Straightening, she caught a flash of movement, or perhaps light, from beyond the casket, and focusing on where it had come from she saw a pair of yellow eyes reflected in the steel blade—or peering out at her from within it...

  Florence jerked awake, her heart pounding, a name on her lips.

  It had been an hour at least since Kun had started chanting, during which time the sound, combined with the smoke from the burning incense sticks, had created a soporific, almost hypnotic effect on Ernest. First it had broken down his defences, and then it had slowly wormed its way through the myriad pathways of his brain, to the point where it now felt as though his mind had broken free of its physical constraints and was hovering somewhere in the air above him. Along with Kun’s incantation, every few minutes Richard had repeated the three sharp raps on the floor with the point of Zheng’s sword. It was clear, from the sweat that sheened his face, that the weight of the weapon was taking its toll on him, but his expression remained grimly determined, his mind fixed firmly upon his task.

  When Chang, standing behind him, suddenly hissed, “Look!” Ernest felt his mind snap to attention. He had become so used to Chang’s icy composure that it was a shock to hear the alarm in his voice—and even more of a shock to see that Chang’s hand was trembling as he pointed to an area of darkness just beyond the opening in the circle.

  At first Ernest could see nothing but threads of incense smoke, swirling like barely glimpsed sea creatures in a murky ocean. Gradually, however, he realised that the swirling threads were not random, as he had initially thought, but were moving to and fro, like individual fish in a shoal. Recalling both the dream that he and his colleagues had shared in China, and his own experience in the museum the previous night, he watched in appalled fascination as the flowing threads began to coalesce, growing increasingly more substantial. When a pair of orange-yellow eyes blinked open in the thickening darkness, he had to clamp a hand to his mouth to stop himself from screaming.

  The yaoguai slid into the circle of meagre light like something born from darkness. Seeing it fully formed for the first time, Ernest felt as if his bones and blood had turned to jelly. The thing projected an aura of primal savagery and power. It looked like a creature that would refuse to be fettered by rules and rituals; that would smash aside their protective circle and devour them all, magic or no magic.

  And yet for all that, it seemed hesitant, cautious. As it emerged from the curdled mass of smoke and shadows, its vast head swung left and right, as though assessing potential areas of threat and danger. When its gaze passed over him, the fear that swept through Ernest’s body felt almost physical, like an intense tingling that gave him a near overwhelming urge to curl up into a ball like a small child. With an effort, he resisted the urge, instead pressing himself back against a stone column, as if in the hope he could merge with it, and render himself invisible. Vaguely he was aware of Chang beside him doing more or less the same thing. He almost collapsed with relief when the yaoguai turned its attention back to the circle of incense burners, the diminutive figure of Kun, who had continued to chant without faltering during the demon’s manifestation, and Richard, standing like a guard in front of Zheng’s sarcophagus, still holding up the sword in front of him, the flat of whose blade faced the yaoguai like a narrow mirror.

  Raising its head, the demon seemed to sniff the air. Then it prowled forward, entering the circle through the “doorway” that had been left open for it, and treading softly towards Richard like an African lion stalking its prey.

  Passing Kun as if he wasn’t there, the creature’s attention was focused solely on Richard, or rather on the blade of the sword, which flashed with light as it trembled in his hands. When he was sure he was no longer in the yaoguai’s peripheral vision, Kun, still chanting, sidled behind it and out of the circle, indicating to one of the hefty bodyguards—who had been standing silently in the shadows, arms folded—to pick up the last of the incense burners and use it to close the circle.

  The man did as instructed, then moved back to take his place beside his companion. Standing outside the circle now, but still chanting, Kun indicated to Richard that he should raise the sword a little higher.

  Richard did so, though Ernest could see the strain and fear on the young man’s face as he eyed the approaching yaoguai. Ernest was not sure that if he had drawn the short straw, he would have been able to maintain the courage and composure that Richard was showing now.

  The yaoguai padded forward until it was no more than eight feet from Richard—and there it stopped. It tilted its head to one side, and then the other. It appeared to be entranced by its own reflection in the sword. And now Ernest could see that it wasn’t just the creature’s head that was tilting from side to side; it was its body too. Unlikely though it seemed, the demon was swaying in time to Kun’s chanting, completely mesmerized.

