The Psychonaut Read online

  Book one of the Psychonaut trilogy

  Published by Rivendell Publications, Brampton, Cumbria, UK

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organisations, places, events and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  For information contact : [email protected]

  Website : http://tomghadams.uk

  The Psychonaut

  Copyright © 2016 by Tom G.H. Adams.

  Book and Cover design by Tom G.H. Adams

  First Edition: May 2016

  This book has been written in UK English. Spellings in other territories may vary.

  Dedication

  This story is dedicated to the memory of Ronnie James Dio, the original Man On The Silver Mountain.

  July 10th, 1942 – May 16th 2010

  RIP

  A special thank you to all my fellow critters on Scribophile, especially Chris McCloughlin for helping shape the start of the novel and Kip McKnight for reading the whole thing and giving invaluable feedback.

  More from Tom G.H. Adams

  Thank you for buying this first book in the Psychonaut series. I hope you enjoy it

  If you’re a fan of horror and dark fantasy, you might like to check out the links at the back of this book which include a download link to Tom’s free starter library. The package consists of:

  The novella ‘Lusus naturae’

  The novellette ‘Defiled Earth’

  Two short stories – ‘They scream in the dark’ and ‘Prophecy and pork chops’

  Two audio tales – ‘Head’ and ‘Possession at 3,000 perforations a minute’

  You will also find the link to my blogsite where you can subscribe to join my growing list of readers – Connoisseurs of Chaos. The site includes more short stories, blog articles on all things horror and dark fantasy, music, video and reviews – including my classic album series.

  Click this link to go straight to the free starter library offer

  In the meantime, take your first steps into the world of the Psychonaut ...

  www.stewsimpson.com

  www.hadriansunion.co.uk

  Table of contents

  Title page

  Copyright notice

  Dedication

  More free fiction

  The third eye

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Demonslayer: Book 2 in the Trilogy

  About

  Starter library

  The Hunter, Anon, 1986

  You're a broken warrior with flesh of stone,

  Heart of ice, but with fire in your bones.

  No one knows of the trouble you're in,

  reaping your reward from the wages of sin.

  Twice as mean is the killer without corruption.

  Better face your destruction.

  Big city mind in a small town boy,

  Takes your soul then sucks out the joy.

  Chasing your prey with unholy heat,

  Pounding that trail with your voodoo beat.

  It all comes together in a place called desolation.

  Witness life's cessation.

  Nightmares rattle all around your head.

  Once they break out then we're double dead.

  Curse on your skin writ with fevered hand,

  Hiding in the sun til’ we make our stand.

  Chapter 1

  Just another day

  The dominant strode up the slime covered steps, metal segs in his boots clicking against the stonework. A persistent hum leaked out of the hessian sack he carried at his side. There was no need for stealth, his victim wasn’t going anywhere and he was eager to interact with the prey—it made his release more exquisite.

  At the top of the steps, a wide corridor extended into the stygian gloom. He approached a room on his right and stepped through what remained of the doorway. Dank air penetrated his nostrils, the stench of mildew strong, the smell of fear stronger. He smiled as his phallus rose to the occasion.

  There was no fight left in the setting sun. It struggled to send subdued rays through a broken ironwork window, and beamed a scattering of feeble rays through a hole in the ceiling, ripped apart by the ingrowing branches of a tree. From the shadows came the sound of dripping water, or something more organic. On a moss-covered trestle table a man lay naked, arms tied to a vice with electrical cord.

  “You’ve returned,” the wretch said, trying to control the quiver in his voice.

  “I have,” the dominant said. He leaned over the man's head presenting an inverted view of his face, noting without comment that the pitiable creature had soiled himself. His erection grew harder.

  The wretch swallowed, trying to choose his words with care. “I’ll do whatever you want.”

  The dominant pulled out a compact mirror and admired himself in the half-light. “Of course you will,” he said, smiling again—a handsome, radiant smile. In fact his whole visage shone with perfection. The cheekbones were as if sculpted from marble, the eyes set as polished sapphires. Long, auburn hair cascaded over an embroidered jacket in bohemian abandon. He imagined the wretch’s unspoken question—how could a beast be so comely?

  “I want this night to be memorable,” the dominant said, “for both of us. I assure you, what we share will fill your thoughts throughout the coming days and nights.”

  “I—”

  “No, don’t speak.” The interruption was gentle but authoritative, serpentine with the threat of retribution. “Your eyes say it all.”

