by Simon Parker
“Harris, thank you for asking the members of the Brimstone Society to gather at your beautiful home tonight. May I just say that I am looking forward to your contribution with enthusiasm, and I hope it raises the bar on Jefferson’s efforts last month with his tales of the Westminster ghosts.” This raised a polite chuckle from the gentlemen, all except Jefferson himself, who looked at the floor a little embarrassed that his efforts had raised more titters than gooseflesh at the last meeting.
Harris was confident his tale would enthral his guests and put the fear of God into them, especially the coup de grace that he had planned for the end of the evening.
The gentlemen milled around momentarily, finding themselves seats in the semi-circle of sofas and chairs around the large fireplace. Harris stood with his back to the fire and waited for quiet before beginning his tale.
“Gentlemen of the Brimstone Society, thank you for gracing my humble home with your presence tonight. My hope is that you won’t be disappointed you made the journey this foggy winter’s eve. That your interest will be piqued and that my tale of horror and devilry will bring you the taste of fear and intrigue that each of us in the society seeks.” Harris gazed around the room, making eye contact with every member before dramatically beginning his well-rehearsed recital.
“Tonight gentlemen,” he bawled, making several of the gathering jump a little, “I present you with a tale that spans more than a century and at least two continents. A tale so grotesque, so evil, about a creature from the very bowels of Hell itself. This creature’s very appearance can turn a man’s luck from good to bad. God alone knows what this hideous creature would be capable of if you were unfortunate enough to tangle with him.”
He scanned the room, gauging the reaction so far. All seemed intrigued. A few raised expectant eyebrows. Harris drew a deep breath and exhaled before continuing. “I present to you, the tale of the red devil!” There was a smattering of applause.
“Our tale has its roots in medieval Europe, where for decades, villagers swore they saw a devil dancing in the forest. An ill omen to be sure, for each who witnessed the devil was destined for disaster. Whole families died, houses burned down, fortunes were lost, just by catching a glimpse of the dwarfish red demon, but that part of the tale is conjecture mixed with myth and legend. Our tale proper begins in the 1740’s in the new world, the Americas. The creature may have travelled the tunnels of the underworld or he…it…may have stowed away on a ship. No one knows for certain, but it is an indisputable fact that the hideously deformed creature was witnessed by a gentleman by the name of Monsieur Cadillac, the founder of a town called Detroit. He was a powerful politician and wealthy man, very well-connected and influential. That was, until he happened, one night, to bear witness to the debauchery of the red beast.
It was on a night much like this one when Monsieur Cadillac, along with his faithful hound, took his regular evening constitutional, during which he spied a short gargoyle-like figure clad in red, dancing in the forest. Cadillac was dumbstruck at the appearance of the little fellow. It was apparent right away that said demon was direct from Hell, for his features were all gnarled and horned and his skin was brightest scarlet like the flames of purgatory. Monsieur Cadillac stood there a full minute before the demon spotted him. Then it grinned at him with its mouthful of needle-like fangs, pointed a long twisted red finger in his direction and was gone.
From that moment on, Cadillac was plagued by misfortune. He lost his position as a powerful politician, lost his family fortune and eventually lost his life, dying a broken man.” Harris took a breath and looked at his audience. “A few short years later, still in the fair city of Detroit, a captain James Dalyell - a fine British soldier - and fifty-eight of his faithful men, were marching along the banks of the river when their point man noticed they were being followed by a small crimson figure, all deformed and clad in red robes. It stalked them for some distance, grinning and pointing, its eyes ablaze and its mouth full of venomous fangs. Then, once again, the creature simply vanished without a trace.
Dalyell’s men discussed the matter in a tavern later on and were told by a seasoned old trapper that what they had witnessed was the red devil, and it had been the ruin of Monsieur Cadillac. He explained that all who bore witness to the foul offspring of Satan soon succumbed to terrible tragedy or heinous misfortune. Shortly thereafter, Captain Dalyell and his men were ambushed and massacred by Chief Pontiac and a band of Indian braves. The Detroit River ran red with their blood for days afterwards.”
