Imps or Demons for Dunces

By J. W. Mort

Everything you need to know about the Occult, but were too absolutely terrified to ask

 

Just when you thought it was safe to stop believing in things that go bump in the night, this warts-and-all exposé of witchcraft will have you reaching for a four-leaf clover, crossing your fingers and dancing widdershins. J.W. Mort has got hold of the memoirs of Vinegar Tom Acetum, for years assumed to be a fictional character dreamed up by the Chelmsford WI and compiled them in this fascinating kill-and-tell tale of malevolence. Who needs international pandemics, deranged presidents and conspiracy theorists when you've got the devil and all his works laid out before you like Inquisition instruments of torture?

 

All the lads are here, from Astaroth to Zoroaster, taking you on a headlong, madcap ride through European and American history as it really was. Make no mistake; IMPS will be a set text in all thinking schools and Hollywood is very interested.

 

Is any of the hocus pocus of this books true? Would I lie to you? Or would I garotte and burn you instead?

• Language: English
• Publisher: BLKDOG Publishing
• Release date: Feb 27, 2021
• ISBN: 9781393616887

Book preview

Imps

Or

Demons for Dunces

J.W. MORT

AN EVERYDAY STORY OF Infernal Folk

Everything you need to know about the Occult, but were too absolutely terrified to ask

PRINTED AT THE SIGN of the Black Dog

Copyright © 2020 BLKDOG Publishing.

Paperback ISBN 978-1-913762-83-4

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission of the publisher.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. The moral right of the author has been asserted.

www.blkdogpublishing.com

And the critics say ...

‘Goody isn’t the word ...’

Cotton Mather, Salem, Mass 

‘You’re toast, Acetum.’

The Dark One, Nether Regions

‘I prophesy that Imps will be a runaway best-seller.’

Mother Shipton, Knaresborough

‘Och, awa’ wi’ ye, Sassenach bollocks.’

His Majesty King James I

‘I have taken legal advice and you will be hearing from my solicitor.’

Matthew Hopkins, Chelmsford

‘Not a book to stake your reputation on.’

Thomas of Torquemada

‘Way to go, Tom.

I would like to thank Blkdog Publishers for a free copy in exchange for my unbiased opinion.’

B.L. ze Bub, Hell’s Kitchen

I

Iknow, for you people , it’s all about times and places and dates; but, you see, it’s not quite the same for us. We can see backwards and forwards, as well as sideways. Except for our own futures – that’s a step too far. The historically minded among you would probably call it 1736. Across the Pond that year, Karl Pachelbel gave a harpsichord recital at Todd’s Tavern in New York City. Who he? I hear you ask. Well, he was the first famous European musician to perform in the colonies, so you have to say ‘Bless’, don’t you, really? Clearly, they didn’t get out much in New York back in the Thirties. William Boyd II (how authentically Americana is that ?) told the Puritans that the ‘saints of New England’ were importing so many black Africans as slaves into Virginia that they would have to rename the place New Guinea. Way to go, Bill! You know my views on religious hypocrisy ... Oh, you don’t? Well, stick around and all will be revealed. I admit all this seeing all things at all times can get a bit confusing, sometimes – just give me a poke if I don’t make myself clear; hard as you like. I won’t mind at all.

What was happening back in the, if I may use the corny phrase, ‘Old Country’? Well, we had quite a field day as it happens, my fellow Imps and I. All right, business had slacked off a bit to be honest – and thereby, I suppose, hangs this tale. But there’s a lot you can do even when things are going a threat pear-shaped. Fritz Hanover, the Prince of Wales, got married to some gawky seventeen-year-old. His own mother couldn’t stand him – ‘Popularity makes me sick, but Fritz’s popularity makes me vomit.’ I heard that myself. The king got it right when he said Fritz was ‘the greatest villain that was ever born’. His sister was also right, if a touch repetitive, when she said he was a ‘nauseous beast who cares for nobody but his nauseous self.’ Families, eh?

It wasn’t all about the Royals, though. A Quaker called James Barclay set up a bank in London – and you know how that turned out! There was a lot of fun in the capital that year. They brought in a Gin Act (the nerve of that Walpole fellow!) putting a quid tax on every gallon of the stuff! Unreasonable or what? Mother’s ruin was all most Londoners had to look forward to. So they went on the rampage, smashing windows, overturning carriages; the usual, you know. Think BLM, Extinction Rebellion in your day. There were a few fisticuffs up north, too. The Scots – well, you know what they’re like – took exception to Captain John Porteous. Well, he was English and a bit of a pain in the arse, to be honest. Specifically, though, he’d ordered his lads to open fire on the crowd at the hanging of a smuggler. Well, it’s just not done, is it? So they broke into the Tollbooth gaol, dragged him out and lynched him. Some say the SNP was born that day.