  He traced his finger slowly down the wretch’s grimy, sweat-covered chest. “Tell me, where you feel pain most acutely. Here?” He jabbed a finger in the man’s ear causing the victim to flinch away.

  “Everyone has their sensitive spot.” His hand moved down lower. “For some it is the genitals.”

  The wretch screamed, arching his back as a testicle was twisted in the dominant’s grip. The prolonged torsion threatened to tumble him into unconsciousness until, finally, the tormentor released him, the torture designed to leave a numbing ache in the victim’s groin.

  “But no,” the dominant said, “I sense there are worse horrors you imagine. I knew this the moment I divined your thoughts as we exchan
ged saliva. A man’s spit reveals much. Childhood memories for example, such as a peaceful summer walk down a beech-gladed bank.”

  The dominant reached down for the sack and shook it playfully, the hum from within louder now. Apocrital wings beat against each other. “Your tranquility—interrupted by a single insect. You protested how unfair it was, that it should seek you out and inject its alkaline poison into your eye.”

  The wretch thrashed against his bonds. “No, no,” he cried. “I don’t—”

  “They won’t harm you if you don’t harm them. That’s what your father said, wasn’t it?”

  In one movement, the dominant opened the sack and slipped it over the victim’s head, pulling the drawstring tight around his neck. “How wrong he was.”

  Two of the yellow-jackets escaped and sank their stings into the dominant’s alabaster skin. This didn’t phase him, he simply revelled in the exquisite pain and inhaled the wretch’s suffering, savouring the two in an inhuman cocktail. When a fainter buzzing in his pocket reached his ears, he tried to ignore it, but knew it could only be one person.

  He forced himself away from the writhing unfortunate and flipped open the mobile. “You have a way of spoiling all my fun,” he said.

  “Have you dispatched our guest yet?” came the reply.

  “Not in so many words.”

  The man on the table let out another scream.

  “I thought I told you to kill him, not play with him.”

  The dominant bristled at his tone, a spoiled boy chided by his scolding parent.

  “And I thought you said you’d provide me with regular volunteers for my entertainment.”

  “I think you’ve enjoyed your distraction long enough, my insatiable pet. I need you here with me.”

  The dominant sniffed, “Very well. I’ll be an hour. I need to cover my traces.”

  “Make sure you do. We don’t want any unwelcome interest from the jaded ones.”

  He returned the mobile to his pocket and turned back to the victim, pulling off the sack and throwing it in the corner. An ascending cloud of buzzing hatred spiraled out of the hole in the ceiling.

  “My master wishes me to be merciful,” he said.

  The wretch moaned, a glimmer of hope lighting up his venom-swollen eyes, only to be extinguished as the dominant’s knife sank into his heart.

  ~~~

  Correlation and causation. These were not words at the front of Merrick Whyte’s mind as he left Cahoots—one of London’s newer retro bars. But if he had to identify the point where his world changed irrevocably, and the cascade of later events began, then this was it.

  Two words that would come to define his life.

  A swift single malt with a mate, Pete, had turned into an hour’s offloading of grief over Pete’s latest break up. The conversation tramped over familiar foothills at first; smaller bonuses from senior management, and a holiday in Rhodes that didn’t live up to its promise. But through the small talk a dark mountain loomed. Merrick sensed emotional turmoil underneath Pete’s mask. He could hide these torments from most—but not Merrick.

  Merrick offered the usual consolation and reassurances for the future. “Plenty more fish in the sea,”

  “Yeah,” Pete had said, “and they’re all halibut and mackerel.” At least Merrick hadn’t strayed into psychoanalysis mode. Pete always hated that. Merrick wasn’t sure if it was a case of the truth hurting, or that he delivered advice with the subtlety of a steamroller.

  So, counsel delivered and belly still warmed by the smoky Laphroaig, Merrick stepped into the sultry summer air and breathed in the city atmosphere.

  Knightsbridge was busy with the gentle hum of commuters nudging their way home, like honey bees queuing to enter the hive. He couldn’t judge—wasn’t he just like them after all?

  He’d had enough of the traffic noise, so he took a quiet but longer way back to his townhouse. The front door opened into a vestibule and he slipped off his jacket, draping it over a hanger on the hallway hat stand. Not for the first time he glanced at the Jil Sander label in the collar. Extravagant? Probably. But money bought privileges. What it didn’t buy was satisfaction, and he couldn’t deny his thoughts turned more and more these days to whether the life he led actually amounted to anything.

  He reached down for the pile of mail on the doormat. There was a brown manila envelope with an Inland Revenue stamp on it, and an autumn fashion catalogue. Peeking out from underneath, was a glossy card demanding his attention. On the front was a message:

  Turn this over and put it under the Mekon

  He shook his head and walked into the lounge. There on the table top was a plastic model of Dan Dare’s green nemesis floating on his boat-like, mind-controlled car. He’d purchased the alien from an on-line memorabilia store the previous week. The Mekon may have been an archetypal 60’s villain but the alien had a certain panache. Merrick had pressed the ‘buy it now’ button on a whim. No one except the seller knew he had bought it. Or so he thought.

  A cable with an in-line switch protruded from the model’s base. He pressed it. Underneath the green, globe-headed extra-terrestrial, a fluorescent UV light flickered on. He turned the card over. It was blank so he placed it under the light. More cursive script appeared:

  Have we got your attention yet? Don’t let us make you paranoid. We’re not observing you all the time. It’s an interesting talent you have, and we’d like to talk. The question is - do you want to?

