These will be added from time to time and periodically changed. Please enjoy them. I also welcome any comments.
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THE GARNET RING by DAVE EDWARDS Oct 2021
I arrived at the house with my four friends. We were ready for a mediumship night in Anthony’s lounge. I can never make up my mind whether we are imagining events or actually making contacts with the inner occult planes. Anthony tended to override our opinions, often falling into a trance. In fact on a few occasions, we have all left his house when he seemed out to this world.
He welcomed us in to sit round a small dark oak table where we always found we were rubbing knees together in the dark. “Please look at this ring on my finger. The stone is so large it almost looks like an imitation Garnet. But there is one factor which will inspire us all tonight.” He passed it to me. “Feel its weight and then look at the density of the colour.”
I frowned to look involved and gave it to Mavis who was looking a little on edge. She slipped it onto her finger, but as Anthony frowned, she slipped it off and passed it to Peter, her boyfriend. Slowly as it travelled round the audience, Anthony hummed one of the discordant rhythms he enjoyed before reaching out for the stone as our inspection drew to an end.
“I found this in the bottom of a collection of smaller items belonging to my grandmother. You probably remember items we have studied in the past which all have occult connections.” He slipped the ring onto his own finger, turned the lights down apart from a special high intensity spotlight. Red lights flickered round the room as Anthony moved his finger slowly in the beam of the light. “Concentrate on the redness and see if you can project your consciousness into the flickers.”
Peter frowned and his forehead became strongly lined. “It looks as though a miniature world is being miniaturised.” Anthony passed the ring to him. “Concentrate on the mystical sparkles. Let your mind expand and let it slip into the
mystical domain before you.”
Peter shook his head, closed his eyes and held the ring to whoever was next. He shook his head and his lips trembled. I reached forward, took the ring and held it between my thumb and first finger. Flashes of red still shot across the table as I peered into its interior. Then suddenly, I was in the ring. People were in this dimension, movement flickered, and I could feel energy vibrating through my body. There was so much to see I felt my inner self materialising. Somehow, I had changed dimension. Things around me were proportionate to my inner self, but there was no contact between them and me. But then it all changed. Somehow the sort of world I was in was a five-dimensional situation. Everything was a deep red, flickering from brightness to overcast gloom. Movement was coming from entities of some sort, but they were so translucent they never solidified.
I closed my eyes and blocked my vision with my left hand. I could still see into the magical realms, and I felt my shoulders, neck and head throbbing with energy. Pushing my chair away from the table I realised I was withdrawing from the stone’s influence.
Then I noticed that Peter was now holding the ring and the others were as close as possible. He began to intone irregular rhythmic tunes. Then he talked to an entity visible in the Radiance coming from the ring. “If I look deep into the depths of the ring, everything magnifies.” Then suddenly he slammed it down on the tabletop. “This is evil. Something is coming out through the ring into ourselves. I don’t want to see or touch it again.”
Anthony laughed. “What is the matter with you all? You have looked at metaphysical items before.”
“Where did the ring originally come from. Was it your Grandmothers?” People began moving toward the room door. Anthony grinned as he saw fear in people’s faces. Suddenly everyone was heading for the door. I reached across the table and looked deep inside the Garnet. For one second, I felt at ease and then it was as though a whole world of intrigue, danger, uncertainty shot from the ring, almost like an explosive.
I took a deep breath and slowly repeated the mystic rituals we use to made danger subside. I felt the room return to normal. Then Anthony took the ring, peered deeply into the garnet, before dropping the ring into the box in which he had originally found it. He nodded goodnight as I slipped out of the door to catch the rest of the group. I know he will follow the procedure again, but maybe on his own. There was a definite element of evil associated with the Garnet ring and definitely not something to wear on my own finger.
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IT WAS A VERY DARK NIGHT Dave Edwards 812 words
The pathway was desperate to trip them up, even though their vision was clear. Maureen was fascinated by the bob on the back of June’s head as it bounced left and right in sympathy with her footsteps and muttered grumbles. A larger than usual rock reached up for her foot and it felt as though she had been kicked rather than tripped. She grimaced at Thomas who was close to her side and felt annoyed as he half laughed. “Use your instincts and imagine you are projecting yourself above the ground.” He pushed a branch from the pathway and held it clear for the other two chaps to avoid it colliding with their faces.
“Let’s break for a few minutes.” Taking a step to his side he leaned on a dark stem of an oak tree. The last remnants of daylight touched the top of rolling clouds before resting for a moment and then slithering into the horizon. A chill tried to turn into a breeze but then reverted to cold spasms which hung around their bodies as though trying to feel flesh as it stroked their faces.
“How you feeling, June?” muttered Maureen. “I used to enjoy our rituals more in the summer, when we could strip off and still be warm.”
“I could just do with a ciggy,” June, said turning to look at the blank outlines of the three fellows. “Anyone got one?”
Martin ferreted in his pocket, but Thomas growled, “You know we must keep our sensitivity to the maximum tonight.” He rubbed his palm against the oak tree, creating a vibration. “Listen carefully. Let nature itself talk to you and welcome us into this domain.”
“You sure we’re on the right path?” Raymond spoke for the first time since they had left the cars.
“You loosing your confidence? By the time we have finished our ceremony tonight, your inner consciousness will be able to shine through any uncertainty, both physical and magical.”
Maureen’s fingers rubbed the collar of her coat. “I don’t know why we could not just have come in robes and left ordinary clothes in the cars.”
