The Black Alchemist: A Terrifying True Story

by Andrew Collins

  In front of us was a locked wooden gate that marked the entrance to Danbury Country Park, a pleasant setting of woods and manmade lakes enjoyed by thousands of visitors to the area.

  Turning off the engine, he then killed the lights. Yet still he said nothing. The time was now nine o’clock precisely.

  Gradually he loosened up and turned to me. ‘Well, we’ve been led here for a reason. Something’s going on.’ For a moment he was unsure what to do, but then he said: ‘Come on, let’s get out.’

  Stepping out into the bitterly cold air, I realised that the galeforce winds were intensifying. Every few seconds a sudden gust would send a serpent-like hiss through the darkened trees, unnerving me just slightly. Something was building up—on an elemental level at least. But the weather was too much for us, so we got back in the car.

  After a few minutes of silence, I asked him again what was going on.

  He simply shrugged his shoulders in dismay. ‘I’m still not sure. It’s like a drawing to this spot … like a magnet. I can see the same shape ... the same energy form … which is her. She’s here somewhere.’

  Who, BSA?

  ‘Yes. But where?’ he asked, searching for an answer.

  Several more minutes passed as I listened in silence to the fierce winds roaring and whistling through the trees, bending their branches and straining their trunks until they sounded like creaky rocking chairs.

  At 9.14 pm Bernard switched on the engine. ‘I’m going somewhere else,’ he announced and, without further word, reversed the car before driving off.

  Passing the T-junction where we had turned right on the way to the park entrance, we carried straight on and soon came upon another junction where four roads converged. It was undoubtedly the crossroads he had seen earlier. However, although he slowed down as we approached them, he didn’t stop. A large open green came into view on the left-hand side and Bernard swung the car into its gravel-floored car park. We had apparently reached our new destination.

  The location was familiar. On the opposite edge of the green, about 150 yards away, were the bright lights of The Cricketer’s Inn. It meant that we were still in Danbury.

  The psychic said very little as we sat patiently waiting for something to happen. The gale force winds whipped venomously across the car park as we stared expectantly towards the headlights of each passing car, wondering whether it would pull in and join us for a shadowy rendezvous. But none did. Watching the red, green and white lights of aircraft crisscrossing through the clear night sky, I contemplated our predicament. The female energy form that Bernard seemed to be experiencing could be likened to the effects of a woman wearing a heavy perfume. When she enters a room you can smell her aroma, and when she leaves her perfume lingers, even though she is no longer there. Should a deaf and blind person enter that room, then in theory they would be unable to tell whether the woman was actually present, or whether they were simply smelling her lingering perfume.

  The same thing appeared to be happening to Bernard on a psychic level. He was picking up on the proximity of a female presence, but seemed uncertain whether she was actually there. Whether she was or wasn’t, the intuitive feeling was very much the same.

  ‘I think you’re probably right,’ he admitted, with a sigh. ‘She’s out there somewhere, or was. But there’s still some sort of drawing, like a magnet.’ He paused to take in his feelings. ‘No, I definitely feel that somebody, or something, is still around. I can sense it.’

  Stubbing out his cigarette, he turned on the engine. ‘Come on. I’m going back to the gate. I still get the feeling there’s something happening out there.’

  59. The author at the entrance to Danbury Country Park where Bernard contemplated their next move. The car pulled into the recessed gateway to Danbury Country Park at 9.35 pm. But something was different, we were not at the same gate. Yet then I understood. The car park inside the woods was, I recalled, linked via a crescent-shaped driveway to two gates—one an entrance, the other an exit. Earlier on we had drawn up at the entrance gate. Now we sat in front of the exit gate, some eighty yards further back along the road. We talked about the discrepancy, but decided to stay where we were.

  ‘What’s in there anyway?’ Bernard enquired, nodding towards the darkened tree line.

  The Danbury lakes.

