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Sneak Peek at Occult Horror Short Story: The Ninth Watcher by Peter Guy Blacklock

Posted by Harbinger451 on July 4, 2017

The Horror of it All CategorySneak Peek at Occult Horror Short Story: The Ninth Watcher by Peter Guy Blacklock

The Ninth Watcher is a short occult horror story in two parts, the first of which is presented below. You can read the whole thing on my Patreon site HERE (if you subscribe), or you can wait for it to be published in the up-coming second volume of our Dollar Dreadful series of ebooks which will feature three of my horror tales for your delectation.

High Moor Asylum

A dark date with destiny is in the offing at the High Moor Asylum for the Criminally Insane.

The Ninth Watcher

Part One: Lunatic.

Tuesday.

A date with destiny is a date that needs a lot of setting up.  No matter how preordained an event, planning is essential; certain designs must be put into action to ensure that a doom comes to fruition.  Newspaper ads, favours, dues . . . all play their part.  There is a definite knack to being in the right place at the right time.

Loud music thundered ominously in my ears as I walked steadily from the picturesque village, rising out of the valley and away from its cosy day-tripper surroundings.  Although late in the season my headphones and blue tinted shades had provided shelter from the bustle of the still busy Valley Line train, but in the increasingly barren landscape of High Moor they contributed to a rather chill mood.  A mood though which was suitable to the task ahead.

I approached High Moor Asylum with a sober countenance, it was a high security institution for the criminally insane, its reputation for excellence and its extreme secrecy also made it a perfect sanctuary for the rich and famous to deposit any relatives that may otherwise cause embarrassment or scandal.  The bleak building, built less than thirty years earlier, suited its surroundings; though its mock nineteenth century facade failed to add the character of age.  The building was new and the site had no history, at least none that I could find, and my research was meticulously thorough.

I mounted the steps leading to the large front doors purposefully, stopping before them I removed my headphones which now only emitted the low electronic hum of latent power, the music had finished.  I switched the compact-disc player off.  Pressing a finger to the small white button of the doorbell I waited to be greeted.  The door opened to show me a mature woman dressed in official whites, a name badge tagging her Nurse Wheatley.  The poorly veiled puzzlement on her face as she looked me up and down was familiar to me, welcome even.

Appearances can be deceptive, my height is below average for a man but above average for a woman, my build is slight but athletic and my dress, some might say, is effeminate though definitely not feminine.  I think of my attire as practical in a Victorian gentleman sort of way, the black frock coat emphasising slightly masculine shoulders and accentuating a slightly feminine waist.  A pale and pretty asexual face and dark, roughly cropped hair added to the ambiguity.  Removing my sunglasses I introduced myself, Sam Stafford.  My soft, strong and measured voice giving nothing away.  I was expected.

Dr. Hilda Greer admitted me to her presence at the precise time of our appointment, 10.30am, I had arrived nine minutes earlier.  She was younger than I had expected – in her late thirties maybe, she scanned our earlier correspondence, seeking for a formal title to brand me.  She didn’t find one.  She finally said my name uncomfortably with no Mr, Miss, Ms or Mrs to label me with.  Doctor Greer did not like being at a disadvantage.  She was also uncomfortable with my reason for being there.  The supernatural was not a subject she could confidently discuss theories about.  Which was why she needed to call in a professional.  I was the only Investigator of the Paranormal that she could find mention of through her many contacts at various universities and institutions, so she called for me.

I accepted her invitation to sit down.  I broke the stilted silence that descended into her comfortably dark, wood panelled office by asking if there had been any more strange occurrences since her last letter.  She hesitated before releasing a torrent of concerns, things had just been getting worse; security systems failing, strange unbelievable noises, temperature changes.  When these things happen the inmates would all seem to go simultaneously berserk, stretching the staff to the limit.  The strain was starting to tell; staff calling in sick, patients weren’t being attended too properly.  The concern in her eyes told more than her words possibly could.

I asked Dr. Greer if the beginning of the unusual happenings had coincided with the admittance of any inmates.

