The Black Alchemist: A Terrifying True Story

by Andrew Collins

  In themselves such dreams and visions were meaningless, since knowledge of the Black Alchemist affair was now widely known.

  Yet what struck me as particularly curious was the sheer number of experiences that had occurred over the past week or so. It was almost as if psychically aware individuals across the country were being alerted to something major afoot at this time.

  ‘I know. Strange isn’t it?’ Bernard mused, after listening patiently to what I had to say. ‘And they can’t all be wrong, can they?’

  Everything suggested Eastbourne’s Paradise Mound was going to be the venue for a major magical ritual overnight on the 7th to 8th August. Its purpose was quite probably the prophesised birth of the Black Alchemist’s unholy child, a form of antichrist, ‘conceived’ in Danbury churchyard in the aftermath of the Great Storm, and gestated in the ‘womb’ of Paphotia, Winder of Snakes, aka Maria the Jewess. Most worrying of all was the manner in which this ‘child of fire’ was being brought into being, for it chillingly echoed statements made in an obscure treatise entitled the Chaldean Oracles, written in the second century AD.

  This prophetic text, attributed to a student of the NeoPlatonist school existing at this time, expressed the magical potency of oracular communication with ‘daimons’ and spirits of Chaldean origin—Chaldea being the ancient name for Upper Mesopotamia, a region synonymous today with southeast Turkey.

  Hekate features heavily in the extant fragments of the Chaldean Oracles. One section spells out the visions the magician (here called a ‘theurgist’, a ‘worker of the divine’) might expect from conducting rites in honour of the Mistress of the Underworld, specifically when the ‘House of the Sun’ was in the astrological sign of Leo, i.e. between 23rd July and 22nd August, the precise zodiacal month we were in at that time.

  The treatise spoke of ‘a Fire like unto a child’, as well as a ‘Formless Fire, from which a Voice rushes forth’. It refers also to the coming of a ‘child of fire’,30 then continues: ‘But when you see the formless and very holy Fire radiantly leaping up throughout the depths of the whole world Hear the Voice of Fire.’31

  Was it possible the Black Alchemist and his associates were using the Chaldean Oracles to bring forth their own ‘child of fire’ within the ‘life-generating womb’32 of Hekate, in her guise as the barren crone?

  Was this why some kind of supernatural portal, or wormhole, had been opened up between Danbury churchyard and Eastbourne’s Paradise Mound, where the final release of this unnatural ‘child’ was to take place?

  ‘I’m not sure,’ Bernard admitted, uncertain of the intricacies of magic. ‘But it’s possible, isn’t it?’

  How all this was going to go down on the night I had no idea. Although if we went to Eastbourne en masse, there was every chance we would catch them in the act, so to speak.

  For me this was an incredible prospect. So I had sounded out a few friends and everyone seemed well up for it.

  Now we had Richard Davey and Bernard’s new psychic clues concerning BSA’s use of a sunken pit in some woods for a ritual libation of some kind.

  Although there seemed no clear indication of what the woman was up to here, her actions strangely echoed an ancient Greek rite to gain the favour of Hekate found in the Argonautica. Written in the third-century BC by poet, scholar and Alexandrian librarian Apollonius Rhodius, it records Jason and the Argonauts’ quest for the Golden Fleece.

  The Argonautica recounts how Jason’s son Aeson consults Medea, ‘a maiden that uses sorcery under the guidance of Hekate’. She instructs Jason to enlist the aid of Hekate in the following manner: Aeson must first wash in a river before going alone at night ‘clad in a dusky raiment’ and, digging a round pit ‘over the graves of the dead,’ build there a fire.

  After this Jason has to offer up a sheep to propitiate ‘onlybegotten Hekate’, at the same time leaving for her, by way of a libation, ‘the hive-stored labour of bees’.33

  In other words honey.

  BSA appeared to be calling on the powers of Hekate in the manner described in the Argonautica. Most likely she fancied herself as some kind of modern-day Medea, in other words a powerful priestess of Hekate.

