The Lord of the Scarecrows

October 28, 2014 at 12:00 PM
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In this place, where tales of terror draw forth the most loathsome of emotions, stop for a moment, dear seeker, and reflect. Is there someone that you really and truly hate? Someone who has worsened your life by their influence? A person with whom you can never hope to get even?

Perhaps a former friend, turned to betrayal. An ex-lover, whose wanton heart left yours in pieces. Perchance an employer? A family member? A stranger who inflicted the barest of slights? Think hard, and if you come up with an answer, then know this:

You can have you revenge.

In an isolated field, in a place where civilization has worn thin into the whelming green of nature, you will find the thing you seek. It will not be an easy journey, and there is no guarantee you will emerge from this ordeal unscathed, but if you are truly serious about this hatred, if your heart burns with unslakeable vengeance, then, my child, arise one morning at dawn, and steel your will. You will need every once of determination you can draw from your reservoir of hate.

When you are sufficiently ready, go and procure a vehicle, one you won’t mind taking through rough and open country. Ensure that it is well fueled and well-maintained. You will not have the luxury of pit stops on this trip. Ideally, you should bring with you any vittles you feel you will need to sustain yourself, but if nothing else, bring with you a map or some form of location device. Becoming lost is an integral part of this process, and, presumably, you’ll want to find your way back.

After you have prepared, arise the next morning just before dawn. Enter your vehicle, and begin to drive. The general direction in which you travel is of little consequence, but you can greatly expedite this process by moving away from any urban or civic areas. The more rural your location, the closer you will be. As you drive, you must stay alert. Keep your eyes open for the signs that others do not see.

My child, you must follow the crows. Seek out the roads where they nest upon the powerlines. Turn down streets where you see them fly. You will likely become lost, and doubtless you will find yourself driving in circles, but take heart, as this is only bringing you closer to your goal.

Crows are intelligent creatures, you see. They are capable of recalling faces, using tools, and complex communication. When they see you following them, they will know what it is you seek. After a time, if you are patient, they will begin to lead you. If you happen to lose sight of them, or if, indeed, they do not appear for you at all, then the time is not yet right for your pilgrimage, and you must return home at once. You may attempt the trip again at a later date, so do not worry overmuch. True revenge knows the meaning of patience.

As the day wears on, and the crows lead you forward, you will doubtless begin to notice a shift in your surrounding area. You will find yourself in places you never knew existed, in towns ancient and forgotten, overgrown by the festering wilds. There will be no other cars at this point, no signs of life save for the crows guiding you. At this point, you have crossed over into Its domain. You are a trespasser here, and return to your world is impossible. You must persist now, whatever should come your way.

Very soon after your transition, the crows will begin to take you off the roads themselves. You will have to travel across open fields and treacherous terrain. If you were careful in your selection, your vehicle should be able to navigate most of these challenges, but eventually, there will come a point at which you can drive no further. At times, a rocky outcropping will impede your progress. At others, a roaring stream will prevent passage. Whatever form this impediment takes, you must thereafter proceed on foot.

Exit your vehicle quickly, but make not of its location. Bring nothing with you. You a pilgrim in a sacred space, the luxury of the material is no longer yours to possess. The crows will slow when they see you on foot, but they will, themselves, continue to progress. They are called here just the same as you, so be swift. No matter what, you must return to your vehicle before the sun sets. Night in this place is not hospitable to intruders, and the seething things that skitter and click in the dark places of this world are always hungry.

It may be a short distance, or it may be miles, but eventually, you will come across a thick glade of ancient trees. There will be no mistaking this location. Crows will fill the air, gathering from all directions and converging upon the blighted wood. As you pass through the trees, you will see a greater multitude of the dark fowl than you have ever seen before. They will line every branch, cover every root and patch of land. Yet in spite of their preternatural numbers, there will be a whelming quiet over the area, with the only sounds being the faint rustles of the wings of new arrivals, each eager to take its place in the arboreal auditorium.

As you reach the edge of the wood, you will find it open into a large, rectangular field, surrounded on all sides by the forest. The ground itself will be withered and barren, ringed by the blighted remains of plants that foolishly grew too close to this sanctuary. The air here will be cold and acrid, and you will likely begin to feel weak as the very ground you stand on repels the life burning impiously inside you.

It is here, in the center of this place, that you will find the Lord of Scarecrows. It will be erected on an iron cross, Its form made of hide and bone, stitched with sinew and decorated with the limbs and adornments of the local fauna. Amidst this twisting aberration, you will, however, be able to make out the distinct form of a human body, rising up in mock crucifixion, Its flesh all rotted out and dried. Over Its head, It will wear a hood made of stitched-together skin, and Its face will be completely obscured to you.

This is an ancient and sacred thing, an altar and effigy to a thing older than the ground upon which you stand. It will not do to dwell upon its nature, as this is something far beyond mortal comprehension, and to glimpse upon It would be to see into the very primordial ether of creation itself.

Steel your nerve, and approach, but be reverent. This is a church of greater magnitude than the grandest of basilica, and you will not wish to anger this idol. In Its right hand, you will see, clutched tight, a knife of blackest obsidian, wickedly sharp, with a handle carved from bone. In the other, It will bear a roll of coarse cloth. Take both, gently and humbly. It will yield them to you.

Kneel before it, and state that you wish to make an offering of a sinner, then, using the knife, make an incision somewhere upon your body. The bite of the blade will be sharp and swift, and you will bleed quite profusely. Be careful not to wound yourself fatally, lest all this effort be wasted. Gathering the blood pouring from your rent flesh, scrawl the name of your intended target upon the cloth. As you write, think upon the sins this person has committed. Every act of cruelty, ever bitterly unfair word or deed. It does not matter how trivial, all that matters now is the hate that burns in you.

It will likely surprise you with how much blood it takes to write the full name of your sacrifice, but you must persevere. When you have finished, roll the cloth tightly up, and, carefully, peel the hood up just far enough to reveal the skeletal mouth of the effigy. Insert the cloth between its parted teeth, then return the hood to its original position.

Now, slather the knife with your blood, so that the blade is completely coated. Once it drips with crimson life, plunge it into the heart of the idol, and speak these words: “My sacrifice is made.”

You are free to go, but make haste. Doubtless you will have little time left before the dying sun sets beyond the horizon. As you make your way back out through the forest, you will no longer hear the tranquil silence. The air will be filled with whispers, with the recitations of sins and wicked deeds. Do not linger here.

When you return to your vehicle, begin driving until you reach the road, then go as fast as you can toward the direction of the setting sun. The shadows of this place will begin to grow and shift, but if you have followed these directions perfectly, just as the sun sinks down, a blinding flash should consume the horizon, and when it fades, you should be back in the world of the living, your car idling on an empty, but otherwise normal street. Find your way back home, and rest. You have earned your reward.

