Cursed in the Act

by Raymond Buckland

  “Of course, Harry. Of course!” His mind came back to join me in the office. His bright gray green eyes shone with anticipated excitement. “It is my belief that the Voudon practitioners who have made so free with our premises in the past may well be returning tonight to carry out a further ritual.”

  “That seems awfully risky for them, doesn’t it?” I asked.

  “They thrive on risk,” he said. “But you are correct. To anyone else this would seem foolish. But think, Harry! Who would ever guess that they would do such a thing?”

  “Well, you for one, sir.”

  “Thank you for that. But no, I mean the ordinary person.”

  I let that slip.

  “We are right now in the dark half of the moon. The full moon was, as you were aware, on St. Valentine’s night. We are now, then, about halfway through the waning cycle. This is the time for negative magic, Harry. If they are working their wiles to bring down any particular aspect of the Lyceum Theatre or its minions, then this is the time that they will act.”

  “And we are going to stop them . . . how, sir? Should we be armed with garlic bulbs, or something? I think you once told me . . .”

  Stoker laughed, though not unkindly. “No, Harry. We don’t need cloves of garlic or sharpened stakes, or anything like that. Believe me, we will, in point of fact, be no match for them if they are as I believe. No. We will simply be observing.”

  “You mean, we’ll be in hiding?”

  “Very definitely.”

  I breathed a little easier. Then I had a sudden thought. “How will they be getting into the theatre? I can’t imagine that they will also use the stage door.”

  “This is one of the things I will be most interested to find out, Harry. The theatre is not locked up until close to midnight, so I’m sure they won’t be planning anything before the early hours of the morning. The night watchman will have made his rounds. I want us to be inside—down in that under-stage area—with plenty of time to secrete ourselves and then to note their means of ingress.”

  “And we’ll be staying for their full production?” I said.

  “We will indeed.”

  After the midnight visit to the cemetery with my boss, to dig up a coffin, it somehow didn’t seem too strange to be talking about breaking into our own theatre to watch a Voudon ceremony, even one aimed at us. If I was going to participate in any such endeavor, I could be with no better person than Abraham Stoker, I knew. I tried to relax.

  I got away from the theatre as soon as possible after the final curtain that evening and hurried around to Chancery Lane and my humble rooms at Mrs. Bell’s. I downed the foul-tasting gruel that she had prepared for my supper, being grateful that at least it was hot, and then prepared myself from Mr. Stoker’s instructions by dressing both warmly and in dark clothing. I sat on the edge of my hard bed and studied the clock as it slowly ticked off the minutes. I aimed to be at the stage door at midnight exactly. I was on time.

  “Harry!”

  A whispered voice that seemed to come out of nowhere made me jump and brought on a case of the hiccoughs. The large bulk of Mr. Bram Stoker, dressed all in black, materialized at my side. I had neither heard nor seen him coming, although I had been looking about for him.

  “Sir—hic!” I said.

  “Shh!” He looked carefully about us and then took a key from his pocket and unlocked the stage door. “Quickly! Inside.”

  We both slipped in and he closed the door behind us. I felt a chill as I heard the lock click closed again, though the sound was enough to still my hiccoughs.

  “With me!” he hissed and set off along the passageway.

  It was pitch-black, but I could sense the cubicle where old Bill Thomas spent his life. It seemed strange to pass it knowing it was empty. Happily, both my boss and I had traveled this route enough times that we could proceed in the dark with just a light touch of the fingertips on the wall as we advanced.

  It was a different story when we got to the stairs down to the dressing rooms. Stoker stopped and stood perfectly still for a long time, listening. Apparently satisfied, he fumbled at his coat. I heard the scrape of flint and then saw a spark. After a moment we were both blinking at the light from a policeman’s bullseye lantern.

  “A dark lantern, courtesy of our friend Sergeant Bellamy. I thought it would come in useful.”

  “Very comforting, sir,” I said, nodding approval.

  Within ten minutes we were down beneath the stage with my boss swinging the light about the area, focusing in on the entrance to the hiding hole.

  “Where had we best place ourselves, sir?” I asked.

  “I’ve been giving that some thought, Harry. I want to be able to see the ritual area, but I also would like to learn exactly how they get in and out.”

  “How many of them will there be, sir?”

  I sensed him shrug. “Your guess is as good as mine, Harry. It could be as many as a dozen or more, or it could be just one or two.”

  “A big crowd wouldn’t give us many places to hide.”

  “I know it. I think it more likely that there will be but a few of them, but we can’t know until they get here.”

  He swung the beam of the lantern around the area. He let it settle on the rearmost trapdoor, the one used for the ghost of Hamlet’s father.

  “The trap?”

  “Why not?” he said. “There would be no reason for them to use it, and it’s upstage enough that it’s not too obvious. You and I could both settle down in the base of that, Harry, and still command a good view of the whole area.”

  I thought—I hoped—that was brilliant. We moved over to the trap and carefully positioned ourselves.

  “Make yourself as comfortable as you are able, Harry, without setting yourself up to fall asleep. We will need our wits about us, make no mistake.”