  Even if this was correct, why had her ritual actions so strongly penetrated the minds of at least two psychics in the past few days?

  Maybe there was a clue in the fact that Toyne Newton had experienced his own Black Alchemist-related nightmare the same night Richard Davey dreamt about BSA’s libation ceremony in the woodland clearing.

  Perhaps both Richard and Bernard had psychically found themselves in Clapham Wood, which Toyne Newton and his colleague Charles Walker believed had for some years been the scene of some nefarious occult activities. Almost certainly this extensive woodland in West Sussex, which Bernard felt exuded a bad feeling, was BSA’s chosen stomping ground, especially since it was so close to Arundel and its castle.

  Local tradition spoke of a sunken pit deep within Clapham Wood that was the burial site of Clapham’s plague victims, who had succumbed to the Black Death of 1348. Such a location would be ideal for invoking Hekate, who according to Apollonius Rhodius should be raised in a purposely-dug pit, and propitiated ‘over the graves of the dead’.

  Much of this made sense of what people were picking up, although there was no clear indication that either the Black Alchemist or his female accomplice intended conducting a major ritual in Clapham Wood on either 7th or 8th August.

  Everything pointed to Eastbourne’s Paradise Mound as being the primary venue for the bringing forth of the unholy child, and unless anything indicated otherwise we needed to concentrate our efforts there.

  Beyond this, Bernard’s imagery of the previous night was difficult to interpret. The lance suspended in midair was perhaps a reference to the Spear of Longinus, which in Christian tradition was used by a Roman soldier of this name to pierce Christ’s side as he hung on the Cross. The Holy Lance reappears in the medieval Grail romances, often being carried in procession within the Castle of the Grail, recalling the fact that the Welsh Grail hero Peredur derives his name from a word meaning ‘steelspear’.

  Were we back to the stone fixing marker found at Lullington, near Eastbourne, in 1985, which clearly bore the likeness of a spearhead?

  Had the Black Alchemist been attempting to manifest this unholy child as far back as then? It was certainly possible, given his apparent fixation with wombs and birth.

  The statement ‘enhance birth’, which Bernard had heard coming from a stern male voice was another reference to the intended ‘birth’ of the ‘child of fire’. How exactly all this was to happen in the real world was still open to question, although the date seemed clear.

  It had to be after sunset on Sunday, 7th August, the start in occult terms of the all-important 8.8.8 date. This might prove our best chance ever to both confront our long-term adversary and put a spanner in the works of his somewhat macabre activities.

  Aside from whatever the Black Alchemist might have up his sleeve, occultists, pagans and witches across Britain were, I knew, preparing to capitalise on the numerological significance of 8.8.8.

  In one case, a group of around 20 individuals were to gather in the ruins of Fotheringhay Castle in Northamptonshire, the site of the beheading of Mary Queen of Scots in 1587.

  Here they were to conduct a long, drawn-out ritual to enable Mary Queen of Scots’ soul to incarnate as the Duke and Duchess of York’s first child, due on 8th August (Princess Beatrice was subsequently born at 8.18 pm on that day). In addition to this, since eight is a lucky number among the peoples of the Far East, expectant mothers were queuing up in hospitals asking whether the birth of their child could be induced on this auspicious date, even if it meant Caesarean section.

  It was certainly going to be a strange day, whatever way you looked at it.

  45 A New Human Creature

  Saturday, 6th August. For the second time in two days, Bernard used his dining room for a remote viewing exercise. His wife and daughter having ret
ired to bed enabled him to focus on the sunken pit in the woodland clearing, where BSA had conducted her ritual libation.

  Andy wanted him to try and pin down the exact location, and, as there had been no adverse reaction following his earlier attunement, he would try again, see what came. He needed answers himself, and this was the only way.

  But no matter how much he tried, Bernard could not see the pit. Instead he saw only silhouetted trees picked out from a background of dense woodland.

  Standing in the darkness was a lone figure whom Bernard recognised as the Black Alchemist. He stood motionless, still wearing the heavily-draped cowled robe with the crimson-red lining. Yet this time he held neither crossed daggers or a firecharred baby. Their adversary seemed merely to be in deep contemplation, as if waiting for something.