Harris paused again, amused to see eyes widening as the legend unfolded. He could not wait until they saw what he had to show them.
“Gentlemen, this tale does not end with the massacre by the Detroit River. In 1801, the red devil was again spotted by a few of the townsfolk, laughing, dancing, snarling and pointing before vanishing into the ether. Days later, the largely wooden city of Detroit was razed to the ground. Many lost their lives that night in horrific agony as the city burned. The smell of scorched flesh filled the smoke-darkened skies.”
His audience were rapt, thrilling to the hellish tale unfolding to them. Harris could see the question on their faces…could this really be truth? To a man, they sat unblinking, hanging on Abraham’s every word. They had all heard and told many tales of debauchery, witchcraft and ghosts, but Harris could tell that his tale of the devil’s spawn had them all wondering if the Brimstone Society were as foolish as a lady in skirts dancing too close to the fire. If what he was telling them was true, these were no longer stories to thrill and entertain, to relieve the boredom of a Sunday night. These were real tales of demons and devils.
These God-fearing men were feeling uncomfortable and nervous and Harris couldn’t have been happier with the looks on their faces. His position in the society would be safe for another year, it seemed. It was at the chairman’s discretion of course, but if your hosted evenings and stories failed to impress, your membership would not be renewed at the Samhain festival. These gentlemen of class played at scaring each other, but Harris believed now that more than a few of them felt that he was taking them a little too close to a line none of them wanted to cross. They feared invoking the wrath of the Lord, yet every one of them was enthralled to the point of bewitchment. Harris took advantage of their undivided attention and immediately engaged them further.
“During the war of 1812, many folk saw the horrid little scarlet beast wandering in the mist and fog on the streets of the city. One particular witness saw the pointing finger of the red devil, its wicked fiery eyes and it shark-like grimace. That witness was one General William Hull who, just days later, was defeated and forced to hand over Detroit to the British troops.”
“So this beastly little red fellow isn’t all bad then, helping us Brits!” Jefferson interjected, trying to lighten the atmosphere that had grown heavy as the tale wore on. A small ripple of guffaws passed around the room, before stygian silence fell again in anticipation of more words from Harris.
“It seems that the red devil returned to Hell for some time after that.” Harris said. A palpable sigh of relief blew across the gathering. The worst of the tale was over, this must be the wrap up. These grown men were like children who, whilst proclaiming to be unafraid of the dark, cling to their candles with a ferocity borne of desperation. The relief was short lived as Harris continued.
“No more sightings of note were reported until this very year, gentlemen. In January, this year of our Lord eighteen hundred and fifty-seven, two hunters were out in the forest when they saw the hideous red beast dancing in a clearing. Knowing the local legend of the beast, they were fearful that bad luck or worse would befall them, so gave chase to the scarlet clad dwarfish devil. It could have disappeared into the flames of perdition or maybe it could have smote them with some demonic power. Instead it ran on misshapen scarlet legs like a hobbled pigmy, soon outrun by the hunters who ran it through with their bayonets, pinning the grotesque form to a tree so it could not escape. They say the blood eff
ervesced like vitriol as it dripped from the blades.
One of the hunters stayed with the impaled monstrosity while the other ran, hotfoot, to town to bring help. He returned shortly thereafter with two men, a barrel and two sacks of salt on a trailer drawn by a single horse. The four men bound the now dead beast and hoisted its body into the barrel, still with the bayonets piecing the corpse. They covered it with the salt which served two purposes. The first, to preserve the corpse for longer. The second, and maybe the most important, was the protective circle the salt provided, enclosing the evil and thus preventing escape of the demon’s soul.
Once the party returned to town, the hunters received a heroes’ welcome. The dreaded red devil had been slain and the town rejoiced, for the harbinger of doom was no more. The barrel was paraded around the city for all to see, but some folks were not convinced the salt would hold such powerful evil. They demanded that the beast be burned at the stake.
