Black Ceremonies (11 page)

He was found guilty of James Goodman’s murder. And when the death penalty was carried out, the year marking his demise, and the end of his period of ownership of
The Necronomicon
, appeared written by that unknown hand, in that same red ink.

And the name of the book’s new owner duly appeared beneath his.

Rhys-Morgan was wrong; I am prepared to pay the price – eventually.

You see, I believe that somewhere in its pages Raschid Ibn Malik found the secret of a preternaturally long life, and I shall find it too.

Quentin Richley,

April 1938.

Addendum: Quentin Richley died in August 1940, one of the many casualties of the Second World War.

“Let me get this straight—you want
me
, to make
you
, more attractive to women?”

Kevin was surprised at how beautiful the witch was. She wore a little black dress that showed off her shapely figure. He’d been unable to take his eyes off her rear as she’d led him into the open-plan kitchen. Her long hair was blonde, eyes blue, and he’d never seen a witch with such a cute little nose before.

And those lips …

Kevin's thoughts began to wander.

The witch clicked her fingers. “Is something the matter?” she asked.

“What?” Kevin spluttered. “I'm sorry … I was wondering what it would be like to feel your mouth on …”

“Watch it!” warned the witch.

Kevin blushed and apologised again. “I didn't expect you to be so beautiful,” he admitted.

“Oh? And what were you expecting?”

Kevin stammered, but before he could say anything, the witch spoke again, “Did you think I'd be an ancient hag with a large hooked nose?”

“Well, um …”

“You've been reading too many fairy stories.”

“I'm sorry,” Kevin apologised for a third time.

“Aye well, for all you know, maybe I really am an old crone, and I used my magic to make
myself
beautiful.” She laughed. “You wouldn't have much confidence in my ability to help you if I did have a big nose and warts, would you now?”

“No, I guess not. And the answer is yes.”

“Yes, what?”

“The answer to your question – yes, I want to be more attractive to women. Can you help me?”

The witch looked him up and down.

“I'm desperate,” he said. “I've tried everything else.”

The witch didn’t doubt his claim. Kevin was a lanky young man with less than plain features, which were not helped by his spots. His clothes were unfashionable and ill-fitting. And his tangle of ginger hair could do with a good combing.

“Your advert said you did 'Love philtres, glamorous enchantments, spells to induce desire …'”

“Yes, I can do all of those things, and much more,” she boasted.

“Well, they all sound good to me.”

“Is there someone in particular you wish to fall in love with you? Or do you want to drive all women wild with desire?” the witch asked.

“No, no, not at all. I can imagine that leading to all sorts of trouble.”

“Good, because I would refuse to do such a thing.”

“But, you can help me?”

Despite the witch's earlier boast, it would not be easy. She sighed. “Very well.”

“Great!”

“It won't come cheap though.”

“How much?”

“One hundred and fifty pounds.”

“One—” Kevin began.

The witch interrupted. “I don't haggle!”

“Fine.”

“Payment first.”

“Very well. Will you take a cheque?”

The witch shook her head. “Cash.”

Kevin took out his wallet, and counted out the money.

The witch went to a shelf of books. Kevin could see that they were cookery books, apart from one that stood out from the rest, which the witch selected. It was a large volume, covered in black leather and bound with brass hinges.

“Sit down,” she invited, as she studied her spellbook. “Make yourself comfortable. This may take a while.”

After a few minutes of study she announced, “Found it. This should do the trick.” And to herself, she mumbled, “If anything can.”

Kevin started to rise from the sofa.

“No, no, you stay there,” the witch instructed.

She found a large saucepan, then opened a cupboard and began selecting an assortment of jars and bottles. She arranged these on her worktop.

From where he was sitting, Kevin could see that some of them appeared to contain herbs. But others he was not so sure about. Perhaps he was better off not knowing, he decided, remembering something about witches and their penchant for eye of newt and tongue of toad.

The witch began mixing the ingredients in the saucepan, which she heated on the Aga. As she did so, she read from the book in an impressively stentorian voice.

Despite this, Kevin could not make out the words she spoke.

Eventually, the witch proffered a tall glass of bubbling greenish liquid. “Here you are then.”

Reluctantly, Kevin accepted it. “It stinks.”

“And then some,” the witch agreed.

“I suppose I have to drink it.”

“Well, you could rub it over your body, but I wouldn't recommend it. It'd have a totally different effect than the one you're after.”

Kevin lifted the glass to his lips, and took a sip. “Aaargh! It's disgusting.”

“Aye, well the best medicines usually are. Now drink it down quick or it won't work.”

