The Touch of Hemp

by Adam Patterson

She approached me and yet again searched me up and down with her eyes. I was on the verge of excusing myself from her company when she suddenly said, "You are forgiven, sir."

  Not knowing what to say, I simply bowed my head. Again, she offered me a drink and even reimbursement for my journey to the house, but I declined once more, informing her that my coach awaited me outside. She therefore led me back out into the hallway to the door, but as I bid her farewell she grabbed my arm and held it tight.

  "In death there is no death but only the withering of a mortal shell; for the soul of God's man passes like seed into the breeze, so within fertile soil can swell."

  Those, my dear Arthur, were the strange words she near whispered to me as I stood upon the doorstep of her house. I remember them well, even though I had no idea at the time of what they truly meant – only that it had reference to her dead brother. Even after my coach took me back down the long path to the adjoining road, I could see Miss Stubbs watching me with those keen eyes of hers until distance made it impossible to do so.

  Although this was the first time I met Miss Stubbs, it was not to be the last, as you must be fully aware by now.

  Alfred stopped writing. At this point he considered tearing the letter into a hundred pieces and ending this cursed nightmare for good. But instead, he eventually picked his pen up from the desk and, learning he had just over half an hour before his friend was due, continued to write his confession.

  A few days passed without anything out of the ordinary happening. I continued with my work at the baker's shop as normal, and I had no execution booked at the time. Thinking back, I assume that it was the night of Barry and Evelyn's wedding when I first realised something was wrong, or rather, that others knew that something was wrong.

  As you may remember, I am not a drinking man, and alcohol had not passed my lips for as far as I can remember until that night at the wedding reception. Nobody gave it a second thought on a special occasion such as that, but I was astounded to find I had a definite yearning for liquor, as though I was a regular drinker. At first, my fiancée, Marilyn, turned a blind eye to this, but as the night continued, thus my drinking continued.

  I began to become abusive to the guests, and on one occasion, I became violent towards one of Barry's relatives. After returning home somewhat worse for wear, I am ashamed to admit that I stalked the night for female company while my fiancée was sleeping soundly at her parents' house.

  My sudden, shameful spell did not end there, my dear brother. In fact, I progressively got worse. I began to gamble, which I had never done before in my entire life. Although I play cards to pass the time during my overnight stays at the various prisons before an execution, I was rarely any good. Far from being a successful cardsharp, the savings put aside for my own marriage to Marilyn dwindled rapidly away.

  I was also drinking more heavily and spending more time in the company of prostitutes than that of my fiancée. My punctuality and performance at the bakery was poor, and I was threatened with dismissal on numerous occasions. The church was just a memory to me by then, and even when I had a request to hang a murderer in the coming week, I turned it down so I could spend more time playing cards or in the company of strange women.

  Then one night, fearful for my sanity, Marilyn paid me an unexpected visit to my home. I was already drunk, unwashed and unkempt. I laughed in her face when she begged me to stop my drinking, but when she continued to protest I hit her. Far from being sorry for my actions, I tell you my dear brother with a heavy heart, I raped her as she lay bleeding upon the floor.

  At the time I was lucky, for my fiancée, feeling shame for us both, told nobody about what happened that night. As you may well understand, Marilyn never came to see me again, and I never called upon her, interested only in women of the night.

  I had enough sanity remaining to be aware that I was completely out of control, but it was not until one night, after spending my company with a strange woman, when I realised it was the devil's work that had turned me into the fiend I had become.

  That night, when I looked into the mirror, I saw not my reflection but the face of Conrad Stubbs grinning devilishly back. Although I had a drink or two, I knew that what I saw before me was no illusion. Do not assume this was the only occasion I witnessed his vision before me, as even now I see his reflection staring back at me instead of my own.

  Then came the time when I decided to learn more about this man, Conrad Edgar Stubbs. Firstly, I managed to find old newspaper articles about the court case, but the more I learnt about him, the more horrified I became. It was not until I obtained police reports about him when I realised the true nature of this beast. I was deeply shocked to discover that his lifestyle mirrored very much my own, new pathetic existence. He was a heavy drinker, gambler and womaniser, and on numerous occasions had spent time in jail for theft or assault. However, it was not until I read that he and his sister were dabblers in the occult that I decided to return to the house upon the moors.

