The Black Alchemist: A Terrifying True Story

by Andrew Collins

  Great magistry not correct. Re-work. Fuse.

  The words made no sense, but at least a link had been made. I asked him to see if he could find out when the ritual had taken place at Lullington. ‘1985’, was the reply.

  1985? This was a total surprise to me. I assumed that the spearhead had been planted sometime in the past. I had not banked on the perpetrator still being around, out there somewhere right now. My next question was inevitable: who carried out this ritual?

  Bernard’s hand wrote once more:

  Magister magnus in igne. White stone not correct. Re-work. Re-fuse. Re-live. Heat vessel hot. Black substance is right.

  Yes, but who put it there?

  His hand responded with more words. It comes. Use. Skulls. Black blood. Dying into flame. Relive. Re-birth. Soul. Kalsination is good. Black. Relive. Bring to life. Zozzimoz. Place. Re-work. Re-live. Heat.

  It was still not an answer. I wanted to know who buried the spearhead?

  His hand scribbled again.

  Enclosed power. Worked alone in house. Dark. Heat. Relight flame. Sulphur. That was it. Bernard got no more from the psychically-retrieved artefact. Putting it down, he lit a cigarette before swallowing a mouthful of Guinness. ‘Well, whoever it was who planted this spearhead, they are strong in mind and quite capable of blocking out anyone who tries to attune to them, or their home.’

  He stopped to crystallise his thoughts. ‘As I was writing I could see a man in a darkened room. Around him were old benches, skulls, things being burnt in glass bottles and more black birds.’

  More black birds? What, in the room?

  ‘No, I think it was a symbolic image to show me he’s surrounded by very chaotic energies and emanations, for some reason.’

  Large black birds—rooks, crows and ravens—can be seen as omens of death and misfortune. Often they are not good symbols at all. Yet the rest of the imagery and automatic writing seemed to indicate that our occultist friend was an alchemist. This is someone who, through complex and tedious magical operations and experiments, attempts to achieve an alchemical transmutation—the changing of base matter into a pure state, usually base metal into gold.

  Words and statements such as ‘Dying into the flame’, ‘Bring to life’, ‘Heat’ and ‘sulphur’ all seemed to confirm this fact. The man was into alchemy which concerned, not only the transmutation of base matter into a pure state, but also the transformation of the alchemist’s own ‘base’ soul into a higher state of perfection in order to achieve immortality.

  ‘That may be so,’ Bernard admitted. ‘Yet whatever this man is into, he is warping and distorting the process to his own ends, hence the bad taste he left behind in Lullington churchyard.’

  But who was he? Where did he live? And how was he connected with us?

  ‘I’m not sure,’ Bernard said, hesitantly. ‘But I get the feeling that when he finds out his spearhead is missing, he’ll plant another one.’

  At the same place?

  ‘Very possibly, yes. I also get the feeling we have not seen the last of him.’

  On arrival home I scanned my bookshelves for anything on alchemy. The name ‘Zozzimoz’, picked up by Bernard, was a reference to Zosimos of Panopolis, an influential alchemist, writer and visionary who lived around the year AD 300 in Panopolis—the modern city of Akhmim—in Upper Egypt. For him the roots of alchemy went back to the fall of the angels from heaven, in particular the story told in a Judaic work known as the book of Enoch, the oldest fragments of which were found among the Dead Sea Scrolls. Here so-called Watchers, or ‘daimons’ as Zosimos calls them, sleep with the Daughters of Men to produce giant offspring known as Nephilim, a story told also in the book of Genesis. Yet in the book of Enoch, the Watchers are punished not just for transgressing the laws of heaven, which forbade contact with mortal kind, but also for revealing to their wives the arts and sciences of heaven, including, so Zosimos believed, the secrets of alchemy.6

  Zosimos is remembered for a series of highly symbolic dream visions involving the ritual sacrifice of the alchemist. These were thought to contain the ultimate keys to bodily transformation, leading to the release of the soul or ‘divine spark’ through salvation at the point of death. This was in order to become a free spirit at one with God in heaven.