“We will be colder than this before we finish the invocation. We are going into the depths of spiritual evolution.” Thomas stepped away from the tree, his foot nudging a stone forward. He nodded. “You see nature is giving way to us on this special occasion.”
“How much further, Thomas?”
“Another ten minutes, I reckon.” He turned to the group and stared intently into each of their faces. “You all still happy to join me this night? When I contacted the forces in my temple at home, I received fantastic secrets and methods of contact I have not divulged yet.” He held his arms out wide. “Come my friends. Let us go forward and learn the inner secrets of our universe.”
The path was still darker now. The moon which had flickered occasionally had given up. Maureen felt for June’s hand and clutched it tight as Thomas came to a standstill and flicked on his torch. “This is only to get accurate positioning. We have about four minutes to get our timing precise.” His torch lit a tree with a hollow depression in its trunk. Pop your top clothes in there.”
He began a chorus of the ritual with sibilant hisses as he moved each participant to their position. “Relax now and stand as comfortable as you can.”
“Thomas. My right foot has balanced on a large stone. I think I may slip”
“Bloody hell. June.” The torch light flicked round the gathering. “just adjust your self slightly.”
As the torch was switched off, the darkness became almost physical. Martin and Raymond were vibrating the ritual words they had practiced back at base and the blackness of night seemed to fluctuate and move in rhythm. As the girls joined in, its tone rose slightly. Thomas began a deep base vibration that was more of a grumble than a song. Maureen whispered. “Thomas I’m frightened.”
“Remember what you’ve learnt, the rituals we’ve practiced at home. Trust me.” He paused. “Can you feel the sense of upwards movement?” He coughed. “You will feel me trace the sigils on each of your foreheads. You should imagine them glowing with energy that is being directed to our destination.”
June spoke. “I can’t stop shivering. Power is being drawn from me and pulled upwards.” The others spoke, agreeing with her perception. “The darkness is blacker. A circle has been cast behind us. We are all caught in its shape.”
Thomas’s voice was far distance, but still clear. “Look upwards. See that tiny spot of light. It’s getting closer. In stead of speaking the ritual, sing it as loud as you can, project you voice into dark space.”
Martin suddenly shouted. “Look above. That light is coming closer. See how it has brightened. Yet at the same our darkness feels like a blanket holding us in position.”
Then suddenly, each became silent. A hum resonated in the air while an icy wind whistled round their circle. Thomas shouted, “He is here. Our greetings, oh Mighty one.” Then to the others, “Down on your knees.”
“Look how quaint he is. How can he be one of the gods?” Maureen levered herself from the floor.
Darkness flashed to light. On a block of wood in front of them sat a dwarf in pantomime clothes. As the group gasped in shock, they began to talk. “What’s this. Where from. What do we do…..” Suddenly physical pressure stopped their voices.
The creature from space stood on his block and laughed with an undulating tone. As the magical group edged away from him, his mouth opened, spat once, and as the worshippers fell to the floor in adoration, he made his first address.
“Hello my darlings.” His high-pitched voice, slightly whistling spoke again, “What a load of idiots you are. I have travelled all this way, on a very dark night and look who has called me here. Opening his mouth, he laughed inanely. Then a whirlwind of movement violently spun him and his wood into the sky.
Maureen laughed hysterically, then looked in all directions for her friends.
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THE STAINED GLASS WINDOW by DAVID EDWARDS
The blue light trickled across the floor. As it passed the pulpit, the pattern did a curtsey with a flashing effect on the tiles, before stopping level with the first pews.
It formed the base of a vee where a soft green glow gently caressed the carved wooden figures who for five hundred years had smiled towards the altar from the end of each pew. A scene of peace and calm where worshippers had knelt to pray as they contemplated the relationship between god and man every Sunday. Occasional visitors to the church gazed in fascination at the elaborate stained glass window in the eastern quarter behind the reredos screen. Many would cross themselves or bow their heads at the glory of the colours radiating from penetrating sunlight. The overall effect was almost like the splitting of the colour spectrum through a prism.
If a cloud drifted across the sun, the stained glass figures gave the impression they were moving and turning towards one another, perhaps to discuss current religious trends or just to comment on the tourists as they, like thousands before, stroked the oak surfaces of church furniture and traced grain patterns that meandered along carved wood. Shuffling back along the nave the visitors would give a final passing glance at the window, breathing in the colours as the sun returned and painted the interior, before they dropped a copper or two in the collection box, before scurrying outside with a feeling of guilt.
Ginny smiled. No one had noticed her sitting in row twelve pushed tight against a pew end. Her dress merged with the warm oak, and her auburn hair completed the camouflage. Taking a sketchpad from her shoulder bag she wrote the date on the top of the page, then stared hard at the top left hand panel of the window. The flowers in the glass almost seemed to sway gently in a non-existent breeze. Red, green and orange clung to brown stems. The smallest flicker of yellow came and went as the sun touched the building. She frowned and sketched the panel, as she had done every day for the last month or so. It was different again today. The prophecy must be true, she told herself. As clouds darkened the church, Ginny half stood and looked round the interior, feeling slightly edgy. Don’t be stupid, she told herself and taking a mint from her pocket, unwrapped it, the noise of the paper making her feel guilty as she popped it in her mouth.
She looked at today’s drawing and scanned the window again. Surely it couldn’t have changed that quickly. Her eyes flicked between the paper and the glass, her mind refusing to accept the orange floral head was now yellow. The pages of her pad rustled as she flicked backwards and forwards comparing each drawing and the colours shown. The temperature was dropping and she felt uneasy. Time to go.
