The Black Alchemist: A Terrifying True Story

by Andrew Collins

  On arrival back at Leigh-on-Sea that night, I scanned the bookshelves for material on grimoires—medieval books of magic and spells. One particular tome proved useful, The Book of Black Magic and of Pacts, written by the noted occult scholar Arthur Edward Waite and first published in 1898. It contained lengthy extracts from several well-known grimoires, including the rites to be conducted, their methods of preparation, and the ritual tools to be used.

  I had the uncanny feeling that the various symbols inscribed in pencil on the two black calling cards would be displayed in this book. So, flicking through its pages, I quickly found what I was looking for. A grimoire known as the Book of True Black Magic, which was, in fact, a bastardised version of the most infamous grimoire of all—The Clavicle (or Key) of Solomon—contained the exact same symbols as those on the wand and thin-bladed dagger drawn on the black card found in the car.

  On the same page was the drawing of a knife, called a lancet, with a triangular blade and ball-like handle, like the one drawn on the black card pushed through Bernard’s letter box.

  Studying the drawings of the wand, dagger and lancet seen on the two black cards, I realised they were not only similar, but identical to those found in the Book of True Black Magic.

  So far, so good. I then turned my attention to the four groups of curious magical characters drawn on the first black card. Elsewhere in the same book, I found a chapter on a notorious grimoire called The Sworn Book of Honorius.

  Studying its pages, which described the preparations and source of the complicated ritual of Honorius (spuriously named after Pope Honorius II, during whose papacy, between 1124-1130, the book was said to have first circulated in medieval Europe), many sentences and symbols began to echo statements Bernard had made earlier that evening. All the stranger elements of the ritual, along with the symbols on the black card pushed through his letterbox, were present. The rite, it said, was to be carried out in stages at specific times, over a period of several weeks. It culminated with a chosen invocation where one of seven named demons, each associated with a different day of the week, was conjured into manifestation for a designated purpose.

  As Bernard had suggested, the original ritual involved the sacrifice of a black cockerel and the use of its feathers as a quill pen, as well as the sacrifice of a lamb, whose skin was to be removed, pinned out and left for a period of time. At specific points in the ritual various magical characters were to be inscribed on the lamb’s skin and also on virgin parchment. These symbols corresponded precisely to those inscribed in pencil on the first black card received by Bernard.

  The comparisons did not end there, either, for I discovered two further connections with the events of that evening. Firstly, the form of the Hebrew god used to conjure the demonic forces unleashed by the rite of Honorius was ‘Adonaie’, the name picked up by Bernard as he had made contact with BSA out by the gate. I had not recognised the name ‘Adonaie’ before, as Bernard had pronounced it ‘ar-doan-nae’, confusing me somewhat. Secondly, in the last section of the ritual, where the methods of conjuring the various demons of the week are described, I found the name ‘Frimost’. It is cited as the demon to be invoked on a Tuesday— which it happened to be that day. More extraordinary was the fact that it had to be invoked between nine and ten o’clock at night.

  Our car had initially pulled up at the entrance gate to Danbury Country Park at precisely nine o’clock, and it was at 9.35 pm that Bernard had linked hands with BSA’s energy form at the same spot and, among other things, had shouted out the name ‘Frimost’. The implications therefore seemed clear. Between nine o‘clock and ten o‘clock that evening someone, perhaps the two men mentioned by Bernard, or even BSA herself, had been bringing to a climax the rite of Honorius in the name of the demon Frimost.

  Yet something bugged me. Any knowledgeable occultist knew that grimoire magic was debased, since it invoked only very low forms of otherworldly denizens and supernatural agencies. It bore little comparison with the powerful Graeco-Egyptian magic and alchemy previously utilised by the Black Alchemist. Only one small link with his own unique brand of Graeco-Egyptian magic was present—the Greek word , drawn inside the blade of the knife depicted on the first black calling card. So, what did this mean?