“Oh well, here goes.” Kevin drained the glass, his expression one of disgust.

“Well? How do you feel?” the witch asked.

“Apart from nauseous you mean?”

The witch nodded.

“Disappointed.” Kevin sighed. “There's nothing happening. I don't feel any different.” He got up from the sofa.

“Do I look any different?” he asked, studying his reflection in the full-length mirror.

Ruefully, the witch shook her head. “I'm afraid not.”

“No, I can't see any difference, either.” Kevin sighed again. “I should have known that not even magic could help me.” He turned back to the witch. “Do I get a refund?” he wondered aloud.

“Hold your horses! These things can take time.”

“Hey!” Kevin yelled suddenly.

“What is it? Are you all right?”

“Tingling. There's this tingling sensation in my toes,” he explained. “Is that supposed to happen?”

The witch nodded, although truthfully she did not know. This was a piece of magic she had never attempted before.

“It's spreading. Up my legs.”

“Does it hurt?”

“No … No, it feels great.” Kevin glanced in the mirror. “I don't see any physical change.”

“Maybe it takes more time.”

“Yeah, maybe. Or maybe it just instils a sense of confidence. Women are supposed to like men who are confident, aren't they?” The witch wasn’t sure whether that was a statement or a question, but before she could reply Kevin asked, “What does it say in your book?”

“I’ll have a look.”

However, before she could consult her spellbook, Kevin gave a cry. “Wow! My whole body is tingling. I feel great. I feel as if I could go out and get any woman I wanted.”

The witch was not so sure, but she kept quiet.

Kevin began to shake. “Whoooooaaa!” he yelled, then was suddenly silent.

An amazing transformation had taken place.

“Well, I never. I never expected that.” The witch moved closer to Kevin.

“Hmm, very tasty, very tasty indeed. I fancy a piece of that myself,” she murmured.

And she wouldn't have been the only one. The witch licked her lips appreciatively, her hand reaching for the new-look Kevin.

Kevin, who had suddenly been transformed into a rather large bar of chocolate.

The man known as Crazy Cal Harper listened at the door of the hotel room. Not that anyone used that epithet in Harper’s presence – not unless they were crazy themselves. Anyone who did was likely to end up dead.

Harper smiled, this was the right room – there was no mistaking the voice of the man inside. Brett Franklin’s drawl was quite distinctive. Harper straightened and took a step back. The smile had gone from his face. He took a deep breath, and then kicked the door open.

There was a shriek as the door slammed against the wall. The tableaux that was unveiled brought the smile back to Harper’s face.

On the bed lay a naked saloon girl. Standing beside the bed was a red-faced Brett Franklin. Harper had caught him in the act of undressing, and his britches were around his ankles.

“What the hell?” Franklin had yelled at the sudden interruption.

Harper stepped into the hotel room. “Hello Franklin,” he said. “You forgot to put the
do not disturb
sign on the door.”

“Uh!” Franklin grunted. “It’s you!”

“Surprised to see me?”

Franklin glanced at his gun belt. The gun belt that he had unbuckled in such a rush, and draped over the back of a chair. Trying to reach it would mean certain death.

Instead, he said, “It’s been a long time.”

Harper nodded. “Too long.”

“When did you get out?”

“Not soon enough.” Harper pushed the door shut behind him.

Franklin frowned. “You’ve come for your share of the money?”

“Kinda perceptive of you. Now, why don’t you sit down on the bed and tell me where it is?”

“Why not?” Franklin shrugged and sat down.

“Well, where is it?”

“I’ll take you to it.”

“I’ve grown kinda particular about the company I keep. I’ll go alone. Now, where is it?”

“Don’t worry, Cal, it’s safe.”

“So where did you put it.”

“I buried it.”

“You did what?”

“I buried it, what did you expect me to do, put it in a bank?”

“All right, just where did you bury it?”

“If I tell you that, you’ll shoot me.”

Harper laughed. “What makes you think I won’t shoot you anyway?”

“Yeah, that had kinda crossed my mind, Cal.” Franklin said, trying to calculate his chances of getting out of this hotel room alive.

“I’m getting kinda tired of this, Franklin. Where did you bury the money?”

“In a cemetery.”

“In a cemetery,” repeated Harper. He laughed again. “Well, I guess that makes sense. Which one?”

“I’ll show you, Cal, I’ll take you to it.”

“God dammit, Franklin!” Harper shouted. “You’ll tell me which cemetery, and in which grave. And you’ll tell me right now!”

“But if I tell you, you’ll kill me,” Franklin protested.