Disappointed that their prey would no longer be the object of glory for them but resigned to public opinion, the hunters raised a stake and built a fire in the town square. The crowds began to gather to see the gargoyle burn, but just as the hunters were about to remove the red body from the barrel and place it on the pyre, a mysterious figure dressed all in black took the hunters to one side, away from the gaze of the masses. The man wanted to buy the cadaver from them. They demurred, thinking of the celebration to be attended by most of the townsfolk, with themselves as the heroes. But when the man made an offer to each of them of more than a year’s salary, they hesitated no more and agreed to the sale. The man in black stowed the barrel in his carriage and galloped away, leaving the hunters to explain to the townsfolk why there would be no burning.” Harris paused for dramatic effect, and when he continued, his voice was almost feverish with excitement at his coming revelation.
“This, gentlemen, is not the end of my tale either, but where it becomes much more interesting.” Jefferson audibly gulped, as did the chairman.
“I learned just two short days ago that a collector of supernatural oddities in this fair city of ours indeed purchased this red devil’s mummified corpse and had it shipped from the Americas. The Black Hawk brig brought it into Liverpool docks just forty-eight hours ago. By some egregious turn of fortune on my part, the barrel was delivered to my residence at Clarence Street here in the city instead of to the collector’s house at Clarence Street, Everton. When the barrel arrived, my housekeeper, Mrs Higgins, signed for it and had it stowed in my wine cellar, assuming it to be alcohol of some description.”
Harris looked at the series of stunned faces whose mouths stood agape at the reality of what they were hearing. The terrible tale of the devil’s spawn was one thing and scary enough in itself, but to be told that the corpse of the devil was here, in Harris’s house, was beyond anything the members of the Brimstone Society had experienced before.
“Gentlemen,” Harris beamed, pleased to have shocked his guests into awed silence, “will you please join me in my cellar to witness the most grotesque creature you will ever lay eyes upon? The offspring of Beelzebub himself, pickled in brine and still in the barrel in the cellar below your feet.”
An uneasy murmur passed among the group. They began to get to their feet as Harris led the way to the cellar door. Each member was given a candle before being led en masse down the narrow cellar stairs. The men gathered in a circle around the dark oak barrel that stood on the dirt floor in the middle of the low-ceilinged room, like some dark parody of a religious rite. Harris stood beside the barrel, facing each member in turn as he spoke.
“I opened the barrel as soon as I got home from my jewellery shop. Gentlemen, as I have contacted the collector and the delivery agent to arrange redelivery to the correct address, this may be your one and only chance to lay your eyes on an actual demon. A gnarled and twisted, scarlet-skinned dwarf, direct from the gates of Hell.”
Every single man gathered was trembling like small flames in a breeze, their eyes all widening like a young boy’s on a Christmas Eve. Expectant, excited, yet fearful. They watched as Harris lifted the loosened lid of the barrel. They all clamoured forward, eagerly reaching with their candles for the best view of the creature.
“Harris, you old dog, you had us all going there for a moment,” one said. The circle of frightened men began to chuckle and then to laugh, the sound gathering momentum.
“Well done, old chap. Jolly good yarn you’ve spun for us this evening,” Jefferson added.
They all roared with laughter, their relief at the sudden release of pent up terror blatant almost to the point of emasculation. Harris stared into the barrel with abject horror. It stood empty, only a little of the brine left. The crippled, cramped, crimson cadaver he had seen in there just this morning had gone, but where? How?
The laughter of the men ceased abruptly with the slamming of the heavy cellar door. A few of the candles blew out, but were rapidly relit from those that hadn’t. Silence reigned in the amber half-light until a low rumble could be heard, so deep it reverberated in the blood of every man present, sending icy fingers of terror across their tight gooseflesh. The rumble grew into a growl. With frightening ferocity and agility, a small, gnarled, red-clad figure appeared on the outer edges of the candle glow.
There was a mighty wailing and gnashing of teeth as one by one the members of the Brimstone Society fell victim to a hunger, a vengeful wrath unlike any they could have imagined. Their blood steamed on the sticky dirt floor in the cool cellar, the visceral stench filling the room.
