Chapter two

In that sea of satanic sedition known as Goodmayes in Essex, a dark figure paced up and down in the study of his library. Professor Crawley was deep in thought. He knew the book was up to something, he could feel it. This was what the professor lived for. He did not even consider himself a professor, a teacher whose job it was to encourage students to learn. Crawley considered himself much more than an ordinary professor. His students may have referred to him as ‘Creepy Crawley’ but maybe there was good reason for this. His knowledge of dark magic alone made many people uneasy in his presence. For nearly three decades he had been studying the occult. Every hour he could spare was dedicated to expanding his magical knowledge and there was not a library or museum in the area that did not know his gaunt face. Every extra penny he earned was spent on books or trips, alchemical or magical equipment. At the university no student dared making a snide comment to his face and even his fellow teachers could not bring themselves to look him in the eye.

His appearance alone was enough for most people to think twice before approaching him. Known to the teaching world as Professor Crawley, A tall, gaunt oily individual with a wardrobe that had seen little brightness, his knowledge exceeded that of his contemporaries. Sitting in a large leather chair in his study, he was just pouring himself some whisky from a decanter when the doorbell rang. Not a person known for his social nature, the Professor was highly disturbed by the notion of facing anyone at that late an hour.

He wondered who it was, that possessed the courage to make it to his place despite the risk of exposing themselves to his wrath.  He considered ignoring it, after all it was not going to be someone he wanted to see, he did not want to see anyone. His curiosity, however, got the better of him and rising from his chair, glass in hand,  he went to answer the doorbell. He tried to put his eye to the spyhole but even for his extended frame it was a little too high. He used his foot to slide an inverted milk crate (placed beside the door for just such a purpose) under the spyhole and standing on the crate, pressed his eye to the eyepiece. He saw nothing which told him that either the mysterious ringer of doorbells was no longer there or (more probably) that they were less than seven feet tall. Dismounting from the milk crate and kicking it to one side, he opened the door to encounter a short round female of approximately twenty years of age.

She was dressed entirely in black other than the large silver pentagram that hung from her neck which, along with her jet black hair and pale white face, marked her out as unmistakably of the gothic persuasion.

“Miss McDuffy” said Crawley with a note of disdain in his voice, “This is a surprise.”

Of all the people he might have expected to be ringing his doorbell at this time in the evening Angela McDuffy would not have been high on the list. She was a keen student, keen but of very average ability. Other than to reprimand her for talking in his classes, a fault which she seemed powerless to prevent, he had never given her a second thought. She was never going to be a great student so why should he? Looking down on the young woman he noted that she was dressed entirely in black other than the large silver pentagram that hung from her neck which, along with her jet black hair and pale white face

Had the professor been born forty years later there was an outside chance that he also would have been a Goth. He certainly shared their aversion to non-black items of clothing and their interest in the occult. However he was well aware that being a Goth was more than simply donning a black T-shirt and painting your fingernails black. Being a Goth was to adopt an entire lifestyle a culture with its own music, literature, fashion. It was not just a look, it was something to drink in until it mixed with your blood. The professor had always preferred Beethoven to Bauhaus and suspected that he would have done so whatever era he had grown up in. Even so he felt that he had a certain kinship with Goths, they were all of them ‘outsiders’. The professor had acquaintances who were Goths. Like him, they had managed to cultivate a sort of dark presence, an aura of  inscrutability, something the professor felt, that McDuffy was a million miles away from. Standing at the door of his house, every bit of fear and unease she was feeling was visible in her face.

The professor felt scant pity for his student. In his opinion, a show of emotions so manifest was just childish. Had he given it much thought, maybe he would allow for anger being expressed out loud or frustration but these emotions, unlike the emotions of fear and sympathy, did not reveal your weaknesses. If anything, they made you strong. His train of thought was completely interrupted when the little Goth started talking.

“Hello professor” the words were leaving her mouth at a speed that was difficult to keep up with, “I am sorry to trouble you but I have just had a strange vision, I think it might be a thingummy and I don’t know what it means and I thought that what with you being a devil worshiping vampire and all you might know what it is all about.”

“Firstly,” replied Crawley, in his slow measured tones “Fortunately for you, I am neither a devil worshiper nor a vampire. If I were, had you considered the possibility that rather than assisting with your ‘thingummy’ I would be far more interested in sacrificing you to the dark powers or drinking your blood?.” His words were spoken so softly, so softly that they almost seemed waspish but even so she took a step back. The look on her face clearly suggested that she had considered neither of these possibilities.

“Secondly” he continued, I have no interest whatsoever in your ‘thingummy’, by which I presume you mean some sort of prophecy or act of inadvertent divination. Thirdly, although I do not feel I owe you any kind of explanation, I am on the brink of completing my Magnum Opus, a three volume treatise exploring the connection between stamp collecting and transvestism and am consequently extremely busy. Unlike some, I do not have the luxury of having nothing important to do. Thank you very much. Try Google!” he started to slam the door to reinforce this last piece of advice when she replied with a single word that stopped the door  in the mid-slam and drained what little colour there was still left in the already pale complexion of Professor Crawley.

That word was “Liarnomicon.”

He drained his glass at a gulp.

“Perhaps,” he said, a slight hesitation having entered his voice, “you had better come in after all.”

to chapter three