  The image was soon replaced by the single vision of an unblemished, razor sharp lance, hanging vertically in the air, its long metal blade point downwards. It was the same ritual weapon glimpsed two nights earlier, although this time the vision was much stronger.

  Then came stern words proclaiming: ‘ I, by my power, turning air into water, and water again into blood … ’

  It was the Black Alchemist. Making some sort of statement.

  ‘ … and solidifying it into flesh to form a new human creature—a boy—and produce a much nobler work than God— the so-named creator. For he made man from the earth, but I from the air, a much more difficult matter.’

  After this there was only silence.

  For a moment, Bernard broke free of the vision, disturbed by what he was hearing.

  Lighting a cigarette, he realised something significant. These were the same words he had heard when he first saw the holy lance hanging vertically in the air. They had come from their adversary then. Yet still there was no sense of what he was really up to, or how he intended manifesting this ‘new human creature’, this ‘boy’.

  He gave it a while before attuning again.

  With his eyes closed, Bernard allowed his mind to wander. An image glimpsed was held and then enhanced. It was a marshy environment close to woodland where a wizened old man now stood. He was a hunchback, with long straggly hair and wiry beard, wearing a garment of tattered grey sackcloth. Leaning on a walking stick, he looked straight at Bernard, clearly aware of this intrusion into his world.

  Instantly, Bernard felt the old man, who did not offer a name, was some kind of site guardian associated with Eastbourne’s Paradise Mound. He came from a time when the round barrow was revered as a place of the ancestors.

  ‘The ritual has to be done with a fire,’ the grey guardian exclaimed, his face showing immense seriousness and concern.

  He was referring to the birth of the child, Bernard was sure of it.

  As if in response to this thought, the old man lowered his head, which he then shook slowly in a gesture of disbelief. ‘It will not come to fruition,’ he said next. ‘It was thought to be the only way to bring forth a daimon to oppose the good and change the world.’

  They were his parting words. Thereafter the elderly guardian faded slowly, his message delivered.

  Bernard assumed the communication over. But he was wrong.

  Into the psychic’s mind now came the distinct impression that whatever was about to take place at the Paradise Mound was linked in some way with France. There was a French occult group connected with the activities of the Black Alchemist, although this was all he could pick up.

  ‘The wanderers are on the move,’ a melodic female voice then suddenly cut in. ‘The wolves cry to the night. Dark forces tear at the threads.’

  The ‘threads’ was an ancient Anglo-Saxon term used to describe the fibre-like connections making up the concept of wyrd (from which we get the English word ‘weird’). This was the subtle energy matrix thought to permeate all existence. It bound

  A New Human Creature together everything in a web of sublime destiny, woven by the three sisters of wyrd, known as the Norns, whose most familiar form is that of the three witches in Shakespeare’s Macbeth.

  Who the voice had belonged to he could not be sure. No more came that night. Yet left in Bernard’s mind was the fact that in order to create the symbolic birth of his unholy child, the Black Alchemist would have to take control of the energies associated with the Paradise Mound. These, Bernard felt, were being seen in terms of ‘white fire’, and the collective power of spectral wolves.

  Something told him also that whatever was to occur in the next few days would be the climax of everything their adversary had been working towards since their paths had first crossed in Lullington churchyard as far back as 1985.

  On top of this, Bernard was concerned for Andy’s safety. He and his friends were going to Eastbourne looking for a confrontation with the Black Alchemist. He understood his friend’s often blind enthusiasm in trying to explore psychic material to its ultimate end. Yet Bernard felt that whatever was going on in Sussex was serious business for BA and his associates, who would not take too kindly to interference of this sort. All he could do was ring Andy and advise him to tread carefully. Otherwise someone was going to get hurt.

  63. Picture postcard of Eastbourne’s Golf Links and Paradise.

  46 Paradise Drive

  Sunday, 7th August. I crouched behind a clump of bushes, peering through a gap in the foliage towards Paradise Mound, which lay some 30 paces uphill. It was a beautiful summer’s evening, and so far everything had gone without incident.

