Strange Dominions: a collection of paranormal short stories (short story books)

by David Calvert

She led him to a large and comfortable armchair. Strategically placing herself nearest to the open door, she took her place on the sofa.

  “I see you have a fondness for Shakespeare,” he said, attempting to put his host at ease.

  Here at least he had found some common ground in which to engage her.

  “I’m writing a thesis on him for English Lit at the university,” Eve replied.

  “I’m a Wheatley fan myself,” Emile admitted. “He isn’t as high-brow as the Bard, but he knows his subject matter.”

  “Wheatley?”

  “He wrote occult fiction, mainly.”

  “Oh, I see. So you prefer horror then?” Eve was beginning to feel uneasy as to where the conversation was heading.

  “Actually,” responded Emile, “my interest goes beyond mere works of literary fiction and that, in part, is why I’m here.”

  The tension in the room had become almost palpable. Eve was now sitting on the edge of her seat, her heart racing, her gaze darting to the passageway and the open front door.

  “Please, Mr. Kahn, just cut to the chase and tell me what you’re leading up to. Why does this Wormwood want me dead, and what have my nightmares to do with anything?”

  “Wasn’t it the Bard who wrote, ‘There are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in your philosophy?’”

  Eve became conscious of her fingers biting deeply into the arm of the sofa, her knuckles blanching white with the pressure. She made a concerted effort to relax.

  “Well let me tell you;” he continued, “there are more things in this universe than you could ever possibly imagine. You need to consider the unthinkable, and all I ask is that you keep an open mind to what I’m about to tell you. Can you do that?”

  Eve hesitated. “I think so; yes”

  Emile sat forward, causing her to draw back. He held his hands up and settled into the armchair again.

  “When Eli Wormwood was still a young man,” he began, “he was the youngest ever to hold a professorship in anthropological studies. He was the best in his field and considered by many to be an intellectual genius. His studies into the magical beliefs and practices of diverse cultures were unequalled, but at some point his pursuit became more than just a hunt for knowledge. He began to practice what he had learned, synthesising these seemingly disparate magical beliefs into a complete whole. Invading your dreams is child’s play to him and he is without remorse or pity.”

  In a tremulous voice Eve asked, “But why choose me?”

  “The victims of serial killers often share similar characteristics or traits,” he explained. “These women share the same physical characteristics as you. He’s singled you out simply because you look like the others.”

  She began re-examining the cuttings in greater detail. “And the dreams, what part do they play in all of this?”

  “Don’t most predators seek out the weakest of their prey?”

  She nodded her agreement, separating one of the cuttings from the pile.

  “Your nightmares have weakened you and have made you vulnerable to all kinds of physiological and psychological disorders,” Emile continued, “thereby making you an easy prey.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said, finally looking up, “but your analogy is flawed, Mr. Kahn. The predator isn’t always responsible for its prey’s weakness, but simply takes advantage of it. Your telling me that Wormwood is responsible for my nightmares, that he’s manipulating them, and that’s impossible.”

  “Not if he shares a sympathetic link with you.”

  “Sympathetic link?”

  “A telepathic connection, if you like. He uses a form of ESP, known as psychometry, to establish this link with his victims. Simply by holding something belonging to you he can gain insights into who you are; stuff he couldn’t possibly know by any other means.”

  “You mean like the few coins I gave him?”

  “It’s unlikely. The coins would have been handled by literally thousands of people before they fell into your hands,” He shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “He’d need something more personal than that to establish the kind of link he has with you; like a ring or some other cherished possession.”

  “Other than the money I gave him there’s nothing he has belonging …”

  She froze in mid sentence and looked at the framed photo of her parents, her eyes focussing on the rosary her mother was holding.

  Emile sat forward. “What is it? What have you remembered?”

  “My rosary!”

  She rose up from the sofa, “He has my rosary. I thought I’d lost it. It hung on the coat rack next to the door. Several days after his visit I noticed it was gone, but I thought I’d mislaid it. He must have taken it when I went to get my purse!”