The church door opened and dark robed figure moved down the aisle, pausing as he drew level. “Here again Ginny?” he said. “Do you really believe this fairy tale you’ve found. How can the pattern in a window change?”
“Hello vicar. I’m more convinced than ever. Do you want to see my sketches?”
Shaking his head, he smiled and walked to the altar and bowed. “Time to close the church,” he said quietly.
Ginny smiled back, but as she opened the door, she said, “There are only seven days left before the prediction comes true.” She stepped through the doorway, then on an impulse turned back and saw the vicar staring in her direction, a horrified look on his face. He gestured to the window, his outstretched arm shaking. “Ginny, this is impossible, but something unusual is happening. Look at the window.”
As he spoke, a shaft of light pierced the window making a pattern of figures appear on the floor. Slowly each shape stretched and began to stand, their hands reaching towards the vicar as he frantically made the sign of the cross. Suddenly he too was lying on the floor, hands scrabbling on the tiles.
Ginny moved back into the church and then stopped as two of the figures came towards her. She clutched a carved figure on a pew and held her breath. Both figures bowed and smiled and a voice echoed in her mind. “Madam you were right!” The one on the left made a courtly stoop. “But your calculations were a week out. May peace be yours. We look forward to talking with you again.”
“But the vicar,” she stuttered.
“He will wake and will remember nothing. But you will be welcome as long as we are here.”
Ginny smiled back. The dusty shelves, the old book with its mildewed cover. She laughed, curtseyed to the figures, and stepped outside the church. Yes! She knew she had been right.
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THE WRONG DAY BY DAVE EDWARDS
She wore a black cloak, a little frayed at the edges and although the candle lights caught her pouting face in their glow, it was difficult to distinguish pock marked flesh from material. Her crystal ball sat central on the table and flickers of light dived through its chipped surface to make patterns and images that danced and pirouetted in a mystical sequence. Erotic images hung from the walls, yet despite their sensuality, any poses were more threatening than erotic as they appeared to move towards his chair. His peripheral vision had glimpsed a skeleton earlier, but now his head could not rotate sufficiently to be sure.
Earlier he had tried talking to the crone, but as she screeched in response, her extended arms made strange air swishing gestures, and he realised his wrists were immobilised and clamped to his chair arms. It was cold, a chill was invading his body and the gloom was becoming denser. Yet it had been bright sunlight when he entered the tent. A disjointed voice had told him where to sit and by the time he had done so the door flap had shut out all exterior light.
When prompted he had told of his purpose in attending. He had also specified the need for it to take place on this particular day. Now fear lurked. The darkness was moving and becoming almost tangible. Outline forms, grotesque, unearthly, rotated and he shuddered to stop himself shouting. One face he knew so well hovered two inches in front of him. Its outline solidified, and he screamed.
A voice cackled. “You did say May the 4th?” The tone softened. “It is May 5th today, darling.”
“Christ. You’re right.” Suddenly he was on his feet, mouth gaping wide. “Can you stop everything?”
Bright spot lights shone as a screen dropped in front of him. The door flap burst open and sunlight flooded in. Dazzled, he lurched outside, tears streaming down his cheeks.
A mellow female voice spoke. “Come again whenever you have problems, dearie. Just get the right day.”
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The next story shows one of the different ways the mystery traditions are passed on to the next generation
THE MAGIC HIDDEN IN MY GRANNY'S BAG by DAVID EDWARDS
It was not a large bag. But then neither was it small. Hanging on a large coat hook screwed into the wall it always drew my eye to its quilted surface. The visible side had a pattern of chintz ware plates, typical of a country cottage where rag rugs covered the red tiled floor.
It was difficult to reach since a large oak chest of drawers stood firmly against the wall. Everything in the room was so prim and proper. Brass and copper gleamed with a golden lustre; lace curtains that looked washed and starched that very day hung at the single window; blue and white meat plates stood at attention on the wall rack.
I always looked at the bag, but if I asked Granny why she kept it on the wall, her eyes twinkled and the corners of her mouth twitched into a smile. “It’s somewhere to keep a few odd and ends,” she said, and turned to lift a large hot scone from the black cooking range before placing it on the table and winking at me. From the fridge she took a butter tub, followed by a bread knife in one hand and a small table knife in the other.
“Top or bottom, my lovely?” she asked as she sliced through the scone and then spread a thick layer of homemade butter on its surface. “Wash your hands now,” was like a prayer at the end of our snack. Then we both sat on the chaise longue against the wall with the plate rack.
Granny stared fixedly into my eyes. I sometimes felt she could see inside my brain as an inquisition about schoolwork began. “Do you understand equations yet?” she asked. I nodded my head uncertainly. “I think you should try harder,” she continued. “Your essays are good. You are a thoughtful girl.”
I blushed and asked, “How do you know so much about my school work?”
Then she laughed so loudly that I couldn’t help but join in. Suddenly her right hand would touch my left, gently squeezing my first two fingers and we would talk about country lore. Or rather, Granny did while I listened in amazement. She seemed to speak for hours, but when I looked at my watch, it was only thirty minutes since I’d first entered her cottage.
On my way home, I would pause and look back, but the high and scraggly hedge blocked my view. Yet I always turned at the same place. What I did notice were three puffs of smoke that spiralled out of the tall chimney. How she did it I never found out, but it was her way of saying cheerio.
As I grew through my teens, I noticed the bag sometimes hung the other way. Instead of quilted plates, there was a pattern difficult to describe. This consisted of square patches of vivid primary colours, inside of which were clashing tints. A red square would have a yellow circle inside while a green shape would have a red motif. If I stared, my eyes felt out of focus and the surface of the bag seemed to be moving.