Over the next year, the victim whose name you offered will begin to wither. All goodness and fortune will quit their lives, and every endeavor will bring to them only bitter tragedy. When, at last, they finally die, one year from the moment you completed the ritual, they will be broken thoroughly, in mind, body, and spirit. At last, your vengeance will be satisfied.

From that day forward, however, you will always be unsettled by the sight of crows, and the hushed whispers they bring beneath their ebony wings. You will feel as if they watch you, keeping track of every vice, of every sin and misstep, and not just of you, of everyone, of everything. Almost as if they existed only to observe, and to relay the wickedness of man to It that waits, with silent anticipation, to serve as its ultimate executioner.

Credit To – brahesTheorem

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Child of God

October 25, 2014 at 12:00 PM
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August 1st marks the tenth anniversary of the day the hunters came, though none of my family celebrates this anniversary. I’m only telling this story because I owe it to those men who saved us that day.

I’ll be honest. It was my fault. It was all my fault.

Ten years ago I was a sadly unpopular, unattractive, loner girl in my high school. I had no friends growing up in rural Montana and no extended family to visit. I was raised by a single mother all of my life and together we both took care of my younger brother, Matthew.

My mother took us to a small Catholic church every Sunday for mass even though I never really believed in any religion. Apparently she baptized me as a Catholic but I don’t consider myself beholden to the church.

So, being a sixteen year old girl with no friends and no boyfriend, I desperately wanted someone to talk to. My mother was always working and my brother was only twelve which made it hard for us to relate to one another. One day on my way home from school, I stopped by the local bookstore and started looking for books about witchcraft. I (stupidly) thought that I could “summon” a ghost or supernatural entity which could eventually become my friend. I imagined befriending a ghost of a girl who died around my age so at least I could have someone who would understand the girl problems I was dealing with then.

I know, when I look back, I was naïve; but I was desperate for a companion and confidant.

I started reading into this pagan belief system called Wicca and though I thought the idea of practicing “white magic” (or what is considered benign magic) was cool, it didn’t offer me any solution to finding a friend. About two weeks after delving into Wicca, I went back to the bookstore to find a book about “black magic” (or what is considered malign magic) because I learned that black magic and necromancy are the schools of sorcery that would help me conjure a spirit.

All the while my mother had no idea, mainly because she was busy, but also because I didn’t tell her so she wouldn’t throw away my books because she was a devout Catholic. Although, when I look back now, I almost wish she found out and stopped me before I went to far.

So there I was, a teenage girl learning about the devil’s arts to raise the ghost of a dead girl in order to have a friend.

I was actually scared at first when learning these rituals and spells. Some seemed so silly that I almost didn’t believe they would work, but other spells had a feeling of absolute seriousness such as the ones involving animal sacrifices and self-mutilation.

I did my best to research before trying anything out because I didn’t want to slit my hands or arms for no reason, but when I found the spell that I was looking for, I was more than horrified.

Before I had to make the sacrifice, I had to pledge my faith to “The Darkness” and had to chant every night for hours on end using pentagram symbols and candles. I lived in a small home but in Montana we had five acres of wooded land behind us, so I would go into the woods at night to do my chanting. It was difficult at first because I was afraid of every sound I heard coming from the shadows, but after a month of performing my minor rituals, I became more in tune with the darkness.

I started to feel more depressed, but comfortable in my depression, and I would constantly think about morbid things. I would draw pentagrams in class when I was supposed to be taking notes and my whole being really changed. People started to notice me at school for the wrong reasons. I didn’t dress like a stereotypical gothic person, but I did wear darker colors and had some kind of malevolent energy always about me. I stopped smiling and laughing and I became more reclusive than I already was. But when I was in the midst of all this, I didn’t really notice.

Eventually it came time for me to summon my spectral friend. I went to the graveyard on a Friday night and had found the headstone of a girl who died when she was seventeen years old. I won’t give her full name out for the sake of respect for the dead, but I knew her as Jezebel.

It was a terribly gruesome rite I had to perform, but by that time, I had undergone such a transformation of character that I didn’t even feel remorse. On Jezebel’s gravesite, I chalked a pentagram, lit my candles, and slit the palms of my hands. Then I took the stray kitten which I found wandering around the outskirts of town (this was common for stray cats and dogs to loiter in the boondocks of my town) and I slit her throat. My blood and the kitten’s blood mingled on the soil of Jezebel’s grave and after reciting certain incantations, her shadowy form rose from the earth.

I was shocked that it worked but even more frightened of her. I expected to see a whitish or bluish spectral image of the girl whose grave I had defiled, but I never saw Jezebel that way. She was always just a black shadow; she had the shape of a teenage girl, she had the voice of one too, but never had a face. It was as if she was a perpetual silhouette which made it slightly difficult to befriend her. She had no eyes that I could look into and see a reflection of my own sorrow, nor did she have hair I could braid or a smile that I could find solace in; she was just pure darkness.

Despite her off-putting essence, she was kind to me. She followed me back home and found peace inside of our one story house. Jezebel liked to stay in my closet and would only come out at night and follow me to the woods to watch me continue performing rituals to confess my ever growing faith in the darkness that had brought her to me.

All was well for a few months until I began to notice her increasing affection toward my younger brother. I told her that Matthew was only twelve years old, but she took a weird liking to him anyway. Eventually she would leave the closet in which she slept only to stare at my brother while he was laying in bed. I asked her to stop, but she wouldn’t. She kept telling me that there was something “special” about his soul that she found so endearing.

Soon enough, Matthew began to hear something follow him around the house during the evening hours and he would complain to my mother who only blamed his young imagination. I can’t remember how many times he told my mother about feeling something following and watching him, but it seemed like far too many times to be ignored.

Despite all this, I stayed quiet, not wanting to reveal my secret involvement with necromancy and Jezebel. I tried to comfort my brother by telling him there was nothing to worry about, but he refused to believe me.

I had another talk with Jezebel about staying away from Matthew, but she didn’t take my words seriously. Instead, she became violent and knocked my nightstand over along with the pictures and glass of water that were on top of it. Now I had started to fear Jezebel, but sadly, it was much too late.

That very night, around three o’clock in the morning, Matthew woke my mother and I up with a hysterical scream. My mother rushed into his room not knowing what to expect, but I stayed in mine, not wanting to see what had happened.

According to my mother, she saw a black shadowy form grasping onto Matthew’s arm as he tried to leave his bed. At that instant, she threw a book from his desk at Jezebel and she relented her hold on my brother. Then I heard Jezebel speaking some strange language (which I later found out was Latin) and when I finally left my room, I saw my mother laying in the fetal position weeping incessantly. I began to cry too from the shock of seeing my mother so defeated. Jezebel left Matthew’s room and began to run to every door in the house; opening and shutting each door six times before moving on to the next one. As she did this, her voice morphed from the teenage girl’s to what can only be described as a voice of a demon. Jezebel kept repeating something in Latin which to this day I do not know what it was (nor do I want to know) and finally I grabbed the keys to the car and dragged my mother and brother outside the house and just started driving no sooner had the last car door closed.