  ‘Well, I reckon she’s been around here, and I wouldn’t be surprised if she, or someone else, is not still around,’ he said, looking out of the windscreen into the darkness.

  It was too cold to go out and investigate. Trees bent and swayed wildly with the sheer force of the terrifying winds. No, there was no way that I was going outside, unless I had to.

  ‘Are the woods frequented by black dogs?’ he asked.

  Ghostly ones, with fiery eyes like red-hot coals?

  ‘Yes, that’s it.’

  No, not that I knew of. I recalled no legend that spoke of such phantom black dogs haunting the area.

  ‘Well, I think there is,’ he retorted. ‘I sense them, out there, watching and waiting for our next move.’

  41 Contact

  The psychic was becoming frustrated at the lack of action as we waited in the car by the exit gate to Danbury Country Park. ‘Here. Give me that card,’ he said, disregarding his earlier refusals to psychometrise it.

  I handed him the black calling card and he began to focus on our predicament.

  With pen and paper poised, I sat patiently until he started to breathe rapidly, a sure sign that something was happening in his mind.

  After a minute or so, I asked him what he felt.

  ‘We walk down to the other gate,’ he announced, as he placed the card on the dashboard. ‘There’s someone down there. Female. However, I don’t think she’s there herself, not physically at least.’

  As we simultaneously opened the doors, a sudden gust of wind sent the black card flying out into the night. My heart sank. Losing that would be disastrous in terms of future research. It had to be found, and fast, before it had a chance to blow away completely.

  Stepping outside, I searched the grass verge by the side of the car as Bernard stood by. After a few minutes I saw the card sitting in the wet grass. Grabbing hold of it, I slipped it into my pocket and breathed a sigh of relief.

  The hurricane-force winds were still on the increase as we approached the other wooden gate in complete silence. Some thirty feet away from our destination, Bernard held out his arm to prevent me advancing any closer and then beckoned that we should stand and face the gate from the opposite side of the road.

  The bright headlights of a vehicle approached at speed to reveal a Range Rover that whizzed by without slowing down.

  Bernard began to stare intently towards the gate. ‘I see the same as before,’ he shouted into the wind. ‘It’s the same woman I saw in Danbury churchyard on Hallowe’en, and in front of the battlements at Arundel. She’s just standing there—in front of the gate.’

  What was she wearing?

  ‘She’s wearing a black, knee-length cloak, with a hood that obscures her face.’ With this, he began slowly to advance towards the gate as the wind continued to rush past us with deafening roars, drowning out our words.

  Recalling past situations where Bernard had suffered badly as a result of attuning directly to the warped energies of the Black Alchemist, I emphasised caution. However, I had an idea. We should try approaching her not as a dangerous adversary, but as an equal, with feelings of compassion, not hatred, no matter how inconceivable it might seem. Mentally tell her that we wanted only to talk—make contact. In this way he might be spared any adverse reactions from the energy form.

  Bernard nodded his acceptance of the suggestion as he moved ever nearer the woman, his hair and clothes flapping about in the deafening wind. She seemed to hold out her hand for him to take, and so, with some slight hesitation, he took hold of it just as an almighty gust of wind tore violently through the treetops, engulfing the entire area and nearly knocking him off his feet.

 
Contact with his adversary sent what seemed like an electric shock up his arm and through into his very soul. He flinched twice at the unexpected pain. But it was too late to go back. Images and impressions began to flood his mind as he linked directly to her very thoughts. Yet he realised that the connection had its price, as he now felt her probing his mind for similar answers.

  His breathing became erratic, and an expression of mental torment formed on his face as the full power of the radiant apparition surged into his body. He had to speak. ‘I see pictures and hear names,’ he shouted, trying to make himself heard above the constant cacophony of the wind.

  ‘Adonaie ... a name … and Frimost,’ he yelled, his hand still linked with hers. ‘And Lullington’s been hit again … but nothing left this time.’