  “And it took you several days before you noticed it was missing?”

  “I’m a lapsed catholic, Mr. Kahn, and have no use for it anymore.”

  Emile knew why she had forsaken her faith and that it had to do with the sudden deaths of her parents, but for the moment he would keep his own counsel and let Eve broach the subject.

  “So you’ve given up on your faith. I’m sorry to here that,” he said.

  “I told you, Mr. Kahn, I’ve given up on all that nonsense,” she replied, turning her attention to the coal fire and poking it briskly adding, “There are no gods or angels, fallen or otherwise, we’re simply the by-product of a series of blindly random and indifferent events. It was chance, and chance alone that took my parents from me!”

  The heat of her passionate outburst was beginning to burn brighter than the fire she was tending, and it was getting hotter by the minute. It was time to add more fuel.

  “I’m truly sorry for your loss, Eve,” he said, awaiting the outburst he knew would undoubtedly follow.

  With tear filled eyes she spun round and confronted him. “Spare me your platitudes. It’s people like you I feel sorry for, with your antiquated notions of good and evil and the need to invoke some all-seeing, all-knowing deity to bring meaning into their lives!“

  Stabbing the poker in his direction, she went on, “It might well be true that Wormwood murdered those poor women, but it wasn’t with the help of some supernatural intermediary. Maybe one of his equally deranged disciples did his dirty work for him when he got too old to do it himself!”

  Emile kept his composure throughout her tirade and in a calm and measured voice replied, “He has no disciples. And higher beings, or whatever you want to call them, are not the delusions of madmen. They’re as real as you or I. My beliefs aren’t based on faith alone. I’ve seen what he can do and have witnessed first-hand the power he wields.”

  “I’ll tell you what I find really odd about all this, Mr Kahn; it’s the fact that you haven’t managed to save any of those women, not one. That’s some track record!”

  She threw down the poker into the scuttle and stood, arms crossed in defiance.

  Emile felt the sting of her words. Now it was his turn.

  “Don’t you think it odd, given the nature, the time span and the brutality of his crimes, that there’s not one shred of forensic evidence to be had?”

  “Oh, but there is Mr. Kahn, and it points to the fact that at least one of his so-called ‘victims’ didn’t die by his hand.”

  She picked up the cutting she had chosen earlier and read it aloud,

  “‘The mutilated body of Miss Marie Anne Mendenhall, daughter of Samuel J. Mendenhall, was discovered on common ground near her home during the early hours of July 16. It is believed that the 28-year-old spinster had been exercising her pet Labrador when she was set upon by a pack of wild dogs, known to frequent the area of the near-by slum district of Malton. The one-year-old pup was later discovered by police officers, unharmed, at the front door of his mistresses home…’”

  Waving the editorial in front of him she declared, “So she wasn’t murdered like the others, and there’s no mention of sleeping problems either. How do you account for that?”

  “If she w
asn’t having sleeping problems, then what on earth was she doing walking her dog in the early hours?” he countered, “And what about the pup? Surely it would have been an easier target for a pack of hungry wild dogs. As for the victim, she would have borne all the hallmarks consistent with a dog attack. Presented with that kind of evidence, why would the local constabulary think otherwise?”

  Eve threw up her arms in exasperation. “Exactly my point! Even the thickest plod knows a dog bite when he sees it! They were obviously canine!”

  Emile’s frustration, too, had him animated.

  “I’m not saying they weren’t. I’m merely saying they weren’t inflicted by dogs!”

  “Then what?”

  “Some prefer to call them ‘objectified thought forms’; others, ‘elementals’. In black magic they’re known as ‘fetches’; constructs of the magician’s thoughts given concrete form.”

  Eve shook her head in disbelief.

