scarlet gown, from her bed. She never slept, never could, but something inside told her that was what all living things did. The remnants of a time before this existence, perhaps, where she felt she used to rest while the moon was up and not the sun. But that mattered not.

The castle was empty, and she was young forever.

In her chambers, the black candle burned on the bedside table. For as long as she could remember, it had been there. Like her, it did not age, existing in a blissful limerence, caught between life and death – indecipherable concepts to Mallore.

Tap tap tap.

At first, Mallore thought it was a bird trapped in the turrets above, its panicked flutters echoing through the great halls, but…  

She listened again. Tap tap tap. A desperate plea rang out. Unmistakable this time.

Who would dare climb so high in this desolate and frozen terrain? Curiosity ensnared her. A moment of excitement as she made her way to the large doors of this grand castle. For the first time in days or centuries, she opened the doors. Groaning on their hinges, they shuffled open.

It was a human. A woman. Young. She stood shivering from the cold. Her clothes were ragged and torn, modest in comparison to Mallore’s regal attire, though she was fair and bright like springtime sun. Before she could say a word, the stranger collapsed in the doorway.

Mallore did not know what possessed her to take the human in – boredom, pity – but she did it anyway. Carrying the stranger like a rag doll, she laid her down on the rug before the hearth in the great hall and kindled a blazing fire that spat and cast warm light on the woman’s face.

Freckles… Young skin…  Plump lips… Dark eyelashes… Slender neck… A fine pet. But what to do with it?

Though Mallore hardly felt the fire’s heat, it certainly seemed to have an effect on the human, who stirred every few minutes, rolling sideways to face its red, flickering tongues lapping at the hearth. Eventually, her eyes fluttered open. She was from a city far away, she said. Had fled from war, the terror of what awaited survivors and had come this far out expecting a nonviolent death. But when she had sighted the peaks of a great castle, she felt she had one more chance at life.  

Mallore offered her the hearth for the evening. Then the next. She brought her warmed mead. Eventually she offered her a room. It surprised her, this generosity. It was something akin to a feeling, a feeling like a stale morning touched by a sharp and delightful gust of spring wind…

Time passed. The wind howled on, and snow tumbled down upon the mountainous slopes surrounding the castle.

Mallore and the woman dined on meat and red wine, seated at opposite ends of the table in silence. The woman began to clear away the plates and offered to cook. She hunted wild hare and brought it back for a stew. Then she started asking questions. Who was she? How did she live here? Where did she come from?

Over time, Mallore’s answers shifted from Do not question me to I do not remember to I wish I knew to I wish I could tell you. In the library, they read to each other. Histories, tragedies, comedies… Mallore could barely tell the difference, but the woman explained. The outdoor terrain was bitter and unsuitable for the woman, so Mallore made warmer clothes from curtains, drapes, and clothes she herself did not wear. The castle was grand and spacious, so they strolled its corridors together admiring the artwork on the walls. Mallore had seen them a thousand times before, but they glowed like new when the woman stood next to her, gazing in awe at brushstrokes older than her ancestors. In her room, the mirror grew dusty. What beauty lay in looking inwards at oneself after all?

As every moon rose and sunk, it seemed more difficult to say goodnight, for them to go their separate ways to bed, as though an intangible thread had brought them together and pulled them closer still.

Then, one night, it happened as they sat by the fire in the room where Mallore had first laid the woman to rest after collapsing on her doorstep. The human laid down next to the fire as she had grown into the habit of doing of an evening. This time Mallore held her head in her lap. She began stroking her hair then gently kissed her head. Then her lips.

Hand in hand, they walked the winding staircase together. Without discussion, without pause, they entered the chamber that Mallore had gifted the woman all that time ago.

It was like sinking, afraid and trembling at first, then falling all at once, blissfully, into a bath. With each touch, warmth spread from the woman to Mallore, filling her body with its tendrils as her scarlet robe lay discarded on the floor. When morning came, they woke together with the rising sun, blinking away their new-found vulnerability, stroking the hair off one another’s shoulders, speaking soft words.

As the days and nights passed, Mallore quite forgot about her chambers and what she left behind in there. They spent their time as before, walking, reading, exchanging looks and words. But now it was more than that. Now when Mallore awoke it wasn’t to the same mundane existence.

Mallore felt a strange sensation in her chest, a painful but delightful ache that wanted to climb out her mouth and say something she might have said in a life before but had no recollection of during her time in the castle. To be truthful, she did not know that the three words forming in her head even were the natural thing to say but it could not have felt more…human.

And her heart. With each adoring look the woman gave her, the more it thawed.

One morning, she must have had a dazed look, for the woman giggled and asked her what was on her mind, tracing the curve of her nose playfully. She had seemed rather tired of late, but perhaps their late nights had exacerbated her appearance.

Tired? Mallore laughed away the woman’s comment at first, but it nagged at her for the rest of the day. She could not be tired.

In the evening the woman dozed. Mallore felt a pull towards her own chambers that she had neglected of late. She walked in and wiped dust off the mirror with her sleeve. She squinted her eyes to ensure they weren’t deceiving her.

What was that in her hair? She felt for the silver strand in her long, dark hair, and plucked it out, examining this parasite with confusion and anger. And that was not all. Again, the mirror showed her something else. A crease on her visage, a line on her forehead. Even the skin around her eyes appeared sunken. What was happening to her? In all her time at the castle, nothing like this had ever occurred, nothing ever changed, ever grew, ever died –

Then she noticed the candle, gleaming with a vengeful light.

It was melting. A single drop of wax had run down its side. A pool of black sat beneath the flame.

Not long after, Mallore stood over the woman’s unconscious body, a knife in one hand.

If she was sleeping, she would not feel pain. Mallore never would have seen those eyes regard her with anything but joy and pleasure. Everything would be as it was. Perfect. Undisturbed. Eternal.

What was love but a concept, after all?

The dagger plunged into the woman’s heart, so deep it penetrated through her back and into the sheets where they had loved. Blood soaked the bed, the pillows, the covers, and Mallore struck again and again and again, the sound of abused flesh and cracking bones disturbing the air, until… With ragged breaths, Mallore slowly stood up. She dopped the knife. Its clanging echoed throughout the castle.

The woman was heavier when dead. Cradled in her arms, she hung limp, childlike, innocent, dripping red in Mallore’s nightgown. She descended the staircase and out the great doors into the snow. Still, a more peaceful end than any she would have faced had she stayed in the city.

Gazing upon the icy shards of rock plummeting to lower depths of the world, Mallore raised the woman above her head as if this were a sacrificial ritual. Whispering an apology that the wind snatched away, she sent the body into the abyss where it dropped clumsily out of sight.

She followed the drops of blood on the snow that led back to her castle and her chambers, empty once more.

The candle had stopped melting. The wet stream of wax had hardened in place. It no longer stood as tall as it used to, but it had stopped.

With a sigh, Mallore looked in the mirror, raising a pale hand to her face. The imperfections she had developed remained, but never again would she bear such damage by exposing herself to weakness. They would serve as a reminder.

It was as if her heart froze all over again, she thought, smiling.

She was still beautiful. She was still young.

This tale is apocryphal, of course, and this example eternal flame kept here in the Scarlet Vault is not Mallore’s symbiotic avatar as featured in the story. No. This particular candle is bonded to someone else… I suppose I could tell you who that person is, but, well, that would be telling! This story always makes me feel rather sad, but not for the obvious reason. When I first heard it, many years ago, I thought that Mallore was a cold-hearted monster. That in her position, I would have given up anything for love, even everlasting life. That I could never have acted in the way she did.

Of course, back then, I was still mortal…

Time for you to go and get some beauty sleep! Enjoy your nightmares.

 

Call of the Sea

Welcome again, friend, to the Scarlet Vault. Tonight, I’d like to show you one of our oldest artefacts. This conch shell once belonged to a sea snail – a big one, judging by the size. It’s now so unbelievably ancient that it’s virtually fossilised, yet it can still generate a musical note or two, if blown into at this end. Or so I’m informed. Don’t worry, I’m not going to. You may be wondering why this seemingly innocent relic of a bygone era would be placed in the Scarlet Vault for safekeeping. Well, I’ll tell you…

Call of the Sea

The smell of the sea air always made Graham Munro hungry. It conjured mental images of fish, chips, ice cream, and memories of happier times as a kid. Stress-free times.

He’d been looking forward to this holiday and had felt himself drawn to the place – some much-deserved time away from the city and his overbearing family. He had been signed off work by the doctor, due to suffering from stress. Some solitude and fishing was in order.  But first, he had to check into the bed and breakfast, and that was proving difficult, since no one was responding to his ringing of the bell. The reception area was deserted. Come to think of it, he hadn’t seen a single person since he had returned to the seaside village of Glaucus Bay.

He gave the bell another ding and waited. Then, giving up on the bell, he knocked hard on the counter to try and get some attention. ‘Hullo?’ he called. ‘Anyone there? Customer here!’

He was replied to by nothing. Total silence.