Since I had no friends nor family to retreat to for safety, I just kept driving until my mother regained enough of her composure to instruct me to drive to the church. Once we got to the small church, my mother pounded on the door like she was about to be murdered. Soon enough, Father Preston opened the doors and took us all in.

My mother explained what had happened between sobs and our priest allowed us to stay the night in the church. We all slept on the pews until we had sufficient rest and when we awoke, Father Preston had a talk with all of us.

“I know Mary (my mother’s name), that you believe you saw a demon, but to be sure, we will all go to your home after you’ve had breakfast and I will perform a blessing.”

Father Preston decided to fast since he intended to bless our house, so after my mother, Matthew and I ate food, we drove our separate cars and arrived back home together. My mother was noticeably disturbed and Matthew was unusually cautious, but I was nervous that the priest would find out why Jezebel was there in the first place.

So Father Preston entered first and we all followed, and the house seemed normal then. There was an air of “heaviness” he said, but I didn’t notice it because of how involved I was with the darkness at that point. Nothing was out of order beside the beds not being made since we left them in a disheveled state the night before and Jezebel was no where to be found. I was smart enough to hide my chalk, candles, knife, and book outside in the woods where no one would find the evidence of what I was doing, but even still, Father Preston looked visibly bothered by my bedroom and closet, but he said nothing. He blessed the house in its entirety and gave my mother what would be only a fleeting sense of relief.

After the ceremony was finished, we all talked outside by his car and he told us what he thought.

“I did feel as if there was some being that was lurking around the house, but I couldn’t discern any evil that would mark this entity as being demonic in nature.”

My mother then replied,

“Well, I appreciate everything you’ve done for us Father, I hope we haven’t been too much of a bother on you.”

He then replied once more before he left.

“Nonsense Mary, looking after my children of the church is never a bother to me. Please, don’t be afraid to come to me again if you ever need help.”

Then he left, and my mother and brother did feel slightly relieved after the event. Yet I was still unnerved at the way Jezebel acted the night of the incident. Soon enough evening arrived and when I realized Jezebel wasn’t in my closet, I snuck out my bedroom window and went to my ritual spot in the woods. Sure enough, I found Jezebel and now her voice was again that of a teenage girl’s. She told me how disappointed she was with me and she accused me of being a terrible friend because I didn’t want her around my brother. Needless to say, her words cut me to the core because she was the only friend I had and I had let her down. After an hour of talking and me asking her forgiveness, I finally gave Jezebel permission to be around my brother.

If only I knew what this permission actually meant to her and what it would mean for Matthew, I never would have allowed it. That was the last restful night any of us would have in that house until the hunters came.

The next night, my mother and I again woke to the dreadful screams of my brother, only this time I reacted sooner. I almost wish I hadn’t left my room because I saw something I wish I could forget. Matthew’s body was lifted twelve inches in the air, hovering over his bed and all the while, Jezebel in the deeper demonic voice told my mother and I to leave the room.

“Leave Mary! Leave my room! Marissa gave him to me! She gave him to me!”

After we heard those words, my mother instantly fainted and I could do nothing to help her. I knew I couldn’t help my brother because Jezebel was right, I had given her permission to be around my brother and I could only cry after knowing what I had actually done. The only action I could take was to drive to the church and get Father Preston so he could save us from the horror that was Jezebel.

I drove maniacally fast even though I still only had my learner’s permit at the time and when Father Preston opened the church doors to see me standing there alone, without me having to say a word, he knew something was wrong. He grabbed his Holy Bible, holy water, his crucifix, and a coat and drove us in his car.

It was the most awkward car ride I’ve ever had and probably will ever have. Neither of us spoke the entire seven minute drive and I felt so disgusted with myself because I was bringing our old town priest into a situation that he didn’t know I created.

I have many regrets in regards to this entire experience, but this had to have been the biggest regret. I didn’t tell Father Preston about Jezebel, didn’t tell him how she came to be in our house, nor did I tell him how she had rightful control over my brother. I wish I told him before he learned it all from Jezebel herself.

So we walked into the house and at the end of the hallway we could see my mother’s legs around the corner where she had fainted and we heard the deafening noise of a door constantly opening and slamming. It was dark, but I could plainly see fear in Father Preston’s eyes when he became immersed in the nightmare with us.

Father Preston was a kind, old priest who had lived in our town for two decades and it was clear to see that he had never dealt with any evil of this magnitude before. I struggle to find words that could fitly describe the fear that I felt when I realized that our priest was physically, mentally, emotionally, and spiritually incapable of defending us against this monster.

After he endured the initial shock of entering the house to the sight and sounds that greeted us, with shaking hands, he opened his Bible and began to recite verses with an equally shaken voice. After only a few minutes of reading select passages from the Bible, Jezebel became irritated and decided to confront us, only this time, we were not facing her shadow.

Matthew was crawling on his hands and feet toward us from the hallway and growling the entire time. As he came nearer, we could see from the scanty light of our nightlight plugged into the wall that his eyes were pitch black and his face was unnaturally contorted in a way that barely resembled my younger brother.

Finally I broke down. I couldn’t hide my secret any longer because of the harm she was causing us. So I fell to my knees and started to cry out to Jezebel, pleading for her to leave us alone.

“Please Jezebel, please don’t hurt us! Please leave us alone! Please don’t hurt my brother!”

Jezebel, now using her girl voice, I assume to mock me, said,

“But Marissa, you gave him to me. Remember Marissa? You gave him to me.”

At such words Father Preston stopped praying and looked down at me. He put his hand over his face as if he was ashamed for what evil I had invoked. With faint words muffled even further by my weeping, I pleaded with our priest,

“Please Father, please help us.”

He found the strength to open the bottle of holy water and he cast the blessed liquid upon my brother while reciting more prayers. His body began to flail about and he growled even more until Jezebel finally had enough. Still in my brother’s body, she left through the back door, but not before opening and shutting it six times before she left. I knew she had fled to the safety of my ritual grounds but I also knew that she was not going to be gone for long. After Jezebel departed for the night, before checking up on my mother, Father Preston knelt to the ground in front of me and roughly grabbed my shoulders. With tears pouring down his face, he shook me with what strength he had left and chastised me saying,

“What have you done girl?! What have you done?!”

I could only reply while looking away from his face,

“I’m sorry Father, I’m sorry.”

Then we attended to my mother and when she conscious again, he drove us back to the church and spoke to us.

“Mary, I am sorry for doubting you, but I am now certain that your home is plagued by a demon. This demon was summoned by your daughter Marissa for reasons only she could tell us.”

He then looked at me demanding a reason for my sacrilegious actions and with my mother looking while now crying, I told them the truth.

