The Black Alchemist: A Terrifying True Story

by Andrew Collins

  Caroline Wise, Alan Cleaver, and another friend, Johnny Merron, Caroline’s old partner and flatmate, arrived from London that evening to hear the latest developments in the Black Alchemist saga. Having picked me up from my home, I suggested we drive out to The Downham Arms—the pub where, only three nights earlier, Bernard and I had sat and opened the sealed black envelope.

  Here, amid the crowds of local youths and noisy jukebox, I told them the whole story—the setting up of the Ring of Darkness, the discovery of the inscribed stones and the contents of the sealed black envelope. An hour later, with the story brought up to date, I bought a round of drinks and asked for their thoughts.

  All three were numbed into virtual silence.

  ‘Wow,’ Johnny Merron finally said, seated opposite. ‘Is Bernard alright about all this?’

  No, not really. But we would deal with it.

  ‘What about you?’ Caroline said. ‘This has got to do your head in.’

  ‘Well, it will make a good story,’ Alan added, thinking only as a journalist would. ‘You are writing this stuff up, aren’t you?’

  Bernard and I were okay, I assured them. Whatever might be thrown at us, we could handle it. And, yes, I was recording down everything in my diary.

  ‘But you’re talking about a death threat here,’ Caroline tried to point out. ‘I mean, this is serious business. You don’t know what might happen—what these people are capable of.’

  I found little to say, so simply reassured them that we would be okay.

  Their minds put at ease, we moved onto other aspects of the quest, including the involvement of the Elizabethan magus Dr John Dee and his sidekick Edward Kelley. According to Bernard’s psychic material, received in the car park of that very pub, Dee had placed his crystal ball on a special table on which were magical seals and designs of many colours. However, I had been unable to trace whether any such table existed.

  ‘It does exist, or it did once,’ Caroline eagerly confirmed, ‘and I know at least one book you have which actually shows a picture of it. It’s Chris Morgan’s Strange Oxford.’

  Johnny nodded. ‘It’s in there because a marble copy of Dee’s wooden original—which unfortunately got destroyed—is in Oxford’s science museum. I’ve seen it there.’

  I said I would check it out when I got home.

  ‘So, what will you do on Tuesday evening?’ Alan asked, placing down his drink. ‘At the end of the nine nights.’

  It was a question they knew was forbidden. I had already decided not to reveal to anyone what Bernard and I would be up to that night. The reasoning behind this possibly foolhardy move was to ensure that if anyone did turn up at the well, it would not be because our intentions had been inadvertently leaked.

  The three accepted my silence on the matter.

  ‘Well, good luck,’ John mustered, raising his glass.

  ‘Yes, good luck,’ Caroline added, doing the same. ‘I think you’re going to need it.’

  Back home, I searched through the book recommended by my friends and found the illustration of John Dee’s ‘Holy Table’. It was taken from an old woodcut that had appeared in Dee’s spiritual diaries, edited by one Meric Casaubon and published in 1659.

  Diaries. Bernard had talked about someone keeping a diary when out at Shenfield Common in May, so I wondered whether this was a reference to John Dee’s magical diaries. It seemed possible, especially as the subject had been mentioned in the same breath as the Elizabethan magus’s name.

  32. The Holy Table of Dr John Dee used for angelic invocations. Although the reference in Strange Oxford (Golden Dawn, 1986) was only brief, I soon discovered a little more about Dee’s Holy Table in a book entitled The Heptarchia Mystica of John Dee (Aquarian Press, 1986), edited by occult writer Robert Turner and published earlier that year. A great deal of the book seemed devoted to the subject, including the procedure for setting it up for use in spirit communications. It described how the table’s legs would be placed upon four identical magical seals made of wax and protected by wooden frames. A larger version of the seal—known as the Sigillum Emeth—would then be positioned at the centre of the table, surrounded by seven tablets of pure tin. The whole thing would then be draped in a red silk cloth, shot with green, which would hang loosely over the sides of the table with a tassel at each corner.