  I was certain of that. I found some old stage curtain to put down in the bottom of the trap so that we would both have a relatively soft bed to lie on. Mr. Stoker chose the stage left end, which was closer to the ritual area.

  “Sir? Suppose they decide to create a whole new ritual area, over the other side from where they last performed?”

  “Good thinking, Harry. Well done. Yes, it’s always a possibility, and if that’s their preference, then we’ll just have to adapt. But I’m reasonably certain that they will work in the previous area if only because of the energies that they have already built up there. They will consecrate it again, I’m sure, but it will be to reinforce the older blessing.”

  I pulled out my old half hunter and caught the light from the dark lantern. It was already half an hour past midnight. I wondered how long we would have to wait. My boss saw my action.

  “It will be at least an hour yet, Harry, so you can put away your watch. I am going to extinguish the light, if only to conserve fuel. We won’t be using it while they are here, of course, but it will be invaluable after they leave.”

  As the light faded I seemed to be suddenly aware of the chill in the air. I rubbed my arms to increase the blood circulation. There had been no heat coming from the lantern, but as the light went out I felt as though the temperature had dropped a number of degrees. I huddled down in the curtain material to begin the long wait.

  Chapter Ten

  My eyes had not closed, I was sure. Well, I was fairly certain. Yet apparently some amount of time had managed to slip by me. I was awakened—and I use the word advisedly—by Mr. Stoker’s elbow digging into my ribs. His large hand over my mouth ensured that I did not cry out.

  I listened, my eyes unable to penetrate the Stygian blackness that engulfed the whole under-stage area. I thought I heard something. I sensed Mr. Stoker, close beside me, nodding his head, conscious of my sudden awareness.

  The sound we’d heard made me think—I know not why—of the lid of a stone sarcophagus being maneuvered into place. It se
emed to come from the direction of the hiding hole. I turned my head that way. Suddenly I saw a glimmer of light. I heard Mr. Stoker’s intake of breath.

  It took me a moment to comprehend what I was seeing. Apparently a large slab of stone in the back wall of the hiding place had been slid to one side, revealing an opening through which shone a soft, low light. That light was momentarily blocked as a figure emerged through the opening. It was followed by a second figure. I had no idea from whence the opening came, but apparently it connected to some area outside the Lyceum Theatre. I tried to recall what buildings abutted our walls, if any. I immediately thought of the Lyceum Tavern, a favorite with some of our front of house staff. It would appear that a secret passage existed between the two establishments, known only to these followers of the Haitian religion while unknown to native Londoners. I made a mental note to go through the records with Mr. Stoker and track down any architectural drawings that may be in existence.

  As I watched, one of the figures moved forward and started lighting the candles we had noted lying about the ritual area. He was revealed to be a short, hunchbacked, dark-skinned man. The stone slab was slid back into place, and any light from that source was extinguished. More candles were lit and soon we were able to get a better idea of what was to ensue. The taller of the two figures strutted about the area; he was obviously the one in charge. The hunchback scurried to and fro, arranging candles and other items. A sweet, slightly sickly smell of incense began to permeate the area. A covered wicker basket was placed in the center of the ritual circle, and fresh bottles of rum were stood about the cleared space.

  Suddenly the shorter man squatted down and I saw that he had a drum, which he started to beat. It was a soft, gentle rhythm that, if continued for any length of time, I am sure would have sent me to sleep. I made out the silhouette as my boss gave his head a good shake, probably to keep himself awake.

  We were both saved when suddenly the drummer changed tempo and started a rapid, staccato beat that immediately lost any soporific value. I noted that the tall figure now started moving about the area as though performing some sort of dance. I was surprised to note that at some time in the proceedings he had divested himself of his clothing and now danced nearly naked. I strongly suspected that it was, in fact, Mr. Ogoon.

  Masked by the steady rhythm of the drum, Mr. Stoker leaned across and whispered in my ear, “Keep your eyes on that dancer, Harry. Commit to memory everything he does. We will need to write down all of this later on.”

  I knew, of course, that the only “we” who would be writing it down was myself, so I tried to pay attention.

  Ogoon—if Ogoon it was—took up one of the bottles of rum and tipped it up, filling his mouth. He then strutted around the area spitting out the fiery liquid onto the ground, following the pattern of the circle. I realized that he was marking the sacred space. He then took up a large saber sword, such as I knew to be in one of the prop and costume hampers near the area. He waved the blade through the air and then moved it to form a particular pattern at each of the four main cardinal points. As he did so, he called out some rhyming verse in a language unknown to me. In this manner he worked his way around the great circle. Then he laid down the saber. All the time his companion kept up the staccato beat.

  Ogoon next lifted an earthenware bowl filled with some white powder. Dipping in his fingers, he scooped out the substance and allowed it to run down through his fingers onto the ground. As he rapidly moved his hand about, even from where we were hidden, I could see that he was using the cornmeal, as I later learned it to be from Mr. Stoker, to describe the self-same vévé we had found painted on the wall of the hiding place; the vévé Stoker had said was representative of Guédé, god of the dead.

  Then the drum suddenly became silent. We lay there and waited. Ogoon and his partner sat like statues. The minutes ticked by.

