Werewolf the Podcast: The Dark Sorcerer Belphastus Rises | Angels, Lucifer & Supernatural Chaos (Ep 235)

In this episode of Werewolf the Podcast, the fallout from a catastrophic crash spirals into something far more dangerous than damaged metal and bruised egos.

As Wil, Eleanor Rigby, and the indomitable Fortescue arrive at the University, tensions rise — and something far darker begins to stir behind the scenes.

High above the mortal world, a deception is unfolding.

A mysterious sorcerer has been impersonating Archangel Michael, manipulating events, rewriting history, and even tampering with the balance between Heaven and Hell. His name:

Belphastus the Unclaimed.

A being rejected by both Heaven and Hell…
A master of reality-bending magic…
And a would-be usurper of Lucifer herself.

From plagues and empires to supernatural conspiracies and cosmic fraud, Belphastus has shaped history from the shadows — all in pursuit of one goal:

The throne of Hell.

But when his latest scheme collapses in spectacular fashion, the consequences ripple back to our unlikely heroes — and the Professor may already be walking straight into the trap.

Blending dark comedy, horror, fantasy, and sharp British wit, this episode expands the mythology of the series with:

• A major villain reveal
• Angels, demons, and cosmic deception
• Supernatural world-building and lore
• Absurd humour and chaotic character dynamics

If you enjoy horror comedy podcasts, supernatural audio dramas, and dark fantasy storytelling, this episode is not to be missed.

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Transcript

Fortescue

The fog was thick enough to butter. I know a strange metaphor to describe fog, but it was a valid one. 

As my old Series One Land Rover rattled to a halt at the roadside—heroically, I might add, given its age and habit of complaining whenever the weather dared to exist.

A rising plume of smoke from the corpse of the Bentley added to the foggy night, and police men, sorry, police people were surrounding the wreck, which was flanked by two police cars and a fire tender. Fire truck? Fire thing.

They were all police men. So was I doing them a disservice by mistakenly gendering them to people? Or not. Modern life has become too complicated for my understanding.

I briefly saw the outline of the Bentley again as the wind wafted the fog and smoke from its carcass. It was crumpled in the ditch like a fallen duchess. That lady would be dealing with more than a broken wrist and hip with this fall. Poor old thing.

Trouble with modern cars is that they are designed to fold like empty crisp packets. Something to do with the idea that if they crumple, they save lives. 

Airbags... pffft. What kind of man could look at himself in the mirror if he had been saved by something as ridiculous as a quickly inflated balloon?

Where the Bentley had hit the bollard, it sort of encased it in metal and plastic. Clever of the Boffins to design that crumply stuff into this car thing, I guess. It won't see the road again, though. It will be a right write off.

If my landy had hit that bollard, it would have had a slight ding, and the bollard would have been destroyed. What the bladdy vehicles designed for. Hitting things.

The Landie's body is made from an aluminium-magnesium alloy called Birmabright, which just sits on two steel Girders, really, with an engine at the front. Same chance of crumpling that setup as getting your money back from old Jenkins.

Bladdy perfect vehicle. None of the nonsense, such as radios, electric windows or seatbelts. Not needed in my day. You need a couple of Whitworth (BSW) and BSF spanners. Fix anything.

Harumphh.'

Oh, and the Landy was incredibly safe in comparison to some of the flying machines I had crashed through the years. 

My Sopwith Camel had a Wicker flying seat and not enough room for a bladdy thermos or a butty, never mind a parachute.

When they eventually gave us those parachute things, we thought that the blighters at HQ had gone crackers. 

They were making us hang out there, floating gently down while the bladdy bleeders below us took pot shots with their rifles. 

At least if I were falling at terminal velocity, we would be challenging to target. Ahem Sorry.

Fair enough in the Landy, I would have been dead from the sudden impact with the steering wheel, crushed ribs, fractured skull, and...

Well, the truth is, I would probably not be dead due to the inordinate amount of luck I have. Please rewind to past episodes to learn how I got so dam lucky. 

Eleanor and Wil scrambled into the passenger seats, dripping fog everywhere. Neither of them seemed injured—thank providence—but both looked shaken.

I, on the other hand. I was bladdy furious at the disgusting behaviour of this vulgar lupine cad towards the young lady.

I never did like him. He never used a straight bat to play the game. Always picked the ball's seam if you get my drift. 

As they got into the Landy, she with my invite, he with a smirking nod, I got out. 