  From the automatic writing Bernard had received that evening, it looked as if our alchemist friend had been attempting to achieve what is known in alchemy as the First Matter or Blackening, called also the Negredo, Black Crow, Crow’s Head, or Black Man. It is a stage in the transmutation reached—if using Zosimos’s dream visions—by mixing blood, flesh and bones with sulphur and then heating them in a bowl called the ‘bath of rebirth’ in order to attain a black substance. This is re-heated, or calcined—Bernard had picked up the word ‘Kalsination’—until the whole thing becomes a powder. Then, after further liquid is added, the heating is continued for one whole year before the resulting mess is mixed with the alchemist’s own moisture. It is then slowly calcined once more until the divine spark is seen to be released from the mixture as a glowing form.

  I was pretty sure that the alchemist had chosen Lullington for his ritual because of its association with the episode in the Peredur story concerning the beheading of the white stag. In Zosimos’ dream visions the cutting off of the alchemist’s head symbolises the extraction of his soul in readiness for rebirth.

  Also in alchemy, and directly relevant here, is the fact that a stag represents the soul of the alchemist. Therefore, in alchemical terms a sacred site with a tradition associated with the severing of a stag’s head might be seen as an ideal place to seek rebirth. By substituting the severed head of the Zosimos dream vision with a spearhead the black cowled alchemist was able to fix the intentions of his magical ritual.

  Once the spearhead at Lullington had been retrieved—an act reflected in the removal of the stag’s head in the Peredur story—it signaled the achievement of the First Matter stage in the alchemist’s transmutation. This clever combination of ancient alchemy and landscape mysteries—what might be called landscape alchemy—would then have had a knock on effect of triggering into action the next part of the Peredur story, in which the ‘black man’ rises from a mound, beneath which, the account tells us, is ‘a carved man’, an allusion most assuredly to the Long Man of Wilmington, which lies on the slopes of nearby Windover Hill.

  Given all this careful planning, our removal of the spearhead—symbolic of the knight stealing the stag’s head—was either extremely fortuitous for the alchemist, or he in some way ‘engineered’ us to play out this fatalistic role. Either way, we had played right into his hands.

  So what were we to do next? Bernard had temporarily lost interest in the quest to find the Stave of Nizar and wanted only to forget the whole episode. Yet he retained the feeling that the Black Alchemist, as we had begun to call him, would plant another spearhead once he realised the original one was missing. More disconcerting, perhaps, was the likelihood that at some point in the future, our paths would again cross. For the moment, though, all Bernard hoped was that he was wrong.

  7 The House

  Tuesday, 25th June, 1985. In front of them lay their destination—a Victorian, two-storey, red-brick terraced house with double-bay windows either side of a recessed green front door. Black-painted, wrought iron railings held back an unruly privet hedge that divided the kerb from an overgrown garden of sorts. There was no gate, only an opening onto a path of chequered red and black tiles leading up to the doorstep, some four to six paces from the road.

  Bernard, Andy and their two companions stared with definite apprehension at the uninspiring building. It hardly seemed like the magical stronghold of a warped Black Alchemist who, only the previous month, had caused them so much anguish in Lullington churchyard. And yet, as had been predicted, he had now gone too far. His own sickening brand of warped magic had rebounded on him, destroying both his mind and body, and leaving his home an uncontrollable psychic mess. Only now would they be able to unco
ver his true identity. That was, if they could combat the psychic attack that would surely result from their entry into this empty building.

  Hesitantly, the four walked up to the front porch. Glancing around to make sure no one was watching, Andy turned the door knob. As expected, the door swung open. Swiftly, they stepped into the hallway.

  Everywhere was in a terrible state of disrepair with paint and wallpaper peeling off the walls to reveal damp and mould. Surely all of this could not have happened in the past few days. He must have lived in this squalor even before his death, Bernard told himself, as they moved along the passageway.

