The Book of Abominations

PROLOGUE

2014 LIVERPOOL

The Librarian pulled out the sheet of paper from his scanner and added it to the file beside him on the polished walnut desk. He lifted a cut-glass tumbler to his lips, enjoying the aroma of a Scottish single malt. It was from the Isle of Skye and distilled into oak barrels, which were draped with seaweed and drenched regularly with spring water to infuse the whisky with the flavour of the sea. He could almost smell the salt air as he savoured the flavour. Sometimes he could hear the gulls gliding on the sea breeze above the island’s distillery hundreds of miles north but that was usually after one too many. The whisky burned pleasantly as he swallowed it. Its soothing effect settled his nerves and numbed the pain in his wounded arm. Twelve stitches this time, each one a reminder of this investigation. He couldn’t take the case any further. It was finito, ended, complete, finished, done and yet he felt no satisfaction or relief in its closure. It had taken him many months to discover the truths behind the tragic events in that small, insignificant terraced house in Liverpool.

44, St Oswald’s Street had been a brick-built conundrum with an insidious past, that seemed to seep through time to affect the present. He couldn’t prove things one way or the other but at least there were some answers to the many questions. Granted, there were not enough answers, but there were some. They would never know for sure, but for now his work was done as far as this dreadful case was concerned. The head of that particular serpent had been severed by his own hand.

There was no celebration to be had. The cost of human life had been too high. Everything comes at a price. One investigator had lost her life during the project and he had to put it down to the evil at 44, St Oswald’s St. If he allowed the guilt inside him to get a grip, then it would never let go of him. He would be in its suffocating grasp for all time. Everyone who became involved in such an investigation knew the risks. He always told those who dabbled with darkness, ‘If you want to play with madness, then never be surprised by its ability to twist your mind. Once you believe that real evil exists, there is nowhere safe in this world or the next, for it will seek you for all eternity. When you experience true darkness, your heart never sees the light quite as it did before.’ The mystery behind the series of disappearances and violent deaths at number 44 which had taken place regularly since the late 1600’s, had finally been uncovered. He hoped that the publication of his findings may clear the names of the innocent and put the blame fairly and squarely where it belonged. But he didn’t know, even now, if his evidence would be believed. He had found it hard to believe himself.

His association with the events at Old Swan had led him to uncover tales of horror which were masked on brief occasions by periods of happiness in unequal measure. It was an address tainted by murder and mayhem, stories which were sad enough to make the strong weep. There were too many stories, verified and hearsay, for them to be a coincidence. He knew that in the dimension of Magick, coincidence didn’t exist. He felt the weight of guilt as he rose from his desk and switched off the reading lamp. Deciding to have another whisky before bedtime, he made his way from the study to the tiny living room, where a coal fire was burning in the hearth. The flames flickered and jumped as if being fuelled by an invisible draught. It cast a warm glow around the room, although the corners were still hidden in shadows which advanced and deepened as the flames danced. It seemed that he was in a constant battle with the shadows at the corner of the room. They tried to advance and swallow him at every opportunity. Every time he turned his back he felt the darkness creeping up behind him. It was a living, breathing entity with a life of its own and it was evil incarnate. He knew that it would win the battle one day. One day it would overwhelm the light and envelop him. It would absorb him into itself, making it a little darker and a touch more evil than it was before. But for now, he would use every ounce of power that he had to fend it off. 

