Black Ceremonies Read online

  “Is it?”

  I turned to the end of the list. Sure enough below James Goodman 1934-1936, was Gwyn Rhys-Morgan 1936-.

  “Well then perhaps Goodman, knowing he was going to sell the book to you, had already appended your name to the list”

  “That’s just it. You see, Durward; Goodman wouldn’t sell. No matter how much I offered him he refused.”

  “Then how?”

  “I killed him.”

  “You did what?” I don’t know which stunned me more: the fact that Rhys-Morgan had killed a man, or the casual way that he had admitted it.

  “You do see that I had to? Don’t you, Durward? I had to have it, it was rightfully mine.”

  I smiled and nodded, thinking it wise not to antagonise him.

  Rhys-Morgan continued, “You said that the dates were dates of ownership rather than dates of birth and death. You were partly right. Ownership yes, but also year of death.”

  I frowned. “Are you sure?”

  “I did do some research of my own, and found out about some of the names on the list.”

  “And?”

  Rhys-Morgan began picking out names from the list. “Ricardo Del Vascao, tortured to death by the Inquisition in 1519. Agnes Lamprey was burnt at the stake in 1603. In 1759 Raschid Ibn Malik was stoned. In 1793 Louis Rocheteau was—”

  I interrupted, “Let me guess, another victim of the Reign of Terror?”

  “Perhaps. It’s not clear what happened exactly. Although what is certain is that he was torn to pieces, various parts of his body were found all over Paris.”

  Rhys-Morgan continued his morbid recitation, “Matthew Horne was killed in the Indian Mutiny of 1857—”

  “Well, lots of people were killed during the Indian Mutiny,” I pointed out.

  “Yes, but Horne’s body was found covered in curious bite marks and completely drained of blood.” Rhys-Morgan smiled. “Josiah Wellsby had it after him – he committed suicide in 1859. Every one of them died in the latter year listed.”

  “What about Goodman? How did he come to have the book?” I consulted the list; the name above Goodman’s was Victor Goodman.

  “His father,” Rhys-Morgan said. “He inherited it from his father.”

  “There you are then, he died in bed, after living to a ripe old age,” I said, with an optimism I did not really feel.

  “Actually, you are almost correct, Goodman senior did die in bed. James Goodman boasted that he smothered his father with a pillow. His father got it during the war, looted it off a German he killed.” Rhys-Morgan pointed to the name above Victor Goodman’s: Pieter Mueller.

  Suddenly Rhys-Morgan began to laugh wildly. “Don’t you get it yet, Durward?”

  “Calm down, Gwyn,” I urged. “What ever do you mean?”

  “What does the title Necronomicon actually mean?” he asked.

  “The title’s in Greek,” I said. “It’s the name given to the book by its translator, Theodorus Philetas. “Mentally I translated the title. “It means … My God!”

  “Yes, Durward, imagine how I felt reading my name in The Book of Dead Names.”

  It was not long after his visit that the police arrested Rhys-Morgan following an anonymous tip-off.

  He was found guilty of James Goodman’s murder. And when the death penalty was carried out, the year marking his demise, and the end of his period of ownership of The Necronomicon, appeared written by that unknown hand, in that same red ink.

  And the name of the book’s new owner duly appeared beneath his.

  Rhys-Morgan was wrong; I am prepared to pay the price – eventually.

  You see, I believe that somewhere in its pages Raschid Ibn Malik found the secret of a preternaturally long life, and I shall find it too.

  Quentin Richley,

  April 1938.

  Addendum: Quentin Richley died in August 1940, one of the many casualties of the Second World War.

  A Bit Tasty

  “Let me get this straight—you want me, to make you, more attractive to women?”

  Kevin was surprised at how beautiful the witch was. She wore a little black dress that showed off her shapely figure. He’d been unable to take his eyes off her rear as she’d led him into the open-plan kitchen. Her long hair was blonde, eyes blue, and he’d never seen a witch with such a cute little nose before.

  And those lips …

  Kevin's thoughts began to wander.

