So, had there been any more psychic information since Saturday night?
‘Just vague stuff really. Nothing positive,’ he replied, turning his nose up at its possible significance, even before saying a word. ‘I don’t know. A stinking, fleshy heart about, somewhere.’
His words took me by surprise. A stinking, fleshy heart? Buried somewhere by the Black Alchemist?
‘I don’t get any more. I’m not sure,’ he admitted, before adding: ‘That’s it, I’m afraid.’
I was intrigued, and although I could see Bernard now wanted to move onto other matters, I tried in vain to steer him back to his statement. But he would not have it.
20. The Elizabethan astrologer and magus Dr John Dee (1527-1609), next to his Monas Hieroglyphica symbol. I waited for an hour, then tried again to persuade him to concentrate his thoughts on the image of this stinking, fleshy heart to see if he could get any more.
‘You’re pushing me,’ he said, jokingly, as he collected up our glasses and stood up to make his way across to the bar. ‘Same again?’
St Anne’s Castle Yes, I nodded, and yes I was pushing him, gently. Unless I did, then that would be that and the mystery of the stinking, fleshy heart would be lost. And what if it was human? And we were to find it ... I had to know more.
He returned from the bar with more drinks and placed them down on the old wooden table between us. ‘Well,’ he began, as he sat back down. ‘Again, it’s only vague stuff, but I get a connection between this heart and St Mary. Something to do with wombs, birth and blood.’
He lit a cigarette and remained silent for a moment to compose his thoughts. ‘There is also an involvement with the planetary influence of Mercury and something to do with this circle closing. This “a message will come” business I picked up on Saturday night,’ he said from behind a thin mask of rising smoke.
Now we were getting somewhere. My pen recorded his words on the notepad.
He went silent for a moment. ‘I now pick up the words “squeeze the circle strong enough, the heart stops and rebirth will follow.” And I get the feeling of something coming up, rising out of something, after which a change will occur.’ He stopped to scan his mind for any further thoughts. ‘No, that’s it. I don’t get any more.’
It did not make a lot of sense. Perhaps it was some kind of dark ritual the Black Alchemist was carrying out down his own way, somewhere. Maybe it was something that was not necessarily our concern. If not, then maybe it was a portent of future things.
Whatever the answer, it implied BA was not averse to using flesh and blood—something I had suspected ever since we had realised he was familiar with the dream visions of Zosimos, which contained some quite gruesome imagery.
Yet what about the reference to St Mary? It might be a church dedication, I pointed out, possibly even a reference to Ide Hill church. Perhaps he was going to strike there again. On the other hand, it could be a reference to the Virgin Mary as a holy figure of the Christian faith, or to another Mary.
‘All I know,’ he began, ‘is that I hope I never come across the man again. It’s too much hassle, and something I can do without. And whatever he’s into, it’s ultimately none of our business, so long as he doesn’t interfere with us.’
But using blooded hearts did seem a little crass, if not a bit sick.
Bernard, looking now to go, finished his pint before glancing at his watch. ‘Well, let’s wait and see. It could all be my imagination, and if so then good! But, well, otherwise, we’ll just have to deal with it when it happens.’
I said no more, as Bernard stood up to leave. ‘I’ll tell you one thing, though. I sense that it’s not over yet,’ he revealed, picking up his cigarettes.
‘I almost don’t want to think about it, but we should be vigilant, as I don’t think either of us has any real idea of where this is going to go. Not yet at least.’
Part Two White
13 The Ring of Darkness
Monday, 6th October, 1986. The incessant telephone rang again. The junior clerk picked up the receiver and engaged the caller in casual conversation. At the same time, one of the company directors spoke from behind his desk before standing up and moving out of the glass panelled office.
Bernard stared into nowhere. Something troubled him. His visionary eyes saw, not the hanging net curtains covering the small office’s metal-framed window, but a scene much further away—not in Essex at all, but in Kent, or Sussex. He was not sure which.