  The crystal, or scrying mirror, would then be placed within a golden frame on top of the red silk cloth, exactly over the position of the central Sigillum Emeth. As to the precise colour scheme of Dee’s Holy Table, no one rightly knew. However, it did contain at least three distinctive colours—red, green and yellow—which might well constitute the ‘many colours’ alluded to in Bernard’s psychic message received in the car park of The Downham Arms.

  Even though the Black Alchemist seemed to see himself as a latter-day John Dee, there was actually more in common between the manner in which Dee and Kelley operated and that adopted by Bernard and myself. Like me, Dee acted as the recorder of all spirit communications, while the communicant was generally always Kelley, the role played by Bernard in our partnership.

  I wondered whether Dee and Kelley might ever have become aware of a day when individuals from the future, with differing attitudes towards spirit communications, would not only seek out their deeds, but also catch glimpses of their lives, and even believe themselves to be in communication with them. Did time and space not really matter beyond the confines of our own limited understanding of the physical universe? It was an intriguing thought on which to end the night.

  19 Return to the Well

  Tuesday, 14th October, 1986. Soon after seven o’clock a tap on the frosted glass of the kitchen door signalled Bernard’s arrival. As he stood talking to my parents, I quickly gathered together a whole range of magical paraphernalia, including incense, charcoal blocks, essential oils and an assortment of religious icons. I also picked up an air pistol, which I slipped into my holdall, just in case.

  Within minutes we were on our way to the Running Well, this time in my Ford Sierra.

  Passing through the streets of Wickford, I brought Bernard up to date on the latest developments. Throughout the morning I had spoken to questing sympathisers around the country, asking them to bring to mind Bernard and myself from 7.30 pm onwards. I wanted them to light a candle and periodically visualise white light being conveyed from them to us in the hope it would give us a little added strength and protection during the evening.

  Then in the afternoon I had attended a strange sort of party at the Leigh Times. Believing there was a very slight chance I might not make it through the night, the staff in the office— including journalists, admin clerks and sales representatives— had insisted on a farewell bash, which got named ‘the wake’. Oddly, by the end of it, when we were saying our goodbyes, there were some girls in tears, fearing we might never meet again.

  I had also visited the Running Well earlier in the evening. I wanted to inspect it in the daylight just to make sure that nothing was out of place and no one was hanging around the area. Thankfully, everything was as we had left it the previous week, except for the long stick we believed had been used by the Black Alchemist to stir the well. This was found floating in the water, so I fished it out and stuck it back upright.

  ‘Kids probably,’ Bernard concluded, as the car passed through Wickford High Street.

  I agreed. What about him? Had he picked up any further psychic clues on what might happen that evening?

  ‘No, not a thing,’ he said with a sigh. ‘Even at this eleventh hour. And it hasn’t been for lack of trying. I’ve been attempting to attune all day, but on each occasion the airwaves have been silent.

  ‘It’s really peculiar, almost like some kind of radio black out before a major military operation.’

  So he still had no idea what might happen when we reached the well?

  ‘No. We’ll just have to wait and see, won’t we,’ he said, with a little nervous laugh.

  Fifteen minutes later the car turned
into the private road leading down to Poplars Farm. Beyond this were the concrete foundations of an old cowshed, used by visitors to the well as a makeshift car park. No other vehicles were around, so it looked as if we might be alone.

  Before we left the sanctity of the car, and entered the darkness of the night, I emphasised the need to carry out our normal protection ritual, as once we climbed over that metal gate, we would be within the well’s influence and therefore vulnerable to psychic attack.

  ‘If you want,’ Bernard responded, almost bemused by my suggestion.

  It had to be done. There was no way I wanted a repeat performance of the nasty scenes we had witnessed at Lullington and Downham.

  He accepted my reasoning, and with the simple ritual complete, I locked up the car and joined Bernard, who was already making his way towards the gate.