I had to.

Otherwise, I would have said something I would have deeply bladdy regretted. 

What? No, I would not regret telling that Wil blighter what I thought of him, but I try not to use unchoice language in front of a lady. 

Although I know ladies, no, sorry, I have to refer to them in an unchivalrous manner, women. 

Most women of the latest generations swear like troopers in the trenches. All power to them, of course. A good swear can be like a stiff drink.

Marjory, my great-great-great-great-granddaughter, uses words that I thankfully can't understand. I know, I know. I am an old fuddy duddy, but these things were just not done in my day. I should be fossilised.

I marched toward the wreckage with the full authority of a Wing Commander under full sail, and who has absolutely had enough today. 

The Bentley wheezed faint steam from its bonnet. Poor thing. I'd always said it was too pretty to be driven.

Circling the... corpse of the car, I prodded the bumper with my umbrella.

It fell off immediately.

'Utterly shameful behaviour,' I muttered, admonishing the sorry-looking vehicle.

'Cars these days have no moral backbone whatsoever.'

Two recovery workers emerged nervously from the fog, blinking and either incredulous or impressed at my voluminous moustache.

'Right, you two chaps,' I barked. 'You will not take this to a garage, a depot, or any secret government facility that pretends not to exist. You will take it to nowhere. Because nowhere is exactly where it ought to go.' I smiled, parking my umbrella beneath my armpit as if it were the old swagger stick.

One of them squeaked, 'Sir, we… need a destination.' 

'Harumph!' 

I waved at the all-consuming fog. 

Take it to... I gave him a map reference, which I can not share with you, I am afraid. 

He looked at me with a look of disbelief.

'Type it into your GPD mappy appy thing. It will get you to the right spot.'

He put it into his portable mobile telephone technological device. 

Bleeding wonders those things.

He smiled when it revealed a destination not so far away.

'And what will I do with it when I get there, Guv?' The man asked.

I harumphed again. 'Do I have to think of everything?' I asked him.

He looked at me with an open mouth. He was lost for words.

I helped the fellow and added some of that well-known Wing Commander dry humour to the moment.

'Once there, chaps simply release it. Let the mists take it.' I laughed, my wit is beyond compare when I am on form, what?

Not a smile, not a twitch. 

'Eh?' Was his reply.

Why does one bother trying to make light? Waste a bladdy breath.

'You will be met by a frightening-looking young lady. Tattoos and strange hair doo. Don't be put off by her look, though. Splendid young woman.' 

'You're not allergic to cats, are you?' I quickly added.

He shook his head. 

'Good Chap. Good chap.'

'Don't make eye contact with her.' I warned.

'Eh!?' 

I smirked. Little things make me smile.

I paused as I thought of the Werecat Vaughnt. She was splendid, even in such strange regalia as she manifested herself in. Got me out of some sticky spots, had that wonderful little filly.

'She will point out where to put it and give her the key.' I told them. 'I split two fingers and pointed them at my eyes. 'But please do yourself a favour and no eye contact with her.'

'Thank you? Will you sign here?' He passed me his portable telephone. I looked at it and then at him. Was he stupid?

A moment passed.

I continued to look at him and him at me. I was getting a little annoyed at his silliness. Then I thought. Ah, he is a bit dim.

'Look, old chap, I can't sign this, can I?' I said, smiling and showing him the phone screen.

'Paper, pen?' I asked.

He looked at me as though I were the stupid one. 

I harumphed again.

He came forward and, as though talking to a toddler, said. 'No, you sign the box on the screen.'

I looked at the screen, and indeed, there was a little box there.

'Ah, Gosh, technology leaves me behind a little. ' I said. 

I reached into my jacket pocket to get my pen. Ball points are wonderful. Bringing it out, I clicked it into functionality and signed the phone. It did nothing.

I showed him with a smile. 'It's erm... broken old chap.' I told him.

He was still staring at me mouth open.

'No, sir, you sign it with your finger.'

'Beg your pudding?' I said.

'My finger?'

He nodded.

I tried to sign with my finger. 

I smiled at the man, bemused. He was wrong. Nothing had happened. 

'No, sir, you will have to take your glove off.' He told me. 

I looked at him with deep suspicion.

'Doesn't take my fingerprint, does it?' I asked him with a hint of warning in my tone. 

He just scratched his head as he stared at me as though I was one of the things that I search for. A paranormal whatsit

I took my glove off and touched the screen. A dot appeared, and I smeared it across the box.

