The message seemed clear. We were to flood the site with its equal and opposite force—golden solar energy—which could, I knew, be manufactured in the human aura and sent out into the landscape by means of mental visualisation. A good psychic might actually see such energies emanating from a person’s aura. This Bernard had witnessed the previous year at Burlough Castle when I had attempted to restore Ogmor’s lost strength, which was somehow associated with the influence of the sun.
One of the most powerful forms of solar energy on a psychic level could be seen, or visualised, as a kind of orange-gold fire. In mystical terms, this ‘divine fire’ is delivered by the archangel Michael, who governs the element of Fire and wields a flaming sword—precisely the image Bernard had seen in his mind earlier that evening. The Fire of Michael, as it is known, can be used for various purposes. It can either be drawn around a place or person to protect them from malevolent forces, or it can be used to purify, cleanse and even destroy thought forms, place memories and localised energy fields.
It therefore seemed as if the best way to destroy BA’s ritual trap, apparently waiting for us at the Running Well, was to invoke and draw down the Fire of Michael to burn and purify the site. However, I knew only too well that this could also destroy residual memories and energy forms created over a period of perhaps two thousand years of religious devotion at the well. But it appeared to be the only way.
16 The Blackened Well
In the darkness, Bernard’s beige Ford Orion rolled to a halt outside the disused wooden barn next to Poplars Farm, close to the border between the parishes of Runwell and East Hanningfield. A metal-barred gate and a short walk across a sloping meadow was all that separated us from whatever lay ahead at the Running Well.
No cars were around, so it looked as if we might be alone after all. I thought of calling at Poplars Farm to see whether the occupants had seen any other cars that evening. However, I resisted the temptation, as I did not feel they would appreciate answering the door to strangers at that time of night.
‘I feel the best thing we can do is try and attune to the well from here,’ Bernard suggested, winding down his window to let out cigarette smoke.
Agreeing, I sat with pen poised to paper as he closed his eyes and began to concentrate on our predicament.
Soon his mind picked out a clear vision. ‘Right, I see Cecilia by the well.’ There was a short pause. ‘Is there a body buried around there, somewhere? I’ve said that before, haven’t I?’
He had. Exactly one year beforehand on his only other visit to the well. On that occasion he had picked up on a teenage girl who, centuries ago, would withdraw to the calm serenity of the well to stare into its crystal-clear waters in order to glimpse future events by the light of the moon. The local people had regarded her as a witch and, one evening, as she had stood by the water’s edge, the poor girl was set upon and beaten to death, her body hurriedly buried close to the well. Bernard even gave her full name and the date she died.
‘I see BA there now,’ he continued, breaking my train of thought. ‘He’s definitely been down there. I see him stirring the water in an anti-clockwise direction with a stick … dark swirling energies pour out of the well. He’s now quartering the water’s surface … It will make each of the four church marker points stronger ... I feel somebody wants to get rid of us here at the well itself … There’s a feeling of death, and fire for some reason ... I hear words: “A body will be found with a rope around its neck. A body will be found in a fire”.’
Bernard’s voice was becoming lower and more monotone— the first signs of a potentially dangerous possession. I had to stop him, so I shouted out his name.
‘Don’t worry,’ he responded, opening his eyes. ‘I’m okay. Those are the words he said as he stood by the well: “A body will be found with a rope around its neck. A body will be found in a fire”.’
Charming. I remembered the image Bernard had seen earlier—a body hanging by its neck from a rope strung over a tree. The Black Alchemist wanted one of us to hang ourselves, and the other to die in a fire. The thought sent a deathly chill down my spine. We had been correct, the contents of the sealed black envelope did indeed add up to a death threat.
‘Cecilia appears to be wearing a blue and white nun’s habit,’ he offered, quite unexpectedly. ‘I think she might have been a nun at the convent.’
Of course, one of the nun’s that tended the holy well and came from a nearby convent or nunnery, thought to have stood on the site of Poplar’s Farm. Visitors to the well often spoke of seeing a ghostly nun there.
Leaving the car, we climbed over the padlocked metal gate and began the short stroll across the wet meadow towards the copse of mature trees marking the position of the well. Being one of the high spots of southeast Essex, the orange and white lights of Runwell, Wickford and beyond to the Thames Estuary, even the North Downs of Kent, were visible. For a moment, we stopped to admire the scenery before continuing our journey.
The Running Well is located within an earthen hollow, concealed inside a tree-lined, triangular piece of land situated between three fields. A large concrete platform, complete with steps down into the well’s depths, complements the large, half moon-shaped expanse of water some eight feet across. Its clear water originates from a spring at the base of the well which, it is said, has never been known to fail. The excess water drains away into an adjoining, sleeper-covered concrete cistern. This in turn overflows into a drainage channel that runs westwards for no more than 20 yards before turning south to form a brook that flows all the way down to Runwell church.