  When the yaoguai began to shimmer out of focus, Ernest thought that he too was once again slipping into a trance. Then, with a thrill, he realised that the outline of the creature was indeed beginning to blur! And not just to blur but to dissolve into smoke, wisps of which were drifting towards the sword!

  So captivated was he by what was happening within the circle, Ernest was unaware of Arthur, lying stretched out on the ground behind him, stirring and moaning. He didn’t see Arthur sit up; didn’t see his eyes widen as he noticed the yaoguai; didn’t see him scramble to his feet.

  He only became aware that Arthur was no longer unconscious when the ex-soldier let out a slurred cry of, “Nooo!” and stumbled forward, shoving Chang out of the way and colliding with one of the incense burners on the edge of the circle, which tipped over with a crash and a gout of sparks. Before either Ernest or Chang could stop him, he blundered into the circle, and—no doubt motivated by a confused sense of duty—hurled himself at Richard and tried to wrestle the sword from his grasp.

  Ernest watched with horror as the two men struggled, and the yaoguai—the spell broken—became solid again. Bellowing with rage, it rose up onto its hind paws, rearing over Richard and Arthur. Ernest could see Richard trying desperately to reason with Arthur, but it was clear that Arthur was too befuddled to listen to his friend’s pleas. Suddenly Arthur shoved Richard, who stumbled and fell, the sword flying out of his hands and skidding across the floor. Ernest half-turned away, barely able to watch as the yaoguai raised a massive claw to strike the men down.

  But before the creature could deliver the killing blow, Kun’s now desperate chanting was drowned out by an ear-splitting scream.

  Everything stopped—or seemed to. Even the yaoguai paused, its claw upraised. Ernest looked towards the shadows from where the demon had emerged, and saw a wraith standing there, slender and dressed in white, copper-coloured hair flowing over her shoulders.

  It took a moment for him to recognize Florence, Sir Winston’s daughter and Richard’s fiancée. She was wearing nothing but a nightgown, and although her eyes were open in terror and her mouth still wide after her scream, she gave the impression she was in the throes of a nightmare, aware of her surroundings perhaps only as a backdrop to her dreams.

  She stood a moment, her body trembling slightly, as if she might turn and run—and then she took a tentative step forward. Two more steps took her into the circle. Another two, and she had reached Zheng’s sword, which was lying where it had come to rest, like a discarded weapon on a battlefield.

  As she bent to pick up the sword, something slipped from the collar of her nightgown—a thin chain, pulled tight by the weight of a green gemstone. As the stone flashed in the light, Ernest suddenly realised that Kun’s incantation had stopped, and that it was now silent in the vast room. He glanced at the old man, and then at the trio beside Zheng’s sarcophagus—Richard, Arthur, and the demon which had come to kill them. All were staring at Florence, as if she was indeed a wraith. Even the yaoguai, which had dropped silently back down on to all fours, was gazing at her fixedly—or perhaps at the jade pendant around her neck.

  The instant Florence touched the sword, her face changed. The change was subtle—a slight tightening of the muscles around her eyes and lips—and yet at the same time it was fundamental enough not just to alter her expression, but to make Ernest suddenly and peculiarly certain that this was no longer Florence he was looking at, but a different person entirely. He watched her pick up the sword, contemplate it for a moment, and then turn it, as Richard had, so that its blade faced the yaoguai like a mirror. And then, astonishingly, she began to sing.

  Her voice was soft, and the melody she produced was as lilting as a lullaby. She sang not in English, but like Kun before her, in an Oriental dialect too arcane and obscure for Ernest to understand. Looking at Richard, he saw that he was staring at his fiancée with shock on his face. And even Arthur, still dazed and swaying on his feet, was gaping at Florence with his mouth hanging open.

  When the yaoguai began to pad towards Florence, Richard’s shock turned to alarm, and he moved forward as if to intervene. Kun, however, stepped into his path, raising a hand and giving the tiniest shake of his head. Ernest tensed, half-expecting Richard’s protective instincts to get the better of him, but after casting a further anxious glance at Florence, Richard acquiesced to the old man’s silent instruction.