  A call to Terry DuQuesne promptly sorted out a translation. As Bernard had suggested, the word, which when transliterated into English becomes Kalliste, means ‘the fairest one,’ as in the winner of a beauty contest.

  Terry suggested that it might be one of the titles of Aphrodite, the Greek goddess of love and beauty, and he was right. A quick check with a dictionary of mythology revealed that Aphrodite had been awarded a golden apple inscribed ‘for the fairest’, after Paris judged her to be the most beautiful of all goddesses in a contest.

  So why was BSA combining a clearly Judaeo-Christian form of diabolical magic with the influence of the Greek goddess of love and beauty? At first, Aphrodite’s involvement made no sense. However, I then remembered that it was not the first time that the Greek goddess of love had cropped up in connection with the Black Alchemist’s female accomplice.

  At Hallowe’en the previous year, BSA had used the GraecoEgyptian rite known as the ‘Sword of Dardanus’ to gain the favour of Aphrodite, among others, in an attempt to ‘bend’ Bernard’s soul. The idea was for him to have fallen under her influence by using the emotional draw of false love and passion, so that he might reveal, not only his power, but also the contents of his mind. Thankfully for Bernard, the rite had not worked. However, it looked very much as if she was still attempting to ensnare him using the same magical influence of false love, shown clearly by the involvement of Aphrodite, the Greek goddess of love.

  The black calling card pushed through his letterbox had been imbued with a psychic charge, the intention of which was to draw, or pull, Bernard to Danbury Country Park so that he might leave the car and confront BSA’s energy form by the entrance gate. This had apparently allowed her two male companions—or she herself—to plant the second black calling card and the lipstick-smeared piece of paper inside the vehicle.

  Everything about the lipstick-smeared paper seemed to confirm BSA’s use of love magic in order to ensnare Bernard. The paper’s colour, green, can be attributed to the influence of Venus, Aphrodite’s Roman counterpart. Furthermore, it was smeared almost certainly with BSA’s perfume, foundation and lipstick—all factors which would have impregnated it not only with her own DNA, but also with a potent psychic charge.

  The seemingly innocuous piece of green notepaper had been left in Bernard’s car in the belief that it would forge a false emotional tie between her and him—like a lover being drawn compulsively to his sweetheart. Even the time of year seemed appropriate. The following Sunday was St Valentine’s Day, a time when individuals received anonymous cards from admirers and lovers, some of which would be impregnated with perfume.

  In many ways, the ritual worked, for Bernard had made contact with BSA’s energy form out at Danbury Country Park in a manner not even contemplated before, and as their minds had locked she will have unquestionably probed his for clues regarding his life, his weaknesses and the motives behind his continued interference with the activities of the Black Alchemist. Whether or not she was aware of what was going on at the exact moment of contact was irrelevant, for the information received can be downloaded and processed at any time thereafter through the simple use of meditational practices. What’s more, such psychic connections are not time constrained, for beyond our own conception of time’s role in the physical universe it simply does not exist.

  Despite understanding what BSA might have been up to that night, these silly games were not helpful, for she had caused Bernard to throw in the towel and refuse to pick up anything further on the activities of our adversary. The Black Alchemist now had free rein to do what he liked, when he liked, without any fear of interference from us.

  For the foreseeable future there was only one road for me to take. This was to complete the manuscript fo
r the intended book on the Black Alchemist saga. I needed to get this out as soon as possible in order to make the world aware of exactly what was going on in the hope that others out there—occultists, pagans, witches, even academics—might be able to throw some light on this extraordinary affair. I needed to know who was behind these incredible events, and would stop at nothing until I had some answers, either with or without Bernard’s help.

  Throughout the spring of 1988 the writing of the book continued at a steady pace. With no contacts in the publishing world, I would have to publish The Black Alchemist myself, yet needed around £15,000 to do so. It was for this reason that I had purchased the flat in Leigh-on-Sea, knowing full well it could be used as financial collateral.