On these days, Granny seemed more serious than normal and questions she asked were more like a test on what she had told me in previous chats than on my schoolwork. One particular day, she lifted the bag from the wall using her walking stick and took out a piece of cardboard. On it was an oval containing black matchstick figures. Placing it on the table, she took my first finger and suddenly stuck a sharp needle into it. I yelped more with shock than pain and watched as she shook a tiny drop of blood onto the drawing. The figures seemed to move, but Granny dropped the cardboard into the bag and re hung it the normal way round. “Don’t be alarmed, my love.” The twinkle was back in her eyes and her voice gentle. “One day you will need to do that yourself. Promise me you will?”
“Why, when?” I stammered. “I don’t understand.”
As she put her arm round my shoulders and pulled me gently against her, I started to ease away until I became aware of the force field emanating from her. It was so powerful yet beneficent and I just wanted to merge into it, but then she kissed my forehead and moved away. “You will know when, child. Do well with your studies, but learn also of the hidden ways of life.”
That day the smoke from the chimney was darker than usual. I only saw her fleetingly afterwards. A levels, and three years at University filled my life. Then she died and, to my amazement, the cottage and its contents were mine.
I pushed the door open and walked to the table. Keeping my gaze downwards, I lifted the walking stick off the pine surface. I knew which way round the bag would be. Not looking at the flashing colours, I carefully lifted it off the hook. On the table, it stayed upright, so I knew it would be full. Opening the table drawer, I lifted a meat skewer, and felt the point. Not that sharp but I knew the time was now. I had to do it and accept the consequences. Quickly I jabbed it firmly into my finger. Then, lifting out the cardboard with its Egyptian cartouche, I let a drop of blood fall onto the figures.
A swirl of suspense flicked round the room. I shivered as movement ruffled my hair and then Granny spoke, “Hello my lovely. I’m pleased you have my special bag in front of you.”
I spun round staring into each corner of the room. The Egyptian characters were moving as though talking to one another but otherwise I was the cottage’s only occupant. “Don’t be frightened. It is time to learn both of the past and a little towards the future.” Her voice was soft but powerful. I thought it was inside my head, yet just in case I looked into the bag. I sensed her spirit laughing at me, but it was with love and I smiled in turn. “Put your hand in the bag and take out five…. ,” she hesitated as though uncertain and then continued, “take out five gifts and place in a line on the table.”
Like a lucky dip at the fete, my fingers swirled through a kaleidoscope of jewellery, notebooks, containers and something small but furry. An air of impatience came from nowhere and I sensed that time was short. “Here goes,” I whispered. Lifting whatever my fingers touched I laid on the table a black notebook, a key, a necklace, parchment with shapes drawn in ink and a small jar.
“Study and remember how we talked. If you need me, call again. Now I must go.” The voice faded into nothing and I dipped my head in farewell.
Taking the bag, I hung it back on the wall with its chintz pattern visible. It felt heavier than it should, but other contents could wait. Moving to the table and sitting on the elm chair, I lifted the necklace with its five-pointed star. On the back, engraved marks ran along each golden arm. Embarrassed, I lifted the chain over my head adjusting it until the top point lay on my breastbone.
I walked to the mirror and smiled at my reflection. An echo of memory told me Granny approved and, though she’d always worn high necked blouses, I knew it would always have sat around her neck. Still thinking in this way I opened her notebook to find the same symbol on its first page. Running my finger over the shape, I sensed a link to my necklace. Turning to other pages, the many notes, symbols and drawings all showed Granny’s involvement in folklore. Past discussions made sense and I understood what she had instilled in my mind.
I hesitate to use the word witch so loved by sensational newspapers, but Granny had certainly been a very wise woman. More to the point, I had inherited both her mystical connections and her ways. I knew the Mystery traditions were not for the profane but carried forward to initiates in strange ways. Granny’s bag would be my gateway to a world of intrigue and mystery. I was about to embark on a journey that would last the rest of my days.
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FOR WHOM THE BELL BY DAVID EDWARDS
This was received mediumistically at a séance
They came for me at daybreak. The priest was desperate to pray for my soul, but I told him he was wasting his time.
“My son,” he began
. “Be quiet you old fool,” I said as they shackled my legs.
“Repent and find salvation,” he continued.
I looked into his eyes and slowly nodded my head. “You don’t know when to stop do you.”
I glanced at my watch. Three minutes to six. Not long now. Memory shot back to the night it happened. Jenny was tall, willowy. I remember the feel of her skin – just like silk, finely stretched over a frame that undulated as she breathed. I stroked her cheek, let my fingers caress her neck, mould to the shape of her throat, press gently. She began struggling, so I pressed harder and brushed her lips with my own to stifle her cries. But she pulled free and opened her mouth to shout.
The priest began muttering his prayers as they lowered my head and pulled the hood down. His voice became a meaningless murmur. A hand pushed my back and I had to step forward. If Jenny had not shouted, she’d still have been alive. What made her change her mind? She’d come willingly to my room. Then something changed Perhaps the drug I’d given her had started to wear off. Should I have given her more? She took a deep breath ready to yell and my fingers pressed a harder. Then her hands reached for my face and tried to push it away from hers, so I squeezed and squeezed again. Afterwards I just looked down on her and started crying. That was when the door opened, and they came in and took me away.
“One more step mate,” said a deep voice holding my shoulders and turning me slightly. The bell struck the first of its six clangs. Is it on the first or last chime, I wondered when suddenly it was as though someone had jumped onto my shoulders and hands wrenched at my head.
