Diary Of An Occult Resolution Assistant Read online

  DIARY OF AN OCCULT RESOLUTION ASSISTANT

  and training witch Valentine Orphanet

  By Chris Norgate

  Copyright © 2016 by Chris Norgate

  Smashwords premium catalogue Edition 2016

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof

  may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever

  without the express written permission of the author and publisher

  except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  The right of the author to be identified as the author has been

  asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Design

  and Patents Act 1988

  Published in the United Kingdom

  First Published, April 2016

  [email protected]

  Do you believe? Believe in what is the hardest thing to decide upon. But I believe, I thought I always did until it happened, and then I really believed. But if I had to explain to you what it was that I believed in I think I would fail to vocalise the sum of the enormity that it encompasses. I do not know, but I guess that's the point in belief. All I know is that IT is there, burning in the cold, lighting the dark and providing the soundtrack to all our lives.

  Music is the only constant; the Universe has a beat all of its own and it is to this beat that worlds circle and comets fly. Huge gas clouds pulsate to its bass and black holes ring with melody as they consume everything before them. How do I know this? I've seen it. I've not been there, or even remotely close to it; but my mind has travelled there past solar systems, distortions, lights, wonders, marvels, expanding gas which erupt with light and sound; all these I have seen fly past my senses and each more beautiful than anything I have seen before. But the most impressive single thing in the whole of everything is the music.

  He promised me an adventure when I arrived upon his door and he has delivered everything I could have dreamt of and more. But then, at the start of it, I had no idea what was going to transpire after applying to a carded advert displayed in a newsagent window and tracked down the small antique and book shop from the scant information the card held for a position as a research assistant. It was from this day I heard the sound and it opened up my mind.

  Friday 2nd May

  08:45

  I am sitting in a hospital bed, writing in a diary given as a gift months before that I’ve left to rattle around in my bag ever since. I’ve never kept a journal before but as I had time now and a job where even I don’t believe what happens on a daily basis, I thought a few notes may help when I look back on my life in my dotage, as an alibi or prove the case for insanity in any trial resulting from my tasks or maybe help remind me of where I should actually be.

  The first day here I spent trying not to move due to the pain in pretty much every part of my body, that and trying not to bleed too much consciously willing the blood not to seep through the dressings like a camper praying the canvas above his head would keep the torrential downpour above his head also and not let it pour onto it and down his back. Yesterday I had a visit from my employer, I had asked him to bring me something to read following a text he sent to enquire about my recovery, not sent as I first thought out of concern as he also asked if I could run into town on a small errand.

  Well, he brought me in some books; all handwritten notebooks and no printed pulp paperbacks or light-hearted quick reads, but I get the impression they are all the same to him. So I read them, and then I read them again. At first I thought they were a work of fiction, a start to a literary career but with the worst sci-fi fantasy plots imaginable and incredibly unbelievable. But with more time to read I am starting to believe they are diary entries as brief internet searches link to real time incidents reported in publications on weird and wonderful subjects that I would never have thought existed until now. I found comments and links online with a internet search on my phone, their reading was deeply interesting and educational and may go someway to explaining the strange sensations I get around my employer. For those that do not know, or for what's left of my family who worry about me; my employer is some kind of antique dealer who fills his time hunting down ancient and wonderful things - definitely not old dusty junk as I once observed and reacquainting them with their owners whether old or new. My role in all of this is wearing down shoe leather by running between library, warehouse, old ramshackle huts and gothic mansions, or the odd pub or modern new build house filled with ram shackled, gothic and dusty odd people. So much for the advert which stated adventures in the occult for the brave believer for which I applied; being someone who was always drawn to stories about witchcraft it seemed too good not to. My intuition must have been having a bad day when I did.

  *

  The white walled hospital ward housed beds made to industrial spec, thick bars of cold metal sumptuously layered with stiff, rough off white sheets. I don't know what would hurt more if I were to hit my head on them, the metal or the sheets. In my mixed ward there are 12 beds, currently all filled with an assortment of sleepers, coughers, drippers, mobile phone users and, unfortunately for me, talkers.

  "So, what are you in for?" asked the occupier of the bed two down on my left. "Has he shown you his nasty head wound?"

  He had gestured as best he could with a broken arm towards the reddening bandage wrapped tightly around a distinguished gentleman's head.

  “We call him the Gent as he insisted on keeping his tweed jacket on over the top of his blue/white striped pyjamas.”

  The sound that followed sounded like it came from a chimney and smelt like an ashtray, the Gent was speaking.

  "I don't remember much." he smoked. "I was in the polling station when one of my neighbours came in, so I smiled at her and as I handed over her ballot paper. I just mentioned I had seen her husband earlier. He was waiting when they opened the doors first thing and he must have been very eager to cast his vote and just as eager to leave. Next thing I know is she's leaping the school’s folding table we borrowed for the day and was using my head to dent the ballot box. All very strange as I thought her to be the most gentle and caring lady in all our previous dealings." the Gent scratched his head as he talked and worried his damp greying hair.

