Tuesday, April 07, 2009
Gilbert Miller, secure in the cellar of his mother’s house in Ripley Street, smiled. His mother was in Ramsgate on the annual Darby and Joan Club holiday leaving the house empty but for the cat, which Gilbert had fed an hour ago and was now fast asleep in the airing cupboard. Necromantic rituals were so much better in the cellar of an empty house than a second floor bedsit, even if he could hear next-door’s telly through the adjoining wall.
The circle had been drawn, the symbols inscribed and the black candles lit. He’d had the devil of a job finding black candles and the lady at Morrison’s had looked at him funny when he asked if they had any. He’d got them from IKEA in the end.
Gilbert began to read out the ritual, painstakingly pieced together from several sources, including the intended spirits very own ‘The Devil Rides Out.” At the culmination of the ritual, he made the sacrifice, though being squeamish he’d elected to use a goldfish in place of the unbaptised child.
Shadows formed under a ruddy light and Gilbert smelled the stench of brimstone and rotting flesh. A figure formed in the centre of the circle and Gilbert beamed that his spell had worked so well. The shadows fell back to reveal the form of the arrogant, depraved but brilliant writer of the Satanic, holding a fork with a carrot on the end.
“Where am I?” said the figure. “I was in the middle of Emmerdale.”
“Who the blazes are you?” said Gilbert, his smile replaced by incredulity. “You’re not who I was summoning?”
“I don’t know anything about a summoning,” said the figure. “I was eating my tea.” He held out a hand. “Dennis Whately’s the name. You?”