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A Haunted Book of Shadows – by Rickey Pittman, The Bard of the South

October 28, 2026 No Comments

A Haunted Book of Shadows – by Rickey Pittman, The Bard of the South
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“They are ugly phantoms that stole out of my mind; not things that I created, but things that haunt me.”—Nathaniel Hawthorne

The weeks before Halloween in the states, or Los Dias de Los Muertos in the Rio Grande Valley and Northern Mexico, seem to be the busiest time of year for my store, The Antiquarian, which is devoted entirely to the horror genre, as well as the occult, witchcraft, the arcane, the esoteric, sorcery, the macabre, and anything recherché.

I am a true bibliophile, and from floor to ceiling, the shelves are filled with rare and beautifully bound books, diaries, and journals. I also have cabinets filled with carefully-filed letters, papyrus and vellum sheets, and photos. There are tables and comfortable chairs where customers can peruse their selections before purchase, and at the same time, enjoy a cup of tea or coffee.

All my customers are lectiophiles, who deeply love reading, and many are librocubicularists, who read themselves into sleep and nightmares with books of horror. Some are looking for sources for scholarly research, others look for anything that relates to Aleister Crowley, while younger readers seek anything written by Jimmy Page, who was a devoted disciple of Crowley.

Late one afternoon, on the day before All Saints Eve, a man entered the store, a leather valise in his hand.

“Welcome, sir, to the Antiquarian! Can I help you find something?”

“No, sir,” he replied. “You probably don’t remember me, but a few years ago I regularly frequented your store. Of course, that was years before…”

I waited for him to complete his sentence, but when he seemed to be stalled in thought, I pointed to a table and said, “Please, take a seat and I’ll bring you a cup of tea. You can tell me what books you might be interested in. Perhaps an ancient manuscript or letter? I have many I can show you in my catalogue.”

“Actually, I have something I would like to show you. Do you still purchase books?”

“I do. What do you have?”

He opened his valise, lifted a handsewn leatherbound book, and set it front of me. The thin leather, brown cover was scuffed and embossed with a Pentagram, an attached skeleton key, an evil eye, and some runes.

“Interesting. May I look through it?”

“Not yet. I need to tell its story.”

“What kind of book is it?”

“It’s a Book of Shadows that belonged to a witch I personally knew. Have you ever seen a real one?”

“I have not. I do have two grimoire that I purchased from private collections, and I have the fictional grimoire of Lovecraft, but I knew that witches would not sell their Book of Shadows and would keep them private, passing them on only to family or coven members. Can I look through it now?”

“Yes.”

He sat next to me, and started with the decorated a title page that had her name and a grimoire book blessing. I noticed the book smelled like sandalwood.

He said, “Bronwynn divided the book into sections, making dated entries weekly or sometimes daily. Each entry includes the phases of the moon, and elliptic stages of the sun’s orbit. All are decorated with Celtic art or runes and oriental calligraphy, and others are illustrated with Greek sentences or the Theban Alphabet, known as the Witch’s Alphabet. There’s a section on spells, blessings, and curses.”

As he moved page by page, I saw there was a section devoted to rituals, and another on divination by Tarot and astrology. There were some personal entries, one with a photo of Bronwynn wearing a skeleton key necklace.

There was a section devoted to druids, to Mexican brujas, curanderas, and drawings of calaveras skeletons dancing in Día de los Muertos. Then there was a section on dreams, and an article from the Dallas Time Herald about the murders and the address of a Professor Deil.

When he turned to the page after the Deil article, I saw a pressed and dried flower attached to the page in cellophane. Underneath, it said, “This rejected forget-me-not flower was tossed to the ground the last time I saw Sheridan.”

I glanced at my guest and saw a tear running down his cheek. “I guess you are Sheridan?”

“Yes, I am.”

“Oh, sorry. It’s obvious you cared for her deeply. Why do you want to sell it? Who did it belong to?”

“Her name was Bronwyn, and she was the love of my life. That is, until she became a witch, and not a wiccan, but a satanic witch.”

“You mean like Lavey?” I asked, “I have two of his books and have sold several through the years.”

“Yes, like Lavey. Her coven leader was a college professor whose name was Deil. He and his little harem corrupted Bronwynn and taught her how to use charm, body language, and mind manipulation to influence people and control situations. I did my best to lead her back to normal instead of this world of crazy she entered, but she resisted. The final straw that shattered our romance was when she got this notion that she had to Mexico for the Night of the Witches, Noche de Brujas, in Catemaco, Veracruz, which is said to be the witch capital of Mexico.

“She refused to reconsider her trip, turned, and left. That was the last time I saw her. The fact that I have her Book of Shadows indicates she probably didn’t have a happy ending. Life had turned sour for me, too. I had a nervous and mental breakdown that resulted in two years at a treatment center because I began to have psychotic episodes in which I possessed suicidal and murderous thoughts, even thinking of murdering you if you didn’t buy the book. When I was released from care, I found her Book of Shadows in my post office box. I don’t know who mailed it to me or how they obtained my address. I read it in one sitting from cover to cover.”

“Why do you want to sell it?”

He flipped the pages to the last page, titled CONOPHON. In Latin it read:

Morteque Malorum Qui Cor Bronwynis Fregit.

I knew Latin, so I translated it: May the one who broke Bronwynn’s heart die by the Death of Evil Things.

“Do you believe in curses?” he asked.

I shrugged my shoulders. “I may. I want to buy your Book of Shadows. I’ll give you ten thousand dollars cash right now.”

“That should be enough for…”

Enough for what? I thought. I saw by his blank face and lost eyes that his mind had drifted off into a dark place I would not be allowed to enter.

“You’ll never see me again,” he said.

“I know,” I said.

That night, I read Bronwynn’s Book of Shadows in one sitting, mesmerized by the beautifully illustrated and carefully written haunting pages. Spellbound, I fell asleep with the book in my hands, and my mind was plunged into a nightmare taking me through the thin veil that separates the human world from a witches’ dark Otherworld.

RELATED

Under the Witch's Mark by Rickey PittmanRickey Pittman, the Bard of the South, is a writer of horror in his novels, short stories, poems, reviews, and original songs. Pittman’s devotion to the horror genre has been a lifelong obsession, fueled by horror movies, the reading of numerous books and magazines, a study of mythology and legends, researching haunted places, stories of true crime, attendance of horror conventions, and a manic devotion to the celebration of Halloween and Los Dias de Los Muertos. In Pittman’s writing, one will discover ghosts, demons, monsters, stories of magic and sorcery, murderers, the insane, and journeys into the shadowy world of the restless dead. Readers who love horror will discover chilling, haunting writing that can both entertain and terrify.

DON’T MISS THIS ONE! Under the Witch’s Mark

WATCH THIS VIDEO of an original song: “Touched by Ghosts!”

Just SOME of Rickey’s MANY Books!



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