The man snatched the phone back from me.

'Thank you.' He quickly said as he turned and rushed away.

I didn't care. I regloved my ungloved hand. 

I had bigger problems.

I climbed into my much-loved vehicle, which had been with me longer than my latest wife. More reliable too. 

I turned the ignition, and my Land Rover gave a long, dramatic sigh before rumbling to life.

'Monty,' Wil asked from beside Eleanor, 'is this thing even roadworthy?'

'Harumph.'

I turned to him slowly, terribly.

'This Land Rover, Sir, survived wars, a poltergeist infestation, one regrettable incident involving a mermaid and a motorway roundabout and four wives. It will outlive us all, William. Including you.' I liked using his full first name; it wound him up.

He was a ridiculous fellow at times. He even spelt his shortened name 'Wil' with one L, not 'Will' with two l's, but 'Wil.' What a moon calf.

He shook his head. Good, I could tell him what I thought of him in his silence. 

'You absolute, unmitigated blaggard,' I snapped. 

'You let the Professor's beloved vehicle to be demolished by an interplanar abomination!'

'You set this poor young lady to take a fall for your amusement. It might have killed her.'

'Harumph!'

'You should not have allowed that to happen.

'I didn't allow anything!' he protested.

'You were supposed to protect her!'

'I did protect her!'

'You were supposed to do it without turning the Bentley into modern art, Wil-li-am!'

Eleanor quietly massaged her temples. He was getting to her. I could sense this.

'I told you, I'm fine. Please, Wing Commander, leave it. It was all my fault.'

'Yes, well, you could have been confettied across Hampshire,' I said sharply. 'Which is unacceptable.'

I continued to mumble.

Fen Wils Wolf's soul shifted, sulking.

'At least you guys can sit in the front?' He was trying to change the subject.

'Swap?' He said to Wil.

'I'm not sitting in the back. It smells like old maps and regret.' Wil replied.

'It smells,' I corrected, 'like history. And that is an honour to be sat amongst it, my wolfy friend.' I did have high regard for Fen, the wolf soul. Just not his choice of Wil as the man he possessed. We all have failures in our personalities, though. Well, others do mine is solid.

Fen muttered something distinctly lupine.

'Ow! Something stabbed me!' 

'That's impossible, as are you.' I muttered to Fen. 'You made your point.'

'No, the point is stuck in my backside.' He winged.

'That will be the invisible umbrella. Or the invisible sextant. Or the runic invisible cricket bat of death. Nobody knows what lives back there anymore.'

'This is invisibly degrading,' he muttered.

'And richly deserved. You should have stopped that bleeding blighter, what? Take it as an opportunity to learn in the face of discomfort. The Professor said something nonsensical about suffering and loss being a means of learning. So I'll go with that. He is a bright chap after all. Although it sounds like utter tosh to me.'

Sometime later, we trundled through the city and arrived at the University, the ancient buildings nothing more than ghostly silhouettes in the fog.

Students appeared and vanished like spirits, driven by deadlines.

'Is this... thing ULEZ exempt?' Wil asked.

'Is it what?' I challenged him.

'We just entered the ULEZ.' He continued. 

'The what?' I asked. 

'The Ultra Low Emission Zone. You know you get fined if you have a car that is a certain age in this zone.'

'A what?' I asked. 

Wil laughed. He was trying to wind me up. It was his way. ULE bloody Z's right. The British Government would not stoop so low as to engage in any of that nonsense on this fair isle. That's for all those tree-hugging balssy foreigners, isn't it?

I harumphed. Wil held up his hands.

Never mind.

Fen continued to grumble about biting people, transforming on purpose, full moons, and injustice, among other things. He was exceptionally threatening to be honest. I won't go into the words he said... It was not cricket.

I ignored him. Of course. Luckily, I can do that. 

If he laid so much as a taloned claw on me, the universe would intervene:

A goose would fly through the window. 'Pow.' As it said in the Dan Dare Comics.

A cyclist would collide with the car and fall into his... erm, mouth.

A library gargoyle would fall at precisely the wrong moment. A statuesque distraction.

My luck is… extravagant.

And inconvenient for anyone attempting violence.

We pulled up behind the old sciences building, ivy dripping with mist and chimneys exhaling incense.

I shut off the engine.

'Right. Out we get. Wil—touch bloody nothing.'