With the fire blazing and the curtains drawn, it was hard to believe that he lived in a basement flat. Number 9, Bold St had become infamous to all who stepped into the dark world of the occult. Some thought occultism was a joke, a place where idiots found solace with other idiots; witches and wizards and wrinkled old druids prancing about Stonehenge. The Librarian knew better, as did the others who shared his title. Similar libraries had been set up in many cities, all at the same address so that those in need of help could find them. He had been sent to the Bold Street which was in Liverpool. The front was a small book store, specialising in out of print editions. It had few legitimate customers, although it had many visitors. When the shop was closed, and he was in the basement flat beneath, he could be anywhere that his imagination allowed him to be. His private collection of books lined every wall. Wicca, The Books of the Dead, The Encyclopaedias of the Damned, The Nature of the Beast, Satanism, Paganism and the Sigil of Baphomet, all the dark religions were represented within the thousands of pages of documented dark arts. He had read but a fraction of the powerful works that he guarded. The knowledge which they imparted could be used to help others battle the darkness, but it came at a price. Sometimes he felt the insidious energy which was held within the pages bleeding into the atmosphere of the room. It was like static electricity before a thunderstorm and yet other times, he felt nothing at all. His dreams were haunted by the eyeless faces of the dead, although he had no time to pity them. They were lost to the evil side and couldn’t be saved. His focus had to be on the living. Saving them was his remit. He glanced up at the clock on the mantelpiece and sighed. Nearly midnight. His mind was still working overtime, the details of the investigation still jostling for his attention. He didn’t think he would be able to sleep, even though his eyes were sore, and his body was exhausted. As he poured himself another scotch he heard the clock chime. It was the witching hour and cold fingers of fear toyed with his mind, sending a shiver up his spine. The living room window exploded in a shower of glass, lethal shards sent in every direction. They had come for him. 

4 Years Earlier

Liverpool 2010

CAROL HARRIS STARED out of the rain-spattered window of Quick Move UK estate agents and sighed. She stretched and checked the time for the umpteenth time that morning. The huge station clock on the wall looked very fashionable and in keeping with the minimalist furnishings, but it was impossible to avoid how painfully slowly the time passed. Seconds were minutes, minutes became hours and a full day shift felt like a week in Walton Prison. The raindrops trickled down the glass gathering momentum along the way. A steady stream of water poured over the sill, splashing onto the already saturated pavement. Deep puddles formed between the uneven slabs. People sidestepped the larger puddles as they ran for cover from the deluge, their umbrellas tilted against the driving rain, hats pulled down and collars pulled up. Carol watched the passers-by doing just that, passing by. The weather and the economy seemed to be conspiring against her to stop people from looking at the properties in her window. If they didn’t look then they didn’t buy. She had been in the housing business for nearly twenty years, but she’d never known the property market so depressed. There’d been lean times, admittedly, but this recession was the worst she could ever remember. If it wasn’t for the internet, she would be out of business.

The high street business was dying a death. Even when it wasn’t raining, no one enquired about the properties that they had for sale. She could count the number of house hunters who had stepped through the door in the last week on two hands, three at best. She asked herself constantly why no one was interested in looking at the ‘for sale’ ads display in the windows. The year before there were a few window-shoppers at least and there were always some who would come in, ask stupid questions and take away a few flyers to peruse at leisure. Unicorn hunters, she used to term them. They were the people who would ask every question about the property that they could think of until she had to say no and then they would grimace and shake their heads and look disappointed. Shame, I was really looking for a property with a unicorn in the back garden. These days she would have been grateful for even a few of those. Six months ago, the high street business had tapered to two sales per month but now even that seemed busy. Nobody was interested in buying or selling and if things carried on as they were, she would have to seriously consider cutting the number of staff and going to an online business only. She only had the two staff: Harry Bishpam had been with her the longest; the smart-arse, back-stabbing, double-crossing little shit. He had sold properties from under her, she knew that he had but she couldn’t prove it. He was a good salesman; there was no denying that, when there was anyone to sell to, that was. Carol would far rather sack him and keep Carrie Drake in the job. She had watched her at work many times. When she was dealing with their male customers, there wasn’t a seller in the city who could match her conversion rate. If they had a cock, she could sell them a house. Carrie bragged that it was nothing to do with her long dark hair, flirty eyes and those fantastic long legs. Of course, she always did a twirl and wiggled her sexy arse when she said it but then that was part of her joke. Carol wasn’t from the island of Lesbos and she didn’t even want to go there on a day trip, but she could appreciate how sexy Carrie was. Lucky bitch. She had pretty much everything a girl could