“There’s worse things than dying, care to find out what, Brett?”

“No.”

Harper sighed, and his tone grew conciliatory. “Look, I haven’t come here to kill you, Brett. In fact, I’m offended you could think such a thing of me. And if it’ll make it any easier for you, I swear on my mother’s life that I won’t kill you. How’s that?”

“You swear?”

“Sure, I swear. Hell, Brett, what do you take me for? Sure I’m a bank robber, an’ I’ve killed plenty of folk in my time, but I ain’t some kinda low-down, mean, murdering bastard, am I?”

That was a question that Franklin was well aware of the answer to; however, he chose not to answer it.

“Hell, I ain’t even drawn my gun, yet.” Harper sounded offended. “I think I could be forgiven for thinking that you were aiming on keeping all that gold for yourself. That’s not the case now, is it?”

Franklin sighed. “All right. It’s in the Ridge Hill cemetery. That big Civil War one.”

“That is a big one,” Harper agreed. His tone hardened again. “Which grave?”

Franklin licked his lips, then nodded. “Very well. The money is buried in the grave of one Al Gibson.”

“Al Gibson, hey?” Harper smiled.

“Yeah, Al Gibson.”

Harper’s hand went to his pistol. “It may surprise you to know, Brett, that this pains me, but I have to do it.”

“Hey, come on, Cal. I kept the money safe. I’ve told you where it is. You don’t have to do this.”

Harper smiled. “Tell you what; I’ll give you a chance.”

“Look, Cal, You can have all the money, my share, all of it.”

“My you have grown perceptive.” Harper’s expression grew stern. “Pull your pants up, Franklin.”

Warily, Franklin did so, half expecting to die in the process. He wondered whether he could make an escape by jumping from the window.

Harper seemed to read his thoughts. He glanced at the girl who cowered on the bed. She was pretty, blonde-haired, firm-breasted. “What’s your name?”

“Glad,” she answered. “It’s short for Gladys.”

“Pretty name for a pretty lady,” opined Harper.

Glad smiled at the complement.

“Well now, Glad, you move over there, by the window, that way you’re outta harm’s way. Wouldn’t want to see you get hurt now, would we?”

“But,” Glad protested, “everybody will be able to see me naked.”

Harper grinned, amused by the whore’s sudden concern for her modesty. “Just do it, darlin’.”

Pouting, Glad got off the bed, wrapped a sheet around herself, and went to stand in front of the window, blocking Franklin’s possible route of escape.

Franklin cursed silently.

“Say something, Brett?” Harper asked.

“No.” Franklin shook his head.

Harper nodded. “Good. Now, go put on your gun belt.”

Briefly, Franklin had thought about launching himself at Harper but had dismissed the idea. Even while he had been distracted by the whore, Harper would have drawn and filled him with lead before he got anywhere near him. His only chance – slim though it was – was in a gunfight, and he began to cross the room.

Harper waited until Franklin had almost reached the chair, before pulling his gun and opening fire.

Glad screamed.

The shot sent Franklin crashing against the wall. “You bastard!” He yelled in pain and anger. “Thought you were gonna give me a chance?” Franklin slid down the wall, hands pressed against where the bullet had entered his body.

“What can I say? ’Cept I lied.”

“Why? I told you where it is …” Franklin was crying. His hands could not prevent the blood that wept from his chest. “That you could have it all.”

“Sure, you did,” Harper agreed. “And one day, you’d come after me. Gunning to kill me.”

“I’ll come after you … you … you bastard,” swore the dying Franklin.

Harper shook his head. “You should save your breath.”

“I’ll kill you! I swear it.” Somehow, Franklin managed to draw enough strength to utter his oath. “You hear me, Harper? I’ll have my vengeance. I’ll kill you!”

“You know, it’s surprising how quickly you can grow tired of someone’s voice.” Harper calmly took aim, fired, and Brett Franklin slumped over, dead.

Harper laughed. “Guess there were limits on his powers of perception after all.”

He turned his attention to Glad. She was trembling in the corner of the room.

“He paid you?”

The girl nodded, too frightened to speak.

Harper smiled. “Well, in that case …” He grabbed the whore by the wrist. “What’s paid for is paid for … And with my money, after all.” Harper thrust the girl onto the bed and began to unbutton his trousers.

Harper crested the top of Ridge Hill, and whistled in response to what lay before him. Below was row after row of graves marked by wooden crosses. Even though he knew whose grave he was looking for, it would still take a long time to find. Hell, there could even be more than one Al Gibson buried here.