  The drum suddenly started up again, very softly but gradually building in both volume and tempo. It was not long before the stentorian tones of Ogoon rang out to complement the drum, echoing off the low ceiling of the under-stage area. The sound assaulted the ears and brought me a throbbing headache that I did not lose until much later that night. Ogoon suddenly sprang to his feet and started an intricate dance about the center area, treading in the white design till it became absorbed in the dirt of the floor. He then grasped the lid of a basket that had sat in the center of the circle for so long. Flinging the lid from him, he reached into the wickerwork and pulled out something jet-black and noisy. As it flapped its wings and crowed, I saw it to be a black rooster. Ogoon snatched up a dagger from the ground at his feet and, flourishing it in ritual gestures, swept it around and down to sever the head of the bird. Even in the low light of the candles, from where we sat a short distance away, we could see the blood.

  I felt nauseated by what I saw but knew I had to keep watching. Ogoon smeared the blood of the fowl on his body before flinging the carcass from him. I remembered my boss saying that he thought there had originally been a white rooster sacrificed. If so, then the present offering of a black one would seem to indicate some sort of advancement in the purpose of the rituals. I wondered what that omen might be. Nothing good for the Lyceum, I was certain.

  The sacrifice would seem to have been the climax of the rite. From then on the drumming slowed and Ogoon’s perambulations equally cooled. Eventually, with a long and comparatively tenuous chant, he sank to the floor and lay there unmoving. The drum settled into a dull, monotonous beat and all was still. After what must have been about ten minutes, both men got up and started clearing away the evidence. Candles were extinguished and the mysterious sliding panel was reopened to allow the participants to exit. The stone slid back into place, leaving all in darkness, and Stoker and I breathed a little more easily.

  “Do you . . . ?” I started to say.

  “Shh!” Stoker hushed me. “We must give them plenty of time to leave. It would never do for them to come back for some forgotten item and discover us. Rest easy awhile longer, Harry.”

  “Rest easy?” I whispered.

  When my boss and I finally dragged ourselves up from the depths of the theatre, it was by mutual consent that we made for our respective homes, to wait until the following morning, in the warmth and safety of Mr. Stoker’s office, to discuss what we had witnessed.

  * * *

  I actually welcomed Bill Thomas’s extra-strong tea the next morning. I had eschewed Mrs. Bell’s watery version, together with her greasy bacon and eggs, and had not yet broken my fast as I hurried around to the theatre. I think Bill guessed as much since he also brought in a chipped plate bearing two large slices of toast, albeit burned black around the crusts. Without comment, Stoker and I sank our teeth into them. We then set to, going over the events of the previous night, with myself writing down the account as Stoker explained the actions of the Voudoist.

  “The long, plaintive song, or chant, was the Petro song,” he said. “A paean to the gods. And spitting rum to the four corners was the blessing, or consecration, of the area.”

  “And the sacrificing of the black cockerel?” I asked, scribbling as fast as I might.

  “If you want something from the loa, then you need to offer them something in return.”

  I laid down the pen. “What do you think they were asking for, sir?”

  He looked at me steadily, his face as serious as I have ever seen it. “I very much fear they may have been asking for someone’s death, Harry.”

  “The Guv’nor’s?”

  “Let us hope not, though any death would be tragic. Of course, they may not have been specific, simply asking for death to strike in our midst, without naming names.”

  “Is there anything we can do?” I asked.

  “I am already on it, Harry,” he said, a note of weariness in his voice. “As soon as I got here this morning I roamed about the whole theatre strategically placing certain herbs and roots. You laugh
ed at the notion of garlic . . .”

  “I didn’t laugh, sir,” I protested.

  He waved a hand. “No matter. The point is, Harry, that there are associations with certain plants, herbs, and minerals that are centuries old. In this modern age we may tend to laugh at them, but they have served in good stead for generations.”

  I could believe him. Mr. Stoker’s many superstitions must be rubbing off on me, I thought, because I could not only believe but actually had some kind of faith in all of his mumbo jumbo. It gave me a sort of comfort in an area where otherwise there was none.

  “We need to go through the architectural drawings for this building to trace that very clever connecting passage they were using. You might also send Sam Green below stage once again to have a close look at the sliding doorway. In fact, alert me when you are going to do that, Harry. I would like to have a closer look myself.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  We were both tired but we worked through till lunchtime, going over the details and verifying that we had each witnessed the same things. I was almost certain that the main figure we had watched was Ogoon, though it was difficult to visualize the elegant, smartly dressed Haitian as the prancing figure with blood smeared across his chest.

  On revisiting the scene of the nighttime ritual, we found that the dead rooster had disappeared and, as had seemed apparent from the previous rite, sawdust had been sprinkled over the worst of the bloodletting.

  “It is indeed as well that we did not linger last night, Harry. Someone did return to make their exploits less obvious.”

  “Either that or there is a person in the Lyceum staff who is aligned with them and has taken care of this side of things,” I said.

  “Excellent thinking, Harry.” I glowed at my boss’s praise. “With so large a number of employees it is not possible to swear to the loyalty of all, I am sure. However, we will need to examine their names and see if anyone appears doubtful.”