He groaned. 'I apologised for the teapot—'

'That teapot spoke thirteen languages by the end,' I snapped. 'And none of them nicely.'

Frightened Binky, the old wife, to death when it complained about having its interior cleaned. Should have heard what it said. 

Eleanor stepped out of the car, buttoning her coat, confusion covering her face.

'Is the Professor expecting us?' She asked

'Oh yes. He's been pacing for an hour. Something's afoot. The shoe has dropped, and other challenges lower-body metaphors have happened.'

Wil frowned. 'Something supernatural?'

'Worse. I would say.'

'What could be worse?'

I adjusted my scarf grimly.

The Professor,' I said, 'is in a very bad mood.'

(long pause.)

Wil paled. Not out of fear of the Professor, but knowing that if something troubled that man this bad, it was a very bad something that was bad.

The fog thickened ominously.

'Harumph.'

'Why do you do that?' Wil asked.

'What?' I asked.

'That Harumph sound.' 

'I don't make any such noise.' I told him.

He turned away and swore under his breath.

I heard Fen his wolf soul laugh.

Then I harumphed properly for my own pleasure.

Oh, I knew a good harumph nibbled at the blighters' irritations, of course I did, I harumphed again, twice in fact. 

And then somewhere above the university rooftops, I glimpsed the faintest shimmer of gold.

Micheal?

Maybe watching.

Maybe waiting.

A voice drifted across the fog like a whisper meant for my ears alone:

'She walks where I see.'

'She exists while I decree.'

'This will not stand.' I told the sky.

Her? I wondered. Lucifer?

I tightened my grip on the umbrella.

I miss being able to carry the old sabre. The politicians had made it illegal a few years back. If we still had the monarchy making the decisions, that would never have been allowed. Men should be able to carry a proper blade, in my humble but correct opinion.

I dismissed these thoughts and addressed the sky. 'Oh, you melodramatic charlatan,' I muttered to the air.

'Not on bladdy watch, you don't.'

'Harumph.'

The Baddy in all this.

I am the Ancient Sorcerer.

I am the ancient fraud who now pretends to be Michael,

who sent the feather and the book,

who nearly tore Wil's soul in half,

who is trying to seize Lucifer's throne.

And at the end... There will always be the twist. 

I have had more names through history than I can recount in any book of any size.

My name, I claim, insofar as something like me can have one, is Belphastus the Unclaimed.

Not Belphegor — he sued.

Not Beelzebub — marketing disaster.

And not "Michael," though I've worn the feathered costume well enough to fool angels, mortals, and one particularly gullible unicorn. They are pretty daft, though.

No, I am not Michael.

Belphastus suits me.

It sounds like a door slamming shut behind someone who really should have checked the room for monsters first.

If you ask the Higher Orders who I am, they'll tell you:

'A mistake. A cosmic clerical error.'

'A sorcerer who should have died two thousand years ago but didn't, due to a bureaucratic oversight and an unusually strong refusal to cooperate.'

I am the Unclaimed because Hell rejected me, and Heaven pretends I don't exist.

Frankly, I consider this an administrative triumph.

You wish to know how I managed to stay hidden for so long?

What do you mean you don't care, really? 

Well... Well, I'm going to tell you anyway. 

Simple.

When Heaven began sniffing around, I erased the century they suspected me to be in. 

Some people have noticed swathes of history are missing. 

That was done by me. Pretty dam good, eh? Well, you should be impressed.

When Hell began hunting, I simply rewrote the memory of the demons involved so they recalled being distracted by a sock puppet called Mr Squeaky.

Still have him somewhere, although he is a little crusty. No, not from that... From last night's biryani.

One learns things over centuries.

Especially when one has no moral objections to experimenting on reality itself.

The trick, you see, is subtlety.

If a god looks for you in 1412, you simply… remove 1412.

Flatten it. Compress it. Make it a footnote in a monastery no one visits.

History is terribly pliable in the right hands.

Or the wrong ones, in my case.

You asked for my works?

Yes, you have to ask because they are so well hidden.

Let me recall a few.

The Black Death? Ah yes. My attempt at pest control. Result: excessive flea-bound fun.

The invention of bureaucracy? Yes. I consider it my masterpiece.

Fascism? That one got away from me. I was aiming for 'mild authoritarianism with better uniforms' and the people… well, the people are overachievers.

The Great Fire of London?

(Hal E. Tosis coughs.)