  With enough savings in the bank from my long career with the Leigh Times, I went out on my own, spending all day, every day, working frantically on the final chapters.

  By late May the manuscript was finished.

  All I needed to do was to get it out to as many people as possible for them to read and make editorial suggestions. Then it could go into production, a slot on the printing press having already been scheduled for late October.

  So I printed off several copies of the manuscript, the first of which I slipped into a jiffy bag addressed to Bernard.

  His comments—more than anyone else’s—I needed, for without Bernard’s official blessing, the book was going nowhere.

  Part Four Birth

  42 Crossed Daggers

  Wednesday, 8th June, 1988. For several days now Bernard had been trying to find time to re-read the finished manuscript of Andy’s book The Black Alchemist. On first reading it had appeared accurate enough—one or two points here and there that would need changing—but, essentially, nothing major.

  It had felt strange reliving those events, especially looking at them from somebody else’s perspective. In a way, he had not wanted to read the manuscript at all, since it brought back too many disturbing memories, which he had been trying to put behind him. Still, it would have to be read again, as he had only scanned through it quickly first time around.

  Retiring into the peace and quiet of the dining room, he sat down with a mug of coffee and glanced apprehensively towards the already-opened manuscript. The page in view commenced the chapter about the Black Alchemist’s Ring of Darkness ritual, and his subsequent desecration of the Running Well in October 1986.

  October 1986, he sighed. It seemed so long ago, and so much had happened since then.

  He smiled at the number of times he had convinced himself the whole affair was over. Then, at some point later, he would always receive fresh information making it clear the story was definitely not over, and might never be.

  It had happened earlier that year.

  On walking into his back garden during the early evening of Monday, 21st March, the day of the spring equinox, he had been drawn to look up at the planet Venus. It was aligned perfectly within the twin horns of the new moon, like some heavenly representation of the star and crescent of the Islamic faith.

  The beautiful sight had held his gaze for several seconds, at which point he had received the distinct impression that the Black Alchemist was out of the country, in Belgium perhaps, on some kind of ‘Grand Tour’ of Europe.

  He was there to track down and purchase a rare magical text being sold as part of a private collection that had recently come

  The Black Alchemist on the market. Having it would enhance his knowledge of alchemical operations, it seemed. No further information had accompanied the impression, and Andy had been unable to establish what exactly the Black Alchemist might have been after out there in Belgium. Andy did point out, however, that the lunar crescent, with the symbol for Venus positioned directly beneath it, bore a distinct likeness to John Dee’s Monas Hieroglyphica. Perhaps it had been for this reason that his mind had, once again, touched on the activities of their adversary.

  Casting away these thoughts, Bernard continued to read the pages from the tidy manuscript positioned in front of him, making a few marks where necessary with a red pen.

  Then he stopped and looked up. Something was happening. He fretted below his breath. It was the same feeling he had experienced so many times before. He tried to push it away, but it was no good—his memory of the events at the well, confronting their adversary, was being replaced by a new, unfamiliar image.

  He could see a low, grassy mound—a prehistoric round barrow or tumulus perhaps. It stood in front of woods that overlooked a grassy meadow filled with golden yellow flowers.

  Standing on the mound was the Black Alchemist, his face obscured as usual by a black floppy cowl.

  Held in his hands, above his head, were twin daggers, crossed over each other. Curiously, Bernard could make out that the man’s heavily draped garment possessed a blood red lining.

  It was a sight he had seen already in a dream—a cowled figure with crossed daggers. On that occasion the figure had approached him along a tunnel of swirling grey mist. Yet there had been no clear indication it was the Black Alchemist, so he had dismissed the dream as simply his imagination.

  This time Bernard was sure. It was him, sending out a message of some kind. Crossed daggers was a sign of provocation—an occult challenge of some sort.

  So where was this mound? Was it near Eastbourne, close to the Black Alchemist’s home? Yes, that was it, close to his home.

  Bernard thought hard about the situation. What the hell did this man want with him? Even after mentally putting out that he wanted no more to do with his activities, here he was, taunting him once more into responding in some manner.