In other news, the bloody government repealed the Act against witchcraft. Now, don’t get me wrong, here. No more persecution, no more holier than thou, no more ‘Get thee behind me, Satan’; that’s got to be good news, right? Er ... no, not really. You see, it was not what was done; it was why it was done. And that’s why I’m here, really, for the Tricentennial Audit. The Man Downstairs has brought it forward by seven years (funny how often that number crops up, isn’t it?) so that I can fill him in – or try to – on what was happening back in what you’d call the real world.

I was going to write all this in the present tense, cranking up the tension, you know, keeping you on the edge of your seat. But it’s quite exhausting for both of us that way and anyway, Dame (!) Hilary Mantel beat me to it. Need I say more?

Do you know, I haven’t even introduced myself, have I? I’m Tom. Thomas Acetum, I suppose they would have written it down in the baptism records. Ha! Hear what I said then? Everybody calls me Tom, or Vinegar Tom for short. And I’m an Imp, by the way, should anybody ask. What’s that? Well, the dictionary definition – I’m using Ambrose Bierce’s Devil’s Dictionary of 1911, natch – gives the following: ‘Imp. A person regarded as a child of the Devil, a little devil.’ Per-lease! I really should have had a word with Ambrose about that; I mean, could he have been any more wrong? And it’s the fourth definition, if you please, after a plant shoot and a branch of a noble family. Still, it’s better than old Samuel Johnson, I suppose, he of the first English dictionary. He doesn’t mention us at all. Yes, I know he was touched for the King’s Evil, so there must have been hope for him once. Personally, I think he was just touched, but that’s me for you. When he wrote, supposedly of the natives of the South Pacific, he said, ‘Of the past, or the invisible, they can tell nothing,’ I think he was actually talking about himself.

So ... where was I? Oh, yes, Imps R Us and we’ve all been called to the Tricentennial Audit. Getting there, I don’t mind telling you, was tricky. Of course I’d been before, but the last time was two hundred and ninety three years ago, for Satan’s sake. I knew it was Down – that goes without saying – but after that, SatNav (not many people know that the ‘Sat’ is short for Satan) is useless in the Infernal Regions, but then, it’s useless pretty well everywhere, isn’t it? Remember what that bland, plummy tart used to say – ‘Turn around when it is safe to do so’. Well, it’s never safe in the Infernal Regions and turning round is not for the faint-hearted; trust me.

Anyway, I got here. And it’s not the way you think. All right, there’s a bit of fire and brimstone, of course there is, but most of it’s pretty tame, really. That Blair bloke got it right – no, not Tony, or Lionel, come to that – the one who called himself George Orwell for reasons best known to himself. Remember 1984? Caused quite a stir at the time, didn’t it? Room 101 – the place they put you in when you’ve been a naughty boy; it’s full of what scares the Bejesus (oops, I’ll have to apologise for that later!) out of you most. That’s what Hell’s like. It could be life with the Kardashians; interminable evenings with Giles Brandreth; Doncaster on a good day ...

The Devil’s Waiting Room isn’t a euphemism for the elderly by the way; it’s a real place. And it’s white. Aseptically white. Scrupulously clean. There are seats around the walls, plush with just a hint of pain so you don’t get yourself too comfy. And a clock. A huge one, filling an entire wall. You only need one, because there are no time zones down here. Evil’s a timeless thing, isn’t it? No respecter of persons. No counter of the hours. If you look closely, you’ll see that all the numbers say ‘13’ because it’s always that time somewhere in the world. Orwell thought he was so clever saying ‘the clock struck thirteen’ but they all do now, since the introduction of the twenty-four hour timepiece (circa 1915).

I remember thinking, for the first few hours, how cold the place is. Yes, I know – odd, that, isn’t it? Everybody, from Hieronymus Bosch to Keanu Reeves has Hell erupting with volcanic fury all the time. But that’s down south; for the geologists among you, nearest the earth’s core. The Waiting Room is much further north and believe me, it’s brass monkeys. I was wearing my best, of course, a nice claret frock coat and breeches made by Ede and Ravenscroft of Charing Cross Road. I had the inevitable bunch of lace at my throat and a tambour vest any fashion guru would have killed for. Yes, before you ask, I was wearing my lifts. Well, I admit I have always been a little prickly about my height and when faced with the Man Downstairs, well, you need any advantage you can get, really. Wigs. I really couldn’t decide. I tried raffia, straw, real human hair and in the end just threw caution to the winds and went without. Just a little lime to make it stand up. Oh, I couldn’t compete with most of the types I’d be likely to meet here, but you’ve got to give it your best – there are standards.

What is really peculiar