The Black Alchemist: A Terrifying True Story

by Andrew Collins

  ‘Oh, it’s nothing. Just a thought. Something I’ve been thinking about for a few days.’

  I let the matter go. Yet I knew from past experience that if Bernard dropped something like this into casual conversation, then it was usually prophetic in some way.

  As the assembled party disembarked from their cars and began crossing the green, I kept a careful eye on Bernard, half expecting him to start experiencing headaches and nausea at any moment. However, he seemed relaxed and openly admitted that he was deliberately refraining from attuning to the site—for the time being at least.

  Strolling towards the churchyard, we watched as groups of people, seemingly oblivious to our presence, passed by holding clipboards and studying certain buildings and features. They appeared to be searching for something.

  Curious as to their actions, Gelly Paddon, a slight inquisitive woman with short wavy blonde hair, approached and spoke to one group before returning with an answer. ‘The whole village is involved in some kind of treasure hunt,’ she revealed, with a smile. ‘They’ve been given certain clues which will lead them to buried treasure of some sort.’

  ‘Isn’t that bizarre,’ her bearded husband Colin remarked, looking towards the rest of the group. ‘Here we are on a psychic quest to find a hidden artefact and the whole of Ide Hill are on a quest of their own!’

  ‘Maybe they’ll find the spearhead before us,’ Alan Cleaver, a bright young journalist with the spiritualist newspaper Psychic News, quipped, concluding the conversation.

  It was a thought. However, it was a bizarre synchronicity, if nothing else.

  12. Bernard and the rest of the group approach Ide Hill church in Kent. As our party approached the Victorian building, with its virtually detached bell tower, we saw for the first time the avenue of evergreen trees leading from the lychgate to the north porch, all just as Bernard had described. Casually, the party—led by my old friend Caroline Wise, who, like Alan, worked for Psychic News— entered the churchyard and followed the worn path that wound its way around the building.

  Quietly turning to Bernard, I asked him whether he was picking anything up yet.

  ‘He took this path around the church, in an anti-clockwise direction,’ he revealed, looking up at the wear and tear on the stonework and composing his thoughts for a moment. ‘The psychic barrier is between us and the wall. I see him walking around with his arms up in the air, touching the stone walls.

  ‘Each time he came upon a doorway, he followed its edge with one hand, before returning it to the top of the door and then lowering it to the ground, as if to seal off the door to the outside world.’

  Accepting his word, we continued to stroll about.

  Unexpectedly, a sudden wind squall whipped through the tree-lined hilltop, sending a strange chill through us all. Taking this as an omen that something was building up on a psychic level, I called the group together. In a corner, beneath the overhanging branches of a tree, we conducted an appropriate protection ritual before venturing any further.

  Moving around the outside of the church, we used creative visualisation to dismantle the Black Alchemist’s imaginary wall, with ‘neither commencement nor end in its construction’. It left us free to enter through the main entrance.

  Inside the church everyone looked around, not knowing quite what to expect or find. I continued to watch Bernard, just in case he started to get into any sort of trouble. Memories of what had happened at Lullington the previous year were still clear in my mind. Yet he seemed to be okay, smiling and joking in his usual way.

  Then, at precisely 3.20 pm, Bernard announced: ‘The spearhead is beneath the altar.’

  Only I heard his words, so without further delay, as Bernard exited the church as a precautionary measure, I walked briskly into the chancel and pulled up the rear of the altar draping.

  Kneeling down, I tried to locate the hidden artefact.

  It was too dark to see anything inside the altar’s wooden frame.

  Striking a match, I held it out towards one of the corners. Nothing. The match went out. Lighting another, I continued the search. Still nothing.

  By this time the others had joined me, so I at last revealed what Bernard had said.

  Suddenly, the psychic reappeared in the doorway.

  ‘Whatever you do, do not touch it,’ he insisted, a worried look on his face.

  Everybody looked up to await an explanation, but Bernard had gone.

