Nightmare

by Leo Brett, Lionel Fanthorpe, Patricia Fanthorpe

Genres: Science Fiction; Sci-fi Action & Adventure; Space Opera

Synopsis

The modern mind usually associates witchcraft with the middle ages. We think of witches as Shakespeare depicted them in Macbeth. We see them as secret, black and midnight hags, doing a deed without a name. We close our eyes and immediately the vision of a cauldron filled with foul ingredients appears before us; here are the fenny snake, adder's fork, wool of bat, scale of dragon and tooth of wolf.

But this does not go far enough back. There was witchcraft in the world long before medieval times. The Witch of Endor who practiced her strange arts in the reign of King Saul is familiar to all students of the Old Testament. The writings of Homer abound with references to witchcraft and sorcery. The very earliest human societies had witch doctors, medicine men, shamans and priests of the black art.

Perhaps so ancient and widespread a cult has some basis in fact. There are powers beyond science. Ancient occult laws will still hold good. It is not wise to cross the path of a being whose age is measured in centuries and whose dark powers can alter the stars in their courses.

Release date: August 28, 2014

Publisher: Orion Publishing Group

Print pages: 320

Sample

The auctioneer was a florid faced man. He was gross to the point of obesity. What remained of his hair hung limply from the lower rear of his round, perspiring skull. It hung in short, grey wisps. He was not a particularly prepossessing sight.

His nose was the size and shape of a late autumnal pear. It was suspended from a point midway between his eyes like a decadent fruit ready to fall. The eyes themselves were nothing to write home about either; deep-set, pig-like things that glittered rather unpleasantly as each item on the catalogue was knocked down.

The auctioneer was assisted by Herbert and William. Whether these gentlemen had ever been blessed with the dubious benefits of surnames was a matter for doubt. Herbert was long, thin and gangling. He was a grey-complexioned, morose individual, who oozed through life like a drop of water seeping through mud. His eyes were red-rimmed, rheumy and perpetually moist. His skin was marked and pitted as though he had been a victim of some mediaeval smallpox outbreak. His hair lay sleek along his flat-topped head. His forehead was low. The eyes were set too close together. He had every appearance of a pet sea lion who would have been better off back in the water. It would have been a kindness to have had Herbert destroyed. A more telling argument for euthanasia would be difficult to encounter. His main task in life was the conveying of small lots to the purchaser and the displaying of the relevant items for sale as they became due.

William was a huge, raw-boned countryman. His left ear had been cauliflowered during a savage bout in his long-forgotten pugilistic days. What remained of his iron-grey hair was crew cut. It gave his head the appearance of a hairy melon. He was entirely devoid of teeth. His nose had been broken twice. The general aspect of his face was that of a derelict bomb site. A more unwholesome trio it would have been difficult to find. Fat Gordon Harper the auctioneer, Herbert the drainpipe, and William the gorilla man, could only have been paralleled in fiction by the three witches in Macbeth, or in song by the proverbial old ladies of the east, whose escapades have enlivened the glee club of many a N.A.A.F.I.

The auction was being held at “The Towers,” a rambling old mansion in the east of England wilds south of the Wash. It had a Georgian facade and one old Tudor section. The outbuildings were mainly late Victorian and the plumbing in the west wing was early twentieth century. It worked, but only just. It worked with more music than efficiency. It was not entirely unknown for tadpoles to find their way into the bath!

Gordon Harper considered himself singularly fortunate to have been able to dispose of the building itself to a firm of rapidly expanding turkey processors and deep freeze experts, who would pull most of the inside out, anyway. By the time they had finished modernising and improving, very little would be left of the original Towers.” All of them had been furnished to some degree.

He was not being quite so fortunate in his disposal of the contents. There were over thirty rooms in “The Towers.’” All of them had been furnished to some degree. There were piles of yellow bamboo furniture of the kind that is to be expected in the servants’ quarter of ancient houses. There were countless bureaux, dressers and assortments of chairs. Piles of rugs, mats, carpets and curtains littered the lime-washed stable where the sale was taking place. There were so many tables that the place looked like a Bingo Club, or a whist drive hall. Oak tables, mahogany tables, dining tables, card tables, occasional tables, gateleg tables, draw-leaf tables, circular tables, octagonal tables, expanding tables and oblong tables were everywhere.

“The only ruddy thing we haven’t got are multiplication tables!” grunted Harper, who unhappily considered himself something of a wit. The opinion was not generally shared.

“Number 79, Mr. Harper,” said Herbert mournfully. “Antique brass lamp, believed of oriental origin.” He held it up. The lamp was old. It was covered in grime. It didn’t look any more prepossessing than the auctioneer and his team. It was of very old fashioned design, looking something like a cross between a metal gravy boat and a bent artillery shell.

“Now then, now then, ladies and gentlemen,” began the redoubtable auctioneer in tones very reminiscent of a fairground barker. “Here’s your chance to play Aladdin.” He laughed hugely at his own puerile joke. Herbert and William smiled obediently. The crowd of buyers remained adamantly silent. They had heard more than enough of the auctioneer’s humour already that day. There was a limit to what flesh and blood could take.