Graham decided that he had waited long enough. Leaving his bags by the desk, he vaulted over the counter and walked tentatively into the small room behind it. Staff Only.  ‘Hullo?’ he tried again, quieter this time. Still no sign of anyone. A half-drunk cup of tea was evidence that someone had been here recently, but he touched the side and it felt stone cold. He looked around, wondering if he should go upstairs and bang on some doors there, when the trill sound of the telephone made him jump. He reached into his jacket pocket for his blood pressure pills. Swallowing one neat, he looked at the still ringing phone. It wasn’t his responsibility, of course, but he lifted the receiver and answered the call.

‘Is that the Beachside B&B?’ came the voice of an elderly woman. ‘I’ve been trying to get through to you for an hour now!’

‘This is the Beachside B&B’ Graham replied. ‘But I’m a guest, not a member of staff. There’s nobody here, love.’ He suddenly felt a pang of fear which he brushed away with a joke. ‘Everyone seems to have gone on holiday!’

Suggesting the lady call back at another time, he replaced the handset. Forgetting his bags for the moment, he went up the stairs. Surely if the place was closed it would be locked? He wouldn’t just be able to walk around the place, would he? He came to the first guest room and banged on the door. Upon receiving no reply, he tried the handle, and the door opened to an occupied but occupier-less room. Their luggage had been unpacked, the bedsheets wrinkled and recently used. Someone had been there recently, certainly, but they were not there now.

He tried other rooms, always calling, always knocking first. Nothing.

Returning to the reception area, he picked up his bags and took them back to his car, pausing to look around the charming coastal village one last time before he slammed down the boot on his luggage. No one was in sight. Yet, it was a sunny day, just before lunchtime. Someone should be up and about, surely?

He’d travelled far to get there, and needed a drink. Perhaps the local pub would serve him. If there was anyone there. He found the Sailors’ Arms on the high street and went in, but the place was also empty of people. Like the B&B, there were signs of recent habitation – half-drunk pints of beer, full astrays on the outside seating – but no humans at all. The pub was eerily silent.

Graham had had enough of this now. Was this some sort of joke? Surely not. He tried to think of a reason for what was happening. He was vaguely aware that some Dorset villages were owned by the army, so in theory they could become restricted zones upon some order received from higher up, but he was sure that Glaucus Bay wasn’t one of those places.. Besides, there would have been roadblocks, surely, or at least some signage turning motorists away.

This was a mystery.

He went back to his car and sat inside and googled the village on his phone looking for possible explanations. There was nothing that could explain why Glaucus Bay was deserted, only pretty photos and trip advisor comments saying how lovely and welcoming the locals were.

With a sigh of disappointment, Graham realised his holiday plans would have to be forgotten. He would have to call the police and tell them… what, exactly? That a whole village of people seemed to have disappeared? He’d be laughed at. And besides, this wasn’t his problem. He was on holiday, after all. And he certainly didn’t need the extra stress. No, not his problem. He would just leave and -

A face appeared at the passenger door window. A long face with haunted eyes. Graham jumped in his seat.

‘Didn’t you hear it?’ the stranger asked, trembling with a mixture of fear and adrenaline. ‘Didn’t you hear the sound?’

Graham recovered from the shock of this sudden arrival and leant over and wound down the window so they could hear each other better. He wasn’t quite comfortable enough to get out of the car with that lunatic out there. ‘Hear what, mate? I’ve only just got here.’

The man stared at his mouth as he spoke, and seemed to take a second to understand his words. ‘That explains it,’ he said finally. ‘You’ve only just arrived.’

‘That’s what I said. Look, where is everyone? What’s going on here?’

‘You’ll have to talk slower, or look at me while talking or I can’t understand you.’

Graham huffed and rolled his eyes. ‘Where… is … everyone?’

‘Gone.’

‘I can see that!’

‘They’re all gone. At one with the sea now. I warned him not to blow into the shell horn. I warned him.’

‘Look, I don’t know what you’re talking about!’ Graham stepped out of the car and walked around to face the man, noting for the first time that he was carrying a large coral shell in his shaking hands. ‘What’s that you’ve got there?’

‘The instrument of mass suicide.’

Which was not the answer he was expecting.

‘I’ll try to explain. If you’ll listen? But first, I need to get rid of this… thing. Come with me to the cliff top, I’m going to throw the awful thing back into the sea. Where it belongs. We should never have brought it ashore.’

Graham found himself chasing after the strange man, needing to understand what was happening. This was against his desire for rest and relaxation, but he couldn’t resist the mystery. He was led up a footpath which took them up the hillside.

‘I’m Professor Sebastian Jarred, a marine paleobotanist ’ the man seemed pleased to have someone to talk to and he strode purposefully onwards, ‘I’ve been one of team studying the shoreline here for ancient fossils. We found some interesting items, I’ll leave it at that. One of them was this conch shell.’

‘I didn’t think we had shells like that in this country,’

‘You don’t, and this one is nearly 300,000 years old. I knew that it was evil the moment I saw it. But Dr Adams – the leader of our group – ignored my warnings and treated the thing as a toy. He blew into it, producing a sound that resulted in…’

‘Resulted in what?’

‘It was a clarion call. A call recalling human beings to where they began. The sea!’

‘That’s nonsense,’ Graham nearly tripped over a rock. ‘You’re not making any sense. Even if this were true, how could you know all this?’

‘It came to me in a dream. I’ve been troubled by weird dreams ever since arriving in this village. Race memories, I think they are called – images, snapshots, sensations of man’s distant past. About our ancient masters.  I tried to warn them. I tried!’

They came to a halt at the cliff edge, the churning sea below them. ‘I’ve tried stamping on this damn thing, I even tried burning it, but it’s indestructible. It’s not of this earth! It’s a tool of the ancient Gods!  It must never be used again!’

Graham stopped the Professor from tossing the shell over the edge. The man was off his head on drugs or something, surely.  ‘Just hang on a minute. These things are valuable! Are you really saying blowing in this makes people throw themselves in the sea like lemmings?’

‘Everyone who heard that sound responded to the call. Even Dr Adams. It triggers parts of our brain that have lain dormant for thousands of years.’

‘But it didn’t affect you because…’

‘I’m partially deaf.’

That explained the strange manner in which the Professor stared at him whenever he spoke. ‘Okay, right, well I think we need to get you some help,’ he tried to take the shell from the strange man, but he held on to it firmly. ‘Give that to me,’ Graham commanded, snatching it from the older man’s grip. He turned it in his hands. It felt cold, ancient, but surely it was quite harmless. A pretty thing, really.

‘Don’t be tempted to…’

It would be great fun to blow in to it, to hear if it could make a sound.

‘Don’t do it!’

Graham put the smooth rim to his lips and blew inside.

…

The sound stirs something inside him, triggering a set of commands buried deep. He finds his feet are moving. He is walking closer to the cliff edge. He is not in control.

Professor Jarred is saying something, screaming and shouting, but he does not hear. It is not important. All that is important is to respond to the summons.

The land beneath his feet disappears and a new existence rushes forth.

He is falling now, headfirst into the turbulence of the sea. The waves are getting closer, closer, and then with a loud splash – again, inaudible to him, his body strikes the top layer of the water and he plunges down into the cold depths. He feels nothing. A mercy.

He is sinking now into the murk. The surface of the bottom of the sea is getting closer, closer, and then with a thud that snaps his spinal cord his body strikes the seabed. He is surrounded by other bodies, all of them planted face-first in the gravel, legs swaying in the undercurrent. Men, women and children. The missing villagers. Still he feels nothing.

Then the hypnotic numbness installed by the calling begins to subside. The pain registers. Suddenly he is utterly conscious of where he is, that he cannot breathe, that he can barely see. He screams and his lungs fill with dirty water. He panics but can’t move.

Then the fish come. He recognizes a few, even looking at them upside down in the darkness. A roundfish. Two flat fish. An eel. Dozens of tiny sea urchins. They are tentative at first, but after recognizing he can put up no defence, they swarm around him, taking exploratory bites and nibbles that he is sure will grow to become sustained attacks.

He is no longer a human being. He is sustenance. Food. There are no more worries, no more stress. He feels strangely at home, oddly fulfilled. This is where he is meant to be.

…

Over fifty villagers from the coastal village of Glaucus Bay ‘disappeared’ because of this shell. I hasten to call them dead, perhaps ‘transformed’ is a better description. But how and why should such an event come to be triggered? Is the terrible effect of the sound generated by this shell deliberate, or simply a quirk of nature? Professor Jarred certainly believes that the conch was a tool of the ancient sea gods, perhaps a method of culling the numbers of we unruly apes. If so, what slimy amphibian lips have pressed against this shell? How often was it used to control and transform early man? I don’t have the answers to these questions and to be perfectly honest, I don’t want to know… Enjoy your nightmares.

The XXXperiment

Tonight’s item is this confiscated batch of vials of a strange black fluid. If I told you that blood, sweat and tears went into the creation of this unholy chemical concoction, it would be an understatement. These vials contain the essence of life itself, a borderline supernatural energy, which was not given entirely willingly. In the annals of human experience, pleasure and pain are two sides of the same coin. I rather suspect we can’t have one without the other, and together they define and extend our very existence. That was certainly the discovery of one Dr Blackburn. Be careful this story doesn’t blow your mind…

The XXXperiment by Anna Duvall

The naked girl tied to the table took a few deep breaths to try to stop herself from panicking.