  “Whatever form it’s given,” he continued, undaunted by her scepticism, “it is this construct which becomes the vehicle for the magician’s consciousness and awareness. What it experiences he also experiences. However, the fetch is an autonomous creature and will struggle to free itself. Maintaining control over it is difficult – as is its destruction.”

  “So he’s inside this thing, making it do what he wan-”

  “Not physically,” Emile interrupted. “It’s his etheric double, his spirit if you like, which inhabits it, but it remains connected to his physical form via an umbilical ‘silver cord’ that is capable of infinite extension. His physical body could be thousands of miles from the scene of the crime and that’s why there’s no evidence of him ever being there.”

  “I’m sorry, but it’s just too utterly fantastic to believe,” she responded, taking up her seat again on the edge of the sofa. “Do you know just how ridiculous it sounds?”

  “About the same as it did to all the others, and they suffered because they wouldn’t listen to me.”

  “Hang on! You said all the others wouldn’t listen to you, just then! Just how old are you, exactly?”

  “No I didn’t!”

  “I distinctly heard you say it,” she challenged.

  Before Emile could respond, an icy breath of wind swept across the living room, billowing the curtains and sweeping the newspaper cuttings from the table.

  Emile and Eve instinctively looked at one another. Each could see the others breath in the now frigid atmosphere.

  “My God! What is it? What’s happening?” Eve exclaimed, vigorously rubbing her arms.

  Emile shot out of the chair, his gaze darting from one end of the room to the other. “Not this time, old man!” he cried out. “This time I’ll have my revenge!”

  The neatly stacked books flew from the coffee table onto the floor and Eve screamed in terror as the front door slammed shut. The last thing she saw before passing out was the fluttering curtains.

  When she came-to she was lying on the sofa. Emile was dabbing her brow with a damp cloth, a look of genuine concern etched on his face. She looked nervously around the room.

  “It’s okay he’s gone,” said Emile.

  “That was him?”

  Emile nodded. “Not exactly in the flesh, but yes.

  Eli Wormwood’s angular frame shuddered. He felt nauseous, drained. In former times he had taken for granted the consummate ease with which he had bilocated his etheric double. Now, his powers were in obvious decline, as evidenced by his latest sojourn. Even so, the discovery of the whereabouts of his erstwhile confederate had more than made up for his shortcomings.

  He saw no reason to delay his plans for Eve Landru. His dissolute hunger for her continued, unabated. His earlier lewd encounters were merely vicarious pleasures designed to titillate him during the long and involved ritual of creating the fetch – the living, tangible entity that would act as a repository for his consciousness and awareness. Through it he would experience fully the sensual delights of her abasement and ultimate death. But first he needed to rest. Bitter experience had taught him that the creation of such a creature was not to be gone into lightly.

  When Eve had come-to on her sofa, Emile had told her as much as he dared, allowing to explore all possible avenues of escape, including involving the police.

  She knew, of course, how her story would sit with them; it was just too incredible for their analytical minds to comprehend. Even if they accepted her account, what could they possibly do to protect her against a man who could seemingly be in two places at once?

  Eventually, she came to the same inescapable conclusion as Emile; that only Eli Wormwood’ death would save her.

  “But we don’t even know where he is,” she told Emile.

  “We don’t need to. He’ll come to us soon enough, and when he does I’ll be waiting.”

  Since neither of them knew when, exactly, he would next appear, it was decided that Emile would remain with her until the ordeal was over. He had yet to specify how he intended to carry out his intentions and Eve, having been made aware of his failure in rescuing her predecessors, was less than optimistic of the outcome.

  It later occurred to her that she knew very little about her would-be saviour, beyond the fact that he was not the law. His personal life remained shrouded in mystery. She wondered if he, too, was a victim of Eli Wormwood.

  The following morning Emile noticed a subtle change in his charge’s demeanour. There was a glimmer of hope in her eyes.

  “Sleep well?” he probed.

  “Yes. I slept very well, thanks.”

