Haggopian and Other Stories

“Yes, we did, sir,” he blurted. “But not intentionally, you must understand that. God, never that and certainly not if we’d known what we were doing, but—”

“Christ, Alan, but you’re gibbering!” Nuttall’s disgusted exclamation cut Bart off in mid-sentence, his weak eyes peering nervously about the flat and giving the lie to his cool controlled tone of voice. “I’m sure Mr. Millwright understands everything we’ve told him. There’s really no need to go on so.”

Alan Bart’s cynical-seeming friend had pulled himself together somewhat. He had accepted the horror of the thing far more readily than the younger man, since that series of events which three nights earlier had culminated when the two, albeit unwittingly, had indeed called up a demon, or demonic device, from nameless nether-gulfs into the world of men.

“Oh yes, I understand perfectly what you’ve told me,” answered the saturnine, dark-eyed occult scholar, “though I must admit to finding some difficulty in believing that—”

“That a couple of rank amateurs, bungling about with a rather weird and esoteric gramophone record and an evocation from some old eccentric’s book of spells, could actually conjure such a being?” Nuttall finished it for him.

“In a nutshell, yes…exactly.” The occultist made no bones of it. “Mind you, I can readily enough understand how you might have convinced yourselves that it was so. Self-hypnosis is the basis of many so-called cases of demonic possession.”

“We thought you might say something like that,” Nuttall told him, “but we can prove our story very easily.” His voice was suddenly trembling; he plainly fought to maintain a grip on himself. “However, it’s not a pleasant experience…”

“It’s horrible, horrible!” The younger man, Bart, jumped up. His normally sallow features were suddenly many shades lighter. “Don’t make us prove it, Mr. Millwright! Not that again, God, not that!” his voice began to rise hysterically.

“You needn’t stay for it, Alan,” Nuttall took pity on the weaker man. “I can stand it on my own, I think, and anyway it will only be for a second. And I won’t really be alone, as Mr. Millwright will be with me.”

Millwright frowned and rose to his feet from the couch where he had been reclining. His face plainly showed his interest. “Just what would this ‘proof’ of yours consist of?”

“We would simply turn off the lights for a moment,” Nuttall answered, reaching his hand out to the light switch on the wall.

“Wait!” Bart screamed, grabbing his companion’s arm. “Wait,” he gulped, his eyes wide and fearful. He turned to the occultist: “Is there a light in your bathroom?”

“Of course,” Millwright answered, frowning again. He showed Bart to the bathroom door and watched bemused as the young man tremblingly entered. He noticed how Bart made sure that the light in the small room was on before he went in. Then he heard the catch go home on the inside of the door.

Suddenly Millwright began to believe. These two night visitors, with their arsenal of pocket torches and their patently psychotic fear of darkness, were not really pulling his leg. But most probably it was as he had diagnosed; the odds were all in favour of self-hypnosis. They had desired so badly that their experiment should work and they had probably been in such a state of self-induced hysteria at the time, through the music and their esoteric chantings, that they actually believed they had called up a demon from hell.

On the other hand…well, Millwright was not inexperienced in the darker mysteries. Black Magic, practised with a degree of discretion, and the various carefully edited works he had written in the same vein, had made life very easy for him for the past fifteen years. Now, though, he had to see for himself—or, at least, experience—this “proof” that these young men had offered him. Such proof would not be pleasant, the man called Nuttall had warned him. Well, very few magical or necromantic experiences were pleasant; but of course, Nuttall would hardly be willing to demonstrate the thing—whatever it was—if it were really dangerous…

They had not explained exactly what they believed they had released from its nether habitation, but possibly they did not know: They had told him, however, that they knew he was an “expert” in this sort of thing, which was why they had approached him for his help.

And now…there was one easy way to find out what the truth of the matter really was. Millwright returned to his study and into the presence of the olive-skinned man called Nuttall. He saw that his visitor was sweating in anticipation, though he still maintained the vestiges of self-assurance.

“All right, Mr. Nuttall,” Millwright said, closing the study door behind him. “Let’s have your demonstration.”

Nuttall’s Adam’s apple was visibly bobbing. “I have to stay right here,” he muttered, “beside the light switch, so that I can switch it on again. And you’ll need to hold my hand, I think, to really—appreciate—the thing. Are you ready?”