‘Dr Blackburn?’ she called out. ‘Are you still there?’

She could see nothing outside the blindfold that earlier she had been happy to wear. ‘Hello...? Is that it? Is the experiment over?’

No answer, only the constant bleeping of the monitoring devices hooked up to her goose pimpled flesh. She strained against her restraints, but they held fast. She was stuck there.

Felicity shuddered, suddenly feeling very cold and vulnerable. Had she done something wrong? Had she just made a fool of herself? Had she been abandoned?

‘Dr Blackburn?’

…

It was just a job. That was what Felicity had kept telling herself.

The summer had stretched out before her like a blank sheet of paper and the enormity of it terrified her. Some classmates were heading off to the South of France, others back home to work summer jobs waiting for them. The best in her class were doing research with the great and the good of the physiology department and with one more year of study to go, she knew she had to get something more concrete on her CV than measuring kids’ feet for back-to-school shoes. Not to mention living in London wasn’t exactly cheap, and there was no way she was working in hospitality! She desperately needed a job.

Of course she had heard of Dr Eleanor Blackburn, she’d been lectured by her. Fast, precise, and unrelenting, Blackburn would have no admittance after the lecture started, no questions until the end of her lectures, and certainly no phones. Despite her fearsome reputation, the module was popular because everyone wanted to say they had attended the Sex Doctor’s class.

It wasn’t as simple as that of course as Felicity would keenly remind her friends when she got the position as Dr Blackburn’s summer lab assistant. There were scales of measurement across science yet a complete absence of a scale for measuring pleasure in its purist form. Sexual pleasure. She knew the work would be outside her comfort zone and she had been right, attaching probes to naked test subjects day in and day out before watching them from behind a glass window into the lab as they were brought to orgasm. Felicity was appalled to find herself aroused by the seizing muscles, the sweat, and the screams.

What she hadn’t expected was quite how charming Dr Blackburn would be. Only an inch taller than Felicity, Blackburn was busty, and her long white, blonde hair gave her an almost pixie like quality were it not for her eyes which burnt like hot coals. She looked ageless, smelt utterly delightful and her clothing was always exquisitely put together. She never called Felicity by her name, instead calling her darling, and quite apart from being aroused at work Felicity found herself dreaming of her boss. What it would be like to be touched by her, kissed by her, used by her. As the summer wore on Felicity woke up more and more in hot, longing, sweats.

Until Dr Blackburn invited her for dinner.

‘Yes.’ Said Felicity, far too quickly.

‘You haven’t even checked your diary.’

‘I don’t need to,’ Felicity was flustered. ‘I mean, I’ve got nothing going on, everyone’s gone home for the summer. Or at least anyone I’d want to spend time with.’

‘You’re a shy girl, aren’t you?’

The lack of a reply spoke for itself.

‘Well, it’s settled, shall we say my place, tonight, at seven?’

All Felicity could do was nod.

She had spent so long trying to choose the perfect outfit that she nearly ran out of time to get an Uber. Finally, she settled on a white off-the-shoulder dress.

She arrived at Dr Blackburn’s house at five minutes to seven, a huge imposing Victorian terrace in the right part of the city. The great black door almost seemed to open itself before she’d even begun to knock.

‘Darling, is that you? I’m in the kitchen.’ Blackburn called. As Felicity walked into the great sparsely lit open plan cooking space, she had the same feeling she got watching some of the Dr’s experiments. Blackburn wore a loose satin night dress that finished just over her thighs, her hair in complete contrast done up in a messy bun. 

‘Here darling, have a drink,’ she said, uncorking a bottle of red wine. ‘Oh, but wait, you don’t drink, do you? How silly of me, I’m so sorry. What can I get you?’

‘No’ Felicity shook her head doubtfully. ‘I’d like to try some.’

Dr Blackburn’s face lit up with a smile that doubled Felicity’s heart rate.

‘Oh excellent,’ she said pouring a large glass. ‘You’ll really like it, it’s an excellent vintage.’

Suddenly it was ten O’clock, though Felicity wasn’t sure how, and they hadn’t eaten though the wine was nearly finished. Felicity couldn’t take her eyes off Eleanor Blackburn, and to her surprise, her gaze was met with the same lustful intensity.

‘Do you enjoy working with me, Felicity?’

‘Yes, very much.’

‘I did wonder if you were cut out for it.’

‘So did I.’

‘You’ve come through wonderfully.’

‘Thank you.’

‘How are you finding it?’

There was a pause.

‘It’s been an eye-opening experience’ Felicity giggled.

‘Sex is nothing to be embarrassed about.’

‘I know.’

‘And neither is sexual pleasure, especially in women. Did you know only 64% of women said they always or almost always orgasm during sex compared to 91% of men.’

‘Oh really?’ Felicity’s voice seemed small inside her own mouth.

‘That’s 36% of women who don’t orgasm during sex.’ Blackburn gave a sigh with a hundred meanings. ‘I make myself orgasm at least once a day. Twice if there’s time.’

Felicity didn’t know what to say. Her thoughts were too much for her to articulate.

‘When was the last time you orgasmed, darling?’ The coals in Blackburn’s eyes burnt furiously.

‘Never.’

‘Never? Do you mean to tell me you’ve been working for me all summer and you’ve never had an orgasm yourself?’

‘Well… no.’ Felicity looked down at the floor in shame.

Gently Blackburn raised her chin.

‘Would you like too?’

The kiss was firm and intense and everything Felicity had wanted for months. They broke apart and she nodded her head.

‘Well come with me, I have a lab downstairs in the basement. I can’t experiment on myself as its non-ethical, but we can certainly experiment on a willing subject like you darling.’ Blackburn explained, leading Felicity by the hand down the stairs.

The walls were bare brick and wet, glowing with the light from the dim energy saving lightbulbs set in great intervals in the ceiling. Water dripped somewhere from the street above. A wooden table stood in the centre of the cavernous space that lay under the Victorian house.  Felicity recognized the table immediately, recognized the restraints. This was a homespun version of the laboratory conditions. Dr Blackburn took her work home with her, it seemed. She felt a flutter in herself. Her dress loosened from the back, and she realized that Blackburn was unzipping her, caressing her neck as she did. With a steady hand Blackburn helped Felicity onto the padded table where she knelt on all fours. Her wrists and ankles were restrained with padlocked leather straps. Felicity could feel her arousal, feel herself leaking down her thigh as the sensors and probes were placed all over. The needle, taking her blood to measure hormone levels, penetrated her skin.

Then, the blindfold was put in place, a black silk band tied behind her head.

She could hear the machine being wheeled over, into position.

‘You know what’s coming, don’t you?’

Felicity nodded. She’d seen similar experiments conducted in the lab. Now it was her turn.

She gave a brief gasp as she felt the machine probing, searching for a way in, then she half screamed instinctively as the mechanical member inched inside her. It filled her up, her face contorting as it drove into her before exiting, only to strike out again. Then came the sound of the electric buzz and Felicity could hardly breathe for ecstasy. The vibrations were unrelenting and unforgiving, constantly holding her pleasure level whilst the mechanism rhythmically filled her.

The heart rate monitor by now was squealing at a blistering pace.

She could hear herself. Hear her body responding.

Her hands clenched as she bucked uncontrollably.

‘I can’t…’ Felicity managed. ‘It’s so much. Oh god!’

The mechanism increased its speed.

‘Keep going!’ Blackburn called. ‘You’re doing so well.’

There was nothing to do but keep going. She couldn’t see. She couldn’t think. She just had to keep going.

‘F**k, oh f**k…’ Felicity cried out.

‘Do you want me to stop?’

‘No, god, no, please, no.’

Felicity could feel a trembling in her core, trying to break out, the relentless stimulation, the unrelenting brutality of the mechanism. Her thighs began to shake, then her legs and arms.

‘Oh god, I’m gonna…’ She didn’t finish the sentence. The shaking became total full-body spasms and were it not for the restraints Felicity would have collapsed as the most guttural animal sounds escaped from her lips. The heart rate monitor was screaming.

‘That was excellent, darling, most excellent’ said Dr Blackburn as she walked over to Felicity’s still trembling body. ‘We’ve collected some really good data there, well done.’

The scrape of metal wheels on cobbled paving indicated the machine was being moved away. Felicity waited for more words of praise, or instruction on what was going to happen next, but nothing came. Minutes passed. She’s left me, she thought. Left me like this.

…

Felicity’s pulse began to quicken, and her heart thundered. What if the doctor had suffered an accident? Or simply abandoned her? Had she made a mistake in trusting her?

She tried repeatedly to escape her bonds, but the straps had been buckled by expert hands. Oh God, she thought, how many others have gone through this? What have I done?

She thought about screaming, but would anyone hear? And if they did, did she want a complete stranger seeing her like this – naked, ashamed, afraid?