“I wanted a friend. I performed a ritual to summon the ghost of a teenage girl so I could finally have someone to talk to.”

I then cast my head down, refusing to look at their harsh disproval and what words I heard next I don’t quite remember. I think I’ve done well enough to forget the chastising words of my mother and our priest. All I remember after that was the conversation about a solution to the problem.

“Mary, I’m terribly sorry, but I am too old and unpracticed in the workings of demons to rid this hell spawn from your home by myself.”

My mother then replied,

“What about the Bishop? Can you call him and ask him to do it for us?”

Then Father Preston continued,

“I could contact the Bishop of our diocese and tell him what has happened, but without more and substantial physical evidence, he would not be able to come out here to deal with this demon. It could be months before the church approves of any considerable action in regards to this problem.”

Now my mother in dire straights, pleaded with our priest and asked,

“Can you please call him anyway? There has to be something he can do. You saw that demon, Father. We can’t go back home, we just can’t.”

Father Preston took a deep sigh and relented saying,

“I will call him.”

We left his office and sat in the pews again for at least half an hour before he called my mother and I back in to tell us what could be done.

“I called the Bishop and I expressed to him the urgency of our matter and the lack of force we have in order to deal with such a malignant entity. What advice I am about to offer you is advice that is not officially sanctioned by the Catholic Church in any way. In fact, the Catholic Church does not condone the advice I am about to give you, Mary, but I see no other choice. I am the only Catholic priest in our area of Montana for three hundred miles and even the closest ones to us would still not be able to fight the evil that your daughter has allowed into our world. However, there are two men who can save your family from this demon and after I tell you about them, you have the choice to call upon them or not. But if you do decide to call upon these men, know that I cannot help you any further until this is all over.”

We were taken aback by what we had heard, but finally, my mother agreed to hear of these men who could possibly be our saviors.

“Our Bishop knows of two men, brothers even, who “hunt” demons with motives unclear to everyone who has heard about them. The younger brother is a practitioner of the witchcraft called Wicca which is forbidden and condemned by the church. He has no affiliation with us, but his older brother used to be affiliated with the church. Our Bishop went to seminary with the elder of the brothers whose name no one speaks any longer and whose records no longer exist in the church, but according to our Bishop, this man was different. He isn’t even quite sure how he was accepted into seminary because he was so quiet and indifferent to preaching. Though he did exceedingly well in his studies, he never seemed fit to lead a parish or even assist in one for that matter. He also had no friends the entire time he was in school. People tried to talk to him, tried to befriend him, but he would never allow anyone to get close to him. No one was quite sure what his reason for being in seminary was, but he stayed the course. Only until the last year of seminary did people start talking poorly of him, saying he shouldn’t be there and he couldn’t offer anything to the church, and he was consequently spoken to by the elders. Now, our Bishop didn’t see what had happened, but the rumor was that after so many warnings by the elders of the seminary, this man apparently mutilated himself and possibly tried to commit suicide. Someone found his unconscious body in the men’s restroom and he was carried to the hospital by paramedics. Shortly thereafter, he was expelled from the seminary and excommunicated from the Catholic church because of his reasoning for his behavior. Some also say that he was actually pronounced dead on the school grounds but was later revived without the intervention of any medical equipment or personnel. Though this man no longer has any record or affiliation with the church, our Bishop says that some still call upon him and his brother to hunt demons that they would be unable to exorcise due to the rigorous constraints of our protocol. In all the twenty years I’ve been here working with our Bishop, this is the first I’ve heard of these men. But because they were recommended to me by one who exceeds me in wisdom, I grant you the choice Mary, to call upon these men to hunt this demon, or to wait as long as you can until we gather sufficient evidence for the Catholic church to become heavily involved.”

My mother looked at me and then to Father Preston and said,

“I’m sorry Father, but we are not strong enough to wait. We can’t wait.”

Father Preston then replied,

“I understand Mary, I was witness to the horror that now lives in your home and I am glad you have done this for your family’s sake. Give me some more time to contact our Bishop who will then contact these men for us.”

So we left the priest again but only for ten minutes this time and with a look of uncertain happiness, he told us more when we returned to his office.

“The men are flying out tonight. They are on their way to the airport as we speak, but before I let you two rest, I must tell you more about these men. The younger brother, the witchcraft practitioner, is named Marcus. I am told he is an amiable fellow who knows much about his craft, much more than a man ought to know about sorcery, and his elder brother doesn’t have a name. The Bishop claims that no one speaks his real name any longer, but instead, to those that know about him, he is known only as “Child of God.” Apparently he keeps his faith in our God, but because he is not officially ordained, he cannot be a priest; thus, he uses a title that we all bear since we are all children of God. Not much else is known about these brothers, but the advice I can give is that you leave them to their own devices. Don’t get involved with them and stay out of their way. There is a reason why our Bishop says that they are called upon in times of great trouble and urgency and it is because they can overcome these evil forces. When they arrive, they know better than to step into this church, thus, they will be waiting for you at your house tomorrow morning. Now, get some rest before the night is spent and when our Bishop calls, I will wake you up for they will have arrived.”

After he gave us all the information we needed, we were able again to rest in the safety of our church knowing that we were getting help.

Father Preston woke us up at ten o’clock in the morning and gave my mother a copy of the Holy Bible in case she wouldn’t be able to get to hers at home. He also said prayers for us all and wished us safety in the coming trials.

Finally we left and had breakfast at a local diner. We were the only ones there and neither of us said a word the entire time. After our morning meal, we drove home to find a rental car in our driveway and there waiting for us was a man in a black robe. He was holding a tome of what was presumably spells and over his shoulder he had a satchel full of his materials, ingredients, and trinkets. My mother then asked sheepishly as she had never encountered a real life witch before,

“Are you Marcus?”

He replied without a smile, but with a warm face,

“Yes I am.”

I then asked,

“Where is your brother?”

Marcus gave reply,

“He is praying somewhere. He should be done any moment.”

No sooner had he finished his sentence did we see his brother come from the side of the house. From afar he looked like Marcus as he too was wearing a black robe, but as he drew nearer, I understood why the church doesn’t speak about him. His entire body was covered; he wore a black robe, black gloves, black boots, and a black hood. He carried with him a tome which wasn’t a Holy Bible as well as a walking staff. But the most disturbing part of him was his face, or lack thereof. His head was covered by a hood and his face was covered by what seemed to be an iron mask. It was an expressionless, genderless face mask and over the eyes was wrapped a fresh strip of gauze. I could only assume that he looked somewhat like Marcus if they were indeed brothers related by blood, but the iron mask was so vexing to look at that I could never truly imagine what “Child of God” actually looked like.