“Our admissions are taken in with the strictest confidence . . .” She began to recite her official policy, I interrupted her, reminded her of the predicament.  The phenomena were unlikely to be attached to the building or grounds for they had no history, they must be attached to someone or something brought into the Asylum.  I demanded to know who or what had arrived just before the waves of supernatural phenomena had started.

She remained silent for a good thirty seconds.  “Alexander Price was admitted on the 23rd of August, the phenomena started that night, hardly noticeable at first, gradually getting worse each night.  That was a month ago.”

Alexander Price.  That name conjured up so much for me.  A lunatic asylum was where he belonged, to protect himself as well as others.  He was a self and very publicly professed sorcerer, occultist and practitioner of black magic, considered by most to be eccentric, by the rest simply mad.  He was considered by a few, those misfortuned enough to know of his dealings at first hand — myself included, to be the most dangerous man in Britain.  His privileged and extremely wealthy background had protected him so many times; assault, rape, ritual abuse; there was never enough evidence — and any willing witnesses or accusers were never very willing for long.  My composure remained intact and my expression did not change.  My existence had meaning again.

“What happened to him?  Why was he admitted?”

The head of the asylum hesitated.  “His father brought him in, he’d been found a ‘gibbering wreck’ in a cellar of his London premises.  A few of Price’s cronies had tipped his father off, a ‘summoning’ they had tried had gone wrong . . . or some such nonsense.”

I asked if I could see Price himself.  Dr. Greer shuffled a little, then pressed a secreted intercom on her desk and asked for a Nurse Addams.

 

Alexander Price

Alexander Price… or is it Aleister Crowley?

Nurse Addams was a very big man, both vertically and horizontally.  He looked exactly like the clichéd sadist always found in mental institutions, at least if television is to be believed, but his soft voice belied this.  I followed him, feeling very small.  The spotless tiles of the chequered floor remained the same but the décor, doors and walls changed from plush manor house to sanitised, high-tech institution with insidious ease.  The nurse led me initially to a control room for the wing that held Price, monitors showed rooms and occupants with a detached, uncaring clarity.  Alexander Price’s cell stood out in its scarcity.  The occultist sat cross-legged and naked, but for a grubby pair of shorts, in the centre of the room with a pentacle and circle scrawled about himself on the floor.  No furniture, not even a pallet kept him company, a bright white toilet bowl kept a lonely vigil in a darkened corner.

I asked for confirmation that Price had had no belongings with him when he was incarcerated in this room.  “None.” said Nurse Adams.

“With what then has he marked the floor?”  I asked.

“Charcoal, mixed with ‘is own blood, amongst other things I’m sure.” Was the reply.  The marks looked desperately black on the monitor screen.  The inmate rocked slowly back and forth as if talking or chanting to himself.  “When ‘e first came ‘e ‘ad no charcoal –- daubed it with ‘is own blood and filth, every time we cleaned it up ‘e would do it again,” continued the nurse, “tried restraining ‘im, ‘e just went wild.  Dr Greer just said to give ‘im some charcoal an’ leave ‘im — and ‘is daubs . . . it kept ‘im quiet.”

My request to see him was met with a shake of the head.  “You’ll get no sense out of ‘im.”

The door to his cell was as secure as security could be, the pass card and key-pad sequence released a mechanism and then a huge bolt had to be slid across the heavy iron door.  “It won’t be pleasant.”  Warned the nurse matter-of-factly.

The scent of fear is the foulest thing.  Price’s cell was full of it.  I asked the nurse to leave and close the door behind him, he refused but agreed with a shrug to leave the cell with the door open, he was obviously relieved that he did not have to stay there.  Price looked up at me as soon as the nurse left the room, his eyes were perfectly sane but panic was in his voice.  “Are you here to help me — can you help me?”

Standing before him I asked, “What has happened to you?”

“Questions, questions . . . I don’t need more questions I need help!”

“I can only help you if I know what has happened.”

“Are you a Doctor?” said Price suspiciously.

“No,” I said, “I’m an occultist, like you.”

He laughed, “There is no one like me.  Don’t you know? I’m the most evil man in the world . . .” His laughter was strong and loud but it was an obvious bluff.