  The yaoguai was still moving towards Florence, not in a threatening manner, but rather like an obedient pet returning to its owner. When it was no more than a couple of feet away from her it halted, still clearly entranced by the pendant at her throat. Florence, eyes half-closed, continued to croon, the strange and ancient melody entwining with the incense smoke hazing the air. Ernest heard Richard gasp as the yaoguai rose once more on to its hind legs, towering over his fiancée. But before he, or anyone else, could move, Florence unleashed a startling, warrior-like cry, flipped the sword around, and plunged it into the demon’s heart!

  Thick black blood gushed from the wound, and the yaoguai released a screech so loud that it seemed to shake the building. As the demon toppled onto its back, Florence let go of the sword, which rose as the yaoguai fell, still embedded in the creature’s body. All those in attendance watched as the yaoguai writhed and thrashed and bellowed, batting at the sword with its claws. The sword, though, would not yield; it was as if it had been set in stone.

  There was a collective gasp as the yaoguai began to dissolve into smoke once again, the process happening far more rapidly this time. The smoke resembled a snake in torment, whipping this way and that, before flowing into the blade, which absorbed it instantly. The yaoguai dwindled until, within minutes, it had shrunk away to nothing. Miraculously, the sword stood on end for several seconds, until, with nothing to support it, it slowly toppled to one side.

  Richard and Arthur were already moving forward, Arthur towards the sword and Richard towards Florence, who, released of whatever enchantment had taken hold of her, was staggering backwards, her eyelids fluttering. As Arthur caught the sword by its hilt before it could clatter to the floor, so Richard reached out his arms and caught Florence as she crumpled. She looked up at him dazedly.

  “Is it over?”

  Richard glanced at Arthur, who was placing the sword carefully back into its recess in the lid of the sarcophagus, and then at Ernest, who was hurrying towards them, his face a mixture of concern and jubilation.

  Nodding, he said, “It is, my love. It’s finally over.”

  Ernest had joined them now. He placed a hand on Richard’s shoulder and beamed down at Florence.

  “And you have saved us all,” he said.

  INTERVIEW THE FIRST:

  SWORD OF THE DEMON

  I HEARD THE VOICES of the BBC before I’d entered the room.

  Mayer walked me as far as the dining area, then turned and left me to make my own way to the table. He was presumably off to set up for the next screening.

  Blythewood already had a spread of appetizers before him and a cup of tea, his eyes closed, listening intently to the news broadcast.

  As I entered he tapped a few keys and closed the laptop, cutting off the BBC newscast.

  With one hand he carefully placed the laptop onto a stool placed alongside his chair; with the other, he gestured towards the empty chair across the table. He glanced at my chest to check if I was wearing the coat of arms enamel pin—of course, I still was, and I would for the duration—and beamed once he’d confirmed it was still right where he’d instructed me to pin it.

  Before I had time to seat myself, Blythewood launched into conversation.

  “It was our mummy movie, really, wasn’t it?” he said with a smile.

  “I detect the influence of CURSE OF—I mean, NIGHT OF THE DEMON,” I replied, correcting myself. Stick with the British titles, not the American retitles, I reminded myself.

  “Well, yes, M.R. James, all that, but really, it’s THE MUMMY,” Blythewood asserted, “with one hell of a jackal as supernatural predator. Cursed expedition. Cursed artefact. Reincarnation and an ancient love. British Museum display, the big no-no. Sure to be an active curse, then.”

  “Quite a body count,” I acknowledged.

  “Oh, all the mummy movies were body count movies, weren’t they? Bodies pile up, one by one,” Blythewood continued, “as the curse takes them out one by one. Couldn’t go wrong with a mummy movie, except instead of a mummy, stuntman tottering about in bandages, we had that bloody tusked and saber-toothed bear-beast, the yaoguai. More original, that. Chinese demon, Chinese sword, instead of all the Egyptian trappings. You couldn’t outrun the damned thing, could you?”

  “May I record this conversation?” I asked, tentatively.

  Blythewood shook his head emphatically and slid a Moleskine notebook over to me.

  “Notes only,” he whispered. “Do try to keep up with me. You know shorthand?”

  “Does anyone?” I laughed, and he chuckled.

  “Quite right. No, notes only. Do your best.”