The telephone receiver went down with a thud as the junior clerk muttered words of frustration to a non-existent audience. He too then walked out of the room.
Fields. Bernard could see fields, and trees. In fact, woods, with a stream nearby. It was a pleasant green area, and yet, for some reason, one with a bad feeling. Why was he seeing this?
An offer of coffee from an adjoining room was greeted with no particular enthusiasm by the elderly director who had returned to collect a completed order form. Picking it up, he stopped momentarily to read its contents.
Bernard could still see fields, but now his eyes zoomed in on four figures in black cowled robes standing, facing each other, in a circle. Each wielded a long, black baton—one end held against their stomachs, the other pointing towards a motionless central figure in a deep red cowled habit and cloak. Their floppy hoods concealed their identities, and their sex.
Chatter from the office doorway was followed by the appearance of a cup of coffee on Bernard’s desk. He forced a polite ‘thank you.’
The central figure in red was familiar and, upon realising his identity, Bernard wanted to disown the uninvited vision. But then came movement. The four figures in black began to sidestep around in an anti-clockwise direction until they had made one complete revolution.
It was the Black Alchemist. The figure in red was undoubtedly the Black Alchemist. Now the Red Alchemist?! No, this was no joke.
What was he up to now?
A distinct impression suggested their adversary was on the move. What was more, Bernard felt that the ritual was being conducted as he was viewing it.
At that moment, Bernard’s fellow director called out his name and the vision ceased like a television screen suddenly going blank. Yet the disconcerting memory remained in his now agitated mind.
Glancing at the wall clock, he noted the time. It was 10.40 am.
Bernard felt unsettled for the rest of the day. The air was thick. The Black Alchemist was up to something, and the feelings were not good. Luckily, he was seeing Andy that evening, so perhaps they could try and find out what was going on then.
He left his home soon after 6.30pm and drove the few miles out to Wickford. Andy had hired a small hall in Basildon so that they could watch an audio-visual slide presentation he had put together. The plan was to pick him up around seven, although the car clock indicated he would be late.
Turning off at the Rettendon Turnpike roundabout onto the A132 Wickford road, Bernard began to experience an unexpected anxiety. He found it difficult to concentrate on his driving, and realised he was now cruising along at well over the legal speed limit.
Suddenly, in front of him was a stationary car, an indicator light showing it was about to turn right. Bernard slammed on the brakes and slid to a halt just inches from its rear bumper.
He was now in a fluster. For a moment he decided to turn on his hazard lights and just let the car in front make its turn.
A short distance further along the road, Bernard again found himself driving at well over the speed limit. Taking his foot off the accelerator, he just could not understand his unusual actions.
Yet then, as the car entered the village of Runwell, just outside Wickford, he caught sight of an ugly scene through the windscreen.
Hundreds of plucked chickens lay strewn across the road, squashed to a pulp by passing vehicles.
They had undoubtedly fallen off the back of a lorry and, as he drove over them, the stench almost made him retch.
It was a peculiar coincidence that d
id not help his rising state of agitation.
The road then curved to the left and in front he now saw another stationary car waiting to turn right into a side road. Stamping on the brake pedal yet again, the car skidded to an abrupt halt in good time—but this was the final straw. His heart palpitated and his hands shook uncontrollably.
He waited for the oncoming traffic to pass so that the car in front could make its turn.
Glancing to his left, he acknowledged the presence of the dark, silhouetted tower of Runwell church, partially hidden among the shadows cast by the surrounding tree line. Bernard shuddered at its close proximity for, although it was a key site in Andy’s book The Running Well Mystery, it was a place he had never felt inclined to visit. For him, it exuded an unwelcoming, oppressive atmosphere linked probably to the belief that the churchyard was haunted by the devil.
Yet as Bernard stared suspiciously at the unnerving structure, a new, overpowering and sickly vision greeted him.