  With intense torment still showing on his face, he paused to compose his thoughts before carrying on. ‘I now hear a female talking … the drawing on the card is of a knife … one she possesses … and on it are words: “the fairest one”. It’s steeped in blood … I see a ritual going on … and a stretched skin on the ground … which looks white. It’s part of a ritual involving the symbols on the card … and a cockerel sacrifice … its blood used to draw … someone’s about here, now.’

  Bernard recoiled backwards, no longer able to withstand the passage of energies flowing between the two of them. But he was alright. He had not been attacked, and there appeared to be no adverse effects from his ordeal. So, for a brief moment, he felt satisfied. Yet then a horrific sensation overtook him. The car. His mind was trying to tell him something about the car.

  ‘Hell,’ he screamed, twisting around as he attempted to crystallise his thoughts. ‘The car. We’ve left the car. We’ve got to get back to the car. NOW.’

  He began to walk briskly, before gradually breaking into a run. I followed close behind.

  ‘Something’s happening at the car.’

  It came into sight.

  ‘Give me the torch,’ he shouted, in a clearly annoyed tone.

  Handing it to him, he frantically began to shine the light into the wheel arches and on to the back bumper as leaves and litter scurried frantically across the grass verge.

  What was he looking for?

  ‘I don’t like what I feel one bit,’ he seethed, carrying on his search as he moved around to the offside and shone the light into the car’s interior. Pulling at the door handle, it came open. ‘Damn, it’s open,’ he fretted, now shining the light on the floor below the seat. ‘Something’s here and we’ve got to get it out. Go around the other side.’

  I tried the door handle. It too came open.

  ‘You didn’t lock it.’

  Not answering, I searched around the front passenger seat.

  Bernard’s hand then drew up something from below the well of the driver’s seat, close to the door. ‘Here, take this,’ he said, a note of resignation in his voice, as he climbed into the seat.

  It was another sheet of black card, folded in two and slightly smaller than the first one. Opening it revealed another image in pencil, like that on the card found earlier that evening. This one showed a thin-bladed dagger crossed over a wand or staff, both of which were covered in magical characters taken from a medieval spell book. I showed it to Bernard.

  It annoyed him even more. ‘Right, I’m getting out of here,’ he frowned, as he switched on the engine and violently reversed the car out on to the road. ‘I’ve had enough of this.’

  As we drove away, my nose caught the whiff of a peculiar aroma now filling the car interior. It was the smell of perfume—an overpowering, pungent aroma of perfume. It had definitely not been present earlier, so where was it coming from?

  Bernard sniffed. ‘Well, there’s nothing in the car it could be.’ Pulling up the folded black card, I held it to my nose. No, it was not coming from that. So where then? An air freshener? No, there was not one in the car.

  Studying every corner and recess, as the car continued its journey, I noticed something. In a small cavity within the metal frame that supported the driver’s seat was a piece of green paper. Was the stench of perfume coming from this?

  60. The black

  calling card

  found in

  Bernard’s car.

  Since Bernard had only owned the Montego for a matter of weeks, it was probably just a piece of rubbish discarded by the previous owner.

  As the car came to a halt in The Griffin car park, I reached down and pulled out the piece of paper. It stank of perfume. Yet there was more. For across its surface was a clearly recognisable, deep red lipstick smear, as if someone, a woman we’ll assume, had pulled it across their lips to remove lipstick. Along the centre of the stain was a small, horizontal grease mark that looked as if it had come from the area between the person’s lips, and there was also some trace of the presence of facial foundation.

  It was a bizarre discovery with even deeper implications. It suggested that, when the car had been left unattended by the locked gate, someone had opened the driver’s door and deposited, not just the second black calling card, but also a piece of paper smothered in lipstick and perfume.

  In addition to this, the lime-green paper looked as if it had been hurriedly torn from a larger sheet of notepaper of the sort commonly found in card and gift shops. On the edge of the rough tear were various characters in blue biro, which could not be identified as their tops had been severed by the tear. Unlike the two carefully prepared black calling cards, this lipstick-smeared piece of paper looked as if it had been a last minute thought. It seemed almost like a direct response to my conversation comparing psychic energy forms with lingering perfume. It was a chilling thought that disturbed Bernard even more.

