Black Ceremonies Read online

  More shushing ensued.

  Embarrassed, Shirley sighed, and sank lower in her seat. Brenner kept his eyes closed for the rest of the film, even during the blockbuster’s noisy and spectacular climax.

  The film finished and Brenner could not wait to get out of the cinema. “C’mon I need a drink,” he said, heading towards the nearest pub.

  “You’re not the only one,” Shirley agreed.

  Shirley put down her glass of white wine. “Are you going to tell me what that was all about?” she asked.

  But Brenner’s attention was elsewhere.

  “Dave? Dave?” Shirley shook his arm, but Brenner continued to stare across the barroom. Angry, she suddenly slapped his face.

  “What the ’ell was that for?” Brenner asked, rubbing his cheek.

  “Don’t pretend you don’t know, you sod. I saw you.”

  “Saw me what?” he asked in all innocence.

  “You were stood right in front of me, blatantly eyeing up some tart. Couldn’t keep your eyes off her.”

  “No I wasn’t. I saw it again,” he explained.

  “Saw what again?”

  “The face.”

  Shirley was dismissive. “Oh come off it, Dave; there is no face.”

  “But I’m telling you there is.”

  “There’s only you who’s seen it; why is that Dave?”

  Brenner grabbed Shirley’s arm, spinning her round. “Look over there, see for yourself.”

  The face hovered in the air; its features seemed to be evolving, becoming clearer. The eyes were staring at him, burning with malevolence.

  “There,” he pointed. “Don’t you see it?” he cried in desperation.

  Shirley struggled. “Let go of me! There’s nothing there.”

  Brenner realised that people were starting to stare at them, and he released his hold. No one else appeared to have noticed the face.

  Shirley shook her head. “You’re mad you are, Dave Brenner. And not only that, you can consider yourself dumped!” She picked up her glass and chucked what was left of the wine in Brenner’s face, then stormed out of the pub.

  Brenner slumped into a seat, his head in his hands.

  Perhaps he was going mad. Seeing a face that no one else could see was bad enough. But a face that was incomplete and yet seemed familiar was another matter entirely. And on top of that, the face wasn’t even attached to a body. And always it seemed to be laughing at him – not in good humour, but in a mocking, malicious way.

  Finishing his pint, Brenner glanced around him. “Nooo!” he moaned. He saw the same half-formed features wherever he looked.

  Avoiding looking at people, he hurried out of the pub and headed homewards; head down, keeping his eyes fixed on where he walked.

  At Patel’s off-licence, he stopped and went in.

  “A bottle of whisky.”

  “Anything in particular?” the shopkeeper asked. “We have a wide selection.”

  “One of them litre ones.” Brenner would not meet Mr Patel’s gaze.

  “Bells?” the Asian asked.

  “Yeah that’ll do.”

  “That will be sixteen pounds and ninety-nine pence please.”

  “Don’t bother with a bag.” Brenner handed over two ten-pound notes, but did not wait for his change.

  Back in his flat, he poured a full glass of whiskey, drank it down, then repeated the process.

  “Right, let’s see you.” He steeled himself.

  Unsure whether he would see the face reflected beside his own image, or his own features replaced by it, Brenner stepped in front of the mirror.

  His own face stared back at him – no transformation had taken place, no disembodied face floated next to his.

  Brenner’s mobile rang. He snatched it up.

  “Yes?” he snapped.

  A woman’s voice asked, “Dave, is that you?”

  “Uh huh.”

  “It’s me, Mary … Remember?”

  It must have been eight, maybe nine months, but sure he remembered. Mary Campbell. Surprisingly, considering there were so many of them, he never forgot his conquests. In an instant Brenner had conjured up her image in his mind. Long strawberry blonde hair, pretty, green eyes, cute little nose, and luscious lips. And what a body - very fit. But then they all were, Brenner had his standards - he never slept with mingers.

  Mary was speaking. “You’ve seen it too, haven’t you?” There was a pleading quality to her voice.

  Brenner grunted, “Yes.”