Time stopped. My being shrank. I was a tiny fragment of dust like the specks caught in sunbeams. Yet I moved within the confines of my brain. I could not escape from the prison of my head, but a splinter of consciousness still existed. Was this what happened to the soul at death. Would I remain vaguely aware I’d once existed, yet would still continue in this form I now was?
My body would be enclosed in the timber box and buried in the earth. Would I still feel this tiny trickle of being and would this be my fate until time destroyed the earthly remains? This would be worse than being consigned to demons who inhabited the deepest regions of hell. I could still think, so part of me still existed. Yet the judge at my trial, told me I was to be hanged from the neck until dead. Afterwards they would take my body to the mortuary while they found a coffin.
A voice entered my awareness. “Johnny I’ve come for you. Come to Mommy.” Was she a speck of dust? I knew she was next to me and wanted to touch me yet knew that was impossible. “Just think of me Johnny and come to me. Leave this place”
“Help me, please, help……”
Miranda opened her eyes and looked at the five others seated around the table. She rubbed both hands together and pushed her chair away. Now, speaking in her own voice, she said, “I’ve lost Johnny and his mother. Perhaps we can contact them another time. I need a drink. I feel exhausted.” She blew out the candles, stood up and walked towards the kitchen leaving the others looking pale. “We’ll try again next Friday, but I need to rest, so cheerio for now.”
The others nodded goodbye and silently filed out of the front door and the house returned to normal.
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ECHOES OF DRACULA BY DAVE EDWARDS
The woman flicked the hem of her cloak. It stirred the darkness and made leaves whisper of death. Yellow eyes glowed, then flickered red before hooding over.
Lifting her finger, she wet it with her lips, and then let it catch the wind. Her smile acknowledged the gusts from off the sea. As she turned through 360 degrees she listened before stretching her body. A crack from the waves made her nod her head. He was coming. The omens spoke true. It had taken a while before she accepted the tremors that spoke to her mind in dreams.
His power frightened her. Could she withstand it? Could she place her psyche in its way? Would evil laugh at her efforts? Like candles her eyes were now pin pricks in the dark of night.
The ship threw itself at the rocks.Rigging twanged, sang, flickered and snapped. A scream echoed, making the
waves seem calmer. A falsity as timbers were hurled upwards, splintering, smacking waves and howling against destruction.
She gasped a breath and felt salt shoot inside her lungs. Cold stroked her spine before locking it into a warning. Yes, events were going as forecast. Had she the power to do what was necessary though. “Go back, leave this country,” she repeated. “You are not wanted. This is not your home”. She lifted her arm and stretched her finger at the sea. “Ye spirits! Listen to me. This must not happen.”
“Good evening, Miranda. The night is fierce.” Like a shadow, a figure stood before her. He also wore a cloak, which was apparently unaffected by the wind. “I see you wait my presence.” A hand materialised before him. “You may kiss my fingers. Acknowledge my being.”
He floated towards her and she stepped closer to his outline. With a juggle of her shoulders, her digits described sigils in the air. “Rareva, Menatol. Shimbal. Menton”, she screamed. “This country is not for you. Challenge my power and I will totally destroy you.” Lightning flashes spiralled in the darkness, touching the foundering wreck on the rocks before it lit his face.
His mouth opened to reply. Teeth protruded but began to shrink as Miranda continued. “Leave me; depart this land.” Her body expanded as she inhaled until she towered high above her opponent. “You are not wanted. Go before I use words that will destroy you.”
He waved his hand in front of his face as though trying to block her potency. “You cannot affect me,” he laughed.
“You have been warned,” Miranda said, her voice an echo on the wind.
His laugh faltered. “Not the sentence of doom.”
Clapping her hands together she tilted her head. Her voice was now pitched high to be wafted by the wind. “Go,” she yelled. “Leave me. Let this country be at peace from your kind. Now! Depart. Sling your hook.”
A cry of fear screamed from his lips. “No. No! Not that!” Thunder echoed his yell as lightening reached down and scooped his body into dimensions of which we know little.
With a sigh Miranda threw a laugh into the wind, before, with one hand pointing into the sky, she pirouetted to face the land. “Another dollar, another day,” she chuckled Stamping her foot twice she thought of her cottage on the harbour side. “A nice mug of hot chocolate,” she breathed, “And a nice warm bed. What else could a girl want?”
The blue light trickled across the floor. As it passed the pulpit, the pattern did a curtsey with a flashing effect on the tiles, before stopping level with the first pews.
It formed the base of a vee where a soft green glow gently caressed the carved wooden figures who for five hundred years had smiled towards the altar from the end of each pew. A scene of peace and calm where worshippers had knelt to pray as they contemplated the relationship between god and man every Sunday. Occasional visitors to the church gazed in fascination at the elaborate stained glass window in the eastern quarter behind the reredos screen. Many would cross themselves or bow their heads at the glory of the colours radiating from penetrating sunlight. The overall effect was almost like the splitting of the colour spectrum through a prism.
If a cloud drifted across the sun, the stained glass figures gave the impression they were moving and turning towards one another, perhaps to discuss current religious trends or just to comment on the tourists as they, like thousands before, stroked the oak surfaces of church furniture and traced grain patterns that meandered along carved wood. Shuffling back along the nave the visitors would give a final passing glance at the window, breathing in the colours as the sun returned and painted the interior, before they dropped a copper or two in the collection box, before scurrying outside with a feeling of guilt.