  ‘The whole place is completely saturated in negative energy,’ the psychic revealed to the rest of the group, as they pushed open each door on the ground floor.

  The party then stopped and stared in absolute amazement at the scene in a room off to the left of the hallway. Books, shelves, the contents of open cupboards and broken ornaments lay strewn across the floor.

  Yet then a strange, unnerving sound reached Bernard’s ears, a low vibratory drone that appeared to combine more than one tone. It filled the air and gradually grew with intensity. Turning around, an extraordinary sight greeted them—several balls of electric-blue light, about the size of footballs, hung motionless a few feet above the ground at the far end of the room. They were, Bernard felt, in some way linked with the peculiar humming noise, for they were growing in brightness each time the sound increased. But what were they?

  ‘Manifestations of imbalanced psychic energy,’ he announced, after being passed the answer from an unseen source. ‘They will have to be dealt with, and fast.’

  ‘A Christian banishment,’ someone shouted, as Andy quickly bent down and picked up a length of scrap wood, which he snapped in two and brought together to form the sign of the Cross. The others, upon realising what he was doing, likewise constructed crude wooden crosses, which were held out between them and the visible manifestations.

  ‘I command thee in the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost to leave this place,’ Andy shouted sternly. Nothing happened. ‘I command thee in the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost to leave this place,’ he repeated, but still nothing happened. Andy gave the command several more times before the balls of light eventually started to fade. It looked like they were winning.

  Suddenly, a light bulb exploded overhead, sending everyone scurrying for cover. Luckily, no one was hurt. But then another bulb exploded in a separate room. Then another, and another. The dissipation of the psychic energy was somehow disturbing the house’s electrical circuit. Odd cracking sounds within the room completed the eerie spectacle, which was by now unsettling each and every member of the group. Never had they seen anything like this before.

  With the glowing orbs out of the way, yet with the low humming sound still detectable, they quickly left the room and decided to go upstairs to the first floor, where he had practised his dangerous brand of magic and alchemy.

  The doors on the landing were systematically pushed open to reveal further rooms in a state of chaotic disarray. Everywhere personal effects of every kind littered the floor. He had certainly made a good job of wrecking the house before his death, Bernard thought. But for what reason? Had he gone mad?

  But then an odd creaking noise begged their attention. Turning around, they beheld a disconcerting sight: a door leading into one of the rooms at the end of the landing was bulging outwards, as if something of immense strength was pushing it from the inside. But no one else was in the house. So what lay behind that door?

  A powerful boot by Andy not only stopped the unnatural bulging, it also sent the door flying onto the floor inside the room. And the scene inside was simply bizarre—ancient leather and skin-bound books of all sizes lay scattered across the filthy carpet, their covers and pages opening, shutting and flapping about completely of their own accord.

  ‘I baptise you in the name of Jesus Christ,’ one of the group bellowed out, as Bernard turned around to see him grabbing two forks, all he could find suitable to make the sign of the Cross.

  And then darkness … Bernard awoke from his vivid nightmare and was almost sick. To make sure he did not lapse back into the same imagery, he sat up in bed. The time, he noticed, was 4.25 am.

  His head could not take any more. Yet questions begging answers already danced around his mind. What the hell was going on? Why had he experienced such a thing? And what did it mean? Was the Black Alchemist really dead?

  He did not want to know. The ill effects he experienced following the discovery of the inscribed stone spearhead at Lullington had been enough. He did not want any more trouble— especially the sort of hassle implied by the unnerving dream. And what was he to tell Andy? He did not like it one little bit.

  Even though Bernard wanted to disown them, psychic impressions now began to fill his mind. The Black Alchemist was still alive. The dream had been a symbolic representation of things to come, a portent perhaps. For it seemed the man was going too far in what he was up to on a magical level and, as a consequence, would eventually destroy himself.

  Tired, Bernard looked across at his wife, still asleep, and decided to try and get some rest himself. Hopefully, this time his dreams would not be tainted, he muttered to himself, as he slid down into the sheets and closed his eyes.