Within seconds, silence reigned again. The red devil disappeared into the ether, free to stalk another country.
Christmas Spirit
Christmas 1970 was one I will never forget. I remember it like it was yesterday, the dark memory that dominates all others.
A few of my friends had gathered at my flat to celebrate. The party had been thrown together at the last minute, but it was turning out to be fun none-the-less. It had started off quite slowly, sitting and sipping our first few drinks and watching the Cliff Richard Show on BBC1. Then the music had gone on. The more we drank, the louder we got and the more animated we became, singing along with the Jackson Five, Donny Hathaway and Jose Feliciano. It was swinging.
We'd got through two Watney's party seven's, five bottles of Blue Nun, a bottle of Martini, and we were down to the last two packs of Babycham and Snowballs before things slowed down a little again. Tired or drunk, I'm not sure, but we sat down to watch telly again. My collection of 45's were left strewn all over the table beside my record player. God only knew why, but we were watching Mantovani and his orchestra.
“Turn this crap off!” John had said. I'd known John since junior school and now he worked just up the road from me. “There's a funny on the other side, I think,” he added. “Carry On film, I think. You never know, Bab's might get 'em out again!” He laughed.
I levered myself from the comfort of my sofa and walked over to turn the new black and white TV onto the other channel. ‘Carry On Long John’ filled the screen, and the party began to turn into a relaxing evening instead. Some of the guys decided to call it a night at around 10pm, resigned to the fact the party wasn't going to liven up again. They staggered off home to their wives or girlfriends or on to other, more lively parties, leaving just four of us slumped on the sofa and chairs, sipping Snowballs and watching great British comedy.
John (whom I mentioned before), Sean (who worked with me), Georgie (who was a girl and a friend but who I wanted dearly to make my girlfriend) and me, were casually chatting about life, love, family, work and what Christmas meant to us. At one particular comment from Sean about family that should be with us, but were sadly absent (he'd lost his dad in the mid-60's), I raised my little green bottle and toasted, “To absent family and friends.” The others repeated the toast like a multi-tonal, mistuned echo.
“Mmm, that reminds me,” I said, pushing myself up from the sofa again, leaving Georgie's eyes to follow me wonderingly. “I got a p
arcel this morning from the good ol’ U. S. of A. I think my cousin sent me a pressie.” I was feeling a little light-headed, but managed to walk an almost-straight line to the kitchen, where I had left the parcel when I'd returned home from work.
I swayed a little as I passed through the door frame and jarred my shoulder slightly. Syd gave his signature cackle from the television screen. “Ah, your comedy timing is gold as always, Mr James,” I muttered.
I returned to the sofa with the parcel under my arm, aware of Georgie's eyes still on me. I was concentrating on walking well enough to convince her that I was a man who could handle his drink, but I probably succeeded more at looking like a stumbling old man who had just shat himself in a vain attempt to reach a commode! As I slumped back down on the sofa beside Georgie, I was very glad not to feel the warmth of evidence my bow-legged stagger had alluded to. Georgie sat forward on the edge of the sofa and lightly touched my knee.
“Come on then, open it. I'm all intrigued now.” She smiled, and of course, like any man trying like hell to impress a beautiful woman, I did as I was told. I put the parcel on the low coffee table in front of us and tore off the plain wrapping.
My eyebrows migrated north in an attempt to merge with my fringe. Glancing at Georgie, I could see the surprise register on her face too, although I thought I also saw something else…amusement? Embarrassment?
“Mmm.” I had to say something to break the uncomfortable silence, but that was all I could muster. I was still gauging my guests’ reactions, especially Georgie’s.
“Ouija,” I said, trying not to sound as excited as I felt. I loved all things paranormal, supernatural and occult in their nature, but knew from painful experience that some people still viewed such interests as something akin to Satanism, and regarded my fascination with nothing short of overt suspicion and even religious aggression. So I was cautious of the appearance of my reaction. I need not have worried. Georgie pushed herself forward on the sofa and her face lit up.
