The Haunted Diary of Victoria Little

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‘I have read the diary from cover to cover and now I wonder if there is an element of reality in what she has written and that in fact the truth is more terrifying than anything she could imagine’

When Mike Travis stays home to finish writing his next book he doesn’t expect tp be emboiled in a new case. But a mysterious letterr and diary are sent to him and he soon finds himslef battling ancient demons with the help of old friends and new.

He believes that Victoria Little is the victim of demonic possession rather thamn mental illness and sets out to free her and rid her of the vicious demon Ahriman. The fight takes him into the world of ancient dark magic which has stretched its legacy into lives past and present.

Who is connected to this ancient evil and which side of the Abyss do they live? Who can he trust?


“Do not summon what you can’t put down.” H.P.Lovecraft.


Rhydderch Manor, Trellech, Monmouthshire. AD 1315.

In the nether regions of the Abyss, the demons wait.

They wait for an opportunity to leave their dark realm and enter this world. They seek entrance constantly, looking for a way in, waiting and watching for a gateway to be opened. Waiting for an invitation.

Sir Robert Fitzalan intended to do just that.

Edward II was on the throne of England and seeking to bring the Welsh barons to heel. The death of Gilbert de Clare, Lord of Glamorgan, at the Battle of Bannockburn the previous year had left a power vacuum in the region and Edward had appointed Bartholomew de Bradelsmere in his place. However, he speedily replaced him with the savage and ruthless Payn de Turbeville who immediately began a campaign of persecution and torture of the people of Glamorgan.

The people found a champion in Llewellyn Bren, who flew to their defence, incurring the wrath of de Turbeville. The self-interested agent of the King immediately charged Llewellyn with sedition.

Llywelyn appealed to King Edward II to call off de Turbeville, but Edward ordered Llywelyn to appear before Parliament to face the charge of treason. The king promised Llywelyn that if the charges were found true, he would be hanged. Llywelyn then fled to prepare for war.

Fitzalan knew that his tenure of Rhydderch Manor was dependent upon the whim of de Turbeville, and his future was fragile to say the least. He wasn’t going to take any chances. He needed an advantage; the kind of advantage that would come from having a demon on his side.

The power of the demon Abaddon, whose very name means ‘the Destroyer’, would ensure his retention of his Manor and lands through the coming turmoil. He would perform a ritual to open up a gateway to Hell and summon the demon to act on his command.

For many years he had studied the occult and his natural proclivities of greed and lust had drawn him irrevocably into the worship of Satan and his minions. He was ready to perform the ritual that would give him ultimate power; power to resist the savagery of de Turbeville and even to defeat him and claim the precious lands of Glamorgan for himself.

Below Rhydderch Manor, the cellars had been long ago converted into a temple for his infernal worship. The manor house itself had been built over a site of pagan worship which he had repeatedly desanctified and defiled until there was nothing but evil in the very foundations.

Fitzalan sent for his kitchen wench, Generys, who was dragged trembling into his presence. He roughly stripped her of her clothing and she stood naked and shivering before him.

He bade her drink from a silver goblet. A mixture of hallucinogenic and sedative herbs that would ensure her unresisting compliance.

In the blasphemous temple he threw her onto the ground before the vile altar and took his time in his pleasure of her before her mind eventually took itself to a safe place of incomprehension and release. Her empty shell would make a perfect receptacle for the forthcoming demon.

On the floor of the temple the circle and inverted pentagram was bounded with words of satanic power and in the hours that followed he performed the Satanic Mass, continually commanding Abaddon to appear.

The effort and intensity of the ritual had left him drained and he struggled to maintain control. He was sweating profusely and shaking with the energy he’d created when there was a sudden and dramatic fall in the already cold cellar temple. The air became rarefied making it hard to breathe.

He stood still in the centre of the circle, reaching out to Abaddon, opening himself to the will of the demon, safe in the knowledge that he would receive the great prize for creating the portal for his appearance.

The ground seemed to tremble under his feet and he waited with anticipation. His work was about to be completed. All the years of study and ritual were soon to be rewarded.

The initial tremors subsided and all was quiet. Then a great rumble deep in the belly of the earth made him grab the altar to prevent falling. The rumble continued at a low level and then gave way to a loud cracking noise.

Beneath his feet the floor opened up into a great fissure that emitted the choking stench of decay and sulphur which was instantly accompanied by a huge black cloud. The centre of which seemed to be writhing in a broiling moving mass.

The mass began to take form and separate. In a heartbeat the cellar temple was filled with a cloud of locusts. Abaddon was coming.

The locusts flew into his face and hair but he stood firm against the onslaught, his will was iron. Gradually the insects ceased their attack and once more began to form the writhing mass in front of him until once more they became the noxious black cloud that hid the locusts from his vision.

Gradually another form was birthing from the writhing mass of insects. He felt the blood drain from his face and for the first time he began to doubt his ability to control the demon that was slowly appearing before him, ignoring the inert body of Generys as a vessel for his manifestation, having no need of it. He was appearing in full form before Fitzalan’s sight.

Abaddon stood tall and silent, watching and waiting, his face contorted into a leer of derision. Fitzalan stood defiant before the demon that bore the bearded head of a man from which grew the ears and horns of a male goat. The body was clearly male although a woman’s pendulous breasts gave way to an erect phallus. His legs were covered in coarse hair and terminated in the cloven hooves of a goat.

Abaddon, one of the seven Princes of Hell stood proud and powerful before Fitzalan, who stood unmoving, defiant and driven. There was no quiver in his voice as his arrogance drove him forward.

“I command Thee to do my will. I demand Thy allegiance and reward for my service. I demand the defeat of Payn de Turbeville and the bestowing of the gift of all his property, lands and power. I command Thee!”

Abaddon appeared unmoved and then with a sudden movement was standing less than an inch away from Fitzalan, his face so close that his foul breath became the air the Baron breathed.

The demon put his head quizzically on one side and then opened his mouth wide from which flew another legion of locusts. This time Fitzalan knew that far from being in command of the demon, he was about die. Or worse.

Abaddon’s voice was deep and gravelly, his speech a combination of bestial grunts and intelligible words.

“Command? Who do you command, snivelling whelp? Not Abaddon. It is I that shall command you! You will be my servant, forever to guard the entrance to the nether regions of Hell, awaiting my return when it is I that shall command you. This portal shall be your reward. You will lie there, waiting for my return and my command.”

The lifeless body of Sir Robert Fitzalan fell to the floor and there it remained, unshriven, unburied, until eventually, the stench of his decaying corpse brought a reluctant Abbot from a nearby monastery to supervise the building of his tomb. Directly over the gaping fissure that was the open portal to the Abyss, where he lay entombed, Guardian of the Gateway.

Dubasari, Moldova, AD 1786.

Nicolae Romnek, sorcerer, necromancer and clockmaker sat in his darkened workshop. The task had seemed to stretch before him into a black eternity. The demons Ba’al, Leviathon and Abaddon had instructed him to create for each of them a spirit clock. A physical vessel for their manifestation into the world. An instrument to register their presence and a portal into the physical realm.

He had created three. Each of them an elaborate and mystical long case clock with three dials on their face. Each had a central brass dial, exquisite in its creation, a dial that would eternally tick away time as the demons waited.

Above the circular dial were two semi-circular ones, each bordered with esoteric and occult symbols. The left hand dial would register the presence of the demon and the right would register its entry into the physical realm.

Now he sat in the dark, waiting for their approval.

Ba’al and Leviathon had appeared before him first. Ba’al took his sight to ensure that he could create no other and Leviathon his tongue lest he should reveal his work.

When Abaddon appeared, he took his soul.

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