We were bothered by his brother, but to be kind, my mother extended her hand to “Child of God” as if to introduce herself, but with that blank, blind face, he stared at her and didn’t say a word. Marcus then asked to go inside in order to prepare and instead of opening the door, my mother gave him the key to the house. We intended to stay outside far out of their way, but Marcus insisted that we be a part of it, or at least be inside the house while they did what is was they were infamous for doing.

As soon as we entered our home, Jezebel began to slam doors and run in front of us through the hallway. Neither Marcus nor “Child of God” were bothered in the slightest by her outrage and their calm demeanors only seemed to frighten my mother more for some reason. To ease her fear, Marcus began to ask my mother questions.

“How did this demon get here and why has it possessed your son?”

My mother reluctantly looked at me and said,

“You explain to them Marissa.”

So I had the attention of both Marcus and his brother and I told them the story of Jezebel and Matthew. As I neared the end of my story, Marcus began flipping through his tome and when he found the page he was seeking, he reached into his satchel and retrieved a vial of powder and a flask of liquid of which I didn’t ask the names or purposes. Then I heard “Child of God” speak for the first time. His voice was soft and barely audible behind his metal mask and even then I couldn’t understand what he had said because he was speaking in Latin. He said something to Marcus and then he retreated in front of the fire place where he opened his book and began to pray.

All the while Marcus and “Child of God” were preparing themselves, Jezebel, began to taunt the brothers using Matthew’s voice, her female voice, and her demonic voice. Neither of them were fazed in any way by the taunts and they kept praying and preparing in silence. Their silence was broken when Marcus finally stood up with some blue powdery mixture in his hands and called to “Child of God”.

“Okay brother, I am ready.”

As he said this, “Child of God” stood up from in front of the fire place with his book and staff in hand and turned in our direction. The gauze wrapped around the eye holes of his mask were spotted red with blood and some began to drip onto the mask itself. At that point, I’m not sure who frightened me more, “Child of God” or Jezebel. But as he stood up, he began speaking to Jezebel in Latin and apparently said things which irked her immensely. They continued conversing with each other in their dead language until the demon finally charged toward the man in front of the fireplace. As she did this, Marcus stood in front and pushed his hands onto Matthew’s chest. A blast of powder filled the air and my brother was laying supine on the ground after having had the wind knocked out of him. Then “Child of God” took a chair and together they sat my brother’s body on it and Marcus then used some kind of white twine to bind his hands around the backrest and his feet around the chair legs. When he was able to breathe again, Matthew started to flail about, trying to break free, but the thin twine seemed to hold him in place as if they were metal handcuffs.

After they had contained Jezebel by chaining my brother to the chair, “Child of God” spoke again to Marcus in his hauntingly soft voice and Marcus translated for us.

“Do you have a garden?”

My mother looked at him curiously and with a feeble voice answered,


Marcus then looked at me and gave me a command,

“You, girl, take my brother to the garden.”

I was too afraid to ask why, so I looked at “Child of God” staring at me through the bloody gauze and I just started to walk to the garden. He followed close behind me and when we reached the garden outside, he immediately walked to the rose bushes. I stood behind him as he set down his book and staff and I watched him pull out a massive hunting knife. He started to cut some of the stems off the bush and when I saw him destroy my mother’s garden, I called him out.

“Hey, what are you doing?!”

The instant I said that, he turned around and glared at me through the now bloodier gauze tape. He then pointed his finger at the door as if to tell me to go back inside. I was upset that he was killing our rose bushes, but I was too intimidated to argue with him.

A short while later he came back in the house with a tiara made from our best roses. It was actually very beautiful and well put together, it looked like something I would have liked to wear if not for the thorns in the stems. When Marcus saw this floral fillet, he just mysteriously stated his approval,

“Ah, roses. Even better.”

My mother, just as confounded as me, asked why he spent precious time making a crown of roses and Marcus told us why.

“This demon, though strong enough to possess your son, does not exude an aura that defiles all life in this house. Your roses are proof that goodness still exists midst this darkness that now has whelmed your home.”

He then took the crown from “Child of God” and then looked at me and said,

“Because this demon is spiritually linked to you, it is you who will help us destroy this demon. With your blood was this abomination released, and with your blood shall it be soon contained.”

He then quickly grasped my right hand and before I could react, punctured my palm with a thorn from the stem of the tiara. I recoiled in pain and my mother pulled me close to her to protect me from any more harm. Then Marcus took the crown of roses and gently put it on my brother’s head. My mother tried to stop him saying that the rose thorns would cut his skin, but as she said that, I think just to spite her, he jammed the fillet with great force onto Matthew’s head and then caused Jezebel in her girl voice to scream in pain. My mother was too afraid to do anything after this cruel display of disregard for my brother’s life. Then again, “Child of God” spoke to his brother and Marcus translated by asking me,

“Where do you conduct your rituals, girl?”

I said timidly,

“Outside in the woods.”

Marcus continued asking questions.

“Where are your books and tools of this devilish trade?”

So I answered again with my mother looking highly disappointed in me.

“They are all outside.”

Then his said,

“Lead the way.”

As I started to walk outside, Marcus held his brother’s book while “Child of God” dragged the chair Matthew was tied to as everyone started to follow me. All the while, Jezebel was trying to manipulate us by using Matthew’s voice to plea for help, then using her girl voice to shame me, and finally using the demonic voice to frighten us. My mother was nervous but “Child of God” tried to reassure her by saying something in Latin. Needless to say, his soft spoken words didn’t do much to calm my mother. Finally we reached the woods and my ritual site. When my mother saw the chalked pentagram, she nearly swooned and sighed,

“O goodness Marissa, how could you do this?”

I didn’t answer but instead retrieved my treasure chest that had all my candles, my chalk, my knife, and my books in it. Marcus looked inside, moved things around, and then closed the lid. Then he motioned to his brother and “Child of God” lifted Matthew and the chair and placed him in the center of the pentagram. The demon inside of him was furious and again began to flail to no avail. Now standing just on the outside of the circle, “Child of God” had his book again and began to recite prayers in Latin. As he was doing this, Marcus took a large jar of green powder and started to carefully pour it over the chalk pentagram. My mother was startled and quickly asked,

“What are you doing? What is that? It smells like gun powder!”

Marcus, without turning to look at my mother, in an annoyed voice, commanded her,

“Quiet woman!”

As each of these men were preparing for whatever rite they had planned, I noticed the gauze wrap of “Child of God” was soaking wet with blood and it seemed as he prayed longer and longer, more tears of blood dripped onto the mask. Finally Marcus had covered the entire circle and star with a thin layer of green powder and then he set my box of necromancy supplies underneath Matthew’s chair. He then took a lighter out of his satchel and lit the edge of the ring on fire. I don’t really know if that was green colored gun powder, but it smelled and burned like it. At the instant he kindled the flames, my mother tried to rush toward Matthew, but Marcus pushed his hands into her chest and knocked her flat on her back. She was heaving for air as her wind had been knocked out and I stooped beside her holding her in my arms.

