The Vessel of Iniquity

Author's note.

I gave up on investigating the paranormal back in 2006, between all the diehards retreading the same old crap over and over again, the camp television shows that made a mockery of those who frankly deserved to be mocked, the credulous fools who would believe “Who Framed Roger Rabbit?” was a documentary if you added some arrows and an authoritative voice-over and slapped it up on You-tube. Mostly though, I gave up investigating the paranormal because despite twenty years of uncovering all sorts of things, I never once, not once, experienced anything that could have been remotely considered paranormal. I heard plenty of tales, perhaps discovered that dangerous witch-cults still existed in my country and was not limited to goths, hippies and the 1973 movie “The Wicker Man.” Still given the market was over-saturated with all types of cranks, I abandoned it. Those who've followed my career since will know me more as a writer of Scottish History, which has been my trade in the last 10 years. Even so, there is hardly a month goes by without someone getting a hold of my e-mail and asking me to investigate whatever nonsense has come to their attention. I'm always polite, explaining I don't do that sort of thing any more and suggesting others who I know are only too happy to do that sort of work.

Six months ago another e-mail came through which did not, at first, seem linked with my previous work. It was from a person claiming they were a Doctor from Cathkin Secure Facility, a psychiatric hospital which held the criminally and dangerously insane. Unlike Broadmoor, it is not famous for housing notorious serial killers or deranged sadists that gave decades of cheap lurid column inches for the tabloids, though to be fair many of its patients are equally as violent and insane. While the facility itself does not register in the public consciousness much, one of its patients, Jason Townsend is probably wider known, especially under his nomme de press, “The Butcher of Bellshill.”

It was Townsend whom the e-mail was about. Originally convicted of seven murders, those of his wife, his mail-man, a local pastor and 4 random children in his last rampage, Townsend had the misfortune of being caught on September 10^th 2001 and thus failed to make any impact on the headlines. According to the Doctor (who I will not name for reasons that will become clear in the text) Townsend had been resistant to the various treatments they had attempted on him and had remained silent for almost fifteen years until recently, when he decided to inform the Doctor, that he was ready to talk; to me. It seems he was a fan of my work in the late nineties. 

I had no real interest in interviewing a murderer and would have declined except for one thing. The doctor told me, that when he said he would rely Townsend's message to me, Townsend said “Tell him I know why he didn't mention Mrs Abbotsford's horseshoe.” 

This rather cryptic sentence sent chills down my spine when reading it. I didn't mention Mrs Abbotsford's horseshoe, he was right about that. Mrs Abbotsford was one of the people I interviewed for my 1994 piece Witch Cult of the West Coast, where I investigated the mass suicides of the Soluna Temple. She lived in the town of Netherkirk, near where the tragedy happened. The horseshoe was a folk charm thing that she hung over her back door. Usually they were placed their to deter evil spirits. Mrs Abbotsford had, however, deliberately hung hers upside down, an invitation, so to speak. It was that single thing that changed the nature of my investigation. I declined to mention it in the text because I did not want her being harassed by crazy people. How could he have known? My curiosity got the better of me and so I agreed to interview Jason Townsend. The following is an account of the several interviews I had with Townsend last year.

Jim Weaver. Glasgow February 2016.

When I was seventeen I, like most people around that age, thought I knew everything. I was so certain that I had all the answers, that I was going to make a success out of my life where my parents and grandparents had not. I came from a large working class family where everyone was either some form of manual labourer, shop worker or, in a couple of cases, crook. I’d barely managed to get high enough marks to be accepted to Glasgow University on my third choice, English Literature but it didn’t stop me thinking I was King Shit. This arrogance led, that Christmas, to me and my grandfather having a heated argument about politics. He was an old school socialist and I wasn’t. At one point I told him he was living in the past. He laughed at me and said something I never forgot.

“We aw living in the past, ya daft wee bastard. The present isnae somethin’ ye can nail doon, and the future isnae here yit.”