Interestingly, both the church and well are dedicated to St Mary the Virgin. They form part of an alignment of ancient sites, which also includes Wickford’s medieval church of St Catherine and an ancient moat that once existed immediately behind my parents’ home, making this a perfect example of an Alfred Watkins style ley line.
I had uncovered firm evidence of a human presence at the Running Well going back at least 2,000 years, and there seemed little question that Runwell gained its name—which in the AngloSaxon tongue breaks down to rune, meaning ‘secret’ or ‘mystery’, and welle, meaning ‘spring’—from this ancient spring.10
It was not, however, the virtues of the well we were here to appreciate tonight. Other more pressing matters filled our minds, as simultaneously we both came to a halt some twenty paces from the tree line.
Something now stood in our way.
Within the gap in the hedgerow, on the path right in front of us, stood a black amorphous form. Though bilious in quality, it bore a distinct anthropomorphic appearance, and I sensed it was conscious of our presence.
‘Do you see that?’ Bernard asked.
So he could see it as well. I knew what I could see, but what about him?
‘A dark human-like shape.’
The same.
It was almost certainly a thought form set up by the Black Alchemist to guard the gateway through which he knew we would have to pass if we wanted to reach the well. If this was so, then he had obviously not bargained on both of us seeing it.
Bernard seconded my evaluation. ‘I think the idea was for us to have inadvertently come into contact with that thing. It would have acted like some sort of trigger mechanism setting off whatever lay in store for us at the well.’
We could go no further. The whole site would have to be blasted by the Fire of Michael from where we stood.
Raising my arms, I called upon the archangel to deliver his divine fire by reaching down and touching the well with his flaming sword. In my mind’s eye, I pictured a huge pillar of fire slowly descending out of the sky towards the group of trees surrounding the holy well. I saw the waters burst into flame—as if they were petrol ignited by a match. The trees were consumed first, then the undergrowth, and then finally the earthen banks making up the well hollow. As the flames rose steadily, I directed them to encircle the site as a cloud of fiery light that gradually spiralled into the air like a mini tornado.
Bernard could see the whole light display with his eyes firmly open, as if the site really was on fire. And to him it was real. The visualisation was working.
When the fire died away, I opened my eyes and asked Bernard how the site now looked on a psychic level. At that moment, I swear I saw a tiny ball of white light flash past me, coming from the direction of the well.
‘I’ve been seeing them for some minutes,’ he coolly announced. ‘Tiny balls of bluey-white light flitting about in every direction, very close to the ground.’
The Fire of Michael had worked, destroying both the Black Alchemist’s ritual trap and the thought form guarding the gateway between the two fields. For that had now gone.
We moved through the gap and turned left to walk the final few paces across to the well. Peering through the undergrowth, I shone the torchlight onto the water’s surface. Stuck upright in the mud by the edge of the concrete platform was a long black stick, cut from a tree, the bottom six inches of which were still wet. It had been placed there deliberately and, unless it was a bizarre coincidence, there seemed little doubt that this was the stick used by the Black Alchemist to stir the well.
Stepping down onto the well’s concrete platform, we used the torchlight to explore every conceivable hiding place for further evidence of our adversary’s presence.
‘I feel he spent some time here,’ Bernard revealed, staring into the shimmering water. ‘Other than that, I don’t get anything.’
The Fire of Michael had completely destroyed not just the Black Alchemist’s dark ritual, but also the site’s own residual energies. The only answer would be for us to move out into the field, away from the site’s immediate psychic influence, where the localised energy fields hopefully remained intact. Maybe the memory of the Black Alchemist’s visit to the well would still be available there.
Agreeing, Bernard moved back out into the open as I followed close behind. At a distance of some twenty paces we stopped and turned back to face the well.
The psychic concentrated once again. ‘I now see someone down there. It was definitely today. He came across the fields, not from where we parked, by Poplars Farm.’
So where exactly had BA parked his car?
Bernard could still picture the Black Alchemist at the well: ‘He stands … near the water’s edge … says words: “Mercury” something … “in that silvery flow” … “look there” … a change in the water … more words: “Two shall end as my sword … ” Something about a sword … I see him put something in the water.’
That was it. Opening his eyes, he looked at me and smiled as we both said in unison: ‘There’s something in the water!’
Walking briskly across to the well hollow, I took off my jacket, rolled up my sleeves and reached into the icy-cold water. Carefully, my fingers explored the top of the first underwater step, some nine inches below the surface. I had a good idea what I was looking for as I touched the rotting leaves, tiny pebbles and slimy algae. First, I found only an old horseshoe, left there as a votive offering by some past visitor to the site. But then I touched it—a length of stone, similar in size and shape to those used by the Black Alchemist.
Pulling it out of the water, I shone the torchlight on our latest find. Yes, this was definitely what we were after—a shaped stone, some four inches in length and an inch in width. Painted black, it bore none of the usual magical symbols found on the other stone fixing markers.
In their place were two orange-red crystals, each about half an inch in diameter, glued into shallow holes gouged into one of its narrow edges. They appeared to be of the same substance as the crystals found in the black envelopes.