Soon enough the entire pentagram shape went ablaze and then the box underneath my brother caught on fire. As this happened, my mother finally fainted from what I assume was pure panic and a lack of oxygen. I tried to turn away but I couldn’t help but look. Now in a frighteningly deep and loud voice, “Child of God” began to chant even more and it seemed like his words were some kind of acid being poured on Jezebel. Now using only her demonic voice, I couldn’t tell what she was saying to him, but it sounded like she was trying to reason with him, almost like someone tries to reason with their murderer before they are slain.

Then I watched as Marcus pulled out a small box from his satchel and walked behind the pentagram, facing his brother on the other side. “Child of God” slowly lifted his hands while still holding his staff and book, and as he did this, the fire rose higher as if he was a puppeteer pulling on the strings of the flames. Then I remember blinking because he shut the book which made a loud thud and then he held his staff over his head while walking through the fire to my brother. As “Child of God” walked toward the center of the circle, Marcus did the same from the other end. He continued to pray a little more until finally he drove the uplift staff straight into Matthew’s chest where his heart would be. Then I saw the shadowy Jezebel leave through my brother’s gaping mouth and as she finally left his body, Marcus held the small box over his face and captured her essence.

He quickly left the circle and wrapped the box in the white twine and he poured a vial of liquid over it once it was tied shut. After he doused the box in the liquid, the fire was extinguished and I saw only a circle and star of ashes where the pentagram was, a pile of ashes underneath Matthew where my box was, and ashes covering his face and head where the rose crown was. All the noise and fervor had ceased and Matthew was fast asleep. My mother was still unconscious as the hunters prepared their belongings and cleaned up the mess. Both Marcus and “Child of God” gave me their books and staff to carry for them while Marcus dragged Matthew in his chair and “Child of God” carried my mother in his arms like a dead body.

When we got back inside the house, “Child of God” laid my mother on her bed while Marcus untied Matthew and laid him on his bed. They then took their books and staff from me and without a word, began to walk outside. I followed them close behind and as I realized they had no intention of saying goodbye, I decided to give a farewell.

“Thank you for saving us.”

Marcus continued walking, just completely ignoring me while his brother, “Child of God” turned around one last time and stared at me. Through the blood stained gauze over his iron mask, I could feel him looking into my soul, and he said to me,

“I pray that I may never see you again.”

That was the first time I heard him speak English and the last. I will always remember those words he said to me because at first it stung, it felt like he hated me, but when I think about it now, when I look at my two year old daughter, I realize the sentiment is mutual. I also pray that my daughter doesn’t make the same mistake I made growing up and I pray that I may never have a reason see those men again.

Credit To – Marissa D.

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Invoking Aziuth

October 24, 2014 at 12:00 PM
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I lifted my eyes for only a moment. His form was unspeakable. An insidious darkness, a void opened to reality. My body lost all its strength, I fell to the floor, loosing my bladder.

“Speak, slave.” The demon’s voice was sharp, metallic.
I strained to lift my head again, to behold the horrifying shape of Aziuth. My flesh wanted flee the utter awfulness of the moment. My voice failed me.

The demon made a deep, almost purring noise. Like a satisfied lion about to eviscerate his prey.

“O great Aziuth, dread prince of spoiled flesh and broken slaves. Favor me now. Favor me with one request.”

I’ve always admired the Devil. Not so much for all the genocide and misery he’s instigated, but because Satan is the original freethinker. It says somewhere in the Bible that Lucifer was once one of God’s highest and most beautiful of angels, but one day he decided he’d had enough of serving God and was ready to start taking care of himself. I like that.

I’ve tried to live out that attitude in my own life. I’ve blazed my own path and searched out my own knowledge. It’s led to some unexpected turns…

Children with No Hearts

In the summer of 2013 I ran across a curious news story out Rosenberg, Ohio, a small town in the southeast end of the state. In the course of 3 days, four teenage boys were found dead in two separate incidents. The first pair was found dead in a cemetery. The second in the sanctuary of a Methodist church. Both times there was no sign of struggle, distress, or cause of death. Later autopsies, however, revealed missing hearts in each victim. The story ran for about a day before disappearing. As a connoisseur of the bizarre and grotesque stories, I was intrigued, but with so little to go on, I thought little of it.

When later that October, three new cases were reported, my interest was peaked. The stories were from across the country: Raleigh, North Carolina; Davenport, Arizona; and New Salem, California, totaling seven victims that Fall. In each incident, the victims were teenagers, found in cemeteries or churches, no signs of foul play, but each was missing their heart. Again, the stories ran for about a day or two before being removed.

A little extra digging into the cases (side note: you’d be surprised at how little cyber security most police departments utilize), added some details to cases: First, peculiar items were found at each crime scene. At the first two candles and a broken mirror were found. The third, about a pint of spilled feline blood and rose petals. The final two: a broken mirror, five smooth black stones, and broken bird and hamster cages (respectively). Second, the teenagers had reputation for being “weird” and/or “into witchcraft.” Third, there was no sign of cutting or removal of the hearts. It was as though they simply had never been there. Fourth, police were utterly baffled as to the identity of the assailant, means, or motive. Authorities, of course, deduced the victims were doing something occult-related but were stumped otherwise.

After my research, the situation became plain to me. These imbeciles had tried to invoke a spirit—and failed.

Infernal Conversation

They weren’t the first to have the notion. Honestly, any half-wit with a Ouija board, or even Scrabble tiles, can make contact with spirits. I’m pretty sure there’s a Wikipedia article about it. It’s not that hard.
What these morons were attempting was something much more daring and perilous: they were attempting to summon a demon for conversation.

In all my years of exploring the occult, I’ve never intentionally tried to contact a demon. Why? Demons are prickly by nature (to say the least). They are pitiless, deceptive, and unwaveringly sadistic. They are almost unendingly brilliant and unfathomably powerful. They also hate being bothered or bored.

As the kids with missing hearts found out, pissing off a demon can have dire consequences.

That’s not to say demons don’t like to talk. That’s their weakness. Like their Father Below, dark spirits have enormous egos and they love to show off. A well-performed invocation ritual can stir a demon’s pride enough to share all sorts of chthonian secrets.

Can you imagine what could be learned by speaking with a being who has existed for eons? Who watched while the Almighty Himself wove time and matter into existence with a word? What puzzles of Reality could be solved for the first time! Or the honor of standing with the great occultic masters who themselves had personal demonic encounters and lived to tell of it?

As I considered these things, my chest ached. I wondered if I could succeed where others had failed. Could I stand with the masters? Could I learn the ancient and marvelous secrets others have longed for? I’ve always had an insatiable hunger for knowledge and I felt that appetite whetted.