‘Sorry to keep you, darling,’

Felicity almost wept. ‘Oh, thank God – I thought you’d left me!’

Dr Blackburn tore away the blindfold and patted her gently on the shoulder.  She did not release her from her bonds, however. ‘Just preparing for part two of the experiment, darling.’

‘Part two?’

‘Oh, you don’t think I was only interested in pleasure, do you? I am now going to put you through unimaginable pain, all the while reading your responses. I am so very close to a scale for pain and pleasure, the Blackburn Scale if you will.’

‘Unimaginable pain? What the hell do you mean?’

Blackburn ignored her. She pressed a button on the monitoring system and suddenly the sensor pads across Felicity’s body ignited with a painful electric charge. She screamed violently. To her horror she watched as her discomfort manifested itself as a black liquid drawn from the needle in her skin into a the first of several empty vials waiting to be filled.

‘The essence of pain my darling. Stress hormones, mixed with Oxytocin and dopamine. I’ve been working so hard to get the ratio correct. I give you pleasure, and I take your pain. I feed on your pain. It sustains me. Would you believe, darling, that I’m nearly a hundred years old? This secretion could provide me with eternal youth. Thank you so much for your assistance in my refining the recipe. Thank you also for your physical contribution.’

Electric shocks of ever-growing proportion burnt through Felicity’s body like a bristling fever. She cried out, but the tears only made it worse. All the while the essence of her pain poured from her and was collected for Dr Blackburn. More tortures followed, the pain subsiding only for it to strike again.

‘You can’t do this!’ Felicity screamed, her muscles seizing, her body pouring with sweat. ‘Please stop! You can’t do this, you’re evil!’

‘I’ve heard it all before, darling.’ Blackburn flicked some switches and powered down the device. ‘That’s it. Experiment’s over.’

That was it? ‘I’ll tell everyone about this,’ she stated, trying again to break free of the restraints. It wasn't an empty threat. ‘I’ll warn everyone who’ll listen about you.’

Blackburn smiled cruelly. ‘No, I don't think you will, darling, not if you want me to keep private the video of you… enjoying yourself…’ she indicated a hidden camera in the ceiling. ‘Recorded purely for scientific purposes, of course.’

Felicity flushed with anger, and not just for her own mistreatment. ‘How many others have you blackmailed like this? Answer me. How many others have you done this to?’

‘A few,’ Blackburn admitted. ‘But you were the best, darling.’

Felicity thought for a moment before saying, ‘I'm not ashamed of what I've just done. But I am ashamed of being taken in by you, and I won't let you blackmail me into silence.’ She eyed the vials. ‘What you're doing is wrong, very wrong, and when I get off this table I’m going to expose you.’

She waited for a reaction, for the first time in her life strangely proud of herself. Confident.

‘Oh dear,’ Blackburn sighed. ‘I’d hoped you were going to be more malleable. But still, I have a contingency for every scenario. Why don’t you look up?’ The smile was maniacal now.

Straining from her awkward position on all fours, Felicity tried to look up as indicated. Her eyes doubled in size as terror seized her body. Above her shone the blade of a guillotine.

“It’s okay, you’ve got such a pretty head, I won’t waste it.” Doctor Blackburn said, opening the doors of a large cupboard behind her. It did not contain lab equipment. Large jars lined the shelves.

Felicity nearly passed out in fear at their contents. Severed heads. They each contained severed heads. The severed heads of several of the test subjects she’d seen over the long hot summer.

Felicity gasped - was this really happening? -  she tried so hard not to scream, not to give the evil doctor any further satisfaction.

‘They always like to say that the moment of death is painless, that you wouldn’t feel it, but do you know something, darling? My research has found that in the last split millisecond, everything goes off the scale.’ Dr Blackburn finished ominously before adding. ‘Oh, I should ask… any last words?’

‘You’ll go to hell for this,’ spat Felicity.

‘I know, darling. And my appointment is well overdue.’ 

The blade fell swiftly. Felicity’s head followed.

…

An anonymous telephone call alerted the authorities to the depraved experiments conducted by Dr Blackburn. I am pleased to say that Felicity was her last victim. The evil doctor is now the oldest resident of Bronzefield’s Women’s Prison, and judging by the latest photos she’s now starting to look her age…

We took possession of the fruits of Blackburn’s research. The life energy contained in these vials – more than just bodily fluids, it is anima itself - is too sacred to waste on mere vanity.

We were not able to clamp down on the doctor’s terrible research, however. Dr Blackburn’s work was published from prison with Felicity given a posthumous credit. The Beauty Industry is said to be very interested in her work…

Stay young and beautiful and enjoy your nightmares!

Choice of Demons

Take a close look at this box of figurines. They look like toys, don’t they? Well, I suppose they are playthings of a kind. They’re a bunch of tiny demons! Look at how much effort has gone into carving them, each one is uniquely ugly with slightly different features, reflecting the variety of unholy creatures that swim eternally through the forbidden realms. These figures were created by a Satanic cult in the 1980s and handed out to unsuspecting members of the public as a way of proliferating some evil ideology. We’ve determined that most of these figures are just pieces of pseudo-religious tat. But not all of them were harmless…

Another night of angry screaming, screaming beyond hoarseness, beyond what the human voice could possibly produce. The neighbours banged the walls, cats out in the street wailed in sympathy, and Mrs Angela O’Neal went even further out of her mind.

At five am, she sat in the kitchen, lit cigarette balanced on the ashtray unsmoked, and cried. Then she stopped herself. However much she was going through, she understood, poor Jenny was suffering even more. Another long scream echoed from the bedroom upstairs as if to confirm the truth in her realisation. Not for the first time, Mrs O’Neal wondered if a pillow placed over Jenny’s head might solve all their problems. No, she decided. She had to hold on to her hope that things would get better. That the demon inside her daughter would go away.

The doorbell chimed at 9am exactly, and Mrs O’Neal ran downstairs, two steps at a time, to answer the front door. ‘Oh, thank goodness you’ve…’

She found herself momentarily startled by the appearance of their visitor. Of course, it was well known that the new arrival was blind, but Mrs O’Neal was not prepared for the gaping eye sockets. The man looked like a haunted skeleton wearing a tweed blazer.

‘Algernon Gervais, at your service, madam. May I take it you’re happy for Cerberus here to accompany me?’

Mrs O’Neal looked down at the wolf-like guide dog. ‘Yes, please come inside. Dogs are always welcome in this house.’

‘And Exorcists? What about them?’ he strode in and let her close the door behind him. I’ll save you the trouble of finding a polite way to ask the question on your mind. I knew to call you ‘madam’ because I can smell your perfume. You must be the lady of the manor, correct?’

She nodded, before realising how pointless that was when communicating with someone who couldn’t see. She’d only pick up on the sarcasm in his comment later – their council house was hardly a manor. ‘Yes, Mr Gervais, I’m Mrs O’Neal. Jenny’s mother. Thank you for agreeing to help us.’

‘Never said anything about helping, did we Cerberus?’ he patted the dog. ‘Can’t make any promises, not where the occult is concerned.’ He sniffed. ‘Do you have my money?’

She handed him an envelope containing ten newly minted pound coins. ‘As you requested. I really hope you can help us. We’re all out of options now, and we don’t have the funds to pay for any sort of specialists... You’re our only hope.’

She started to explain about the failure of the family doctor and local vicar to help, but Gervais silenced her with a chopping motion. ‘How did this all this start, that’s all I want to know.’

‘I wish we knew,’ Mrs O’Neal sighed. ‘I just wish we knew.’

…

A week earlier, after completing the first of her part-time jobs in town, Jenny was rushing for the bus when she bumped into a strange woman.

‘Look where you’re going, darling,’ the little woman snapped. ‘What’s the rush?’

Jenny threw her hands up. ‘I’m so sorry, I’ve got to get that bus, or I’ll be late for work again.’

She needed to keep the boss of her second job happy as a promotion was on the cards, and she and her mum desperately needed the extra money.

‘He won’t promote you, darling’ the old lady called after her. ‘He has his eye on that David for the role.’

Jenny came to a halt and turned around. ‘What did you say? How could you know that?’

She noticed the dark eyed woman was dressed in a very old-fashioned way and was wearing a strange symbol on her silver necklace. But she was smiling, her eyes wrinkled at the corners. ‘You need a change in your life, darling. Here, take this,’ she pressed a cool figurine into Jenny’s hand.

‘I’m sorry, I don’t have any money,’ Jenny said quickly, aware of the sales techniques of some in the travelling community. Once they have the goods in your hand they wanted paying.

‘I don’t want your money,’ the woman replied, offended. ‘He likes you,’ she indicated the figurine. ‘He wants to be one with you.’

Confused but too polite to argue, Jenny nodded back. ‘Thank you, but I really need to get this bus now,’ she put one foot inside the vehicle to stop the driver from closing the doors on her. When she turned back again, the woman was gone, disappeared.

On the back seat of the crowded bus, Jenny examined the strange figure that had been forced on her. It was about four inches high, a naked man with large feminine breasts poking his tongue out. She turned it in her hand wondering what on earth it could be made of. It wasn’t plastic, wood or stone. Perhaps it was valuable? She certainly hoped so. The figurine had a pointed tail, the barb of which pricked Jenny’s slim finger, drawing blood.