  “What did it look like?” she asked; her voice had dropped almost to a whisper.

  But before Brenner could reply, Mary cried, “The eyes, what were the eyes like?”

  “Green,” he answered. He groaned. “Like yours.”

  Mary laughed. “Like mine. Yes, I thought so.”

  “I’m glad you see the funny side,” Brenner snapped.

  Mary’s laugh became more hysterical. “Actually, no, Dave, I don’t see. But do you?”

  “What? No I don‘t, Mary. What is this? I don’t know how you’ve done it, but if this is your idea of some sort of revenge …”

  Mary interrupted him, “It’s our child, Dave. What it would look like if it had been born. If it had lived. It has the features of its parents – my eyes. What has it got of yours?”

  At a loss for words, Brenner caught sight of his reflection in the mirror, and saw there was something dreadfully wrong. He would have screamed – but he no longer had a mouth.

  Another reflection appeared beside his in the mirror. The face had grown more distinctive – Mary’s green eyes glared at him, and contorted into a leering sneer was Brenner’s own grinning mouth. And for the first time Brenner could hear the laughter that he had always associated with the face.

  Brenner threw his phone at the mirror, shattering the glass. And amongst the turmoil of thoughts that raced through his mind, one question of startling clarity abruptly pushed its way to the fore – whose nose would it have?

  THE COUGHING COFFIN

  “Curious business,” muttered Major Guthrie.

  And we waited, unsure whether he was addressing us – or merely talking to himself, which was often the Major’s wont.

  I should say that we were: Dr John Hurst, Edgar Soames, and myself, George Janders. We four – along with the hovering steward, Dawson – were the only chaps who remained at the club that Halloween night. We were comfortably seated in leather armchairs, enjoying some of the finest alcoholic beverages that Dawson could supply us with.

  Major Guthrie said nothing further for what must have been five minutes, by which time we had assumed – somewhat disappointedly – that the old boy had merely been commenting aloud on some private reminiscence, and was not about to relate one of his many unusual anecdotes of which he had such a hoard. For in truth, we three had remained at the club, in hopeful anticipation that the Major would recount a suitable tale for the night in question.

  “Curious business,” he suddenly said again.

  Unable to contain myself any longer, I asked, “What was?”

  “What?” the Major spluttered. My question had apparently startled him.

  “Sorry, Major, but I, well, all three of us actually, were curious about this curious business you keep mentioning, as it were.”

  “Curious business?” the Major said for a third time, although this time as a question rather than a statement.

  Soames opened his mouth, obviously about to prompt the Major.

  But before Edgar could speak, Major Guthrie did. “Oh, so you know about it as well, do you?”

  “Oh, for goodness sake.” Hurst was becoming frustrated. Although he was already in somewhat of a bad mood as I had beaten him in several games of billiards earlier that evening.

  “Actually, no, we don’t,” I said patiently, “but I’m sure we would all like to hear about it.”

  Edgar and John murmured their agreement.

  Major Guthrie consulted his watch. “Well, the tale’s not long in
the telling.”

  Hurst breathed a sigh of relief. I, however, was not so convinced by Guthrie’s statement.

  Although the Major’s anecdotes are always interesting to hear, it can be a somewhat trying experience, as the old fellow can be a trifle long-winded. However, I do have my suspicions that the Major isn’t as vague as he sometimes appears to be.

  “You fellows, no doubt would like to hear it?” he said at last.

  Again, we murmured our agreement.

  Major Guthrie signalled to the club steward. “Ah, Dawson. Another scotch and soda. Put it on George’s account, would you? There’s a good fellow.”

  As I had said, I had beaten Hurst at billiards that night, winning a tidy sum in the process, so I indicated that Dawson should bring more drinks for all of us.

  And once Dawson had done so, Major Guthrie began his story.

  “Well now, it so happened back in eighty-four, that I was staying up in, in … um … ah …” Guthrie paused trying to recall where exactly he had been staying. “Well, remote sort of a place, wherever it was. I was up – yes, it was definitely up – up there doing a spot of hunting and shooting, and what have you, you know the sort of thing, I’m sure?” The Major raised a querying eyebrow.