Harper tethered his horse to a cross, unburdened it of the tools he had brought with him, and began his search.

Harper paused to drink from his canteen. He kicked a stone in frustration. “Where the hell are you, Al Gibson?” he suddenly shouted. Eerily his voice echoed, repeating his question.

Harper laughed. Hell was probably where Gibson was.

Farther along the row, a crow alighted upon one of the crosses. “Get,” Harper shouted, throwing a stone at the bird. The black bird took off, and Harper resumed his search.

Moments later Harper gave a whoop. “Well, I’ll be damned.” Remarkably, the wooden marker where the crow had landed was the grave of Al Gibson – died February 1862. With renewed enthusiasm, Harper began to dig.

The coffin uncovered, Harper threw aside the spade. It had not been buried deep. Harper grinned, at last the gold would be his.

Gathering some rope, he attached it to the coffin. Harper took a deep breath, then began to haul the oblong box from the hole in the ground.

Breathing heavily from the effort, Harper found his crowbar. “Soon have you free.”

Levering with the crowbar, the lid came off easily. To reveal a skeleton, the remnants of its uniform so faded as to be indiscernible as to which side Gibson had fought for in the war. There was no money.

“You bastard, Franklin!” Harper yelled. Angrily he reached into the coffin and yanked free Gibson’s skull. “You dirty cheatin’ bastard!” Harper threw the skull aside. He began to beat the ground with his fist, ranting and raving.

Abruptly a shadow fell across Harper. Eyes narrowing, he looked up.

“Taken to grave robbery, have we, Harper?” The man who spoke was tall and lean, and his gun was pointed at the outlaw.

“You’re the only jackal around these parts, bounty killer.”

The bounty hunter rolled his cheroot from one side of his mouth to the other. “I can take you in dead or alive, Harper.”

Harper sneered. “You think so?” he said, getting to his feet.

“Choice is yours. Now either go for your gun, or take off that belt.”

Harper scowled. “All right, all right. I ain’t gonna let you kill me now, am I?”

“Take off that belt then. Slowly now.” The bounty hunter pointed. “Now, throw it over there, and then put your hands up in the air.”

Harper unbuckled his belt, but instead of pitching it where instructed, he suddenly tossed it at the bounty hunter’s face.

The gunman flinched aside, firing as he did so, but Harper had already hurled himself out of the way. Again the gunman fired, just missing the rolling Harper. Bowie knife in hand Harper rose. Recklessly he charged the bounty hunter.

Gun blazing, the gunman could not understand how he had not hit his prey. Then Harper grimaced, as a bullet grazed his head. Blood ran down his cheek, and his charge slowed to a stagger. Abruptly he fell backwards.

“Seems like I’ve got you now, Harper.” The bounty hunter approached warily, reloading his pistol as he did so.

“Do you want me to put a bullet in you, just to make sure that you’re dead?” The bounty hunter kept his gun trained on the murderer.

Harper groaned, his hand clawing desperately for his dropped knife. It lay just out of his reach.

“My, my, that is a vicious looking blade. Wouldn’t do for a mean, low-down dog like you to get his hands on it.” Grinning, the bounty hunter bent to pick up the weapon.

Harper began to mutter and moan. “Gold … coffin full of gold …”

“Eh? What’s that you say?” The bounty hunter’s curiosity was piqued, and he leaned closer. “What are you on about?”

“Buried gold … I’ll share it with you.”

The bounty hunter holstered his pistol, grabbed Harper by his shirt, and yanked him up. “What gold?” He pressed the knife to Harper’s throat.

“The gold in the grave.”

“What grave?” The bounty hunter laughed. “You don’t know which grave it’s in, do you?”

“Sure I do.” Harper pointed. “That one.”

“Harper, you just made a very stupid mistake.” The bounty hunter was unable to resist glancing in the direction Harper had indicated. It was all the opening Harper needed.

Whilst the bounty hunter’s attention had been focused on the hand reaching for the bowie knife, Harper’s other hand had grabbed Al Gibson’s discarded skull. Now he took the opportunity to whack him with it.

The blow to the head caused the bounty hunter to sway, and his hold on Harper loosened. Harper got a cut to the throat, but it was not deep, and in his fury he did not even notice it. Another ferocious blow from the skull sent the bounty hunter sprawling. In an instant, Harper was on the dazed bounty hunter, pounding him with Gibson’s skull.

When Gibson’s skull finally broke, the red mist cleared from in front of Harper’s eyes. The bounty hunter was out cold, his face a bloody pulp. “Told you, I wasn’t gonna let you kill me, now, didn’t I?”