  ~~~

  Chapter 2

  I speed at night

  That was all. No stamp, no postmark. The card was delivered by hand. The message unsettled Merrick because all his work came through a business e-mail or his agent. No client knew of his private address.

  He felt his centre of gravity shuffle sideways, as he flexed and extended his fingers, feeling the satisfying crack in his knuckles. This could be dismissed as a crank message, but if his personal details were compromised it could spell trouble.

  He walked through to the kitchen area, opened the fridge and took out a Peroni. He put the bottle neck in a wall-mounted opener and removed the top. Knocking back a swig, he felt the cool amber liquid slide down the back of his throat.

  The simple pleasures of life.

  Merrick slid his loafers off and sank into the seat he had named the thinking chair. He leaned back into the white leather, allowing it to mould around his shape.

  It appeared that someone desired his talents. Someone with resources and connections. It wouldn’t have been easy for this person or persons to track him down. He’d employed an old friend, who happened to be an ex-Met officer, to cover his trail and render him all but invisible to public and authorities alike. On the other hand, it might be an attempt to unsettle him by a hostile organisation. After all, he’d upset more than a few cartels and businesses in his time. But it had been his clients who had performed the feather-ruffling on his advice. He was just a faceless suit sitting at a conference table.

  He tightened his lips. This didn’t feel like a friendly enquiry. They could even be watching now. He looked out the window, saw a streetlight blink on as dusk announced its presence. He saw Mrs Fretwell walking her two Rottweilers, or rather, them walking her. Apart from this tableau there was no human activity.

  He spoke the word ‘on,’ and a wall-mounted, cinematic flat screen TV flashed into life. He channel hopped for five minutes, finally settling for the local news. The main item was the disappearance of another aristocrat. This time, the son of a well known Earl. Coverage was the typical ‘police have nothing to go on at present,’ and the bulletin didn’t hold his attention long.

  The thought of himself being in the position of hunted was too distracting. He reached for the phone and hit speed dial. It only rang once at the other end before Dominik Hayne picked up.

  “Merrick,” his agent said, “I was just about to call you.”

  Dom’s words tumbled out in a staccato. “You’re not doing an
ything tonight are you?”

  “I—”

  “Good. Put everything on hold. Harris-Billinger have brought the meeting forward to tomorrow. They want you sitting in. This is the big one, Merrick.”

  All thoughts of clandestine observers were now banished from his mind. “Slow down, Dominik. I understood Garento were at the speculative stage and weren’t ready to name a price yet. Besides, I’m not prepared. I haven’t read their portfolio or completed my research. Tell them they’ll have to postpone it at least a week until I get my head round things.”

  Dominik put on a conciliatory tone. “Look Merrick. We knew when Harris-Billinger approached us, events were going to be unpredictable. I’ve convinced them you’re indispensable for giving them the complete backdrop and insight into this merger. Do I have to remind you that a lot of money is riding on this—both on their part and ours?”

  Merrick let the barely concealed leverage hang in the air for a moment. “Okay,” he said finally “I’m in. But I have a few provisos.”

  “I’ll see what I can accommodate.”

  Merrick took another draught of the Peroni. “First, I get to see all the financials. That includes accounts for the last five years, projections and information on shareholder distribution.”

  “I’m e-mailing them securely to you as we speak.”

  “Next, I get to meet with the board members beforehand. I need to know the questions they’re going to ask, and I’d like to weigh them up on a personal level.”

  “Whoa, you’re not going to put them on a couch are you?”

  “You know me better than that Dom. My methods are sophisticated. I promise I won’t do or say anything to make them jittery.”