27. The stone fixing marker retrieved from the Running Well, with the fragments of orange-red crystal found affixed to its angled edge. Upon touching one, it immediately fragmented and left a strong amber stain on my hand. They were obviously soluble and not rock crystals as I had initially suspected.
What if the substance was poisonous? The thought now occurred to me, so I popped the fragments into a pocket and decided not to eat anything until I had washed my hands, just in case.
It was not difficult to work out that the two crystals, each one gradually melting into the well’s sacred waters, represented Bernard and myself. Of this I had no doubt whatsoever. As they faded, so would our lives, until nothing was left. No longer did I want to linger at the well. We had endured enough excitement for one night.
‘Let’s go home, then,’ Bernard responded. Pulling up outside the family home around 11.45pm, I gathered together my bits and pieces and told Bernard I would call him. As I went to get out, he turned to me with a concerned expression on his face. ‘Do you know, I get the feeling that not only is the Black Alchemist still in the area, but that he is using a crystal ball on a table, just like Dee, to try and see what we are doing. What we know.’
It was an unnerving thought. Where was he now? He shrugged his shoulders. ‘A guest house or hotel, I suppose.’
If so, then the Black Alchemist could strike again at any time.
‘I know,’ he said, revving the engine as I picked up the black envelope with its macabre contents.
‘I should be watchful tonight,’ were his parting words, as I climbed out of the vehicle and shut the door.
Did our adversary know that Bernard had just dropped me off and that I was now back home? I sincerely hoped not.
As Bernard’s car disappeared out of sight, I retired into the safety of the bungalow and searched around for an old shoebox. Within it I placed the black envelope and the four stone fixing markers, which were then relegated to the garden shed. There was no way I was going to sleep with them in the house, not tonight at least.
Afterwards, I strolled back into the front garden and stood gazing out onto the quiet street. The air was calm and still, and relatively mild for that time of year.
A lamppost on the opposite side of the road unduly caught my attention, just as I thought I imagined someone, a shadowy form, standing within its diffuse orange glow.
Looking more closely, I realised it was just a trick of the light, and that the street was empty.
I tried to dismiss the thought that anyone might actually be out there, somewhere. Watching me, somehow.
I needed to think—put into perspective the events of the evening. It all seemed so absurd. Bernard and I were now under the threat of death from a shrewd psychopath who had given us just nine nights to live.
I told myself this wasn’t really happening, but of course it was. If the Black Alchemist had his way then Bernard and I would be dead by Wednesday, 15th October. So how was I to react? Should I believe the threat at face value, or was it all just a crazy idea that the warped character had no intention of following through? Could there be another, more mundane, explanation to this whole affair?
Perhaps we had over-reacted. No, that was stupid. We had discovered four more psychically-charged stones, a sealed black envelope addressed to me, and a stick, still wet, seemingly used by the Black Alchemist to stir the Running Well. None of this was imagination.
More urgent thoughts now presented themselves. If he wanted to kill us, why had he not done so tonight? Okay, so he did not appear to possess Bernard’s name and address, but he certainly knew mine. Surely it would have been far easier for him to have blown my brains out there and then, instead of setting up some slow burning curse with a nine-night fuse.
The two crystals glued onto the stone found at the Running Well were obviously meant to have dissolved slowly within the well’s crystal-clear waters. Had he therefore anticipated our discovery of this stone? I thought not. It appeared as if the plan was for us to have stumbled into the psychic trap by attuning to the well’s own energies. But it had not worked. So, was the man stupid?
I decided against this. In fact there was a good chance that every single last thing had been planned right down to the letter. He was playing us at our own game, leading us from one place to the next, until we could go no further.
All I could say for sure was that the next eight days would be the most intense, no disturbing, of my life. Moving back inside, I made sure that the back door was locked before finding a seat and slumping down, ideas and paranoia still racing through my brain.
Placing Bernard’s penknife by my side, I tried to find the effort to check out some of the psychic information offered that evening. But I could not get the idea out of my mind that someone was outside, watching the bungalow. I imagined someone approach the front door, which I now gazed towards intently, knowing full well this was madness.
Sitting in the darkness, I anticipated the inevitable BANG on the window.
With my parents asleep in the front bedroom, oblivious to all that had happened that evening, I sat there and waited, and waited, until the birds began to sing.
17 Nine Nights to Live
Tuesday, 7th October, 1986. When eventually I did manage to sleep I would awake suddenly from chaotic dreams and nightmares involving the Black Alchemist. With these now came an irritating headache that I could not shake off.
Tense stress pains across the brow of my head persisted when finally I got up around eight o’clock. Tired, drained and exhausted, I went off to work. Yet however much I tried, I could not concentrate. Every time I attempted to listen to the advertising and journalistic needs of the shopkeepers and businesses around Leigh-on-Sea, I found myself wandering back to the mind-numbing events of the previous evening.
The Black Alchemist: A Terrifying True Story Page 12