Exploring the Sulphurous Order

Initiating a tête-à-tête with one of the Fallen requires intense planning, skill, and not a little luck. If I didn’t want to end up like those lackwits with the missing hearts, I’d first need to see where they’d gone wrong. It didn’t take long.

The fact that seven people from across the country suddenly decided to attempt an invoking ritual with disastrous results indicated to me that they didn’t get this out of a book. They’d been on the internet.

I found the link with relative ease. The ritual described was meant to call Aziuth, a demon who allegedly specialized in riddles. The ritual itself was a little awkward but essentially right, I knew. All the elements were there: an act of service to get the spirit’s attention, a gift to honor it, proper words of invitation to speak to it. The description of the encounter itself though was something else though.

According to the guide, if successfully performed, the mortal interlocutor could ask one question to which the demon was bound to answer honestly. In return, the malevolent spirit was allowed to ask one riddle which must be solved. Failure to correctly solve the riddle would have devastating consequences, but these could be warded off by using a mirror to trick the demon.

No wonder those kids died.

For the next two weeks, I spent each night after work feverishly reading and studying late into the night. My own research into Aziuth revealed he was worshipped for a short while by the early Hittites and Chaldeans as a minor deity. He was known for exchanging knowledge and solving riddles in exchange for the hearts of slaves sacrificed to him. He remains one of the only dark spirits thought to tell the truth 100% of the time, apparently seeing lying to a human as debasing himself. Aziuth worship continued throughout history but only among obscure cults with fetishes for knowledge of the Other.

According to die dunkel Metaphysik, Aziuth’s primary motivation is gaining slaves for himself in the spiritual realm, “Unlike others in the Sulphurous Order who exchange favors with mortals for the sake of influence and power in the human realm, Aziuth only wants souls.”

Maleficent beings often attempt to collect followers, but in the case of Aziuth, he has no desire to gain living, human followers. Instead, he collects slaves for the spiritual realm. To what specific end, I don’t care to speculate. À travers le voile d’or confirms the same, observing, “Aziuth appears to condescend to answer human questions only in hopes of ensnaring souls. Above all, Aziuth craves more servants to absorb.”

Practically, this meant that Aziuth would be one of the most dangerous spirits to try to invoke. Unlike other devils, he likely wouldn’t be looking to write a contract, answer questions for the sake of showing off, or try to convince me to assist him to more nefarious ends. Aziuth would be hungry to add me immediately to his menagerie of eternally anguished slaves.

The key to escape would be the question. I needed something that would allow me to glimpse the Other without forfeiting my soul.

Filling the Bucket

At this point either cowardice or sanity should have broken in to give me pause. What was I doing? Risking my eternal soul to what end? What question could be worth such danger?

But it never happened. In my feverish state of mind, I could only see the glory of triumphing over the demon. I set to work on my preparations which I knew would require at least another month. To begin I would need an empty paint bucket.

As I mentioned before, contacting spirits is truly not difficult. Ghosts and other lesser spectral beings tend to be accessible – even chatty. This is why some have glimpsed the other side by just casually experimenting with even mere playing cards.

Demons, on the other hand, have a much higher opinion of themselves, and are thus much harder to provoke to conversation. This is where the Invoking Ritual comes into play.

(Granted, occasionally a person will speak with an infernal spirit through a Ouija board, but I don’t recommend it. Such spirits have a tendency to be even more unpredictably violent and compulsively cruel than even your average Fallen. These are the kinds of spirits who won’t hesitate to take that first contact as an invitation to enter your home/life and start tearing things apart just for kicks. Even Satan’s army has a few thrill-seeking psychotics.)

At its heart, the Invoking Ritual is an invitation to a spirit to appear to you. Depending on the level of or specific demon you’re calling, the ritual itself can be long, complex, and costly (in more than one way). A poorly done Invocation will usually mean that nothing happens. Sometimes though, a ham-fisted attempt will be interpreted as an insult to the demon. In Aziuth’s case, he might collect my heart before I could even ask my question.

First, an act of service must be performed. Usually the act of service is meant to be a sign or foretaste of later favors to be offered. Almost inevitably, the act of service involves the desecration of a holy or sacred place. This is why all of the 2013 deaths took place in graveyards and churches. The older or more significant the location, the better.

Sometimes the act of desecration is not only about swimming naked in your local baptistery or Holy Font or turning all the crosses upside down. For those higher up in the Sulphurous Order, they require an act of personal desecration. I won’t get into what that means other than to say, they want to see you mar the imago Dei found in your own soul…or another person’s.

For my own act of service, I chose Philip Road Baptist Church. A small, countrified house of worship with no security system beyond the deadbolt on the front door. The church has stood for almost 70 years, and if the attendance board at the front of the sanctuary is right, they boast almost 120 on Sunday morning. It took me almost two weeks to find it.

I’d really have rather performed the ritual in a Catholic church, if for no other reason than the sense of tradition and ritual is stronger (have you ever been to a Catholic wedding? How about spill some of the communion wine?!) Unfortunately, Our Lady of Fatima is much more distrustful and had invested in ADT security.

For the act of service itself, I was able to buy a liter of fresh pig blood from a local butcher. I told him I was making blood sausage and pudding.

“You don’t look the chef-type,” said the coarse old man.
“Yeah, I’m branching out a bit. Would fifty do?”
I had to pay him a hundred bucks for it and he made me wait a week and half for it. He eyeballed me the entire time like he was memorizing my face for later, probably “just in case.”

After the act of service, a gift is usually expected. This was the part I dreaded most. For my gift, I found a hyper Lab-mix awaiting execution at the pound. His name was Edgar. The worker warned me it was considered a “problem dog.” Not sure what to say, I mumbled a response and left to shop for kibble.

Having all of this in place, I spent the next three days putting the final touches on my preparations. I planned my route, purchased my extra candles, and other odds and ends.

I scoured the old texts for the right words of invocation. Again, invocations are more like an invitation than a summons. Summoning a spirit suggests you have a measure of control over it. When it comes to infernal powers, you have zero ability to compel or coerce. Thus, the words of the invocation are a special plea for their favor; an appeal for them to demonstrate their power. Demons aren’t looking for the poetry of Milton or Tennyson, but they do respond to a well-turned phrase.

Toward the end of my preparation, I began a six day fast. Spirits are attuned to our physical states (probably as a means of better manipulating us). By fasting before the ritual, I hoped that Aziuth would see how committed and desperate to speak with him.

As a further step to prove my utter meekness, I filled the paint bucket during my days of fasting, just in case Aziuth demanded a final proof my humility.

A Rusted Edge

The month of preparation had passed in a blur. My hunger to know had turned into an obsessive quest, especially toward the end. I stopped returning missed calls and answering emails. Unpaid bills piled up by front door. I exhausted all my sick time and started using vacation days at work. The concerned calls from friends and odd looks from neighbors didn’t faze me. When the utility company turned off the power, I simply started working by candlelight.