  Eve noticed that he was less than cheered by the news, and by mid-afternoon had become unusually withdrawn and seemed hardly aware of her presence. Though unsettled by these latest turn of events, she did all she could to distract him from his sombre thoughts, until it suddenly occurred to her why his behaviour was so constrained.

  “It’s time, isn’t it? He’s coming for me tonight!”

  The look on Emile’s face said it all.

  “There are more things you need to know, and preparations to be made if we’re to have any kind of chance,” he said.

  In less than an hour she had been fully briefed about the creature and what to expect.

  Regardless of what form the fetch took their main objective was not to destroy it, merely distract it long enough for Emile to wrench free a talisman from its neck. It was this amulet, he told her, that helped Wormwood maintain control over the creature. Without it the fetch was relatively benign and had a mind of its own.

  “And Wormwood?” Eve asked.

  “The moment he loses control he’ll be forced to return to his own body. In order to escape its own destruction the fetch must return with him before the banishment ritual is performed to destroy the pentagram and, God willing, him too.”

  With the coming of nightfall Eve’s apprehensions grew. What if something went wrong? What if Emile wasn’t strong enough to overpower the fetch? Maybe it would be upon her before she could even cry out for help. What then?

  The hours passed inexorably, and with their passing came a deep and insidious sleep.

  It was 1.20 a.m. when Eve was awoken by the sound of footsteps in her bedroom, and the sensation of her blankets being pulled from her. She lay trembling in the dark, a nauseating stench filling her nostrils. She sensed a nearby presence and tried to rise, but a great pressure bore down on her chest holding her fast to the bed.

  Her heart pounded wildly as she struggled for breath. Weird, wraithlike, ribbons of light appeared out of nowhere and began snaking around the room. Her ordeal had begun!

  Then she saw it – a nebulous mist looming over her head, morphing constantly from one formless shape to another. She sensed the malign presence leering at her from within. It drew closer, its rank breath against her face. She wanted to call out, but couldn’t.

  Unseen hands traced the outline of her hips and moved slowly across her abdomen. It was touching her, intimately! Fear at last found its voice. She screamed,
breaking the spell. The nightmare was over.

  But where was Emile?

  It seemed an eternity before the bedroom door finally burst open, the light from the landing silhouetting the burly frame of her protector.

  “Where were you? Why did you leave me alone?” she cried, hysterically.

  “I heard a noise downstairs and went to investigate.”

  He scanned the room, “What is it? There’s no one here,” he said, moving to her bedside.

  “But he was! He was here!” Her resolve gave way to tears and she began trembling anew.

  “I’m frightened, Emile,” she confessed. “I can’t remember a time when I’ve ever felt so scared.”

  He sat by her. “`Fear is for the living my dear,’” he said, paraphrasing Holy Scripture. “‘Only the dead are conscious of nothing at all.`”

  She looked at him, stupefied. “What do you mean? I don’t understand.”

  “Don’t you?” he grinned, cupping one of her breasts.

  “Oh God, it’s you!” she whimpered.

  He seized her by the throat to stifle her cries.

  She clawed hysterically at his hands, struggling desperately for one last breath, his mocking words – of the dead and their unconscious state – echoing through the blackness that threatened to engulf her.

  But Wormwood’s lust had yet to be sated before death could finally claim her.

  In the throes of his craving he straddled her, letting go of her throat.

  She gasped, charging her lungs with life-giving air as he tore at her nightdress, exposing her, nubile body to his lecherous gaze.

  Emile lurched abruptly through the doorway, his face awash with blood. He cursed himself for having been caught off guard. His negligence had almost cost him his life.

  Hell-bent on protecting Eve from such a fate he blazed, “Let her go!”

  The fetch’s head snapped round, its malevolent eyes now firmly fixed on Emile, the tone of its voice sardonic.

  “Ah, if it isn’t the firstling. Right on cue, my friend. A definite improvement on your past record, wouldn’t you say? Tell me,” he goaded, “how many does this one make, hmm?”