  It was no ordinary perfume, either. It was a pungent, overpowering aroma, recognised as the sort worn by high society women. Its usage was almost as strange as the piece of paper’s appearance in the car, and everything pointed towards the conclusion that it had been deliberately left to make sure we knew that it had come from a woman, and that woman was BSA. So what the hell was she up to now?

  61. The lipsticksmeared piece of green paper found in Bernard’s car, which stank of

  perfume.

  Back in The Griffin, with a pint in front of me, I asked Bernard for some answers, and he responded by attuning as best he could with a notepad in front of him. He scribbled down some thoughts, which I then read:

  I believe that there were two people in the wood, and most likely male, under orders. Female there in energy form only.

  Two people in the woods and they were both male? This seemed an unlikely statement considering the fact that we had just found a piece of paper smothered with lipstick, foundation and facial grease, and stinking of perfume. If this calling card had been hurriedly left by two men, then where would they have suddenly got make up from?

  ‘That’s what I pick up,’ he insisted, sticking to his guns. No, I had to differ with him on this occasion. It was my feeling that a woman, possibly even BSA herself, had been out there somewhere. Otherwise the lipstick-smeared piece of paper made no sense at all.

  As Bernard shrugged his shoulders, I read what else he had written: The triangle shape [on the black calling card put through his door] is seemingly a knife of sorts and inscribed with Greek, meaning ‘the fair one’ or ‘the fairest one’. Steeped in blood and is new.

  The fairest one. Was this a reference to a man or a woman? ‘A woman, I think,’ he responded, picking up the lipsticksmeared paper. ‘A spirit or goddess. Something like that.’ He paused to take in the sweet fragrance. ‘I can still smell that perfume. It keeps wafting up.’

  I had noticed. Taking it from his hand, I held it to my nose and sniffed again.

  ‘I also pick up something to do with a lamb,’ he continued. ‘I think there was a rite involved whereby the skin of a lamb was stretched out and marked with symbols, like those found on the first card.’

  So is this what she really did—take a lamb and strip it of its skin so that it
could be used to mark symbols?

  ‘Don’t know. Maybe it’s just symbolic, the black card taking its place,’ he replied, lighting a cigarette. ‘Maybe that’s the answer.’

  Where was the card inscribed, locally or in Sussex?

  ‘I can only see woods, bushes, undergrowth—brambles around a small area, like a clearing. That’s all.’

  Any more?

  ‘The names Frimost and Adonaie are involved, somehow.’

  I had not come across either before, but would check them out. What about Lullington? What had been going on there?

  He yawned and leant back on his chair, shaking his head. ‘I don’t know. But whatever it was nothing was left, so I shouldn’t go rushing off down there as you won’t find anything.’

  His mood then changed. ‘Right that’s it then.’

  What was?

  ‘That’s the final thing I ever intend picking up on the Black Alchemist. I’ve had enough. That’s it. Final.’ He scrawled a thick line under his notes and wrote the word ‘final’, before sitting back in defiance.

  I sighed with dismay. As I had said earlier, burying your head in the sand was not going to make the problem go away.

  ‘You have to remember, my wife and daughter don’t know anything about what’s been going on, and I don’t want them to find some sick warning on my doormat one day. This has all gone far enough. If I put out that I will leave them alone, then they will leave me alone. It’s that simple.’

  He meant it this time, and there seemed little I could do to change his mind. Never before had I seen him so annoyed by any of the supernatural dramas we had been involved with over the years.

  ‘Anyway, I’m off,’ he said, as he finished his drink and got up to go. ‘What are you doing? Staying here?’

  No, I was leaving as well. I had a lot of things to check out when I got home.

  ‘Okay, give me a call.’