The church was engulfed by a dense, swirling cloud of chaotic energies that circled upwards before streaming off towards the direction of the Rettendon Turnpike. Precisely where he had just come from.
With this disturbing image now came the distinct impression that the black swirling cloud was the result of a dark ritual carried out in the churchyard only shortly beforehand.
More disturbingly, whoever was responsible for this chaotic act was still in the vicinity.
Bernard’s Ford Orion pulled up outside my home around 7.20 pm and, as I opened the passenger door, he asked me to sit down as he had something to say.
‘Some very strange things have been going on today and I feel something’s up,’ he said, lighting a cigarette. ‘I don’t like it one bit.’
Why? What had happened?
He told me.
So the Black Alchemist was on the move again, and this time
he was working with a group. Runwell’s church of St Mary, and a local holy well situated a couple of miles to the north known as the Running Well, featured in my book The Running Well Mystery, published three years earlier. It contained an in depth study of the folklore and legends of the parish, from what might be described as an earth mysteries perspective.
‘I suggest we give the slide show a miss and head straight for the church,’ he proposed, quite perturbed by the situation.
I agreed. So after rushing around, picking up a few things I felt might prove useful that evening, we sped off in the direction of Runwell.
Twice we drove past the church to see if there was any movement within its darkened churchyard. Nothing seemed out of place, and there was certainly no one hanging around in a black cowled robe.
Further along the A132 Runwell Road, I saw, and smelt, the putrid chicken carcasses still scattered across the road. This was not a good omen by any stretch of the imagination.
Church End Lane, the side road facing onto the fourteenthcentury stone tower of St Mary’s church, seemed an appropriate place to park the car. So, after conducting a simple protection ritual, I picked up a torch and opened the car door.
Stuffed into my leather jacket was a wooden cross, given to me in good faith by a Greek Orthodox monk on Mount Athos in Greece, along with a Janus-headed wand, one of the last vestiges of my ritual magic days. If necessary, they could be used to bind, hold, dissipate or generate psychic energies.
Bernard had more realistic thoughts in mind when he picked up a penknife and silently slipped it into his coat pocket.
Moving swiftly into the churchyard, he hesitantly approached the building’s north wall and gently touched its uneven ragstone surface. ‘Somebody else has done the same,’ he announced, patting the wall before moving away.
By this I assumed he meant the Black Alchemist.
‘Is there a porch around the back of the church?’ he asked, looking up at the stone tower.
Yes, the porch in question was the focal point of the devil legend attached to the church. The building’s heavy wooden south door bore a deep vertical ‘claw’ mark on its inside. This was said to have been made by the archfiend himself, after his exit from the church was cut off by a corrupt priest named Rainaldus, who had unexpectedly conjured Satan into manifestation at the high altar.
21. Runwell’s church of St Mary loomed out of the darkness. We made our way now towards that porch.
‘Ah, a porch,’ Bernard said, almost as if he had not expected it to be there. ‘I’d say something’s been going on here. I see dark energies coming from inside it.’
Once more, I insisted on caution and suggested he go no further, for the time being at least.
He nodded towards the wooden structure. ‘He’s put something in the porch,’ he said, picking this up now.
It was on the red-tiled floor of this porch that the corrupt priest Rainaldus was said to have dissolved into an oozing black mess after the devil had managed to escape from the church by burrowing through the south wall. The medieval viewing squint or ‘spirit hole’, still visible today, is pointed out as proof of his exit.
All that remained of Rainaldus after the devil had got to him was his shrunken head—actually an odd-shaped flint resembling a skull—that was set into the wall of the church. This, however, was removed in the late 1960s at the behest of the worried rector, who detested St Mary’s associations with Old Horny.
The rector also blocked access to the devil’s claw by hiding the south door behind a full-length drape, and placing before it a heavy lump of furniture and a huge wrought iron candle stand. In the church’s opinion, the presence of the claw mark was a constant reminder that sometimes God does not have full control over what goes on inside his own house.