  The time was nine o’clock and with the sun now out of view behind the woods lying beyond the tumulus, we prepared for the vigil ahead.

  With me in the undergrowth was Mike Oliver, a well-built character from Southend, who enjoyed the high life as much as he did the mysteries of life, and Paul Weston, a tall, lean figure who was a walking encyclopaedia of mystical knowledge. Both were clued up on the Black Alchemist affair, and formed part of my questing group.

  Joining us that evening was earth mysteries and paranormal researcher Johnny Merron, although he had just gone off to collect Caroline Wise and friends, who would be arriving shortly by train at Eastbourne station.

  Bernard’s final psychic session of the previous night had convinced me still further that we were at the right location. Toyne Newton and Charles Walker had promised to keep a careful eye on Clapham Wood that night, just in case anything went down there. Around the country other people were also on alert, promising to light a candle and focus on the mound as the midnight hour approached.

  I understood why Bernard advised extreme caution. My often gung-ho attitude to life could and sometimes did get me into trouble. Yet I had made sure we were protected on both a physical and psychic level. So all we could do now was wait and see what might happen.

  The Paradise Mound was actually a superb place to conduct an occult ritual, since it is virtually inaccessible to all but the most determined of hikers. Anyone wishing to visit it had first to abandon their vehicles at the end of the disused Paradise Drive, and then make a 45-minute trek across the South Downs, a route very few people would want to take. What made things worse was the fact that the tracks leading to the mound were all blocked by fallen trees, torn down by the previous year’s hurricane.

  Even if anyone did manage to reach the woods, the chances of them finding the mound were remote. In fact, I doubted very much whether anyone in Eastbourne was even aware of its existence, making it an ideal site for ritual activity out of the way of prying eyes.

  Earlier, we had discovered a fire pit surrounded by stones some ten paces behind the mound. Although this meant nothing in itself, it did make me recall Bernard’s words about the black doll or baby being charred with fire. Had that happened here?

  ‘When are the others arriving?’ Paul asked, seated comfortably behind a clump of bushes, next to Mike who was cracking open a can of lager. ‘If they don’t get here soon, they’ll be climbing the hill in the dark.’

  ‘I suspect they will be arriving shortly,’ was all I could say in response. Th
e conversation died for a few minutes as the three figures merged with the environment as best they could. No one expected too much to happen until after dark.

  ‘Hold on,’ Paul whispered now, as he rose slowly to his feet and faced the mound. ‘Who’s that, over there?’ His stare directed our eyes.

  All acknowledged the presence of a figure, a man, coming into view from a minor path some yards to the south of the mound. He seemed to be about five feet two to five feet three in height, around 50 years of age, of medium build with swept back, receding grey hair. He wore a grey patterned sleeveless jumper, a blue shirt and beige slacks.

  We all watched as he walked briskly along the track, looking completely out of place. His fast pace made it seem like he had a train to catch.

  As he passed our position, not twenty paces away, he glanced from left to right, as if searching for someone, or something, before carrying on in a northerly direction.

  I needed to know more, so left our hideaway with Paul and Mike following close behind. The man was now some 100 yards away, still keeping up his rapid pace.

  And then he turned, and saw us.

  This was not good. ‘Oh well, if he’s some kind of scout making sure the coast is clear, then we’ve blown it,’ Mike stated, summing up the feelings of all three of us.

  As we watched the lone figure disappearing away, we then saw him do something odd. Instead of continuing along the footpath, he made a 90-degree turn and entered the woodland some 200 yards from where we stood like lemons. This could only mean he was retracing his steps through the woods to rejoin the track, taking him back towards where our car was parked.

  This struck me as more than curious. I realised immediately there was now a good chance we had messed up real badly. We should have been more covert, and not given ourselves away at the first opportunity. Although the man did not resemble Bernard’s description of BA—who was tall, slim, long faced and in his mid forties—the way the man dressed matched the alchemist’s donnish style of dress.