The Hellfire Club

By Dan James

The infamous London gentleman's club of the eighteenth century, the Hellfire Club, continues into the present day. Its rich and powerful members amuse themselves with wine, women and a competition.

They invite six men to take on challenges that include staying in a haunted farmhouse, a race through spooky docklands and meeting an elderly orchid collector who is very protective of his plants.

These challenges will test their nerves to breaking point and beyond. Little do they know, but the Hellfire Club doesn't respect the limits of normal life. Their jaded palettes require something stronger than just failure or success. It's got to be a matter of life or death.

The Hellfire Club is a journey into the macabre, with blood soaked tales that will shock and amuse with a dark humour. Let the competition begin!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dan James
• Release date: Mar 20, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301234097

Book preview

The Hellfire Club

by

Dan James

Copyright 2013 Dan James

Dan James reserves the moral right to be identified as the author of this work under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not be resold, lent, hired out or otherwise circulated without the express prior consent of the author.

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Contents

The Club

Pig Head

It's all in the mind

Lambert's run

Give Praise!

Orchidus Vaginus

Until death do us part

The Winner

The Club

The Berkeley Square Society for the Appreciation of the Supernatural, unofficially known as the Hellfire Club after the infamous 18th century satanic society, met monthly at the rising of the full moon for a gourmet dinner. Talks, exhibits and other diverse entertainments followed.

Recent meetings had provided some interesting curiosities. An aged native of Penang Island maintaining a trancelike state as six inch nails were forced through his palms. A witch doctor from the light skinned Lani tribe of northern Nigeria transforming himself into a leopard like creature. And last month, the oddity of a naked Aphrodite having sexual intercourse with itself.

Dress for such occasions was 18th century aristocratic, complete with curled wigs. This matched well the Georgian splendour of the large dining room, with its ornate cornices and moulding and two impressive chandeliers. No allowance for modern convenience was allowed and light was provided by two silver candelabra on the dining table. To the six men standing in a row to the right of the Adam fireplace it seemed as if they had stepped back in time. It was a setting in which the original rakes of the Hellfire Club, such as Sir Francis Dashwood or George III's Prime Minister, the Earl of Bute, would have felt comfortable in.

The Chairman, Sir Hugh Delray, seated at the head of the long mahogany dining table, rose to his feet and tapped the rim of his crystal goblet with a silver spoon. The two lines of seated members chatting with cigars and claret in hand, hushed and turned towards him.

Welcome, gentlemen, to another meeting of the Society. As you can see, tonight we have guests in our midst.

Sir Hugh gestured to the row of standing men to his right and then pointed to the one nearest, a tall, well dressed man in his mid-thirties.

I'd like to introduce Mister Hamilton, an advertising executive in London.

Hamilton nodded, trying to return the looks of the men gathered within the smoky, yellowish arc of light thrown out by the of the candles flickering above the dining table. Behind them, the full moon peeked through the half closed long window drapes, giving those seated, a spectral, ghostly appearance, their faces filled with ghoulish animation.

And beside Mister Hamilton is Mister Hubert, said the chairman, indicating the similarly aged man next in line. A writer, he tells me. No doubt you've found plenty of source material here tonight!

The assembly broke into laughter. Sir Hugh moved to the third man, whose gross obesity dwarfed those around him. Mister Brummell. What is your occupation?

Data entry, replied the fat man, shifting uncomfortably.

Is it an easy job or are you rushed off your feet, as they say, by your employer?

Sniggers came from the listening club members.

Brummell looked down at where his feet would have been if he could have seen them. Well, it is a sitting down job.

The sounds of amusement continued. Brummell reddened and tried not to let the cigar smoke make his eyes water. Sir Hugh daubed his nose with a colourful silk handkerchief and stepped away from the head of the table towards the line of men. He stopped halfway down and regarded a short, middle aged man.

Mister Archibald, announced the chairman. Manager of the menswear department. Enjoying the evening, I hope?

Henry Archibald grinned and concentrated on not slurring his reply. He'd had a few stiff ones before coming to the meeting.

Sir Hugh moved to the fifth, a man also in his middle years. And Mister Wilson. You are a collector, I gather?

John Wilson felt the audience of rich eccentrics in front of him would appreciate his passion in life. Yes. Of orchids, he replied with some confidence.

Splendid! Said Sir Hugh, half turning to the members. Deflowering can be such fun.