Ginny smiled. No one had noticed her sitting in row twelve pushed tight against a pew end. Her dress merged with the warm oak, and her auburn hair completed the camouflage. Taking a sketchpad from her shoulder bag she wrote the date on the top of the page, then stared hard at the top left hand panel of the window. The flowers in the glass almost seemed to sway gently in a non-existent breeze. Red, green and orange clung to brown stems. The smallest flicker of yellow came and went as the sun touched the building. She frowned and sketched the panel, as she had done every day for the last month or so. It was different again today. The prophecy must be true, she told herself. As clouds darkened the church, Ginny half stood and looked round the interior, feeling slightly edgy. Don’t be stupid, she told herself and taking a mint from her pocket, unwrapped it, the noise of the paper making her feel guilty as she popped it in her mouth.
She looked at today’s drawing and scanned the window again. Surely it couldn’t have changed that quickly. Her eyes flicked between the paper and the glass, her mind refusing to accept the orange floral head was now yellow. The pages of her pad rustled as she flicked backwards and forwards comparing each drawing and the colours shown. The temperature was dropping and she felt uneasy. Time to go.
The church door opened and dark robed figure moved down the aisle, pausing as he drew level. “Here again Ginny?” he said. “Do you really believe this fairy tale you’ve found. How can the pattern in a window change?”
“Hello vicar. I’m more convinced than ever. Do you want to see my sketches?”
Shaking his head, he smiled and walked to the altar and bowed. “Time to close the church,” he said quietly.
Ginny smiled back, but as she opened the door, she said, “There are only seven days left before the prediction comes true.” She stepped through the doorway, then on an impulse turned back and saw the vicar staring in her direction, a horrified look on his face. He gestured to the window, his outstretched arm shaking. “Ginny, this is impossible, but something unusual is happening. Look at the window.”
As he spoke, a shaft of light pierced the window making a pattern of figures appear on the floor. Slowly each shape stretched and began to stand, their hands reaching towards the vicar as he frantically made the sign of the cross. Suddenly he too was lying on the floor, hands scrabbling on the tiles.
Ginny moved back into the church and then stopped as two of the figures came towards her. She clutched a carved figure on a pew and held her breath. Both figures bowed and smiled and a voice echoed in her mind. “Madam you were right!” The one on the left made a courtly stoop. “But your calculations were a week out. May peace be yours. We look forward to talking with you again.”
“But the vicar,” she stuttered.
“He will wake and will remember nothing. But you will be welcome as long as we are here.”
Ginny smiled back. The dusty shelves, the old book with its mildewed cover. She laughed, curtseyed to the figures, and stepped outside the church. Yes! She knew she had been right.
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THE WRONG DAY BY DAVE EDWARDS
She wore a black cloak, a little frayed at the edges and although the candle lights caught her pouting face in their glow, it was difficult to distinguish pock marked flesh from material. Her crystal ball sat central on the table and flickers of light dived through its chipped surface to make patterns and images that danced and pirouetted in a mystical sequence. Erotic images hung from the walls, yet despite their sensuality, any poses were more threatening than erotic as they appeared to move towards his chair. His peripheral vision had glimpsed a skeleton earlier, but now his head could not rotate sufficiently to be sure.
Earlier he had tried talking to the crone, but as she screeched in response, her extended arms made strange air swishing gestures, and he realised his wrists were immobilised and clamped to his chair arms. It was cold, a chill was invading his body and the gloom was becoming denser. Yet it had been bright sunlight when he entered the tent. A disjointed voice had told him where to sit and by the time he had done so the door flap had shut out all exterior light.
When prompted he had told of his purpose in attending. He had also specified the need for it to take place on this particular day. Now fear lurked. The darkness was moving and becoming almost tangible. Outline forms, grotesque, unearthly, rotated and he shuddered to stop himself shouting. One face he knew so well hovered two inches in front of him. Its outline solidified, and he screamed.
A voice cackled. “You did say May the 4th?” The tone softened. “It is May 5th today, darling.”
“Christ. You’re right.” Suddenly he was on his feet, mouth gaping wide. “Can you stop everything?”
Bright spot lights shone as a screen dropped in front of him. The door flap burst open and sunlight flooded in. Dazzled, he lurched outside, tears streaming down his cheeks.
A mellow female voice spoke. “Come again whenever you have problems, dearie. Just get the right day.”
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The next story shows one of the different ways the mystery traditions are passed on to the next generation
THE MAGIC HIDDEN IN MY GRANNY'S BAG by DAVID EDWARDS
It was not a large bag. But then neither was it small. Hanging on a large coat hook screwed into the wall it always drew my eye to its quilted surface. The visible side had a pattern of chintz ware plates, typical of a country cottage where rag rugs covered the red tiled floor.
It was difficult to reach since a large oak chest of drawers stood firmly against the wall. Everything in the room was so prim and proper. Brass and copper gleamed with a golden lustre; lace curtains that looked washed and starched that very day hung at the single window; blue and white meat plates stood at attention on the wall rack.
I always looked at the bag, but if I asked Granny why she kept it on the wall, her eyes twinkled and the corners of her mouth twitched into a smile. “It’s somewhere to keep a few odd and ends,” she said, and turned to lift a large hot scone from the black cooking range before placing it on the table and winking at me. From the fridge she took a butter tub, followed by a bread knife in one hand and a small table knife in the other.
“Top or bottom, my lovely?” she asked as she sliced through the scone and then spread a thick layer of homemade butter on its surface. “Wash your hands now,” was like a prayer at the end of our snack. Then we both sat on the chaise longue against the wall with the plate rack.