  The witch clicked her fingers. “Is something the matter?” she asked.

  “What?” Kevin spluttered. “I'm sorry … I was wondering what it would be like to feel your mouth on …”

  “Watch it!” warned the witch.

  Kevin blushed and apologised again. “I didn't expect you to be so beautiful,” he admitted.

  “Oh? And what were you expecting?”

  Kevin stammered, but before he could say anything, the witch spoke again, “Did you think I'd be an ancient hag with a large hooked nose?”

  “Well, um …”

  “You've been reading too many fairy stories.”

  “I'm sorry,” Kevin apologised for a third time.

  “Aye well, for all you know, maybe I really am an old crone, and I used my magic to make myself beautiful.” She laughed. “You wouldn't have much confidence in my ability to help you if I did have a big nose and warts, would you now?”

  “No, I guess not. And the answer is yes.”

  “Yes, what?”

  “The answer to your question – yes, I want to be more attractive to women. Can you help me?”

  The witch looked him up and down.

  “I'm desperate,” he said. “I've tried everything else.”

  The witch didn’t doubt his claim. Kevin was a lanky young man with less than plain features, which were not helped by his spots. His clothes were unfashionable and ill-fitting. And his tangle of ginger hair could do with a good combing.

  “Your advert said you did 'Love philtres, glamorous enchantments, spells to induce desire …'”

  “Yes, I can do all of those things, and much more,” she boasted.

  “Well, they all sound good to me.”

  “Is there someone in particular you wish to fall in love with you? Or do you want to drive all women wild with desire?” the witch asked.

  “No, no, not at all. I can imagine that leading to all sorts of trouble.”

  “Good, because I would refuse to do such a thing.”

  “But, you can help me?”

  Despite the witch's earlier boast, it would not be easy. She sighed. “Very well.”

  “Great!”

  “It won't come cheap though.”

  “How much?”

  “One hundred and fifty pounds.”

  “One—” Kevin began.

  The witch interrupted. “I don't haggle!”

  “Fine.”

  “Payment first.”

  “Very well. Will you take a cheque?”

  The witch shook her head. “Cash.”

  Kevin took out his wallet, and counted out the money.

  The witch went to a shelf of books. Kevin could see that they were cookery books, apart from one that stood out from the rest, which the witch selected. It was a large volume, covered in black leather and bound with brass hinges.

  “Sit down,” she invited, as she studied her spellbook. “Make yourself comfortable. This may take a while.”

  After a few minutes of study she announced, “Found it. This should do the trick.” And to herself, she mumbled, “If anything can.”

  Kevin started to rise from the sofa.

  “No, no, you stay there,” the witch instructed.

  She found a large saucepan, then opened a cupboard and began selecting an assortment of jars and bottles. She arranged these on her worktop.

  From where he was sitting, Kevin could see that some of them appeared to contain herbs. But others he was not so sure about. Perhaps he was better off not knowing, he decided, remembering something about witches and their p
enchant for eye of newt and tongue of toad.

  The witch began mixing the ingredients in the saucepan, which she heated on the Aga. As she did so, she read from the book in an impressively stentorian voice.

  Despite this, Kevin could not make out the words she spoke.

  Eventually, the witch proffered a tall glass of bubbling greenish liquid. “Here you are then.”

  Reluctantly, Kevin accepted it. “It stinks.”

  “And then some,” the witch agreed.

  “I suppose I have to drink it.”

  “Well, you could rub it over your body, but I wouldn't recommend it. It'd have a totally different effect than the one you're after.”

  Kevin lifted the glass to his lips, and took a sip. “Aaargh! It's disgusting.”

  “Aye, well the best medicines usually are. Now drink it down quick or it won't work.”

  “Oh well, here goes.” Kevin drained the glass, his expression one of disgust.

  “Well? How do you feel?” the witch asked.

  “Apart from nauseous you mean?”

  The witch nodded.

  “Disappointed.” Kevin sighed. “There's nothing happening. I don't feel any different.” He got up from the sofa.