  Was he ever going to be rid of him?

  Breaking his concentration, Bernard glanced towards the

  Crossed Daggers finished manuscript before getting up and leaving the room, hoping to shake away any thoughts of BA and his disturbing world.

  But it was no good. The image remained fixed in his mind, and with it now came the distinct impression that the Black Alchemist was ready and waiting to make his next move.

  43 8.8.8

  Monday, 1st August. Wandering through Danbury churchyard on this mild summer’s evening, Bernard and I came to rest beneath a silver birch tree. It stood on the other side of the path to the horse chestnut tree wrenched from its roots during the Great Storm—this being the somewhat uninspiring name now being given to the devastating hurricane winds of the previous year.

  Having brought along the Indian swordstick, I held it point down, like some dance-hall cane, and visualised golden energies flowing through its shaft into the ground.

  This is what I could picture in my mind’s eye. How about Bernard—what could he see?

  ‘Pulses of energy, spreading outwards,’ he confirmed, leaning against the tree’s slim trunk, not that much inspired by what was going on. ‘Extending out as far as the edge of the churchyard.’

  Hopefully this would help create a charged environment that might enable him to pick up new information, especially as we both felt something strange was afoot.

  Suddenly, a slight breeze crossed the open hilltop, noticeably lowering the temperature. It caused an unexpected shift in the atmosphere.

  Bernard’s eyes now became fixed on a gap between the low hedgerow bordering the southern edge of the churchyard, beyond which is an area of garden allotments.

  I asked him what was happening.

  ‘There’s smoke. In the air. Something burning. I can see white figures, vague, in cowls, beyond the hedgerow,’ he revealed, compelled by what he could see with his eyes firmly open. ‘Ancestral spirits, I reckon, and not encroaching beyond that point.’

  Anything else?

  There was a long pause, before he said: ‘Have you ever been back to that mound?’

  I knew exactly what he meant.

  It had been nearly two months since he had glimpsed the Black Alchemist standing on the summit of a prehistoric round barrow, holding a pair of crossed daggers above his head, as if challenging us to some kind
of confrontation.

  Bernard felt its location was close to the man’s home in Eastbourne. So I searched the local Ordnance Survey map and had come up with just one suitable candidate.

  It was a low mound perched high on the South Downs, next to woods close to Beachy Head, the so-called Hill of Sorrow due to its reputation as Britain’s most notorious suicide spot.

  Due to the barrow’s remote location, beyond the termination of a closed road named Paradise Drive, I had christened it the Paradise Mound, a title no way befitting its foreboding atmosphere.

  62. The author stands on Eastbourne’s Paradise Mound with daggers crossed above his head, following Bernard’s vision of the Black Alchemist doing the same here in June 1988.

  Inside twenty-four hours of the mound’s discovery I had stood on its summit, just as Bernard had seen the Black Alchemist do. I had even taken with me a pair of daggers, which I had crossed above me as if to say, ‘come on then, we’re ready.’ When I say ‘we’, I meant the small network of people who were now aware of the entire Black Alchemist story, and had pledged their allegiance whenever I might need it.

  Bernard had made it quite clear that, after the events of the previous year, he no longer wanted to pursue the nefarious activities of our adversary, not actively at least.

  Yet he knew it was futile trying to stop me investigating the subject, despite his belief that it would only trigger more anguish for him.

  So why ask now if I had returned to the mound?

  ‘I can see it again. There’s a group of people,’ he said. ‘I would say around eight, although no more than a dozen. They’re standing in a circle around a central figure.’

  What were they wearing? The usual black cowled robes?

  He nodded, his gaze still fixed on the southern limits of the churchyard.

  Was the central figure BA?

  ‘Well, he’s wearing the same heavy robe I saw before—the one with the deep red lining—so I would say “yes”, it’s him, unfortunately,’ Bernard said, a little perturbed by the realisation.