  The search resumed. Several burnt matches later, I concluded that nothing lay concealed beneath the altar frame. If anything had been planted, then it was certainly not there now. Despondency and frustration overtook me almost immediately. What the hell was going on? I needed an explanation.

  Bernard re-entered the church again and realised the predicament.

  Where was the spearhead?

  ‘I’m not sure,’ he responded, seemingly just as confused as everyone else. ‘I certainly picked up it was under the altar. Maybe I was just picking up on its presence here.’

  I wanted to think so. Perhaps the Black Alchemist had returned during the week to retrieve his inscribed stone. It was the only answer, other than to conclude that Bernard was wrong. No, that was silly. Why should he pick up so much vivid imagery concerning an obscure Kentish church just to be wrong?

  ‘Oh, don’t worry, it’s been a good day out,’ Gelly said, as she continued to search behind the wooden pews.

  This made me even more frustrated. It should not have been just ‘a good day out.’ The whole thing made Bernard and me look foolish.

  Colin conducted a simple Cabalistic banishment ritual in the nave to clear the atmosphere of any possible psychic residue left behind by the Black Alchemist.

  At the same time Bernard sat in a pew and wrote.

  Moving over to the psychic, I looked at his notepad, which he quietly turned towards me. On it was what I took to be a sketch of an inscribed stone fixing marker. Below this—and arrowed towards the stone itself—was a strange magical symbol composed of a spiral and the astrological signs for the planets Mercury and Venus combined.

  What was this?

  He looked back at his drawing. ‘As Colin was carrying out his banishment, I got the impression of somebody removing this stone—presumably the one that was below the altar,’ he said. ‘On it were similar signs to the spearhead we discovered at Lullington, along with the symbol I’ve drawn here.’

  Moving back into the churchyard, I showed Caroline Bernard’s sketch of the inscribed stone with its curious symbol.

  ‘It looks like John Dee’s Monas Hieroglyphica,’ she offered, confidently.

  Dr John Dee (1527-1609) was a famous English astronomer, mathematician, scientist and ritual magician who, among many other things, decided the date for Queen Elizabeth I’s coronation by providing her with a favourable astrological chart. The Monas Hieroglyphica was a magical symbol he devised and used, although it was slightly different to the one drawn by Bernard.

  Caroline was convinced it was the Monas Hieroglyphica, but I did not agree, and so failed even to mention this either to Bernard or any other member of the party.

  13. Bernard’s sketch of the fixing marker thought to have been placed beneath the altar at Ide Hill church. The journey back to Essex provided an opportunity for us to talk about the day’s non-event. Okay, so the Black Alchemist had apparently retrieved his own artefact, but where did that leave us? My mind turned to Bernard’s earlier statement about walking into some kind of trap. Then later, just before we realised that nothing lay beneath the altar, his warning about not touching the stone as it would endanger our souls. What had all that been about?

  ‘I’m not sure,’ he admitted, with a sigh. ‘Whilst I was outside in the churchyard I heard the words “Do not endanger your soul”. They appeared to come from some sort of spirit guide, a man who told me he lived as an alchemist in Elizabethan times.

  ‘He also said he would help us combat the workings of the Black Alchemist. Why, I don’t know. Anyway, wit
h this came the distinct impression that anyone touching the stone would be in grave danger.’

  What sort of danger?

  ‘Perhaps the stone was charged with some sort of selfdefence mechanism,’ he suggested, ‘something like a psychic booby trap, meant to cause mental torment if somebody touched it.’

  I wasn’t sure. This would not explain his earlier statement that we might have been walking into a trap. A trap suggests something premeditated—something set up to ensnare, not defend. Still, to be honest, it did not really matter.

  The fact that the day had produced nothing was the only thing I could think about. Yet, for some inexplicable reason, we both felt sure that the Black Alchemist would strike again, and soon.

  Tuesday, 20th May. Bernard was agitated. Lighting a cigarette, he stared out of his lounge window and watched the skies darken as the heavy storms grew closer.