“What did you manage to summon that night?” I asked.  “Can you remember?”

“Back to the questions . . .” he said vociferously. “– Oh I remember all right: I’m not likely to forget . . . ever.”

I waited for an answer to my question, taking the opportunity to study Price in detail.  He just stared back at me, occasionally glancing about the dark room.  Price remembered what had happened all right, he was replaying it constantly in his mind but he feared that to tell of his memory was to bring that memory to life . . . he stayed silent in his fear.  He sensed my intrusion as I viewed his thoughts though and this panicked him.

“How can I help you?” I asked hoping this path might lead to information.

“Have you heard the term Binah?”  He suddenly asked.

Binah is the third Sephirah of the Tree of Life, according to Kabalistic tradition.  And I told him so. He was testing my occult knowledge.

“What do you know of the Codex Latinus Monacensis 849?”

“It is a manuscript, of the fifteenth century.  I suppose you could call it a handbook of ritual magic and Necromancy.”  I said.  “It’s in the Bavarian State Library I believe.”

He smiled unpleasantly.  “Do you know what this circle marked on the floor represents?” His tone was getting increasingly sarcastic and his manner more manic, more desperate.  “It protects me,” he answered the question himself.  “I remain perfectly safe while it remains intact and I remain within it.  If you can’t find a way for me to leave here without the need for it you cannot help me.  Do you still think you can help me?”

“I can only help you come to your fate.  The outcome of your actions is unavoidable, preordained almost.”  I smiled.  He did not.

“There is nothing I can do to prevent your destiny,” I continued, “you may succeed in postponing it, but in the end retribution will come to you.”

“Oh please . . . don’t preach to me!”  He said contemptuously.

“I can only aid those unconnected with you, those innocents affected by your actions and dealings with the Otherworld.  Your meddling must be put to rights.”  He just stared at me with pure hate slowly surfacing in his eyes.  “I can only give you advice.”  I continued.  “To hope to release your soul from its torment — its eternal torment.  You must forsake all your dark deeds, turn away from them.”

“You fool — if I turn my back on all I have done . . . they will simply take me — overwhelm me and destroy me . . . body and soul!”

“You are weak.”  I said matter of factually.  “You deserve the demons that seek you.”

“They’ll never get me,” he scoffed, “my knowledge keeps them at bay.”  His grin barely held as his bony hand, covered in grime, circled his crossed legs indicating the magic symbols.

“That kind of knowledge has a price though.”

“You talk like some kind of priest!” he suddenly spat,“– so holier than thou.  It makes me sick.”

“At least I am free to leave this Asylum, yours . . .“ I pointed to the circle, “you can never leave.”

He stood as if ready to leap at me, his fingers held like talons and his yellowed teeth gritted, his whole body strained.  Then suddenly he pulled back, looking at his circle, frightened he may have crossed over or disturbed it.

I laughed at him, trying to get another reaction.  He sat though as before and began mumbling his chants to himself.  He closed his eyes and his mind to me.  I would get no more from him.

End of Part One.

As stated earlier, you can read the concluding Part Two of this story on my Patreon site HERE (if you subscribe), or you can wait for it to be published in the up-coming second volume of our 451 ePublishing Haus’ Dollar Dreadful series of ebooks which will feature this and two more of my occult horror tales… ‘Crucifixions Continue‘ and ‘The Matter of Time’. Both these stories will have part Sneak Peek previews here and full Sneak Peek previews on the Patreon site HERE. Subscribe to this blog to keep updated on all my articles, stories and publications.

The Horror of it All… enter HERE all those who delight in horror, death, the macabre, the occult, black humor, weird tales, dark fantasy – and all such nefarious pleasures.

Harbinger451.co.uk

Copyright © 2017 Harbinger451 – All Rights Reserved


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One Response to “Sneak Peek at Occult Horror Short Story: The Ninth Watcher by Peter Guy Blacklock”

  1. […] « Sneak Peek at Occult Horror Short Story: The Ninth Watcher by Peter Guy Blacklock […]

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