  We nodded and agreed that we did indeed.

  “Anyway, it wasn’t there, wherever that was, but at a place called Morstan House that the events in my story took place. Do you know it?” Guthrie asked.

  We didn’t.

  “Well, my old regimental comrade, Hadingly-Scott had got the place, and he’d invited me to visit if I was ever in the locale. I can’t for the life of me think why, as we could never stand each other. But there you are, and so, as it were, was I. You see this hunting and shooting trip that I had taken, was indeed in the locale of Morstan House. Wherever that might in fact be. Tricky thing memory, you see. Has this strange habit of playing tricks on you,” he offered by way of explanation of his memory loss.

  “Well, I turned up unannounced and unexpected at Morstan House, and was horrified to find that Hadingly-Scott had passed away. Terrible loss, really fine fellow. I must have missed hearing about his death because I had been out of the country at the time. But I can’t tell you anything about that – top-secret, don’t you know? And to think no one bothered to inform me!” the Major snorted in disgust.

  “I did remember that before I had left for India, I had heard that Hadingly-Scott had not long returned from someplace in Africa, and was suffering from some sort of illness – but I had no idea that it might have been serious. Furthermore, there had been a number of rumours doing the rounds. Rumours that he had had some sort of falling out with one of those witch doctor fellows whilst he was over there.”

  Seemingly unaware that he had let slip that his top-secret mission had taken him to India the Major leaned forward conspiratorially. “Apparently this falling out resulted in the witch doctor putting some sort of curse on old Hadingly-Scott. Would you believe it?”

  “Mumbo jumbo.” Hurst snorted.

  “You think so, do you, Doctor?” Guthrie sat back in his chair, and paused to light a cigar. “Ah, that’s good,” he declared.

  John remained sceptical. “Superstitious nonsense.”

  Major Guthrie raised an eyebrow at John’s scepticism. “Queer sorts those witch doctor chaps; don’t you know? I remember back in seventy-nine; when I was out in Africa myself,” the Major paused again, a pained expression upon his face. “Actually, now I come to mention it, I don’t remember. How extraordinary. Oh well, never mind.”

  I had to smile, as I heard poor old Hurst groan. Fortunately, the Major didn’t notice.

  “Anyway, where was I? Oh, yes.” Picking up the thread of his story again, the Major continued. “So his son was master of Morstan House now, and although the fellow was obviously still in mourning, and had a quite distressed and distracted air, he invited me in and made me most welcome.

  “We dined on a simply excellent dinner, absolutely splendid meal.” The Major patted his belly. And I feared we were in for a discourse on food – one of the Major’s favourite topics.

  Obviously I was not alone in my fears because Soames asked, “Did you broach the subject of Hadingly-Scott senior’s death?”

  That earned him a glare from the Major, but I’m sure Edgar thought it was worth it.

  “Of course I enquired about the manner of his father’s death, but perhaps not surprisingly he was reluctant to talk about his father’s demise in depth. However, he did reveal that it was true that his father had succumbed to an illness he had picked up whilst on the Dark Continent. I’m a sensitive sort of chap, so I did not press him for more details.”

  The Major took a mouthful of his drink.

  “Naturally, I thought it only right that I should pay my respects to old Hadingly-Scott.”

  The Major broke off from his story. “See to the fire would you, Dawson?”

  The steward hastened to obey.

  “I don’t know much about architecture, so I couldn’t tell you when Morstan House was built, but it’s enough to say that it’s an old place. Old enough to have one of those private chapels adjoining the house,” the Major explained.

  “Hadingly-Scott had been laid to rest in its crypt, and after dinner I ventured down to this underground vault to pay my respects to the old fellow.

  “You’d think it wouldn’t affect an old soldier like myself – must have faced death a hundred times or more. But I have to admit, I found it quite an unnerving experience, being underground in this ill-lit sepulchre, surrounded by all these boxes containing the remains of long dead people. Made me contemplate the fact that that’s the fate that awaits us all. But I don’t suppose you young fellows ever bother to think about your own mortality.”