Granny stared fixedly into my eyes. I sometimes felt she could see inside my brain as an inquisition about schoolwork began. “Do you understand equations yet?” she asked. I nodded my head uncertainly. “I think you should try harder,” she continued. “Your essays are good. You are a thoughtful girl.”
I blushed and asked, “How do you know so much about my school work?”
Then she laughed so loudly that I couldn’t help but join in. Suddenly her right hand would touch my left, gently squeezing my first two fingers and we would talk about country lore. Or rather, Granny did while I listened in amazement. She seemed to speak for hours, but when I looked at my watch, it was only thirty minutes since I’d first entered her cottage.
On my way home, I would pause and look back, but the high and scraggly hedge blocked my view. Yet I always turned at the same place. What I did notice were three puffs of smoke that spiralled out of the tall chimney. How she did it I never found out, but it was her way of saying cheerio.
As I grew through my teens, I noticed the bag sometimes hung the other way. Instead of quilted plates, there was a pattern difficult to describe. This consisted of square patches of vivid primary colours, inside of which were clashing tints. A red square would have a yellow circle inside while a green shape would have a red motif. If I stared, my eyes felt out of focus and the surface of the bag seemed to be moving.
On these days, Granny seemed more serious than normal and questions she asked were more like a test on what she had told me in previous chats than on my schoolwork. One particular day, she lifted the bag from the wall using her walking stick and took out a piece of cardboard. On it was an oval containing black matchstick figures. Placing it on the table, she took my first finger and suddenly stuck a sharp needle into it. I yelped more with shock than pain and watched as she shook a tiny drop of blood onto the drawing. The figures seemed to move, but Granny dropped the cardboard into the bag and re hung it the normal way round. “Don’t be alarmed, my love.” The twinkle was back in her eyes and her voice gentle. “One day you will need to do that yourself. Promise me you will?”
“Why, when?” I stammered. “I don’t understand.”
As she put her arm round my shoulders and pulled me gently against her, I started to ease away until I became aware of the force field emanating from her. It was so powerful yet beneficent and I just wanted to merge into it, but then she kissed my forehead and moved away. “You will know when, child. Do well with your studies, but learn also of the hidden ways of life.”
That day the smoke from the chimney was darker than usual. I only saw her fleetingly afterwards. A levels, and three years at University filled my life. Then she died and, to my amazement, the cottage and its contents were mine.
I pushed the door open and walked to the table. Keeping my gaze downwards, I lifted the walking stick off the pine surface. I knew which way round the bag would be. Not looking at the flashing colours, I carefully lifted it off the hook. On the table, it stayed upright, so I knew it would be full. Opening the table drawer, I lifted a meat skewer, and felt the point. Not that sharp but I knew the time was now. I had to do it and accept the consequences. Quickly I jabbed it firmly into my finger. Then, lifting out the cardboard with its Egyptian cartouche, I let a drop of blood fall onto the figures.
A swirl of suspense flicked round the room. I shivered as movement ruffled my hair and then Granny spoke, “Hello my lovely. I’m pleased you have my special bag in front of you.”
I spun round staring into each corner of the room. The Egyptian characters were moving as though talking to one another but otherwise I was the cottage’s only occupant. “Don’t be frightened. It is time to learn both of the past and a little towards the future.” Her voice was soft but powerful. I thought it was inside my head, yet just in case I looked into the bag. I sensed her spirit laughing at me, but it was with love and I smiled in turn. “Put your hand in the bag and take out five…. ,” she hesitated as though uncertain and then continued, “take out five gifts and place in a line on the table.”
Like a lucky dip at the fete, my fingers swirled through a kaleidoscope of jewellery, notebooks, containers and something small but furry. An air of impatience came from nowhere and I sensed that time was short. “Here goes,” I whispered. Lifting whatever my fingers touched I laid on the table a black notebook, a key, a necklace, parchment with shapes drawn in ink and a small jar.
“Study and remember how we talked. If you need me, call again. Now I must go.” The voice faded into nothing and I dipped my head in farewell.
Taking the bag, I hung it back on the wall with its chintz pattern visible. It felt heavier than it should, but other contents could wait. Moving to the table and sitting on the elm chair, I lifted the necklace with its five-pointed star. On the back, engraved marks ran along each golden arm. Embarrassed, I lifted the chain over my head adjusting it until the top point lay on my breastbone.
I walked to the mirror and smiled at my reflection. An echo of memory told me Granny approved and, though she’d always worn high necked blouses, I knew it would always have sat around her neck. Still thinking in this way I opened her notebook to find the same symbol on its first page. Running my finger over the shape, I sensed a link to my necklace. Turning to other pages, the many notes, symbols and drawings all showed Granny’s involvement in folklore. Past discussions made sense and I understood what she had instilled in my mind.
I hesitate to use the word witch so loved by sensational newspapers, but Granny had certainly been a very wise woman. More to the point, I had inherited both her mystical connections and her ways. I knew the Mystery traditions were not for the profane but carried forward to initiates in strange ways. Granny’s bag would be my gateway to a world of intrigue and mystery. I was about to embark on a journey that would last the rest of my days.
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FOR WHOM THE BELL BY DAVID EDWARDS
This was received mediumistically at a séance
They came for me at daybreak. The priest was desperate to pray for my soul, but I told him he was wasting his time.
“My son,” he began
. “Be quiet you old fool,” I said as they shackled my legs.
“Repent and find salvation,” he continued.
I looked into his eyes and slowly nodded my head. “You don’t know when to stop do you.”