'Yeth, marther, that wath your attempt at cautherithing the timeth.'

'Quite right, Hal. Shame about the baker.'

Cold callers.

I apologise for nothing.

Oh, there were many others.

Strangling empires.

Stirring kings to madness.

Writing anonymous letters that toppled dynasties.

Whispering into the dreams of poets just to see whether they'd crack.

I did not do evil for a purpose.

I did evil for the same reason people collect stamps:

Out of boredom, pettiness, and the comfort of predictable chaos.

Lucifer, poor thing, could never find me.

Not because I was clever, but because I was beneath her notice.

And nothing enrages a creature of pride more than the existence of a bastard she cannot outsmart because the bastard is playing an entirely different game. Bastard.

Yes.

I want her job. Always wanted it. The Devil's position.

Have wanted it for what's bigger than centuries?

Erm, never mind. Lots and lots of centuries.

Lucky bitch. 

She doesn't deserve the job. She's not even really evil. Just does that tempting thing. Shite work in my opinion.

I want her job not out of ambition, but out of principle.

Lucifer has allowed Hell to stagnate. 

It is all fire and ash and screaming, but no administrative vision. No flair. No innovation.

Hell needs leadership.

A restructuring.

A rebranding.

Can you imagine the large sign and corporate logos on my business card?

Belphastus the Unclaimed, Devil of the 21st Century.

It has a certain ring to it, does it not?

I've attempted to dethrone Lucifer four times.

Once by coup.

Once by legal challenge.

Once through a very close UNO game.

(We did not discuss the game.)

And most recently —

By masquerading as the Archangel Michael.

Oh, how Heaven hates when immortals are fooled by a human sorcerer with a god complex and good tailoring.

I managed to get the feather into the Professor's study.

I sent the book.

I rustled up a few rogue angels — cheap ones, easily bribed with validation — and nearly tore the werewolf's soul in half.

Angels are all a bit dumb.

I am working hard for the throne.

My last chance.

My final gambit.

And yet—

Hal E. Tosis squelched back into the room at that moment, smelling of burnt cabbage and moral compromise.

Hal is a proper homunculus, stitched from misplaced intentions and whatever organs were lying around the lab. 

His eyes are the colour of old dishwater, and his breath could legally be classified as a biological weapon.

'Marther,' No, he is not calling me MARTHA. I just can't get rid of that bloody lisp. He means Master. 

Hal wheezed, 'the fryer ith broken again.'

'Of course it is, Hal,' I said, massaging my temples. 'Everything is broken. The world is broken.'

Hal blinked slowly. 'Tho… what now?'

'What now, indeed.' I replied.

You see, there comes a moment — even for a creature of ancient depravity — when the universe says:

'No. You've had your fun. Sit down.'

My great ritual had previously fizzled.

My last attempt to dethrone Lucifer failed so catastrophically that the Morningstar herself sent me a letter. How she found me has me slightly flummoxed to this day.

A letter.

It read:

'Stop trying. You are embarrassing yourself.'

'— L.'

That stung.

She didn't even sign it, 'Lucifer.'

Just 'L.'

Mockery by stationery.

And somehow she made it so I ended up here with no escape.

Hal tugged at my sleeve.

'Marther… the cuthomer ith waiting…'

I sighed.

'Very well, Hal.'

And that is why, after millennia of shadowed influence and cosmological vandalism…

After plagues, tyrants, wars, and one catastrophic misunderstanding involving Atlantis… I apologise for that one. 

You can now find me —

Belphastus the Unclaimed, scourge of ages, architect of global misery, aspirant Devil of all Creation —

flipping a burger

In the back of a McDonald's on Abbey Lane, Lie...sayster, Laysetter, leesessteter. 

'Leciester.' Says Hal.

Yes.

There. 

Chosen by her because of the apparent difficulty I had with this horrifically named city's... erm name. 

Lucifer banished me to Maccy Dees.

Hell would not have me.

Heaven cannot see me.

And the manager insists I say,

'Have a McNice Day!'

'With a smile.'

A smile.

Hal stands beside me, sprinkling onions with all the joy of a dying frog.

This is my life now.

My last chance ruined.

My destiny in tatters.

My power reduced to salting French fries.

But mark my words:

I will rise again.

I will reclaim my dominion.

I will—

'Bel! Wrong order! That's a Big Mac, not a McCrispy!'

I grit my teeth.

My time will come.

Just not before my lunch break.