  For most of the day a dreamy, low-lying mist had hung over the rolling Essex landscape, like an etheric white shroud, but this had now dissipated to leave a dull overcast sky. The prospect of drizzle was inevitable.

  Strolling across the meadow, trying to follow the footpath through the wet grass, a drop of rain on my forehead made me glance up at the dark, overcast sky. I hoped it would keep off, for a while at least.

  Further on, I stared hesitantly towards the gap in the hedgerow where, only the previous week, the amorphous black form had awaited our arrival. There was nothing there now. In fact, the whole atmosphere around the well seemed to be one more of calmness than tension.

  However, psychic impressions were not my concern that evening. I would leave that to Bernard. My job was physical protection and surveillance, I reminded myself, as I began to scan every dark corner, distant field and silhouetted tree line for any sign of movement.

  Reaching the well, Bernard shone the torchlight through the undergrowth into the hollow.

  No one was present so, with some slight hesitation, we edged our way down the earthen steps onto the square concrete platform. The stick still stood upright in the soft mud by the side of the well.

  Quickly, we set up a circle of protection using crystals and a further visualisation ritual. Incense associated with the element of Water was then placed in an earthenware bowl and ignited on top of a small round block of charcoal. This would hopefully clear the air of any unwanted psychic influences.

  33. Bernard prepares for a long night at the Running Well. Two green candles—green being the colour Bernard deemed appropriate for the occasion—were then lit and positioned in candle holders, one each side of the incense burner.

  With the circle complete, I left the psychic in the hollow, his notepad on a clipboard in one hand and a cigarette in the other. Emerging out of the undergrowth, I wandered off and sat beneath a large tree in the gap between the two fields. From here I could keep watch over the surrounding landscape.

  It started to rain. The sound of droplets falling on the leaves was broken only by the occasional rumble of a passing aircraft or distant train. Once in a while I caught the distinctive aroma of the burning incense and, here and there, the smell of cigarette smoke wafting away from the well hollow.

  Bernard illuminated his watch with torchlight and wrote down the time: 8.20 pm. He lit another cigarette in the false hope that it would keep him warm.

  Nothing positive yet, but certain intuitive feelings were beginning to creep into his soul. He decided to record them down, just in case:

  Feeling a bit cold and wary of anything. Will have to write and scribble and hope to decode later. Strange energies here. Keep feeling a presence. Shivery. Letting mind drift by staring at the well.

  Then, in his mind’s eye, he saw a curious and complicated symbol being carved onto a magical talisman. He sketched what he could see. It disappeared and was replaced by a second symbol. Yet before he had a chance to draw it in any detail, it too vanished from sight. He looked at his crude sketches and tried to make sense of them.

  An impression now explained what was going on. Their adversary was, it seemed, sitting down somewhere, carrying out a meditational ritual and drawing these symbols at that very time.

  Bernard focused his mind in an attempt to gain further clairvoyant pictures. It was a wood. Yes, that was it. The Black Alchemist was sitting in a wood. But where? It did not feel close. Yet then came another, more disconcerting impression which he felt compelled to write down:

  Picking up very bad force. I hope it’s what was left by BA [at the well the previous week] and not his close presence. Feeling frozen to the spot. Held in some field of energy. Can’t move!

  At that moment their minds linked as one, allowing Bernard to involuntarily scribble down his adversary’s very thoughts: Rage comes as a beam, trampling the stone to dust, squeezing the forces into a first matter. Re-fix with mind. Add blood. The one shall spread beyond the places of my knowledge settling and growing amongst the roots, the woods, the trees and the streams. Place beneath the stones. Impregnate. Let it grow. Let it form. The master shall form. All white methods wrong. All teachings of the stone are despicable. I re-write.

  As the scrawled automatic writing became almost illegible, it suddenly transformed into a strange script, which Bernard now glimpsed being engraved onto the edge of a serpent, seen curled into a circle and biting its own tail—the so-called ouroboros symbol of Graeco-Egyptian alchemy and magic.