  Rather unusually for the Major, he did not wait for us to reply. He had evidently warmed to his tale.

  “Now, neither young Hadingly-Scott nor a servant had accompanied me down to the vault, and I thought I was quite alone down there. But I realised that that was not the case when I quite distinctly heard someone cough.

  “I glanced around but could see no one. The cough had definitely come from inside the crypt, and I called out, ‘Who’s there?’ No one answered, but then I heard the coughing again.

  “At first, I had thought it was the cough of someone trying to attract my attention – and perhaps the first time it was. But I realised that it was the cough of someone suffering from some sort of malady.

  “Well, despite my discomfort, I knew I would have to look further into the crypt. I had to know if someone needed aid, or whether it was someone’s idea of a joke.”

  “Rather bad taste,” said Soames.

  “Yes, quite,” the Major agreed.

  “So there I was, just preparing myself to delve deeper when a voice spoke. ‘You hear it too.’ It was young Hadingly-Scott, although at first I didn’t really pay attention to the words that he had said. Made me jump, you see, I’d been sure I was alone.

  “‘Damn it all, Hadingly-Scott,’ I said, ‘I didn’t realise you were in here with me. You ought to get something for that cough of yours.’ Well, the fellow just stared at me, and it suddenly dawned on me, what he had actually said.

  “And whilst he stared at me, I heard again that pitiful coughing. And I finally realised where it was coming from. Yes, gentlemen, from the senior Hadingly-Scott’s coffin!”

  “My God!” exclaimed Soames.

  “Catalepsy!” gasped Dr Hurst.

  “Buried alive,” I said. “The poor fellow.”

  “Monstrous!” I heard Dawson cry.

  Hurst shook his head. “It’s like something that fellow Poe would have written.”

  The Major was indignant at our quite understandable – I thought – interruption. “Am I telling this story or not?” He huffed.

  We profusely agreed that he indeed was, and urged him to continue. Soames even had Dawson fetch the Major another drink to placate him.

  “Well, if you cha
ps would let me get on with it, rather than interrupting all the time, you would learn that it is a tale more strange than you imagine.”

  The Major had a slight smile of amusement – I noted now – but I don’t think any of the others noticed.

  He continued, “Overcoming my initial shock, I realised why the junior Hadingly-Scott had been so reticent over the manner of his father’s death. And quite naturally I suspected some sort of foul play on his part.”

  “Quite naturally,” echoed Hurst.

  “I demanded that the coffin be opened immediately. The heir sighed, but agreed that it would be so. He called for a servant and instructed him.

  “One by one the nails were drawn out. So painstakingly slowly, that in frustration I took over, levering the lid off, myself.”

  Eagerly we leaned forward in our seats, and Dawson loitered near at hand, anxious to hear the denouement to the Major’s story.

  “You gentlemen speak of Edgar Allan Poe, and his story of premature burial, ah, what a hideous fate to be buried alive.” Major Guthrie shuddered at the thought, as I suspect did we all.

  “And indeed the coughing coming from that coffin had installed the thought in my mind that that was the very fate that had befallen dear old Hadingly-Scott.”

  Major Guthrie paused. I am still unsure whether it was because of the enormity of what he was about to reveal, or whether he was merely savouring the expectant expressions on the faces of his rapt audience.

  I could stand the suspense no longer, and neither evidently could John. “Well?” he prompted before I could.

  Guthrie finished his drink and nodded. “But you see gentlemen, the body contained in his coffin was quite unmistakably dead, and had clearly been so for quite some time!”

  And with much shaking of heads, we all had to agree that it was indeed a curious business.

  The Madness Out of the Sea

  It began with a pounding upon the church door and a cry, “Open up. Open up for pity’s sake!”

  Roused from my prayers I hastened to open the door – to reveal an old man. A man lean of limb and gaunt of face. With wild hair, unkempt and white, and a face pocked and scarred. His clothes were worn and dirty, and he smelt strongly of alcohol.