Another round of loud indulgent laughter. The last man in the line of guests didn't share the general amusement. He scowled. Sir Hugh daubed handkerchief to his nose again, a favourite affectation of his that he'd picked up after watching a Spencer Tracy film some years ago.

Finally. Mister Lasmore. A teacher of Christian virtues at a school, the name of which escapes me.

St Mary's Preparatory School, said Lasmore.

Virginal. Very virginal indeed. Sir Hugh returned to the head of the table.

Lasmore felt anger rise within him, but before he could retort, the chairman raised his voice to address everyone.

These six gentlemen have agreed to the terms of the challenge. That they go to a designated place and there, willingly confront what I shall term, the dark forces of life.

A pause, filled only by the flicker of candle flames moving to the secret draughts of air.

For each of you who fulfils this requirement and appears at the next lunar monthly meeting, shall receive ten thousand Guineas.

Sir Hugh took envelopes from the pocket of his heavily embroidered silk suit and distributed one to each of the six contestants. Inside, you will find details of your challenge. After reading it, you are, of course, free to withdraw without obligation. But. So Hugh leaned closer, eyes black in contrast to the chalky whiteness of his face. If you decide to carry on, beware, the consequences are yours.

The chairman stepped back, a smile parting his thin lips. Now, all that remains before the ladies arrive, is for me to propose a toast. He took his crystal goblet and held it high. To the supernatural... And the unnatural!

Laughter, then quietness as two rows of goblets tipped back. Claret disappeared like milk down calves' throats.

The six guests were ushered away through the double heavy doors into the marble floored hallway. Seated there were a group of women, all attired in antique costumes similar in style to those of the diners. Their low-cut bodices and gaudily painted faces gave a more precise meaning to the chairman's term, ladies.

The six men avoided staring at the women and took the coats from the butler. They went out into the coldness of the December night. None talked. Each grappled with feelings of unease and bewilderment, a disbelief that such an assembly of people existed in the twenty-first century. And the memory of Sir Hugh's warning, the consequences are yours....

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Pig Head

Damn these country lanes, said Mark Hamilton, as he pulled his Alfa Romeo Spider sports car onto the grass verge and took out his map for the fourth time.

His forefinger traced the maze of red lines indicating by-roads, seeking the village of Great Stanton. The finger stopped. Hamilton rammed into first gear and accelerated. The narrow road cut straight through the low-lying, peaty land stretching all around.

After a life in cities and nine years living and working in London, Hamilton had little time for rural scenery, particularly the desolate flatness of the East Anglican Fens. Good for pigs and Wellington boots, he'd told the secretary from his office when she'd asked whether he liked the countryside. She'd also asked if he would fancy holidaying in the Dordogne with her in a self- catering cottage. Always the same, these frilly knickered secretaries. Bed them a few times and it was home cooking and stargazing before you could pull your trousers up.

It began to rain again, great sleeting waves that whipped across the fields, battering the pollarded willows lining the ditches. The Spider's wipers cut swathes through the water pouring down the windscreen. A crossroads and a four-pronged signpost lay ahead. Hamilton braked and peered at the places marked. Great Stanton, flashed after each pass of the wipers. He turned left as indicated. Three quarters of a mile later, he reached the village.

Great Stanton! he laughed, as the extent of the village became apparent. Situated on a slight rise, shrouded by a sprinkling of ancient oaks, it consisted of no more than twenty buildings.

The Londoner parked by the triangle of the village green. A low, ivy-covered wall boarded its narrowest side, behind which lay a graveyard and small parish church with a square tower. An old man, in oil skins, arranged some flowers at the foot of a gravestone. Hamilton took his umbrella and went over to him.

Excuse me. I'm trying to find a farmhouse around here, he asked the old man, who kept his gaze on the flowers. It's called Leeders Farm.

The elderly man turned stiffly towards him. Hamilton recoiled when he saw that one of the man's eyes was no more than a veined white strip.

Leeder's place? The wheezy voice competed with the splattering of rain.

Hamilton nodded.

Down there. The old man pointed. Arf mile out of village. You'll see a sign on the left.

Hamilton returned to his car. The elderly man stood watching, the lid of his bad eye twitching, even after the stranger had driven round the bend out of sight.

In the fading light of the short mid-winter's day, Hamilton spotted the sign and turned up the long bumpy lane to the