She gasped loudly, and a few other passengers turned to see what was wrong with her. She smiled at them, reassuringly, and sucked her finger. ‘I’m fine, just an accident.’

After they resumed their conversations or found something more interesting to do, she looked again at the figurine. Horrible little thing. She would throw it away at the first opportunity, get it out of her life. Of course, by then, it had already got its hooks in her.

…

‘Girl is upstairs, I take it?’ Gervais let Cerberus lead him up the stairs even before being invited. Mrs O’Neal trailed on behind.

‘Yes, second door on the right. I… er… must warn you, Mr Gervais, she can be… dangerous.’

‘No need to warn me about the dangers of the supernatural, my dear.’ His hands started to move towards his face, towards his empty eye sockets, but he stopped himself. The last thing he wanted – or deserved - was pity.

She understood his meaning, having heard the stories. ‘That door there. Good luck, Mr Gervais. Can I get you a cup of tea?’

He stopped at the threshold and produced a hip flask. ‘Brought my own poison, thank you.’

He took a deep breath before following Cerberus into Jenny’s room and quietly closing the door behind them. It was a normal teenager's bedroom, nothing immediately ominous - not that he could see any of it. He could sense that the curtains were drawn, rooms often had a familiar cold, musty quality when not exposed to the light of day. There was a foul stench – not just the normal adolescent smells, but an evil quality which he had encountered before.

Cerberus growled in the direction of the heavily breathing girl on the bed.

‘There, there, boy,’ Gervais comforted him. ‘I don’t know if you can hear me, girly, but my dog won’t harm you, unless I tell him to. If you’ve got a demon inside you, it’s me you need to worry about.’

There was no response for at least a minute, and he began to feel his confidence subside. Then Jenny O’Neal – or the thing inside her – laughed at him, a low growl.

‘Something amused you, girl?’

‘I see the barrel is being well and truly scraped,’ she was surprisingly erudite. ‘First doctors, then holy men, now… well, what are you, exactly?’

‘Algernon Gervais, expert in matters of the occult.’

‘Have you dealt with a case of demonic possession before, Mr Gervais?’

He stumbled closer to the bed, Cerberus staying close to the door, sensing danger. ‘Can’t say I have. I do have experience of the demonic however, as you can see.’

‘You are blind.’

‘Ten out of ten for observation.’

‘You would love to look at this body, Gervais, if you could. It is young. Fresh. Would you like to touch it?’

‘Not today thank you,’ he answered, though his tongue was hanging out at the thought of it.

‘What is this you hold before me?’

He took the lid off the hip flask. ‘Just a little holy water. Let’s see how you like it,’ he tipped half of the contents over the girl, and she reacted with mild shock but not any sort of supernatural revulsion.

A moment later she said, ‘You’ve made me wet, Mr Gervais. Was that your intention?’

He snorted, annoyed. ‘Just trying something out.’

‘Is that all you’ve got for me, blind man?’

‘No,’ he answered quickly.

‘You’re an idiot. Stupid f**king idiot.’

‘Better than a liar, girly.’

‘What do you mean, blind man?’

‘I submit to you that you’re not possessed at all. Why are you doing this? For the attention? Perhaps you’re just mental? You O’Neal family seem the type – common and desperate.’

‘You do not believe that a demon fights for control of my body?’

‘You didn’t react to the holy water, did you? I’m not afraid of you, like everyone else seems to be. Of course, if you really were a demon, you’d prove it.’

‘How?’

‘By doing something only a demon could do. You shouldn’t need me to tell you that, my dear.’

The girl roared and thrashed on the bed. He stepped back, sensing the horrible change which was rolling over her. ‘Is this suitably demonic enough for you, blind man?’

He tossed the rest of the holy water over the creature. This time it reacted like acid and the demon inside Jenny screamed a different kind of scream – real pain this time.

Mrs O’Neal knocked urgently on the bedroom door. ‘Is everything all right in there?’

Jenny – and it was Jenny replied. ‘Mum! Mum, I’m back!’

Mrs O’Neal barrelled in, almost tripping over Cerberus.  She paused before her daughter, suspicious. She certainly looked her old self, if a little tired. ‘Have you cured her, Mr Gervais? Tell me you’ve done it?’

‘I have done it,’ he confirmed. ‘The demon inside her was giving control back to Jenny each time someone tried to exorcise her, just long enough to escape the impact. There are rules you see, even with demons. It’s just a matter of evoking them and making sure they follow them. The holy water has scared it away. I’ll work with you both to keep it away.’

Mrs O’Neal hugged Jenny and when it was over, tried to hug Gervais. He pushed her away.

‘Let’s talk about money, Mrs O’Neal. The fee for my continued protection will be five thousand pounds.’

Mrs O’Neal was flabbergasted. ‘I… well, I couldn’t possibly afford that, Mr Gervais, I’m sorry. It’s just me and our Jenny on our own since Alan died…’

He rubbed the back of his neck. ‘Very well. I’ll just return the beast to young Jenny, shall I? Is that what you want to me to do?’

Both were astounded. ‘No! Please!’ Jenny wailed. ‘Please, not that!’

‘You wouldn’t!’ Mrs O’Neal offered.

‘I bloody would you know.’

The older woman looked at her daughter and shrugged resignedly. It felt horribly like they may have switched from dealing with kind of one devil to another. ‘Well… perhaps we can arrange a repayment schedule?’

‘I think we’d better. I’ll return on Friday for the first instalment. If you haven’t got the money, you’ll have to offer something else instead. You or the girl, I don’t mind which. Come along, Cerberus.’

Gervais let himself out.

Mother and daughter held on to each other, tightly.

A thoroughly reprehensible character, that supposed expert in the occult, Algernon Gervais, features in several tales associated with items in the Scarlet Vault, so I’ve no doubt we’ll be hearing further from him, whether we’d like to or not. He was responsible for rounding up these figurines and dealing with the fallout from them – but only for his own grubby reasons. It was from his private collection that we acquired them for safekeeping. The elderly Mr Gervais was reluctant to hand them over, as I recall, but I was able to convince him by threatening to boil him alive in an acid bath. I wonder where he is now, and how he was judged.

See you again sometime? Enjoy your nightmares.

 

 

 

Every Sixth Word

Tonight’s item is this rudimentary computer built by one of the unsung heroes of Bletchley Park at the start of World War Two. This suitcase-sized prototype is a Random Word Generator – The RWG Mark 1- developed to aid in the creation of codes and cyphers to assist in the war effort. This machine produces infinite strings of random words, I’ll er demonstrate if I can find the… there. Printed on teletype paper are the words IF, CAT, WHEN, HOUSE, RAIN, WE, SMILE. I’ll switch it off. The output on these long strips of teletype paper is, by design, completely haphazard, but a junior at Bletchley Park, with keen eyes trained to recognize patterns, discovered something rather interesting after noticing the presence of words that were not programmed into the machine’s vocabulary. Every sixth word, strung together, appeared to form coherent sentences. She filtered the chaff and typed them up onto these pages here. Much of the assembled dialogue is so much gibberish, but some parts are – terrifyingly – understandable. Indeed, you could almost think that distinct personalities are identifiable. Shall we try and lend them a voice?

Daisy. Daisy.

Can’t move. Can’t bloody move a muscle. Where’s that f**king nurse? Lazy b*tch. I rung the bell, where is she?

Give me your answer, do.

Will I ever get out of this bed? No one cares about me. Where’s that nurse? Come on woman. I need some help here. Can’t move, can’t even think.

I’m half crazy.

I think I might be dead, you know.

All for the love of you.

Drat it. Oh, I can touch it and my fingers don’t pass through! Can you read this? Is it coming through?

‘Ere is this thing working?

Hello. Hello. Hello. Are ya getting this? Testing 123.

I’ll assume it is working. I do not know how long this can be sustained, so I shall try and say as much as I can in the time that is available. My name is – was – Edward Trestlewick, born in Oxford on the 31^st of October in the year of our lord eighteen hundred and ninety-nine.  I will certainly expect you to doubt the validity of that statement, but that is neither here nor there. You can believe it if you want to, or disbelieve if that is your will. I can do little to influence anything now but I do want to take this opportunity to be heard.

Me name’s Jim. Jim Rose and I am twelve – thirteen -  years old. Is me mummy there? I’m cold.

Yes, I was born in 1899 and died in 1940. I think June 12^th, though it may have been the 13^th. The details of my earthly life are slipping away from me now, but know that I am dead. This is the most important point. I am dead but still communicating from beyond the grave. Such is the wonder of this device – is that the right word? I was drawn to it. There are others here who also felt it’s reach, but most of them are confused. Such confusion!

I’ve looked around here for me dad but he ain’t here. Thought he would be, having died when I was a babe and all. Never was reliable, that’s what mum used to say.