  “Do I look any different?” he asked, studying his reflection in the full-length mirror.

  Ruefully, the witch shook her head. “I'm afraid not.”

  “No, I can't see any difference, either.” Kevin sighed again. “I should have known that not even magic could help me.” He turned back to the witch. “Do I get a refund?” he wondered aloud.

  “Hold your horses! These things can take time.”

  “Hey!” Kevin yelled suddenly.

  “What is it? Are you all right?”

  “Tingling. There's this tingling sensation in my toes,” he explained. “Is that supposed to happen?”

  The witch nodded, although truthfully she did not know. This was a piece of magic she had never attempted before.

  “It's spreading. Up my legs.”

  “Does it hurt?”

  “No … No, it feels great.” Kevin glanced in the mirror. “I don't see any physical change.”

  “Maybe it takes more time.”

  “Yeah, maybe. Or maybe it just instils a sense of confidence. Women are supposed to like men who are confident, aren't they?” The witch wasn’t sure whether that was a statement or a question, but before she could reply Kevin asked, “What does it say in your book?”

  “I’ll have a look.”

  However, before she could consult her spellbook, Kevin gave a cry. “Wow! My whole body is tingling. I feel great. I feel as if I could go out and get any woman I wanted.”

  The witch was not so sure, but she kept quiet.

  Kevin began to shake. “Whoooooaaa!” he yelled, then was suddenly silent.

  An amazing transformation had taken place.

  “Well, I never. I never expected that.” The witch moved closer to Kevin.

  “Hmm, very tasty, very tasty indeed. I fancy a piece of that myself,” she murmured.

  And she wouldn't have been the only one. The witch licked her lips appreciatively, her hand reaching for the new-look Kevin.

  Kevin, who had suddenly been transformed into a rather large bar of chocolate.

  A FISTFUL OF VENGEANCE

  The man known as Crazy Cal Harper listened at the door of the hotel room. Not that anyone used that epithet in Harper’s presence – not unless they were crazy themselves. Anyone who did was likely to end up dead.

  Harper smiled, this was the right room – there was no mistaking the voice of the man inside. Brett Franklin’s drawl was quite distinctive. Harper straightened and took a step back. The smile had gone from his face. He took a deep breath, and then kicked the door open.

  There was a shriek as the door slammed against the wall. The tableaux that was unveiled brought the smile back to Harper’s face.

  On the bed lay a naked saloon girl. Standing beside the bed was a red-faced Brett Franklin. Harper had caught him in the act of undressing, and his britches were around his ankles.

  “What the hell?” Franklin had yelled at the sudden interruption.

  Harper stepped into the hotel room. “Hello Franklin,” he said. “You forgot to put the do not disturb sign on the door.”

  “Uh!” Franklin grunted. “It’s you!”

  “Surprised to see me?”

  Franklin glanced at his gun belt. The gun belt that he had unbuckled in such a rush, and draped over the back of a chair. Trying to reach it would mean certain death.

  Instead, he said, “It’s been a long time.”

  Harper nodded. “Too long.”

  “When did you get out?”

  “Not soon enough.” Harper pushed the door shut behind him.

  Franklin frowned. “You’ve come for your share of the money?”

  “Kinda perceptive of you. Now, why don’t you sit down on the bed and tell me where it is?”

  “Why not?” Franklin shrugged and sat down.

  “Well, where is it?”

  “I’ll take you to it.”

  “I’ve grown kinda particular about the company I keep. I’ll go alone. Now, where is it?”

  “Don’t worry, Cal, it’s safe.”

  “So where did you put it.”

  “I buried it.”

  “You did what?”

  “I buried it, what did you expect me to do, put it in a bank?”

  “All right, just where did you bury it?”

  “If I tell you that, you’ll shoot me.”

  Harper laughed. “What makes you think I won’t shoot you anyway?”

  “Yeah, that had kinda crossed my mind, Cal.” Franklin said, trying to calculate his chances of getting out of this hotel room alive.

  “I’m getting kinda tired of this, Franklin. Where did you bury the money?”