  In desperation, and before the influential spirit of the man I hanged could stop me, I took a train and travelled west towards the area where he formerly lived, visions of voodoo and devil worship filling my mind. Again, I travelled from the station by coach and arrived outside the house just before dusk. This time I paid the coachman and told him I no longer required his services that night, as I was positive that my conversation with Stubbs' sister was to be at a great length. After walking hesitantly up the pathway, I rapped upon the door and waited.

  To my surprise, when Miss Stubbs opened the door, she simply smiled and beckoned me inside as though she was already expecting me. After leading me into the parlour, she poured a large glass of cognac and offered it to me. "I know you now want this, Mr. Hamilton," she said to me. "I gather you are still Mr. Hamilton?"

  "What do you mean by that?" I asked her, but she turned away and became silent. Without a further word, I greedily emptied the glass in one gulp.

  "Do you see these wonderful artefacts upon my walls?" she then asked. I looked again at the exotic display of masks, spears, wooden figurines and symbols that glimmered ghostly within the light of the blazing fire. "My brother and I travelled many times to Haiti and Africa. That is where these wonderful items come from."

  I watched as she began to circle the large room, gazing up at the artefacts with deep affection.

  "What has happened to me?" I blurted out in desperation, no longer able to sustain my grief. "I see your brother's face every day tormenting me… mocking me. Why does he haunt me so?"

  When she turned back to me, she took the glass from my fingers and refilled it with more cognac.

  "Why don't you sit down and be comfortable, Mr. Hamilton?" she said before pressing her hand upon my shoulder, forcing me to sit. "I wish for you to spend some time with me, as we are soon to become good friends."

  As if under her spell, I obediently sat upon her divan and drank more of the liquor she offered. She produced a small, silver case of French cigarettes and offered me one. I took it without hesitation, even though I have never before smoked.

  "These were Conrad's favourites," she told me after lighting both of our cigarettes. "He always loved to indulge in the finest things in life."

  "So much, he became a wicked man!" I exclaimed, but she only laughed at my comment – a sardonic, wicked laugh.

  "Do not speak ill of the dead, Mr. Hamilton," she calmly said to me. "My brother was no angel, but he was also no fool."

  "He was a hedonistic, swindling murderer!" I could no longer control my anger, but Miss Stubbs simply smiled back at me as though I was saying words of admiration rather than the opposite. "Why does he torment me so?" I ask again. "If you know why he does, you must tell me now. For the love of God, you must!"

  With those words, she walked to a large bookcase and brought forth a small, metal chest. From a chain around her neck, she produced a key that fits the lock and she opened it for me. Inside there was a large, antiquated book, as rare and ol
d as the curiosities adorning the walls.

  "You see this here, Mr. Hamilton?" she asked me. "This is called the 'Book of the dead'. My brother and I 'acquired' it on one of our many travels to Haiti. It is a book of spells, incantations and curses."

  "Are you quite insane?" I bellow. "Surely you do not believe in this voodoo nonsense!"

  "You mock the powers of voodoo, Mr. Hamilton, but if you believe in it not, then why are you now here?"

  "Yes indeed," I continued defiantly, "why am I now here? You have not yet answered my question – an answer I surely believe you have!"

  She laughed that wicked laugh again before leafing through the book. After finding the desired page, she presented it for me to study.

  "You see here?" she said. "Here are the enchanted words that bring a soul back from death."

  I looked upon the strange incantations, written in a dialect of old. I begin to read through the passages, but the words bear no meaning for me.

  "I still do not understand," I declared, although, my dear brother, I realised with growing dread that I had been cursed from that very book I held within my hands – a curse upon my mortal soul!

  Alfred lifted his head from the page and learnt he now had only fifteen minutes remaining before his friend arrives at the door. He needed to finish this