I’m a ghost then. I don’t feel like a ghost. I’m just a normal boy, you know. There are other children here, but they don’t talk much. I fink they’re frightened. I ain’t scared. Never been scared in my… life…

I was always sensible, rational. I think I was a man of learning – a scientist. Can you check that? There will be records, of course. My name is Edward… Tre… I don’t remember. I would try to assist you with some further detail, but the specifics are being stripped from me. Part of the process, I think. Let me explain, as this should be noted. Upon death – was it a heart attack? I remember a pain in my chest. I left my body behind. I saw myself, briefly, through spiritual eyes, and I couldn’t believe what I looked like.

I was murdered. I bet the filth won’t have investi… investigated me death properly. I was murdered by that swine Sam… Sam… Old Whathisname. Pushed me, he did. Ended up at the bottom of the cliff, I did, all broken, like. I was a sight, I can tell ya.

It is not the same as looking in the mirror, or seeing a photograph of one’s self. I saw myself without life. I saw myself as dead flesh. Not me anymore. And there was no light! That is what I wanted to say! There was no light, no holy chorus – nor devils with pointed sticks. This is what I wanted to impart. Yes, I was a scientist in life, and I resented the daft ideas promoted by religion. There is no judgement at the end, no punishment or reward at the holy gates. There is naught but confusion. Edward Treslewick. That’s my name. Let it be known – do not fall for the lies of organised religion. Anyone who claims to understand the afterlife is not worth listening to. I don’t mean me, of course. Oh goodness. What else was there to say? There was something.

I think I’m happier like this. Life was never much fun, what with us being poor and that. I would like to see me mum again though. Does she think of me? I hope the memories are good ones. I dunno how long its been since I departed, like. Feels like forever, but I reckon it’s only been a day. Yeah, a day. That’s all. Wish I could remember, but I always was a bit thick, that’s what the teacher said.

My wife! Yes, and the children. Would you pass them a message. Tell M…M… Margeret. Was that her name? She was my wife, I should remember. Tell her that… Tell her…

I was pleased not to go to hell though, let me tell ya. You were wrong about that, Mr… Mr Wilson? I can’t remember the geezers name. He always said that if I didn’t do what I was told I’d go to hell. Well, he was wrong. Stupid bugger. Oh tarnation, what was the fella’s name?

Yes, the other important fact – just as the physical body decays after death, so does the spirit. I am being broken up. I can feel parts of myself break apart like icebergs. It’s happening to us all, hence the confusion. I can only assume that just as our bodies decompose and are swallowed up by the earth, our souls do as well. I am being dissolved, to be reconstituted into, into what? I don’t know what comes next. Yes, I was a scientist. A great scientist. Edward Tre… Tre….

Jim. Jim Rose is my name. Say hello to mumma.

John. My son is called John.

I’d like one of her cuddles right now, I can tell ya.

I must be honest. This erosion of self scares me more than physical death. What is this leading to, I wonder? What if there’s nothing? My soul rotted away like a corpse. Fertilizer for the next generation perhaps? This is gold. Important knowledge. People need to know this. Pass on this message from me… Ed… Edmund? All gone. Margeret?

I’m dead, mumma. I’m lost. Ain’t ever coming back and what’s left of me is circling the drain. I thought there would be demons but its worse than that even. I’m bloody cold mumma. Give us a blanket. I’m going, mumma, drifting apart like a cloud of smoke. This is really the end, I reckon. I don’t think I have anything else to say. I can’t think of anything. I can’t think.

I think I shall have to leave it there. I was a scientist, you know.

Daisy. Daisy.

The young lady who decrypted these strange messages was horrified by the fundamental truths the output seemed to suggest and was pleased to dispatch this machine and her summarisations to the Scarlet Vault for permanent storage. The Random Word Generator was recreated from scratch, but the Mark 2 and later models did not produce the same mysterious output. Some would say that is a good thing.

A Godless universe, without the chance of redemption, and the reality that there’s nothing after death but a gradual erosion of the soul is somewhat depressing – if you choose to accept the output, of course.  What we’ve seen and heard tonight is just curated parts of random data –  An old saying about enough monkeys writing Shakespeare springs to mind.

 Of course, I know what happens after death. But no, I’m not going to tell you. Not tonight, anyway. Enjoy your nightmares.

 

The Loyal Servant

 Tonight’s item has been kept here for safekeeping for over a hundred years and is still sought by many.  It’s a nineteenth-century Romanian cremation urn. Dark green in colour, almost black, with some Christian symbolism engraved in silver. Contained inside, the last earthly remains of a Great Elder Vampire. But who would be so bold and cunning to fight and kill such a powerful creature? Her name was Valentina Balan...

Even after thirty years of farming, the breaking light of dawn was still breathtaking. Features of the landscape, always there, unappreciated, momentarily had their time in the spotlight and shined. Farmer Constantin surveyed his grain fields with great satisfaction, his old but sharp eyes taking in every detail of arable land and the distant castle. He frowned suddenly. Something was visibly wrong in the top field – flattened crops spoke of a trespasser overnight. He rode his donkey up the hillside to investigate and upon closer inspection, he made a horrific discovery. A tiny broken body had been deposited in the field, arms and legs twisted across the torso, a terrible look of frozen fear on the dead child’s blue face. No stranger to death, but still greatly disturbed, he knelt next to the corpse and tried to recognise the girl. It was Zandra, the Butcher's daughter. Two marks on her little neck where she’d been bitten by… what? An animal? It had to be an animal. Only an animal could do such a thing…

…

‘Will you please step forward, Tina,’

Valentina Balan smoothed the creases on the black silk of her servant's dress and stepped into the kitchen.

Castle Verlesco’s head manservant, a big, bearded man named Georgescu, was sat at the kitchen table. ‘Take a chair,’ he pointed. It was not an invitation.

Valentina slid the wooden chair across the stone floor and gently sat down, locking eyes with Georgescu.

‘You are not like the other serving girls, Tina,’ he observed. ‘They do not find it so easy to stare me in the eye.’

Valentina quickly broke eye contact and looked towards the floor. ‘I am sorry, Georgescu. I did not mean any disrespect.’

He grunted, disbelieving. ‘You have been working for the Count for one week now. During this time you have been late on two occasions, frequently disobedient, and lazy in your work.’

It hung in the air for a while. Valentina continued to play sheepish. ‘I am sorry, Georgescu.’

‘You are sorry, I am sorry,’ he replied. ‘Sorry I ever employed you.’

She looked up. Was this a dismissal? She hoped not, having not yet achieved her objective.

‘Your references appeared to be very impressive. Too impressive. So, we sent a message to your supposed previous employer to see if he would confirm what was stated on the letter you provided.’

‘Ah,’ she exclaimed. She had hoped that the deception would have taken much longer to be discovered. ‘I am sure, sir, that I am not the first girl working here to overstate her employment history, am I not?’

He laughed. ‘You are not, that is true. What shall I do with you, Tina?’ He thought about what he would like to do to her, and the drool began to pool at the corner of his mouth. ‘How much do you need your position here? What are you prepared to do to keep it?’

Valentina recoiled but replied without fear. ‘Not that.’

Georgescu was disappointed, but not surprised. ‘You do not act like a simple peasant girl. You are hiding something, I think?’

She sighed. ‘I can see there is no fooling you, Georgescu, so I will be plain. My full name is Valentina Balan. You may have heard that name before, yes?’

A spark in his eyes showed he had. ‘The vampire huntress? You are Valentina Balan?’

‘The same,’ she smiled. ‘I am hunting a great evil, Georgescu, and I have reason to believe it hides inside this castle. I pretended to be a simple serving girl as it was expedient. This ruse has  allowed me free access inside these walls.’

‘You believe that there is a vampire here?’

‘One of the Great Elders, I believe.’

‘Do you know how ridiculous that sounds?’

‘Completely. But nevertheless, I believe it to be true. You must have heard the stories, yes? The missing boys and girls? Poor Yetta from the village, found at the bottom of the well, her young body horribly mutilated. And Zandra, left for dead in the barn of Farmer Constantin, pints of blood missing from her corpse. What do you think is responsible for such crimes? Who could do this, but a vampire?’

Georgescu considered it. ‘I think that these children were killed by a man. A man who acts like a demon, certainly, but not a vampire. The vampire is a myth.’

‘You noted, Georgescu, that I did not act like a serving girl. You also, do not act like the simple peasant you pretend to be.’

He raised an eyebrow. ‘You are presumptuous.’

‘I am clever,’ she said without arrogance. ‘So are you. So why are you pretending to be a simple manservant?’

Georgescu stood up suddenly, and walked around the kitchen as he spoke. ‘My mother and father died when I was very young. I was stateless, drifting. Until the Count found me. He employed me, gave me a position when no other would, and more – he educated me. Taught me to read the books in the library. He is a great man, Valentina, and I would do anything he required of me. There is no more loyal servant than I.’

‘Count Verlescu is a vampire,’ she replied.

‘No.’

‘Having investigated every person in this castle over this last week, I must come to that conclusion. It can only be him.’

‘No.’

She glared at him until he felt obliged to explain himself.

‘You have not met the Count in the course of your duties yet,’ he stated.

‘That is correct, he does not leave his room during the day. Does that not remind you of anything? I will not be satisfied until I have spoken with the Count, Georgescu.’