  After scribbling down just a dozen or so of these distinct magical characters, Bernard began to feel nauseated and frozen to the spot. It caused him to break off the communication and visualise the protective circle around the well. On his tongue he placed a few drops of a herbal essence known as Bach’s Rescue Remedy, given to him by Andy, who said it had the power to purge unwanted psychic energies from his aura. And it appeared to work. Gradually, he started to return to his normal self.

  A few minutes passed as he tried to recover his lost strength. Linking in mind with the Black Alchemist had not been a clever thing to do, but somehow he had got away with it. But where was this wood he seemed to be in? It was not close. Not even in the same county.

  A smirk formed on Bernard’s face. So the Black Alchemist had bottled out of returning to confront them face-to-face. It pleased him. Yet then, without warning, his train of thought was rudely interrupted as he realised he was no longer alone in the well hollow. Had Andy returned?

  Turning around, an extraordinary sight greeted him. A shimmering apparition—a radiant lady, dressed in a blue and white cowled habit, now stood on the earthen bank behind the well, not twenty feet away.

  It looked like the Virgin Mary. Perhaps it was the Virgin Mary! Should he kneel?

  No, it was someone else. Cecilia, the blue lady encountered in Rettendon churchyard the previous week. She had returned to aid them in their hour of need. He was sure of it.

  Bernard just continued to stare, wondering how to react. Yet the glowing apparition merely remained still and silent, gazing serenely into his eyes. He became a little scared, and as if sensing this emotion, he began experiencing a feeling of warmth, wellbeing and comfort emanating from her bright aura. It eased his soul.

  Natural inquisitiveness then intervened. He wanted to know more about the nature of this strange, beautiful apparition. Who exactly was she?

  An answer came in the form of a gentle, melodic, yet authoritative female voice:

  My life was as a prioress to the shrine that served this holy place. Upon my death I chose to become an eternal guardian spirit of these sacred waters.

  Bernard glanced quickly at the calm surface of the water and understood her words. He did not write them down. My body was laid to rest in the church of Our Lady at Runwell, but I requested that my relics be gathered together and brought to this place. They did this for me and reburied them here.12

  With her soft words now came the awareness of a specific spot within the well hollow. He looked towards a certain tree and knew that somewhere beneath its roots her remains lay hidden, never to be disturbed by anyone.

  Suddenly, Bernard’s eyes espie
d two large hounds, the size of overgrown labradors, clambering down the bank into the well hollow to the left of where the blue lady stood. They were heading in his direction. But were they psychic, or real?

  He became a little scared.

  Without further word, Cecilia glanced towards the duncoloured hounds and placed out her right hand as if commanding them to halt. They did so, before vanishing instantly on the spot.

  Following this unexpected intrusion, the blue lady began to fade, although not before Bernard decided that her style of dress dated her life on earth to either the twelfth or thirteenth century.

  He also now knew why she had appeared to him. In some peculiar way, she was there to protect them from the full force of the Black Alchemist. It was her site he had defiled, and now that she had regained her strength, she intended protecting those who served the well as they did.

  The psychic felt grateful and, with the comforting knowledge that the blue lady was still around somewhere, he thanked her for being there. More confident now, he decided to use the torchlight to examine even the darkest recesses of the well hollow.

  Interesting, but unconnected, psychic images and impressions wafted in and out of his mind, like snatched reviews of the well’s long history.

  He watched intrigued as a human hand reached out from the well’s crystal clear waters, before quickly fading away.

  A group of giggling young nuns came into view, huddled together, staring innocently into the starry surface of the water, engaged in a little forbidden amusement.

  They too soon vanished.

  Then came an infinitely more sinister vision—the sight and sound of a teenage girl being set upon, bludgeoned to death and hurriedly buried by a group of frenzied, but frightened, villagers who thought she was a witch. It was the body of the young girl he had twice picked up was buried near the well. To his utter relief, his psychic faculty was able to curtail the vision of this ugly scene.