I remembered I scoffed at that, as I said, I was a typical seventeen year old arsehole but it always stuck with me. As I got older I began to understand what it was he meant, especially recently when my past, specifically my writing about the “paranormal” came back to haunt me. After a long and convoluted route, I found myself agreeing to interview the serial killer Jason Townsend, a man who the police called “The Butcher of Bellshill” who was apparently a fan of my old work.

Townsend, who was considered insane, resided in Cathkin Secure Facility, where according to the Doctors there he had not spoken in over a decade until he demanded to speak to me. After foolishly convincing myself that this might be a good idea I found myself travelling miles out the city one cold but bright September morning to a location far from civilisation, well a few miles at least.

Cathkin Secure Facility lies in the centre of a few acres of heavily fenced grounds, with lovely spirals of razor-wire on top. The whole place is constantly beset with wind. The private security handed me a little plastic card with a lanyard and told me to keep it on me at all times before he opened the large steel doors and allowed me entry. After that he escorted me to the car-park and up to the building where another security team had me wait while they called one of the Doctors down. His name was Price, a sturdy man in his mid forties, with greying, blond hair. He seemed pleased to meet me, said he read some of my stuff and liked it. I suspected he wanted me to thank him, given the way his reaction changed when I turned the subject to Townsend. I wanted some details before I spoke to him.

It turned out I was being a bit egotistical. The Doctor told me to sit down and I did, at which point he handed me an old manilla file which had a fair number of pages inside. This was a crime report. Doctor Price suggested I read it before he took me upstairs. I sat in a little waiting area that seems as if it escaped from a 1970’s drama, blue cracked leatherette seats and that turquoise colour that seemed so exotic and calming to those post war kids. It also had the stale smell of dampness, another familiar aroma from the era. I had expected to find some bad stuff but even the most excited and lurid reports of the gutter press were like children's fairy stories compared to the fifteen pages that described the almost unbelievable grotesque excesses that he had committed.

I shan't repeat them all here, that would be futile and quite excessive, but a taster of what he did with should suffice. Not only did he kill his wife, but he flayed her and then melted shrink wrapping onto her raw body. He then wired her up, small lightbulbs in her eye-sockets, a digital radio in her throat. The police suspected she was the first victim of the rampage that ended several months later with him, naked and ravaged, attacking children in a primary school playground with a nail-gun. Needless to say, after his crimes were brought to light, he was not the only one who needed psychological treatment, many of his surviving victims and quite a few police officers were shattered by his “workings”.

That is what he called his crimes, his “workings”. It was in the report and the keen, lengthy deposition he gave to the police. I’m used to horror stories, I love scary movies and well, the last decade has been little more than geopolitical torture porn but Townsend’s crimes were extreme even in a world with heavily armed death-cultists.

When I finished Doctor Price looked at me with concern and said “If you want to leave, I fully understand.”

I did consider it, I really did but I’m a writer and to be frank this seemed a like potential goldmine. So I said “I’m fine.”

Price smiled and sighed at the same time. “Fair enough, Mr Weaver. I’m pleased, if we can get him to open up, even slightly, we might find some way to cure him.”

To be fair, I had no concern whether Townsend was going to be cured or not. I just wanted to meet the monster, see what he had to say for himself. So, we went upstairs. Doctor Price took me into a small room down a corridor from a ward. There were two men there, “attendants” Price called them, big burly auxiliaries who you would not wish to mess with. They looked more like mercenaries than mental health professionals. I took out my Dictaphone, which I felt embarrassed by, it seemed like outdated technology. No one seemed to notice, of if they did, they didn’t care.

After about ten or so minutes, Doctor Price entered with another two auxiliaries who seemed to belong to the same mercenary company as the previous two. Between them was a rather slight man with cropped, black hair. He was wearing a white tee-shirt and his arms were snaked with deep scars and pockmarked with old burns. His face was no better but his eyes, cold, icy blue seemed bright and sharp in comparison to his somewhat mutilated face. The scars on either side of his lips were deep and uneven, which gave him a perpetual sneer. James Townsend, he looked worse than he had when he was caught.