  Later that morning Bernard paused from his chores at work to consider the implications of the disturbing nightmare experienced overnight. Was he to tell Andy or not? If he did, then he would only want him to pick up further psychic information about the matter—like the man’s name, address and telephone number for starters. He would then rush off to find the house, wherever it was.

  Sussex.

  The thought came to him as if in answer to that last question. In fact, to be more precise, a seaside town somewhere on the Sussex coast. Which one though, he was not told. This was where they would find the house seen in the dream. So at least it existed.

  On the other hand, if he did not tell Andy, then the memory of the nightmare would only play on his mind for weeks, and what if it was to come true and the Black Alchemist really did destroy himself?

  Monday, 8th July. Having mentioned the dream to Andy the next time they had met, Bernard wanted now to write the whole thing down and get it off to the psychic researcher. So after some days of hesitation, he finally got a chance to record the full contents of the sickening nightmare.

  Retiring to the comfort of the dining room, Bernard pulled out a chair and sat down at the table, his cigarettes and notepad in front of him. Picking up a pen, he wrote first the date before commencing the letter with a brief outline of a recent dream he had experienced concerning the Stave of Nizar.7 Only after this did he move onto the dream about the Black Alchemist’s house.

  After confirming the date it occurred, he paused for a moment to recall the nightmare. Bringing this to mind, he began to scribble down what he could remember:

  … red-brick Victorian style. Double-bayed, at least downstairs. It is quite close to the road. Approx 4/6 paces. Front is black railings and old privet hedge. Path to door is black and red tiles. Front door is green.

  He stopped writing. It would be far easier just to sketch the house. A rough drawing soon appeared below his written words. He then resumed his letter.

  We entered hallway. No one let us in??? The whole house is totally saturated with negative energy. At that moment he felt a sudden headache come on. Attuning to the Black Alchemist’s house was opening up a telepathic link with the man’s unbalanced mind. He would have to take things more slowly. ‘I’m getting a headache’, he wrote, before continuing his account of the dream:

  One room downstairs—on left—was in very bad state. Books, shelves, contents of cupboards, ornaments, etc., all strewn over floor.

  10. Bernard’s sketch of the Black Alchemist’s house in Eastbourne following a powerful dream in June 1985 (see Notes and References to

  compare this image with a very similar house noted in the tow
n).

  He stopped again. Something was happening. Not only did he now have a headache, but he could also feel and see his handwriting becoming more fluent and illegible, almost as if he was about to launch into a bout of automatic writing. Some exterior force, associated with the Black Alchemist, appeared to be influencing him. He decided to stop for a while—make a cup of coffee, have a cigarette and return later, see what happened then.

  Twenty minutes later he sat down to resume his dream account. Everything went without a hitch for the next few lines. Yet the headache then returned and, in place of the memory of the empty house in a state of chaotic mayhem, Bernard perceived the clairvoyant image of a man—seemingly the Black Alchemist himself—working alone in a darkened room and apparently aware of the intruder invading his privacy.

  Leaving the account of the dream, Bernard began to write down his new feelings and impressions: Someone knows of my presence now. Man in back room. In large room. Benches, bottles, sulphur, books, Bunsen burners, glass.

  Then came his first clear picture of the man: Tall. Brown sweater. No sleeves. Grey trousers. Short grey hair. Close cropped. Can’t get name. He’s looking round … at me. Something being thrown. Powder from crucible …

  He flinched backwards with a sudden stabbing pain in his head. It broke the contact between the two minds. He felt weak and had to stop. The powder thrown at him was some sort of ash, he decided—something the man used to dissipate unwanted psychic influences.

  The room itself was set out like a kind of homemade laboratory, with bottles and apparatus strewn about all over the place. Bernard believed his presence in the house was actually felt by the Black Alchemist, almost as if the man had realised he was no longer alone.

  Another break was in order. So, after more coffee, more cigarettes and a few mental diversions, he settled down at his dining room table for the third time that evening.