It was an attitude that continued at Runwell, for in 1983 I was banned from entering St Mary’s church following the publication of The Running Well Mystery, which was seen to promote Runwell’s associations with the devil. It was a decision upheld by the local bishopric, headed by the Bishop of Bradwell, and supported by the Archbishop of Canterbury, the leader of the Church of England. So unique was the ruling, which essentially excommunicated me from the Church, it made the national headlines. Yet I doubted whether any of this had anything to do with why we were here tonight.
So where was the object concealed?
Concentrating, Bernard gave his verdict: ‘Right-hand side. In the corner, at ground level.’
Quickly, I entered the porch and shone the flashlight down between the wooden bench and tiled floor. Two piles of roughlystacked roof tiles stood haphazardly against the wall—but to their right, in the corner, among the cobwebs and dirt, was a now familiar sight—a dark grey length of stone inscribed with magical symbols.
Announcing the discovery, Bernard ignored my earlier advice and entered the porch to look on silently as I visualised golden energies flowing through the Janus wand into the stone. This would hopefully nullify its psychic charge.
Moving in closer, he reached out with his right hand and started deliberately attuning to the stone. ‘Something else,’ he strained, forcing his hand into one of the two untidy stacks of roof tiles, as if feeling for something. But it was too much for him. Pulling away sharply, he stumbled backwards, almost losing his balance. ‘He’s left something else. Look there. A message. In the roof tiles.’
With this, he vanished out of sight, leaving me to search for this ‘message’. Lifting the first few tiles I soon found the source of Bernard’s concern—a sealed black envelope, thick with contents, on which was sellotaped a white strip of paper bearing—in small black type—the name ‘Andrew Brian Collins’.
My heart raced. What the hell was this?
Collecting up both the envelope and the inscribed stone, I ran off to find Bernard. Catching up with him, we made a quick exit from the churchyard and retired back to the car.
Bernard complained of a slight headache and a nauseous feeling inside his stomach, but otherwise he seemed okay. Looking at the sealed black envelope, illuminated by the car’s interior light, I decided not to
open it until we knew a bit more about what was going on.
‘I don’t think you should open it at all,’ he jested. Perhaps that wasn’t such a bad idea. Yet one thing was for sure—the Black Alchemist was now in possession of my full name. In which case, he also knew of my association with Runwell church and, presumably, the diabolic legend attached to its south porch.
Did he also now possess a copy of my book The Running Well Mystery? It looked that way, which was slightly disconcerting really, since it contained my home address.
‘I also think he knows there’s someone else working with you,’ he added, glancing out of the window at a couple walking by. ‘However, I don’t get the feeling he has my name or address. Not yet at least.’
This was probably due to the fact that I had deliberately tried to keep Bernard’s identity out of the limelight. Yet if the Black Alchemist knew of my interest in Runwell church, he knew also of my association with the Running Well.
It was a local site of immense sanctity with a history stretching back at least two thousand years. I just hoped this was somewhere he might avoid.
Bernard suggested we should get out of the immediate influence of the church and then stop for a while—see if he could pick up any further psychic clues. So, moving the car just a few hundred yards up the lane, he brought it to a halt in a side road. Here we rested for a few minutes by cracking open a bottle of wine we had intended to have at the slide show.
Emptying his glass, Bernard began to concentrate his mind on the church once more. We needed to know how effective our removal of the inscribed stone had been and what exactly we were to do next.
After a minute or so of silence, he began to speak: ‘Right, I still see this dark swirling cloud around the church. Removing the stone has not stopped it. I can see it sweeping off in a northeasterly direction, like a wall of black mist. It’s vaporous, very strong and seems to be curving across the countryside.’
Suddenly, he went quiet for a few moments. ‘Who’s “Talbot”,’ he enquired, out of the blue. ‘It’s a name connected somehow.’
The Black Alchemist: A Terrifying True Story Page 9