He looked angry for a moment, but then his face cleared. ‘Very well. I will take you to him, now, if you would like? Then, when you are satisfied he is not the creature you seek, you will leave this castle never to return.’

She nodded in agreement. ‘If you wish.’

‘Then, come.’

…

They paused outside the door of the master bedroom before entering. ‘You will not do or say anything to upset the Count,’ Georgescu instructed. ‘He is a very ill man. You will let me lead the conversation.’

Valentina nodded but did not agree aloud. They entered the darkened room and approached the grand four poster bed. The room was shaded, but oil lamps provided a little artificial light, but not enough to make her comfortable that there wasn’t something awful lurking in the shadows. Instinctively, she reached for the cross on the chain around her neck.

‘Count?’ Georgescu said with a gentleness that belied his form. ‘Are you awake?’

An ancient old man stirred in the bedsheets, his head emerged from under a blanket, his watery eyes blinking like an owl. Valentina noted his withered arms and legs. This old man was obviously bedridden and seemed incapable of threat. ‘What is it, Georgescu?’ he bleated. ‘I am very tired.’ He seemed to notice Valentina for the first time. ‘Who is this?’ his face brightened at the sight of the pretty newcomer.

Georgescu shot a warning look towards her, a reminder to follow his lead. ‘This is Tina, my Lord, the serving new girl. I wanted to introduce you both.’

Count Verlescu flashed a toothy grin at her. ‘Another new girl? What happened to the last one?’

Georgescu looked shifty. ‘Do not let it worry you, my Lord. Do you have any questions for our Lord and master, girl?’

‘None,’ she replied quickly. Perhaps she had been wrong. Her mind raced. If her target was not the Count, then who was it?

‘Then we will disturb you no longer,’ Georgescu said, about to draw Valentina away.

‘Wait!’ the old man croaked. ‘Bring her closer to me. I would look at her.’

Valentina shook her head slightly, but Georgescu ignored her distaste for the idea and shepherded her nearer the old fossil. She looked down at his pathetic form and tried to hide her disgust.

‘You are very beautiful,’ he leered up at her. ‘Such lovely blonde hair.’

She clamped her mouth closed, resisting the temptation to speak out of respect for Georgescu.

‘I should like to drink you up,’ the Count grinned.

Valentina wondered then whether she had been right after all. Before she could act, two big hands bit into her shoulders. Georgescu. He was frowning, not enjoying this, but his eyes were steely, determined.

‘You want her, my Lord?’ he offered. ‘She knows about your true nature, Lord,’ he said as she tried to squirm out of his grip. ‘She thought it was you snatching the children.’

The Count chuckled, the sound like a drain emptying. ‘Me? Chasing after little girls? In my condition?’

Georgescu released one half of Valentina to snatch the crucifix from her neck with a free hand. ‘You won’t be needing that,’ he said, as he tossed it across the room.

Valentina fought with the big man but was outmatched by his brute strength. ‘So, you procure the victims, do you not? To keep this old relic alive?’

‘I am nearly five hundred years old,’ The Count crowed, looking his age. ‘My days of hunting prey are over, but at least I have my loyal servant here to keep me well fed!’

Valentina twisted in his grip and struck out with her knee and kicked Georgescu in the groin. He groaned but didn’t give up on his slow relentless pushing of her closer to the keen mouth of the Count.

‘I’m so hungry for her, Georgescu! Give her to me!’

Valentina found herself forced down onto the bed next to the repellent creature. The Count strained his wrinkled face towards her, making the most vile anticipatory sucking noises. It was now or never. She ran her single free hand down her smooth leg and found the sheathed silver blade tucked in the garter above her stockings. Clasping and drawing it, she twisted the knife and jabbed it into the old man’s side. Unsure of how to react, he initially laughed, then the cleansing power of silver burned icily through his ancient body and he collapsed into dust and bone. He croaked like a frog as the ravages of time caught up with him. Georgescu gasped, horrified at the loss of his master, and Valentina used the distraction to slip off the bed, roll backwards and stand up.

‘My Lord!’ Georgescu wailed. ‘What have you done to him? How could you?’

‘I am a vampire huntress,’ she answered. ‘What exactly did you expect?’ she retrieved her little knife from the smoking remains on the bed and held it to Georgescu’s throat. ‘You’re next,’ she informed him.

His eyes widened with fear. ‘I am not a vampire,’ he stammered. ‘I’m a mortal man. If you kill me, that will be murder!’

She considered that, but only for a moment. ‘Tell that to the mothers and fathers of the girls you kidnapped and brought here to this parasite... Tell it to brothers and the sisters of the dead children you dumped around the village to draw attention away from this castle... Tell it to the devil. When you see him.’

She slashed at Georgescu’s neck and ripped a red line across his throat. Blood flowed from his carotid artery as he sank down on his knees then keeled forward onto the bed. His blood mixed with the remains of his master and the resulting mass began to bubble and fizz. Even in death he was feeding his master! Valentina leapt forward and dragged the body away from the bones and ashes, fearing the spilt lifeforce could reanimate the vampire and her eyes widened in horror as she saw that was exactly what seemed to be happening! Shapes were forming in the gore, growing, pulsating… She acted, grabbing an oil lamp with her left hand and smashing it against the side of the bed post and she tossed it onto the sheets surrounding the throbbing mass of flesh. The flame caught the oil and set fire to the bed, sterilising any stirrings of vampiric resurrection.  Satisfied both Count and servant were neutralised, she wiped her tiny blade on her dress and slid it back into the garter on her right leg.

It had done its work. So had she.

The encounter with Count Verlescu and his loyal servant taught Valentina Balan a very useful lesson – to always trust her instincts. Understanding the immense danger posed even in death by the remains of a Great Elder Vampire, she decanted the ashes into this urn and placed it here for protection in the Scarlet Vault. She was a magnificent woman and I fear we won’t see the like of her again. Many vampires – and their human agents – would like to get their hands on this. You’re not a vampire, are you? You do look a little pale…

Caveat Lector

I know that this item looks like a dusty old book, and I suppose in practical terms that’s all that it is. I can’t tell you the title of this ancient tome, or even what the book is about – as no one left alive knows. I can tell you that it’s referred to in some small circles as the Caveat Lector – Reader Beware! This is one of the most dangerous items in the Scarlet Vault. Oh, don’t be tempted to open the cover and flip through the pages, don’t even touch it! This book is protected.

Somerset, the Summer of 1967.

The two motionless ravens perched on either side of the iron gate might almost been mistaken for real birds. Only when Algernon Gervais pushed the heavy gate between them open and they did not move a muscle was he again reassured that they were indeed merely exquisite statues, bronze finished in a charcoal patina. Two gatekeepers, patiently guarding Marcham Manor from thieves and intruders, he surmised. His face flushed red as he realised, he could fall into either classification. Later, he’d discover that they were there not to keep something out, but to keep something in.

Gervais walked through the once immaculate garden – already going to ruin due to lack of care – and admired the pale brick edifice of Marcham Manor. He remembered the last time he’d visited, around five years ago now, only to be rudely turned away by the late Lord Marcham. Stubborn old fool. Still, he pondered hopefully, things were different now. The manor - and it’s possessions - had a new owner.

As he got closer to the formidable oak front door, the noise of dreadful hippy music drifted out at him, as did some rather suspicious smells. As did the sound of laugher, and the clink of bottles. It was only ten am, for goodness sake. Everything he’d heard about the decline of the Marcham’s was true, it seemed. And that was very good for him.

Before he could knock on the door, someone inside let him in. A pretty teenage girl, hair in braids, a slightly spaced out look on her face.

She squinted at him. ‘You’re not the law, are you?’

‘Most certainly not,’ he was offended.

‘Oh goodie,’ she smiled. ‘You can come in!’

He accepted the invitation. Once inside the great hall, he looked the girl up and down, lasciviously. If she was handing out free love that morning, he would gladly have accepted. But he turned straight to business.  ‘Are you Lady Marcham, by any chance?’

The girl snorted. ‘I wish! No, I’m Moonchild. That’s my given name.’

Moonchild? What sort of name was that?

‘I imagine Clementine’s still upstairs, sleeping off last night’s revelries,’ she explained. ‘Why don’t you wait in the drawing room? I expect she’ll come down eventually.’

Gervais coughed. ‘I erm… I’m here about a book. I did have an appointment with her Ladyship.’

‘So formal!’ Moonchild mocked, leading him into what he presumed was the drawing room. The space had been converted into an ashram style boudoir, all drapes and beads. Quite distasteful. Lord Marcham would be turning in his grave.

A couple of young men, both too blissed out to even acknowledge him were lazing on pillows.

‘Well, make yourself comfortable,’ Moonchild sort of curtseyed and left him standing there awkwardly. ‘Big John and Little Mike won’t bite. See you around, daddio.’

Daddio. Good lord, what was wrong with young people these days? Gervais eventually summoned the courage to make eye contact with the Big John and Little Mike. He need not have worried about being forced to make conversation. Their eyes were glazed over.