“Who’ll start me off at twenty pounds for this valuable antique?” began the fat man, mopping sweat from his forehead.

“Half a crown,” said a hard-bitten Portobello Road type.

Harper flinched for a second. Oh, what the hell, he thought. Let’s get rid of the damned thing. “Two and six I’m bid,” he shouted. “At two half, at two half.”

“Five bob,” called the local postman, whose wife was a keen collector of curios.

“Five shillings I’m bid,” rejoiced Harper. “At five, at five, at five….”

“Seven and six,” cried an antique dealer from nearby Norwich.

“Ten bob,” returned the postman.

The bidding reached thirty shillings and everybody seemed to lose interest. The postman was not inclined to go higher. The antique dealers were unsure of the age of the lamp. It might have been a real find, or it might merely have been a much-begrimed Victorian novelty worth only a few coppers. Antique dealers are not inveterate gamblers. There are enough risks and uncertainties in the trade even for a real expert. No one takes unnecessary risks. They decided to leave the lamp alone.

Young Milo Naxos was a Greek law student on holiday. He had read a heavy term’s work. The quiet peace of East Anglia always appealed to him during the vacs. The endless miles of reeds and marshes were such a complete contrast to his mountainous homeland that he found them utterly irresistible. But even when a man is relaxing he needs diversions. Naxos senior was a shipping magnate. Young Milo was not by any means over indulged but he was a sensible youth and his father provided him with a sensible allowance. He was not on the same tight budget as fellow students. He had a surplus which allowed him to indulge whims. The lamp was a whim. He had gone to the auction as a diversion, not really intending to buy Minds can change. Intentions can alter.

“Thirty-two shillings and sixpence,” said the young Greek in rather precise English, quaintly accented. Harper had a lot of stuff to get through. The lamp had hung fire long enough to his way of thinking.

“Going at thirty-two half, for the last time; have you all done with it? Sold to the gentleman at the back in the grey trilby,” said Harper all in one breath. The dutiful William took the lamp to its new owner. Milo paid him, took it out to his gleaming new three-litre sports car, locked it in the boot and returned to the sale.

The auction was over. Milo Naxos had purchased one or two artistic odds and ends and some assorted bric-a-brac which had taken his fancy. It was not a particularly logical or balanced collection of articles. There were some plaster copies of famous statuettes, an oil painting or two by the Victorian unknowns, an antique sword, a pair of pistols and an earthenware vase. These, together with the ancient lamp, occupied nearly all the available boot space in the gleaming three-litre sports.

It was neither fully dark nor completely light. The road was deceptive amid the shadowy contours of the hedges. Milo had not yet fully accustomed himself to the English system of driving on the left. As a continental motorist he was safe and experienced, but every so often his concentration wavered a little and he found that deep-set instincts were luring him to the side of the road to which he was most accustomed.

The powerful sports was acting like a horse of high mettle on a tight rein. It was not intended for low-speed work. As far as the magnificent triple-carburettered engine was concerned, anything under sixty was slow! The winding, narrow, north Norfolk roads were no home for a car of such high potential. It had not been too bad in daylight when Milo had driven up to “The Towers,” but now, on the dusky homeward journey, he found the conditions trying in the extreme.

His powerful double headlights cut a path of brightness through the gloom. The shadows of hedgerows and trees became more confusing than ever. Little night creatures scurried across the lane-like road and disappeared into the tall, swaying hedges. He stamped on the brakes hard as a deer raced across the road, a matter of mere yards ahead of him. The beautifully adjusted disc brakes of the sports brought it evenly to almost a standstill. They were fine brakes. They were powerful brakes. Too fine; too powerful. There was a grinding crash as a heavy pre-war farm lorry thundered into the back of the sports. The jerk threw Milo violently forward. He was hurled savagely against the corner pillars which supported the safety glass screen.

To the left lay a steep-sided bank which ran twenty or so feet and terminated in a sluggish, black, broadland river. Deep, muddy, treacherous water beckoned to the car as it slithered across the road. A line of thick, formidable oak trees lined the opposite verge. Collision with those great trunks would have meant instant fatality, even at the greatly reduced speed of the big sports. For agonising seconds it seemed that the slithering car must plunge into the river. Then it veered, skidding madly, still apparently out of control, and skimmed the huge oaks by inches. It continued its crazy progress, missing death and disaster by mere fractions at every twisting turn. Finally, it ploughed into thick grass and stopped. The lorry driver, a powerfully-built young Norfolkman, with a mass of curly, dark hair and an open-necked shirt, leapt from his damaged cab and raced towards the wrecked sports car.

“Are you all right, old partner?” he asked anxiously.

“I think so,” groaned Milo Naxos. “I hit my head on the padding on my screen pillars. Must have knocked myself out.”

“That weren’t your fault,” exclaimed the lorry driver. “I saw that deer leap out in front of you. You had to stop quick.”

“Thanks,” smiled the Greek. “There wasn’t much you could do either. Your lorry has fair brakes but they’re drum. . .