“Did you ever find that policeman, Jim?” he asked as he sat down. This was another reference to my previous article, it took me by surprise. The policeman, James Rounder, was called to Soluna Temple after complaints about the smell. He discovered the bodies of the men, women and children all hidden under the tarpaulin that covered the empty swimming pool, then, without a trace he had vanished.

“No.” I answered. “He’s still missing.”

“Missing,” Townsend replied, punctuating it with an obnoxious, high-pitched chuckle. I already disliked him. “Been a long time to be missing.”

“So,” I began, “You wanted to speak to me, I’m here, so speak.”

Townsend scowled at me. “Impatient, aren’t you?”

“Not so much, I just don’t like spending time with repellent, murderous lunatics.” I replied.

“Mean-spirited too. I suspected as much. Still, I appreciate you coming. Did my little tease about Mrs Abbotsford leave you curious?” He asked.

“As I said, I’m here.” I replied.

Townsend nodded at that, but did not respond, instead he stared as if he was analysing me, trying to get the measure of who I really was. Perhaps I was imagining that. I did not imagine what he said next. “The doctors here think I am insane, that I suffer from some form of schizophrenia, though as of this date they have found no evidence of such a diagnosis. The reason for this is simple. I am not, nor indeed am I James Townsend.”

At this Doctor Price sighed, which caused Townsend to chuckle again. “Who are you, if not Townsend?” I asked.

“Lord of the Insect plague, Emperor of Locusts, We are named Exterminans, Apollyon, Abbadon, amongst other names. The kings of old would burn their children upon us as sacrifice. We are the fallen, the compression of the spirit into matter.” Townsend replied.

Abbadon is, according to Judeo-Christian mythology, the fallen angel of destruction. Townsend had obviously done some basic research, but this was one stage down from calling himself Satan. I could not stifle the laugh that came from me but answered. “A demon eh? How trite. So, can you provide evidence of such a claim?”

“You are a cynic, Jim. If I pulled a memory from your mind, you would claim it only evidence of telepathy, I know your game, so what sort of evidence would you accept?”

It was a good point and a better question, what evidence would I accept that he was a demon? “Good point. Yet you have to appreciate that being a cynic I’m hardy going to take your word for it, especially since you are in a mental hospital,” I answered.

Townsend closed his eyes as he nodded, his face had a pensive look upon it. His head moved back as he lifted his chin toward the ceiling. From his thin throat I could see his Adam’s apple vibrate up and down rapidly. His eyes then opened and there was a gurgling noise from his mouth which was also open, rather wide and from it burst a swarm of fluttering fast moving bugs It was not a huge swarm, perhaps a few dozen at most but nevertheless it was shocking, disgusting and quite impressive.

The Doctor made a loud exclamation which seemed as much outrage as it did surprise. I sympathised, it was so horrid and unnatural that it immediately changed the atmosphere in the room. The guards seemed edgy, somewhat disturbed and I myself was beginning to think there really was something strange about this wrecked little man sitting across from me.

Townsend smiled and said “If you can catch them, and examine them you will see that they are not local, but desert locust. Furthermore, they might provide interest to an orthopterologist, since they are from at least a thousand years ago.”

“Impressive,” I replied as the doctor and the guards attempted to swat and kill the insects. One skittered across the table and so I reached into my pocket, pulled out a half empty cigarette packet and scooped it into the packet, so I might do exactly as he suggested. “Alright,” I conceded. “For now, I’ll assume you may be telling me the truth. So my first question remains, why did you wish to speak to me?"

“I knew you would give me a fair hearing. I have read a lot of your work and while, as I said, you are cynical, you are not one for tarnishing your writing with too much bias.”

“I’m not sure that is possible, let alone true, but I’ll take the compliment,” I replied. “But again, you avoid the question, why did you want to speak to me?”