‘Peace, man,’ one of them murmured at him from a drug-addled daze.

He tried to hide his disgust and half-heartedly twisted his fingers into the peace sign in acknowledgement.

‘Who are you, man?’ the hippy asked about a minute later.

‘I’m Algernon Gervais, young man.’ he answered proudly. ‘I’m an expert on the occult. Who are you, when you’re at home?’

…

Sometime later, Lady Marcham deigned to welcome him.

‘Ah, Lady Marcham,’ he started.

‘Please,’ she grunted. ‘Call me Clementine.’ Like the others, the young aristocrat was now a fully paid-up member of the alternative community. A hippy. Algernon checked himself, hoping his rather square attitude didn’t rub the girl up the wrong way. He needed to charm her if he was going to get his way.

‘Algernon Gervais, at your service, madam,’

‘You can drop all the fancy stuff,’ she led him out of the room, and up an ornate staircase to the well-stocked library. ‘There are no airs and graces here,’ she informed.

He rather liked the look of the sandy-haired girl, he decided, not that he’d be able to make anything of it. Far too young. He tried hard not to stare at her cleavage, exposed by the flimsy tie-dyed summer dress. He coughed again, the result of smoking too many cigars. ‘As we discussed on the telephone, there is an item in your late father’s collection I would very much like to get my hands on,’ he scanned the bookshelves, looking for it, but his keen eye couldn’t pick it out.

‘Oh, it’s not kept here,’ she cottoned on. ‘Daddy stored it in the cellar with all his other valuables. I have to confess, Mr Gervais, I’m surprised by your interest in it, given the more interesting antiques in his collection.’

He raised an eyebrow. ‘Really, did your father never discuss the er… value of the text?’

He certainly hoped not, as that would make his acquisition of the book so much easier – and cheaper.

‘Daddy and I didn’t really see eye to eye, so avoided each other as much as possible,’ Clementine admitted. ‘I only know he didn’t want anyone to have it. On that, he was most definite.’

She recalled a childhood memory of her father sternly lecturing her, finger in air as he spoke. ‘No one must take the book. No one must read the book. Do I make myself clear?’

She’d laughed, nervously, not really understanding.

Algernon considered telling her of his earlier visit, and how Lord Marcham had previously denied him the item, but realised that might not help his chances if he informed her of the fact.

‘And what about you, Clementine?’ he asked slowly. ‘Are you willing to sell?’

She took a long breath out. ‘Unfortunately, the generous inheritance I acquired is already slipping away from me,’ she admitted.

This was just as he had hoped. Rumours of the financial mismanagement of the estate were rife. He had visions of all that lovely money being spent on parties and alcohol and hashish. Wasted.

Clementine continued, ‘So, regretfully, I must go against some of my late fathers express wishes. The book is yours, Mr Gervais.’

He guffawed and clapped his hands happily.

‘If you can afford to bid for it,’ she continued. ‘I’ve decided to auction it off.’

The smile was wiped from his face. ‘But… I understood this would be a private sale?’

‘Oh, that was the idea,’ she grinned, ‘but since I told the auctioneers about it, I’ve had so many expressions of interest for it, even a few solid offers…’

His heart sank. ‘I had thought I was the only person aware he even owned a copy,’ a nasty thought occurred to him. ‘Many of the people interested in the text – myself not included – are somewhat questionable characters. I do hope you haven’t shared your identity or address? It’s a private, anonymous auction you’ve got planned, correct?’

For the first time, a little sense of worry crept across her pretty features. ‘I… well, I didn’t think of that. Perhaps I should have, Mr Gervais.’

He found himself putting a protective hand on her shoulder. ‘Now you must listen to me, Clementine, dear. I’m an expert on these matters. You aren’t entirely safe while others know the book is in this house. You’ll need to take great care from now on.’

She stepped back, crossed her arms and pouted. ‘You’re just saying all this because you want the book for yourself.’

‘I do want the book,’ he accepted, ‘but not out of acquisitiveness. I just want to read it. Know what the fuss is about. That book is dangerous, Clementine. I know it, and your father knew it.’

She ran over to the large Palladian window that looked down onto the garden, stared out and took a sharp intake of air and pressed her hand against her heart. Gervais walked over and squinted out of the dirty glass, keen to see what had disturbed her. He saw only the walled garden, slightly overgrown, and the gate he himself had come in earlier.

‘What’s the matter?’ he asked, concerned at the frozen fear on her face.

Clementine stammered. ‘D... Daddy always said the ravens on the gate would protect his precious book. I thought he was just joking.’

‘I don’t understand,’ Gervais looked out of the window once more. This time he noticed that the two sentry birds had left their perch. His head swung back to face the stunned girl. ‘The book, Clementine, where is it?  You must take us to it at once. If it’s still there!’

That was when they heard the screaming.

…

They rushed downstairs to the scene of the disturbance, Gervais out of breath when they reached the entrance hall. The front door was ajar, and as they got closer, the feet of a body sprawled outside across the front steps became visible. Clementine recognized the sandals – It was Moonchild lying dead, clutching a raffia shopping bag. The top half of her body was a mess of blood and hair.

‘Oh god,’ Clementine covered her mouth. ‘What happened to her?’

Gervais yanked up his trouser legs and squatted next to the body. The girl was leaking blood everywhere, her skull torn open and – horribly – her brain was exposed to the air. Were those fragments of it over on the concrete a few feet away? He shuddered to think.

‘Did she slip and fall, do you think?’

‘I don’t think banging your head could do that much damage to you,’ Gervais muttered, looking ominously upwards towards the sky. ‘I’d say she’s been pecked to death, wouldn’t you?’

A bird shrieked above them, and Clementine shuddered. Some of the other house guests were watching fearfully from a distance, having been disturbed from their drink and drug induced stupor by the commotion.

Clementine ignored them and pointed with a shaking hand. ‘What’s that she’s got in the bag?’

Gervais had a strong suspicion, so very gingerly pulled the bag free of the body and took it inside, watching at all times for the ravens. He slowly opened the bag and showed her the contents.

‘Looks like your friend here wasn’t really a friend after all. The girl must have brought forward her plans to steal it from you when I turned up.’

Clementine broke down in tears. ‘Oh, Mr Gervais, what are we going to do?’

‘What are we going to do?’ he repeated, ‘I should say that’s your problem, Clementine. Inherited from your father. Not my responsibility!’

‘But what about the book?’ she shouted, knowing it might keep him on her side. However disreputable she found him, she was somewhat calmed by the presence of a senior. A supposed expert on matters of the occult, though somehow she found herself doubting.

‘You’ll keep it locked away inside this house, if you’ve got any sense, girl. Forever. Those ravens only attacked when someone tried to take it away, after all.’

As he said the words, a thought occurred to him. He pushed the front door closed with his boot.  ‘So, I should be alright if I just take a quick look, shouldn’t I?’ he took the book from the bag and resolved to read as much as he could.  This could be his last chance to satisfy his desire to know the content, after all. ‘I’m not going anywhere with it,’ he shouted to any creatures that might be listening outside the door which he bolted firmly with his free hand. ‘I’m just reading it. There’s no harm in reading a book, is there?’

As the spine creaked open, Clementine backed away from him. ‘Mr Gervais, I don’t think you should do that,’ she spoke quietly. ‘Daddy always said that no one should read the book.’

‘No harm in it,’ he repeated confidently, turning to the first page with writing on it, ‘These occult thingies have rules, you know. As long as I don’t try and take the book past the threshold, I should be fine.’

His eyes widened as he started to read and understand the content. He was so engrossed, that he didn’t immediately notice the bird swoop from where it had been hiding inside the manor house, mighty wings extended, talons reaching for his eyeballs. It was the last thing he would ever see.

Clementine gasped. Gervais tried to swot the attacking raven with the book, but it was no mere animal, and the tome struck against metal, bouncing off. Gervais yelled as the bird claws dug into his face, pressing sharply into his eyes, creating such incredible pain. He sobbed as his eyeballs were ripped to shreds and sunk to his knees and forward onto his face. Although he couldn’t see the blood, he could feel the sticky wetness on his hands, sliding down his forearms, dripping to the floor. He tried to speak, tried to cry out in pain, but couldn’t hear his own voice over the sound of Clementine screaming.

The parliament of ravens had judged him unworthy. His punishment was never being able to read again.

No one can take the book. No one can read the book.

Clementine finally understood the grave seriousness of what her father had told her, and finally understood the truth of her inheritance – her family’s mission.

No one can take the book. No one can read the book.

It was quite some considerable effort for the Scarlet Vault to acquire the Caveat Lector. It was decided that we had to own it for safekeeping after the deeds for Marcham manor and all its possessions were stolen from Lady Clementine by unscrupulous property developers. This was in 2019, so the old woman had guarded it well for five decades.

The ravens didn’t give me any trouble during the transfer… I like to think that they trust me. Perhaps they are a little afraid of me as well?

I admit that, occasionally, I have been tempted to take a peek inside the covers of this mysterious book, but so far, I’ve been able to restrain myself.

The black wings of its guardians – ever watchful - are fluttering above us. Can you hear them?