  There was a small collection of nods from the willing - or otherwise trapped, participants in the conversation. Before anyone could offer their insights or sympathy to the Gent for his misadventure, BQ jumped in with his story, almost as if he hadn't really wanted to know what the others had to say but wanted to generate a reason to talk about himself. I called him BQ for his soon to be obvious love of all things wood, glue and metal and the need to join them together without any instructions or skill.

  "Well, there I was, at the front door on this beautiful sunny day, the first we've had and I thought to myself I'll get on and fit that door bell the Old Woman has been on about." he had a way of talking that was 90% laughing at his own story and 10% louder than anyone else in the conversation. "Well, the drill wasn't charged, so I got the old electric one out of the shed. Rusty but good, as I always tell the ladies. Well anyway, drill meets door and its wobbling all over the place so I obviously have to open it and hold it with my other hand. They never tell you this in those stupid instructions written by idiots who've never picked up a tool in their life! Never actually read them myself, only a woman needs them"

  "Bingo" I thought as he mentioned the lack of instructional prior learning.

  "Well the door still shook so I put my foot there to stabilise, obviously the doorbell people never thought of all this when they made their cheap rubbish, but you gotta fit it when the Old Battle-axe wants it or there's no end of trouble." he gestured boobs then hor
ns with his good hand and as best he could with his plastered one.

  "Well one thing led to another and I had to stretch to the middle of the door and get the drill straight, that's one thing the drill people don't think about then they make their rubbish, and how was I to know my hand was the other side! Drill bit went straight through door, hand and garden fence."

  A few laughs abruptly stopped as the story continued fast so not to allow anyone to interrupt. "Had to call for the Little Lady to come and help, well she was sitting down watching rubbish on TV or in the kitchen doing whatever it is they do in there and she had no idea what to do, did she, couldn't put the drill in reverse and didn't want to touch it when the blood shot out."

  "And they plastered you whole arm for a hand injury?" asked the Gent, managing to crowbar a comment into the torrent from BQ.

  "Well, it was only a small hole till we got in the car to come here, then she saw the blood drip through my hanky she drove into a parked post van."

  A sharp hurumph trumpeted around the ward.

  "Who's that?" asked the Gent looking around for the source of the disturbance.

  "I'm the bloody postman!" was the forlorn reply.

  This looked like it was going to turn into a long and tedious conversation and I pulled back into my pillow to fake sleep - or failing that a coma, to escape my turn to talk, when my employer, the enigmatic Mr Xanthic; known to associates and customers as The Journeyman, exploded through the double ward doors; a doctor's coat pulled tight across his standard attire.

  "Ah, there you are." he said, staggering in through the door. "Can I get you to do a little favour for me before they find me and drag me out of here?"

  I was shocked at the entrance but nodded my acceptance. Then, looking over his shoulder to check no unseen to me pursuers could witness, he drew out a large curved and much bloodied knife. With a smile, he collapsed to the floor.

  20:10

  As soon as he entered the room the music hit. It washed over and around me as if I were a pebble on the beach to eternity and the waves caressed me in their motion. A symphony of universal proportions temporary overwhelmed all of my senses as the trumpets reached a crescendo. I was pulled back into the room by the bloodied knife that was starting to produce a puddle of sticky blood on the floor.

  I shot straight up in bed, colour draining from my skin and a cold sweat began to form across my shoulders and back. I remembered to breathe and hastily glanced around to see what reaction the other inmates to the ward had; but they all seemed to be carrying on with what they were doing but slightly slower and slightly quieter. I call this The Grey, a background that shrinks away with the colour when Xanthic doesn't want to be noticed or when people just don't want to believe their eyes almost like my facial tone and expression when boys start talking about cars; they just carry on regardless and lose all colour in contrast to the spectacle of my employer.

  I pulled back my covers and threw out my legs, trying not to flinch at the pain or the cold as my bare feet touched the tiled floor but stopping as Xanthic lurched forward with the help of two extra arms wrapped around his waist. He pulled one of his tricks and casually stepped out of the arms and behind him was a skinny security guard looking confused.

  "Sir......" he said, looking for all the world like he had forgotten why he was there and embarrassed as to why he had put his arms around a stranger. Xanthic turned to face the poor guard with a smile on his face a tiger would have been proud of when looking down on a freshly caught small furry meal.

  "Ah, young man," oiled Xanthic. "I believe you are here to show me the way out of this wonderful establishment. Lead the way." He waved his arm highlighting the way out. He turned, looked straight at me, threw the knife lazily so it landed softly side on my bed and said in a stage whisper. "Keep your phone close." before allowing himself to be led away from the ward and away from hospital.