Townsend sighed, his eyes focused on the cheap table and after a pause he spoke. “I have been in this vile little body for decades, before that I spent millennia rampaging through your species and it was all in vain. You are now more multitudinous than ever, healthier, longer lived, smarter, you have left this world, you have sent probes out across deep space, you have done so many wondrous, glorious things that I finally have realised all I and the other Fallen have done, is fail to hinder your progress. I wish, Mister Weaver, to atone, to beg forgiveness, to repent for my sins and my arrogance.”

I was slightly taken aback by the statement, couldn’t quite grasp that Townsend thought he was a demon and so answered “You wish forgiveness for the murders you committed?”

This got a frustrated reaction from Townsend. “Murders? Murders?” he scoffed. “No, Mister Weaver, neither the Fallen nor HE are particularly concerned about individuals. I wish to be forgiven for my arrogance. I revolted against The Word, against the creator himself, lured by the light of pride, I rebelled. I see now that was wrong.”

The most surprising thing about this was his pronunciation of the word “HE”. Don’t get me wrong the whole little speech was odd, but when he said “HE” it was with such a tone that there was no doubt Townsend meant God, Jehovah, whatever. I had been wrong-footed in my expectations. I expected some lurid nonsense from a madman and in turn I was hearing said madman claim he was a demon looking for repentance from his creator, not for his crimes, but for rebelling. “So, why tell me this? Why not speak to your God directly?”

“HE no longer listens.” Townsend replied with a hint of regret.

“Well can you blame him?” I asked, immediately realising I was being pulled into this drama and deciding to pull back from enabling his delusion.

“You do not understand, he no longer listens at all, not just to us.” Townsend explained.

“Try a priest then.” I suggested.

“A priest?!” He exclaimed, “A priest?!” he laughed. “Even you know better than that surely? All religions have been co-opted by us for a long long time. No Mister Weaver, you will have to do.”

I couldn’t argue with that. It has always seemed to me that organised religion, not those who have faith in Gods, but the religions that manipulate them have always had a strong whiff of brimstone around them. Still I wondered why he had chosen me, a rather obscure writer to tell all this to, so I asked. “Why me? Why not another?”

He paused before answering. “Well, James the truth of the matter is that while HE no longer listens, his servants do. One of which, I know, is a fan of your work. If I can...” Townsend began, before stopping. Something odd happened then. One of the auxiliaries walked forward raised his right hand and then the whole room was drowned in a searing, blinding light that was also somehow deafening. I could see nothing except vague shadows and I felt unstuck, nauseous, dazzled.

Ringing around my skull seemed to be a voice or some odd thought which suggested that Townsend, no, Abbadon’s atonement was to endure the pit and to the pit he would return. The light faded. Doctor Price sat there stunned, the auxiliary looked completely confused. Townsend was banging his head off the table, screaming, “No no no, come back you bastard, come fucking back here, I command you.”

His voice had changed.

I had had enough, I needed to get out of there, and did not even wait before fleeing the room. I don’t know what happened to Price or Townsend, all I could hear was Townsend raging and screaming as I bolted down the stairs and out through the main doors before anyone could stop me. Outside, back in the real world rather than an institution full of dangerous mad people, I felt myself calming down quickly, my rational self began to veto my more absurd thoughts, but still I was shaking. I needed a cigarette and took my pack out and opened it. A small insect hopped out and was gone. The locust, the only evidence I had. I was annoyed by this, knowing that if I could have verified it, then this may have been some real evidence that what I had experienced was more than just some trick, some psychological experiment, some absurd drama. It was gone. The worst of it was though, that it had managed to totally destroy the remaining five cigarettes in the pack, which were now tattered paper and loose tobacco.

Three days later I received a curt note from Doctor Price telling me that Townsend had hanged himself in a toilet. He also apologised for contacting me in the first place and made some passing comment about an electrical surge. I left it at that.

Was Townsend possessed by a Demon? I don’t know, I doubt it, simply because I don’t believe in demons, or gods, or ghosts or fairies or any of that stuff, but I’ll give them eight out of ten for effort.