I
got fed up waiting for a publisher to grab this book after it was out-of-print, despite the good
reviews, so have self-published it as a paperback and e-book under the
new title Chill of the Shadow. (amendment: 27/10/2017)
As
the nights draw in, yes, even here in Spain, Halloween swiftly approaches and
with it all manner of horror characters and tales emerge from crypts and
cemeteries to send a frisson of thrill or fear down our spines. Here, for your
delectation, is the prologue of my horror novel Death is Another Life (as
written by Robert Morton). I have also written the screenplay (in other words,
I wrote the novelization first!) More excerpts and comments on the book and its
setting will follow up to the ‘witching eve’.
Death is Another
Life
by Robert Morton
Death is another life. We bow our heads
At going out, we think, and enter straight
Another golden chamber of the King’s,
Larger than this we leave, and lovelier.
Festus – P J Bailey (1816-1902)
PROLOGUE: Canker of the soul
A red and white painted eye stared out of a blue
background, its black brow arching. It was wide open, an ever alert eye. The
eye of Osiris was painted on the prow of three fishing boats that bobbed in the
sea as dawn gilded the cliffs of Malta. The eyes on the boats were an old
superstition, to ward off evil, and they did not work. Evil was already on the
islands.
Huge
lamps hung over the sterns of the boats; their white glow was now no competition
for the dawn spreading its golden light across the Mediterranean.
Seagulls
circled, their screeching noise accompanying the muted chugging of the motors
and the constant lapping of the sea.
Two
fishermen with cigarettes dangling from their mouths struggled to haul in their
net. It was just another day; another catch for the restaurants and early-bird
wives to buy fresh fruit of the sea at the dockside. Water sluiced off their
pungent-smelling harvest and both men suddenly gasped, their cigarettes dropping
onto the deck.
A
human arm protruded through the net. The two men looked at each other in
concern. They realized that they had little choice but to bring in their catch,
whatever it contained.
As
they swung their haul inboard, they glimpsed bare flesh amidst the glistening
fish.
Hastily
crossing themselves, the fishermen swung the catch inboard. As the net opened
and disgorged the fish, the naked woman slithered out onto the brine-covered
deck.
The
dead woman’s eyes stared up at the men and the sky.
* * * *
The view of the land from the Air Malta aircraft was
stark – parchment coloured, more like jaundiced skin. Bryson Spellman returned
his attention to his book, the treasured Malleus
Maleficarum, bound in the hide of a martyred witch. The pages were gossamer
thin but would not or could not tear. Published in 1486, this handbook became
known as the ‘Hammer of Witchcraft’ and received the papal seal, though
Spellman was amused to recall that nowadays the Catholic Church disavowed it.
It had been written as a direct result of a wave of European paranoia
concerning witchcraft, vampirism and werewolvery, and became the justification
for crushing evil-doers and heretics. Spellman read it partly for amusement and
partly to know the thought processes of his enemies. The book’s two authors had
been disturbed individuals who abhorred the entire female sex, laying the blame
for all evil on women. Indeed, the ‘Hammer of Witchcraft’ contributed to
superstition and was taken up with glee by Grand Inquisitor Torquemada and his
blood-thirsty zealots, using it to condemn thousands of innocents to torture
and horrific death. The Inquisition cost Satan many true adherents, but far
more innocent souls were forever cast into Purgatory, an irony that mightily
pleased the horned god. And, Spellman mused, times hadn’t changed all that much
in the intervening half-millennium or so. Though, often, the persecutors now
were not of the Church but the media, literally hounding people to death.
The
little old lady sitting next to him continued to snore, as she had done for the
last hour. From time to time she broke wind, releasing a cloying smell, not
unlike sulphur, which made Spellman feel quite at home.
A
young blonde stewardess – or, he allowed in these silly times, cabin-crew
member – leaned over, clearly attracted to him. She wrinkled her nose and
smiled, too polite to comment. “We’ll be landing in ten minutes, Mr. Spellman.”
“Thank
you, my dear.” He waved his hand to fan the air and returned her smile. “Truly,
it has been a wonderful flight.”
She
beamed, pleased and amused.
As
he clicked his belt on again he dropped the book in the aisle and she stooped
to retrieve it. He took the opportunity to eye her cleavage, which was tanned
and full of promise. She straightened up, flicking through the pages, still
smiling. “Your book–” But she lost her smile and the colour drained from her
face when she noticed a selection of the graphic illustrations.
“Just
a hobby, my dear.” He snatched the book from her and she turned away and hurried
down the aisle to another passenger, her tight skirt emphasizing firm buttocks.
Silly
ignorant bitch. Nothing could affect his good mood. He was leaving behind yet
another new coven, this time in Louisiana – that was the fifth in the southern
States alone. The Sicilian convention had proven most useful too: they were
very interested in his visit to Malta. Canny witches and warlocks that they
were, they’d detected something was in the air. Something pleasurable and
profoundly satisfying.
Unbridled
pleasure fed the horned god and increased his power. While politics was the
ideal soil in which to plant future talent, politics for Spellman lacked true
pleasure. He felt it was a meagre substitute, these days: it merely offered a
semblance of power. Real power was only savoured by dictators and murderers.
Still,
this latest power-takeover would not fail, Magus Spellman vowed, and closed the
book as the plane began its descent. The islands may be small in the scheme of
things, but they had influence and played host to all kinds of people. Malta
could become an important centre of corruption, spreading the horned god’s
canker of the soul in all directions. Besides, he had a three years’ old score
to settle.
He
closed his eyes and hauntingly delicious images passed across his lids,
memories of his successes in the African continent. There, he’d been able to
take full advantage of the political mess and inter-tribal slaughter. He was
biding his time for South Africa to implode. Sombrely, he admitted that he was
not always successful – Romania, Serbia, Iraq and Afghanistan – yes, his
power-takeovers had failed in these countries, but the death and destruction,
the torture and deceit that caused so much misery had been worth all the
effort, as in the final analysis it all fed evil.
The
magus felt sure that his master was most pleased. It was only a matter of time
before Iran came into the devil’s fold. Axis of Evil? The American president
doesn’t know the half of it, Spellman mused with a sanguine smile.
This book is now out of print - until further notice!
