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?