I glanced at my watch. Three minutes to six. Not long now. Memory shot back to the night it happened. Jenny was tall, willowy. I remember the feel of her skin – just like silk, finely stretched over a frame that undulated as she breathed. I stroked her cheek, let my fingers caress her neck, mould to the shape of her throat, press gently. She began struggling, so I pressed harder and brushed her lips with my own to stifle her cries. But she pulled free and opened her mouth to shout.
The priest began muttering his prayers as they lowered my head and pulled the hood down. His voice became a meaningless murmur. A hand pushed my back and I had to step forward. If Jenny had not shouted, she’d still have been alive. What made her change her mind? She’d come willingly to my room. Then something changed Perhaps the drug I’d given her had started to wear off. Should I have given her more? She took a deep breath ready to yell and my fingers pressed a harder. Then her hands reached for my face and tried to push it away from hers, so I squeezed and squeezed again. Afterwards I just looked down on her and started crying. That was when the door opened, and they came in and took me away.
“One more step mate,” said a deep voice holding my shoulders and turning me slightly. The bell struck the first of its six clangs. Is it on the first or last chime, I wondered when suddenly it was as though someone had jumped onto my shoulders and hands wrenched at my head.
Time stopped. My being shrank. I was a tiny fragment of dust like the specks caught in sunbeams. Yet I moved within the confines of my brain. I could not escape from the prison of my head, but a splinter of consciousness still existed. Was this what happened to the soul at death. Would I remain vaguely aware I’d once existed, yet would still continue in this form I now was?
My body would be enclosed in the timber box and buried in the earth. Would I still feel this tiny trickle of being and would this be my fate until time destroyed the earthly remains? This would be worse than being consigned to demons who inhabited the deepest regions of hell. I could still think, so part of me still existed. Yet the judge at my trial, told me I was to be hanged from the neck until dead. Afterwards they would take my body to the mortuary while they found a coffin.
A voice entered my awareness. “Johnny I’ve come for you. Come to Mommy.” Was she a speck of dust? I knew she was next to me and wanted to touch me yet knew that was impossible. “Just think of me Johnny and come to me. Leave this place”
“Help me, please, help……”
Miranda opened her eyes and looked at the five others seated around the table. She rubbed both hands together and pushed her chair away. Now, speaking in her own voice, she said, “I’ve lost Johnny and his mother. Perhaps we can contact them another time. I need a drink. I feel exhausted.” She blew out the candles, stood up and walked towards the kitchen leaving the others looking pale. “We’ll try again next Friday, but I need to rest, so cheerio for now.”
The others nodded goodbye and silently filed out of the front door and the house returned to normal.
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ECHOES OF DRACULA BY DAVE EDWARDS
The woman flicked the hem of her cloak. It stirred the darkness and made leaves whisper of death. Yellow eyes glowed, then flickered red before hooding over.
Lifting her finger, she wet it with her lips, and then let it catch the wind. Her smile acknowledged the gusts from off the sea. As she turned through 360 degrees she listened before stretching her body. A crack from the waves made her nod her head. He was coming. The omens spoke true. It had taken a while before she accepted the tremors that spoke to her mind in dreams.
His power frightened her. Could she withstand it? Could she place her psyche in its way? Would evil laugh at her efforts? Like candles her eyes were now pin pricks in the dark of night.
The ship threw itself at the rocks.Rigging twanged, sang, flickered and snapped. A scream echoed, making the
waves seem calmer. A falsity as timbers were hurled upwards, splintering, smacking waves and howling against destruction.
She gasped a breath and felt salt shoot inside her lungs. Cold stroked her spine before locking it into a warning. Yes, events were going as forecast. Had she the power to do what was necessary though. “Go back, leave this country,” she repeated. “You are not wanted. This is not your home”. She lifted her arm and stretched her finger at the sea. “Ye spirits! Listen to me. This must not happen.”
“Good evening, Miranda. The night is fierce.” Like a shadow, a figure stood before her. He also wore a cloak, which was apparently unaffected by the wind. “I see you wait my presence.” A hand materialised before him. “You may kiss my fingers. Acknowledge my being.”
He floated towards her and she stepped closer to his outline. With a juggle of her shoulders, her digits described sigils in the air. “Rareva, Menatol. Shimbal. Menton”, she screamed. “This country is not for you. Challenge my power and I will totally destroy you.” Lightning flashes spiralled in the darkness, touching the foundering wreck on the rocks before it lit his face.
His mouth opened to reply. Teeth protruded but began to shrink as Miranda continued. “Leave me; depart this land.” Her body expanded as she inhaled until she towered high above her opponent. “You are not wanted. Go before I use words that will destroy you.”
He waved his hand in front of his face as though trying to block her potency. “You cannot affect me,” he laughed.
“You have been warned,” Miranda said, her voice an echo on the wind.
His laugh faltered. “Not the sentence of doom.”
Clapping her hands together she tilted her head. Her voice was now pitched high to be wafted by the wind. “Go,” she yelled. “Leave me. Let this country be at peace from your kind. Now! Depart. Sling your hook.”
A cry of fear screamed from his lips. “No. No! Not that!” Thunder echoed his yell as lightening reached down and scooped his body into dimensions of which we know little.
With a sigh Miranda threw a laugh into the wind, before, with one hand pointing into the sky, she pirouetted to face the land. “Another dollar, another day,” she chuckled Stamping her foot twice she thought of her cottage on the harbour side. “A nice mug of hot chocolate,” she breathed, “And a nice warm bed. What else could a girl want?”