  Soon after returning from Ide Hill he had begun to feel that the Black Alchemist had, in some manner, monitored their visit there. At first he thought that the man might actually have been present, hiding out of sight perhaps, or blending in with those taking part in the treasure hunt.

  He had dismissed this slightly unnerving prospect in favour of the Black Alchemist having tuned into their visit from a distance. Knowing we were about to visit the church, he had returned to retrieve his inscribed stone. It was an incredible thought, although it was the only solution that made sense.

  Then, a few days ago, he had sensed that the Black Alchemist had managed to track them along a definite compass bearing into Essex, giving him some idea of their whereabouts in the county. Nothing specific. No names or addresses, only vague, unconfirmed feelings.

  The impression had remained with Bernard, growing stronger as each day passed.

  The hot, humid conditions had brought with them an electric feeling—almost like an increase in static. It had grown with intensity throughout the afternoon until the thunderstorms had finally struck.

  The atmosphere was charged with a sense of foreboding, and as the storms passed overhead, new impressions now overtook him: a charged atmosphere is an ideal climate for psychic disguise—a time to travel and the right time to sow a seed.

  There was no doubt.

  These were the thoughts of the Black Alchemist.

  Their minds were once again linking as one.

  He was poised to make his next move.

  Bernard could sense it.

  Was he annoyed at their interference at Lullington and Ide Hill? Or was it something else. Something more?

  All Bernard could do was wait patiently and see what would happen next.

  10 Shenfield Common

  Wednesday, 21st May, 1986. Gale-force winds tore violently across the South of England throughout the day. Fences came down. Trees were wrenched from their roots and seas churned and lashed over walled defences in coastal regions.

  The fierce, elemental weather agitated Bernard. Something was going on and he had to find out what.

  On returning home from work that evening, he retired to the dining room and contemplated his feelings of the previous day. Moments passed before an overwhelming feeling surged through his body.

  There had been an encroachment from across the water.

  A visit to Essex in the past 24 hours.

  Billowing clouds of darkness, like searching black fingers, had sought, felt, sensed, before quickly retreating.

  The Black Alchemist had struck again. But where?

  Thursday, 22nd May. The expected call from Bernard came around seven o’clock as I sat down to watch television. ‘Do you want to go for a drive?’ he asked, rather mysteriously.

  Obviously. But why?

  ‘I’m not sure,’ he admitted. ‘The air’s thick, isn’t it? I feel there’s something going on in the Shenfield or Brentwood area. So I think we should take a look, don’t you?’

  Shenfield or Brentwood. I tried to think of a convenient place to meet. How about The Green Dragon pub in Shenfield, at eight o’clock.

  Bernard agreed.

  Shenfield formed part of Brentwood, a large town some eight miles west of my parents’ home in Wickford. The car journey would take me around 30 minutes, so I picked up a few ritual items, including a flask of holy water, and left the house around 7.30 pm.

  The two cars entered the car park of The Green Dragon one after the other. After locking up, I set off with Bernard towards our unknown destination.

  So, what did he think was going on?

  ‘I’m still not sure,’ he admitted, as the car entered a built-up area on the outskirts of Brentwood. ‘All I get is the impression of dark emanations coming from some woods somewhere. I suggest we drive around for a while and see what happens.’

  Unfolding the local Ordnance Survey map, I immediately noticed that to the south of Shenfield was a large wooded area marked as Hart Wood. A coincidence, I pointed out, when considering the links we had already assumed between white harts, alchemy and the Peredur story.

  Two roads bordered the edge of Hart Wood and yet, passing along each of these, Bernard felt nothing. I had obviously been wrong. But then, to the left, another wood came into view. This one was not so big. The map had it marked as ‘Shenfield Common’.

  Without further word, Bernard pulled the car into a small, gravelled parking area on the edge of the woodland. Neither of us were sure this was the right place. Yet it seemed as good a place as any to stop for a while—see whether he could tune into the epicentre of the apparent negativity.

  Stretching our legs, I asked Bernard what he felt.

  He pondered over the question before giving his reply: ‘Let’s go for a stroll.’