  “In a cemetery.”

  “In a cemetery,” repeated Harper. He laughed again. “Well, I guess that makes sense. Which one?”

  “I’ll show you, Cal, I’ll take you to it.”

  “God dammit, Franklin!” Harper shouted. “You’ll tell me which cemetery, and in which grave. And you’ll tell me right now!”

  “But if I tell you, you’ll kill me,” Franklin protested.

  “There’s worse things than dying, care to find out what, Brett?”

  “No.”

  Harper sighed, and his tone grew conciliatory. “Look, I haven’t come here to kill you, Brett. In fact, I’m offended you could think such a thing of me. And if it’ll make it any easier for you, I swear on my mother’s life that I won’t kill you. How’s that?”

  “You swear?”

  “Sure, I swear. Hell, Brett, what do you take me for? Sure I’m a bank robber, an’ I’ve killed plenty of folk in my time, but I ain’t some kinda low-down, mean, murdering bastard, am I?”

  That was a question that Franklin was well aware of the answer to; however, he chose not to answer it.

  “Hell, I ain’t even drawn my gun, yet.” Harper sounded offended. “I think I could be forgiven for thinking that you were aiming on keeping all that gold for yourself. That’s not the case now, is it?”

  Franklin sighed. “All right. It’s in the Ridge Hill cemetery. That big Civil War one.”

  “That is a big one,” Harper agreed. His tone hardened again. “Which grave?”

  Franklin licked his lips, then nodded. “Very well. The money is buried in the grave of one Al Gibson.”

  “Al Gibson, hey?” Harper smiled.

  “Yeah, Al Gibson.”

  Harper’s hand went to his pistol. “It may surprise you to know, Brett, that this pains me, but I have to do it.”

  “Hey, come on, Cal. I kept the money safe. I’ve told you where it is. You don’t have to do this.”

  Harper smiled. “Tell you what; I’ll give you a chance.”

  “Look, Cal, You can have all the money, my share, all of it.”

  “My you have grown percepti
ve.” Harper’s expression grew stern. “Pull your pants up, Franklin.”

  Warily, Franklin did so, half expecting to die in the process. He wondered whether he could make an escape by jumping from the window.

  Harper seemed to read his thoughts. He glanced at the girl who cowered on the bed. She was pretty, blonde-haired, firm-breasted. “What’s your name?”

  “Glad,” she answered. “It’s short for Gladys.”

  “Pretty name for a pretty lady,” opined Harper.

  Glad smiled at the complement.

  “Well now, Glad, you move over there, by the window, that way you’re outta harm’s way. Wouldn’t want to see you get hurt now, would we?”

  “But,” Glad protested, “everybody will be able to see me naked.”

  Harper grinned, amused by the whore’s sudden concern for her modesty. “Just do it, darlin’.”

  Pouting, Glad got off the bed, wrapped a sheet around herself, and went to stand in front of the window, blocking Franklin’s possible route of escape.

  Franklin cursed silently.

  “Say something, Brett?” Harper asked.

  “No.” Franklin shook his head.

  Harper nodded. “Good. Now, go put on your gun belt.”

  Briefly, Franklin had thought about launching himself at Harper but had dismissed the idea. Even while he had been distracted by the whore, Harper would have drawn and filled him with lead before he got anywhere near him. His only chance – slim though it was – was in a gunfight, and he began to cross the room.

  Harper waited until Franklin had almost reached the chair, before pulling his gun and opening fire.

  Glad screamed.

  The shot sent Franklin crashing against the wall. “You bastard!” He yelled in pain and anger. “Thought you were gonna give me a chance?” Franklin slid down the wall, hands pressed against where the bullet had entered his body.

  “What can I say? ’Cept I lied.”

  “Why? I told you where it is …” Franklin was crying. His hands could not prevent the blood that wept from his chest. “That you could have it all.”

  “Sure, you did,” Harper agreed. “And one day, you’d come after me. Gunning to kill me.”

  “I’ll come after you … you … you bastard,” swore the dying Franklin.