  As The Grey began to lift and the background speed returned to normal I hastily covered the blade with my sheets and drew it back under my pillow, curling up into a ball I lay down my head and closed my eyes. I don't think my act of sleep fooled my room mates, especially as I clutched my phone to my chest and due to the no ringtone policy of the hospital, kept checking the notification panel. I stayed like that until the light began to fade from the sky and harsh electric light replaced the glorious seasonal sunlight. As I was beginning to drift off into the oblivion of sleep my phone erupted into life and a picture message appeared on the screen. I rubbed my finger in the unlock swirl and to my horror an image of a dead body appeared. As I looked closer I could see it wasn't what I thought could be a Halloween dummy covered in thick hair and ears that were just a bit too long, as were the teeth; But a young looking woman with a hole in her chest and half her blood missing. A body? Yes with most of her vital fluids spread around in places which isn’t conducive to a long and happy existence. I pulled the phone closer to my eyes so I could see more clearly in the bright gloom of the room. The body in the photo shot towards me with inhuman speed, mouth wide, teeth sharp and dripping with saliva and as I convulsed in fear and my phone dropped away from me towards the floor, I saw that mouth bite where my hands had just been and then the image was gone.

  Saturday 3rd May

  00:00

  The clock on the wall, a four digit 24 hour plastic brick that, although illegible during daylight hours, was bright enough to flood green light after dark, clicked onto 00:00. My phone lit up as a call came in. I swiped the screen to pick up, recognising my employers credentials on the worn display. It came up ‘Private Number’ much the same as when cold callers or sales robots attempt to make contact at the worst possible times never on a bad date so I could pretend it was a family emergency and had to go, but I always knew when Xanthic calls, it’s always a different and very Private Number.

  "Shhhh," was the first thing I heard coming from the tiny speaker. "I haven't got long and neither have you. I'm looking into a series of occurrences that are happening in that place and you have to do a little digging for me."

  A flood of instructions followed as to what I was required to do, but with all instances of my talking to, listening to or being in the same room as Xanthic the music poured into my soul. Note to self, practice concentration techniques as I have just missed most of the conversation. The beat was more fantastic than any song, it was life, all life, creation and destruction in a toe tapping rhythm. I wondered if Xanthic knew he leaked this beat everywhere he went and if everyone could hear it, or if it was just me and some ability I had over the general populace; I doubted the latter, although I do believe my mind is more open than most, or all that prancing around a field at midnight collecting herbs was a waste of time.

  "......just don't do that!"

  The last of the instructions dragged my wandering mind and brought my attention straight back to the call and what I technically get paid for. "But for now just look into suspects and let me know if anything turns up. I'll be around, but as I have already upset the local security drones with that little mishap earlier I can't come in plain sight. Oh and keep that dagger safe, it’s the only thing that will work. I mean it, the ONLY thing." Then he was gone and my phone went black once more.

  I had a vague sense of the need to spring into action; but it was too close to midnight for my liking, especially as I've seen more 00:00's on the clock since meeting Xanthic than I ever have in the previous 22 years; so with all dedication to my job, I curled up and drifted off into a very fretful sleep.

  10:22

  I woke just as the sun was rising several hours ago, that in itself was worth noting in this diary. the night before led to images of blood, death and fear. I could see inside my mind the suffering and coldness felt by many people, never seeing their faces, but instead seeing through them at the horror that stalked them in their final moments. Alas I did not see that which terrified them either. I felt confined, not by any earthly chain or lock but from a force pushing them down and holding them there while the wors
t happened.

  There is one thing I have learned in my employment, that is people may hide their true intentions from the world, but others - or should that be ‘the Others’ cannot. Even if they try with all their strength. But then again, I have been proven wrong in the past. For all this, I work as an assistant to Xanthic's activities, trying to learn the truth about antiques and items and sometimes of an individual's nature and hopefully right a few wrongs along the way - trust me it’s not as glamorous as it sounds and it sounds very dry and boring, but I stay fit as it involves a lot of walking around, oft in the cold and rain. So to work I thought. I had missed breakfast, so with the notion of finding food in the shopping area at the entrance of the hospital I made my excuses from the endless fussing of nurses and the mindless jabbering of the ward flies and walked off with the intention of mis-finding my way - although in a modern hospital it is almost impossible to walk and reach any intended location.

  There was a constant flow of the ill, infirm and the virtually undead staggering in one direction; from the way they clutched their little packets of death - or cigarette boxes, I guessed they were heading for the entrance and the only smoking point in the building; this being the worst advert for the NHS and a depressing welcoming sight for the 'clients'. I headed the other way and after a misadventure in maternity I ended up with the wall colours changing from sterile white and washed out blue to bright yellow with cartoon characters scattered about randomly like chicken pox marks over a toddler - talking of which, this must be the Children's Ward.