  For a while we just walked in comparative silence, not really knowing where we were going, or what to expect. As the tree cover grew ever more dense, and the light gradually faded, we moved into the heart of the wood.

  Whenever a path split, Bernard would pause for a moment before intuitively making a decision to carry on one way or the other. Then, finally, he stopped and lit a cigarette.

  I waited for his thoughts.

  ‘Well, I feel we are being drawn towards something. We seem to be getting closer,’ he said, pausing to think for a moment, ‘so I suppose we should carry on.’

  We continued to walk as I attempted to memorise the route.

  After some fifteen minutes in the wood, a large clearing came into view, around 40 feet in diameter, and only about twenty paces from the railway cutting that ran between the stations of Shenfield and Brentwood on the London Liverpool Street to Southend line.

  Bernard came to a halt and grimaced. ‘Stop here,’ he commanded, staring ahead of us. ‘In that clearing I see finger-like wisps of dark energy radiating out from its centre and rising up into the air, yet not going beyond its outer limits. They’re like fingers of coldness, swirling around.’

  14. Bernard and the author stop in front of the ominous clearing (pictured) within the woods at Shenfield Common. Reaching for my notepad, I began to scribble down his words. To him at least, something of a chaotic nature was going on inside that clearing.

  For the moment, we remained on the path as Bernard tried to work out what to do next. Before going any further, I insisted we conduct a protection ritual. He agreed, so, having done this, we moved cautiously along the path towards the clearing.

  Approaching the open space, Bernard held out his hand as a gesture for me to remain still. ‘It’s too easy,’ he whispered, as if someone might be listening to our conversation. ‘No, it could be a trap. I suggest we approach it from another direction. From the undergrowth perhaps.’

  Moving into the thigh-high brambles and thorn bushes, we pushed our way through to the edge of the clearing. Bernard stopped once more. ‘It’s like walking into a bullring,’ he observed, as we stared into the open space. ‘Now I sense a flurry of feverish activity. Our presence is alerting something, or someone.’ Again he paused to think. ‘Come on, let’s carry on.’

  Inside the clea
ring, his clairvoyant vision altered. ‘The flickering dark fingers of energy have now withdrawn and disappeared into the centre. I think we’ve triggered something. But what?’

  We were both now fully within the clearing. He seemed okay—no ill effects as yet. So, what else was he picking up?

  ‘I can hear the words, the thoughts, of whoever it was who did this ritual,’ he said, slowly opening up his psychic mind to the site. ‘I hear the name “John”. Who’s “John”? Someone who “wasn’t right, but thought he was”.’

  I said I didn’t know.

  Bernard continued his diatribe: ‘“John”, who drew something, which was “wrong and has now been corrected”.’

  He thought again, then added: ‘I feel the person who did this here is pleased, as if something has been sussed—put right.’ Bernard paced about slowly. ‘I have an ache in my bones. There was a line drawn with something.’

  I did not even try to understand—just kept a watchful eye on the psychic in between scribbling down his curious statements.

  Picking up a long stick, Bernard began scratching a line from one side of the clearing right across to the other. He then cut another line across the circle at right angles to the first in order to make the sign of the cross. He did not look as if he knew what or why he was doing this and did not explain his actions.

  ‘Someone keeps a diary,’ he revealed, quite out of the blue, ‘and all this has something to do with matey.’

  Who? The Black Alchemist?

  ‘Yes, and something’s been buried.’

  Pausing for a moment, he looked towards me. ‘This has been set on purpose. It’s a trap, and I think we’ve walked right into it. So, we have two choices, either find it, or leave it alone. What do we do?’ He thought for a moment. ‘Find it, I suppose.’ Shrugging his shoulders, he continued to pace about.

  What was buried?

  ‘Another marker, I should think. Buried in or around the clearing. So where is it?’ he asked, as if questioning his own psychic faculty.

  ‘Over here?’ He moved across to a large tree in the centre of the clearing and used a stick to poke about in the leafy earth around its roots. ‘Not here. Then where?’