  What follows is all that Blythewood shared with me concerning SWORD OF THE DEMON, transcribed as fully as possible from my hurried notes and properly annotated (please understand, I’m an academic). I’ve done my best to capture his method and rhythm of speech, and I’ve eliminated my questions and interruptions, except when and as necessary.

  We got SWORD OF THE DEMON out in the spring of 1965, we beat Harry Alan Towers and his Fu Manchu revival into theaters,5 which helped our boxoffice enormously. Led to plenty of sales of SWORD OF THE DEMON to other countries in quick succession, well into 1966, though they all retitled it. BLOOD BLADE was my favorite, the Canadian title. Benefitted from all Harry’s pre-publicity, building up Christopher Lee as Fu Manchu as the greatest thing since 007, bringing back all that “Yellow Peril” rubbish as a period adventure, which suited me just fine. We went for the grue. Harry had ol’ Fu, we had the yaoguai. Harry had Chris, we had Peter [Cushing].

  I’d stuck with doing the ghoulish stuff after ASHES TO ASHES showed us the way into doing proper horrors, like WEEPING WALLS, BOTTLES OF BLOOD, THE DEVIL’S CIRCUS, and so on. ASHES TO ASHES was the first film of ours to make some real money, especially after it got picked up for other countries, but the revenue trickled in slowly. Did well in the Americas, would have done better if we’d made it in color, the distributors told us, so color it was from the next production on. But ASHES TO ASHES had been for the most part set in contemporary times, easy rural England locations, none of the sets and period stuff we had needed for our war and pirate fare. No need for combing and buying footage from older films—battle scenes, ships and such—which made for quicker and easier editing, post-production.

  How to make SWORD OF THE DEMON, a color film partially set in 19th century China, the rest in 1890s England, on the cheap in England? That was the challenge, yes?

  For the China portions, I reckoned we were going to have to cobble together something with matte paintings, likely with Les Bowie6 and his people, and whatever we could find or scrape together in rented studio space, something like what Carreras and Hinds and their Hammer team did with their back-to-back China-set films back in 1960, at Bray.7 The advantages of owning your own studio, like the Carreras setup at Bray, was something I’d envied, but I learned my lesson on SWORD.

  First, I’d hoped to find and hire the fellow who did those astonishing matte paintings for Micky and Emeric8 on BLACK NARCISSUS—you’ve seen it? Splendid movie with a mad nun dashing about—clever fellow named Walter Percy Day. They’d done NARCISSUS entirely at Pinewood Studios, all sets and Day’s matte paintings. His friends called him Percy or Pop, but I never got to meet him, so I shan’t be familiar about it. Turns out Day wasn’t a lone genius—he’d been working under art director Alfred Junge, who apparently designed everything beforehand for Day—but Day was the fellow who actually completed the paintings. I had the cockamamie notion we might be able to cut corners, just reuse some existing paintings, but that was stupid of me: doesn’t work that way, and besides, that work was done just after the War, it was either locked up or lost, long gone. Turned out Day had retired in 1952, packed up and moved to Hollywood in ’59 to be nearer his son, died himself in ’65. But before all that, Day had set up a matte department at Shepperton, so someone put me in touch, and I talked to a woman there. She was less expensive than the men, you see, that’s how it was then. Name of Madelaine, I think, Madelaine—no, that’s not right. I can’t recall. Doesn’t matter, we didn’t go that route anyway.

  It was my brother Louis who set my head straight. Tore into all the theater fakery in movies about China and Asia, the Chinese restaurant sets, Continental actors and actresses all in greasepaint and false eyelids and fake Fu Manchu mustaches and garb and such, looking not the least bit like they’d ever been east of Poland, much less the USSR. Tore into me for even thinking of going that route, though I spited him a bit by casting Burt Kwouk.9 He even had two of his China archeologist experts go over the shooting script, fix the dialogue—when Florence is chanting at the end? That’s proper Mandarin. We fudged it with the yaoguai, just made that up from whatever we could based on various masks Louis supplied photographs of—well, wait, more on that, actually, in a tick—but the dialogue is all as it should be, Mandarin, some Cantonese, a line or two in Taishanese, where Louis and his experts thought it appropriate.