Wednesday, the night before I planned to perform the Invoking, I had a terrifying moment of clarity. I was standing in my tool shed, looking at the various garden tools searching for my metal grinder so I could sharpen my hunting knife. Eddie was in the yard chasing his own tail. An old garden spade caught my eye for some reason. In particular the dull, rusted edge.

Between all the obsessive reading and planning and thinking and the endless damn fasting, I’d forgotten to sleep. At that point, I think I’d been awake for almost 40 hours. I stood staring at that rusted edge for nearly five minutes, completely blank.

That’s when finally, my moment of clear-thinking arrived to my great horror. In all the obsessive reading and planning and thinking and the damn endless fasting, I’d forgotten to come up with a question. THE QUESTION!

I began to tremble. The shed blurred and spun. I heard myself laughing—or maybe sobbing.

A voice spoke from the darkness of my backyard.

“Paige County PD,” the voice announced, “Sir, are you all right?”
The world swam back into focus. My hand was throbbing. I cleared my throat, trying to gain composure.
“What? No. What, what’s going on?” I heard myself whine. I couldn’t control my voice. My hand throbbed insistently.
“Neighbors reported—” a beam of light, “Hey, what’s that in your hand?”
“Oh,” I looked down, saw the rusted spade fall from my hand with a gout of livid blood. The world faded again.

I lay devastated in the hospital bed. My injured left hand felt heavy and numb. Gripped by both rage and despair, I couldn’t decide if I wanted to scream or throw up. My fantasies of glory lay ruined in my tool shed. How could I have been so stupid! So short-sighted! Now I waited to hear what fresh humiliation was awaiting me.

Apparently in my terrible moment of lucidity, I started laughing (or crying, there are conflicting reports) so loudly I woke the neighbors and scared their kids. I had carried on like this in my dimly lit tool shed for about fifteen minutes before the responding officer arrived. During that intervening fifteen minutes I also apparently had grabbed hold of the rusty and surprisingly sharp edge of the hand spade I had earlier been studying and sliced open my hand. That’s how the officer found me, laughing (or sobbing) uncontrollably in my backyard, holding the bloody garden spade.

Two hours and ten stitches later, I came around. I spent the next two hours trying to convince the cop, the ER doc, and the attending physician from the psych floor that no, I wasn’t suicidal or having psychotic thoughts, I was just overworked, over-stressed, and sleep-deprived. They each listened with a mixture of polite indulgence and skepticism; their antennae specially attuned to detect BS.

While I knew I didn’t have any fear from a legal standpoint, I was afraid they would try to keep me on a 72-hour psych hold as a safety precaution. I wasn’t sure if I could suffer the indignity.

I lay quietly on the bed, replaying my answers to the doctor from the psych floor over and over again, preparing myself when a pretty, auburn-haired nurse came in.

“Hey there, how’re we feeling?”
“Not bad. Pride hurts a bit,” I tried to chuckle, but came up dry.
“Hm. Well, Dr. Francisco is writing your discharge papers, so you’re about go home.” She pulled the IV as she spoke. I tried not to wince as the sting as she withdrew the needle.
“Great. I’m ready to get home.”
“I bet. You need to rest. The doctor is writing you a prescription for some medicine to help you sleep. I hear you were awake for almost 40 hours? What is it that’s kept you up so long?” She asked as she busied herself preparing my departure.
“Oh, uh, I’ve just been trying to work on a problem. Kind of untangling a riddle.” I said, sitting up and swinging my legs over the bed.
“I’ve never really cared for riddles. I prefer things to just be straightforward. Be as they are,” she observed, “Well, here’s your bag of clothes if you want to change out of that gown. Someone will be back to walk you out once the papers are signed.”

I stumbled into my house exhausted, aching, and defeated. The idiot dog met me at the door, wagging his tail, happy to see me. Ignoring Edgar and shedding clothes along the way, I willed myself down the hallway and to my bedroom. I fell into the crumpled sheets expecting to sleep a few hours.

Edgar urged me awake Saturday morning: his cold wet nose pressing into my bare chest, his rough tongue dragging across my face. I shooed him away, but my aching bladder coaxed me out of bed. It would be another hour before I realized I had slept two whole days.
As I relieved myself I heard the pretty nurse’s voice echo in my mind. I almost pitied her.

I never really cared for puzzles.
Just another person who doesn’t like to think.
I prefer things to be just straightforward.
Just another sheep.
Be as they are.
I knew the solution to my problem.

Calling the Unspeakable

I felt like a man resurrected. Lazarus himself probably didn’t feel as alive as I. Feeling fresh and rested, I attacked the final preparations with a near-giddiness. By the afternoon, everything was organized and ready. Each step of the ritual meticulously planned and prepared. No more delays. No mistakes.

Edgar and I set out a little after midnight. I regretted losing the two previous days but hoped the demon would take special pleasure in seeing the desecrating ritual on the Sabbath.

Driving the church, I remembered a passage from the Dürr-i Meknûn, a 15th century Turkish text, which warns that when mortals encounter the Other, there is inevitable metamorphosis. I wondered what my own change would be like.

The dark sanctuary felt preternaturally still. A thunderous quiet. Dappled moonlight splashed across the wooden pews and glinted off the gold-leafed pages of the open Bible on the pulpit. There were no statues of saints or portraits of biblical figures in the church, but I felt the heavy gaze of many disapproving eyes.

I stripped my clothes, leaving them at the threshold between the sanctuary and the foyer of the small church. Aziuth would not suffer such pride.

After tying Edgar to a pew a few rows back from the front, I walked the aisle alone with my duffel bag of supplies. I hoped that I wouldn’t have to offer Edgar. My stitched hand throbbed.

To begin, I used the liter of pig’s blood to christen the two symbols of renewal: the baptistery and the pulpit, smearing them both with the dark and sticky liquid. Using my finger, I drew pagan symbols in the blood. The remainder I used to draw a large pentagram on the floor in front of the altar. Next I drew out five tall, black candles and placing them on the perimeter of the pentagram. Moving counter-clockwise, I lit each candle while muttering a blasphemy. My act of desecration.
I set back on my knees, naked and smeared in gore. I whispered the words of invitation to the unhallowed silence.
The quiet persisted.

I repeated the invitation, louder, begging the honor of putrid and awful presence of Aziuth.
The quiet persisted.

Stretching prone on the floor, I strained my voice repeating the invocation.
The quiet persisted.

Drawing myself up again, I reached for the hunting knife and let it glide in an arc across my chest. The wound wept scarlet. I screamed the words again.

In desperation, I reached for the paint bucket of excrement that I had filled during my week of fasting. Picking up the sloshing pail, about to pour it over myself as a final demonstration of humility, I heard a soft whine.

I turned my head slightly, I saw Edgar at the end of his leash, backing away, whining softly. I lowered the pail carefully and scanned the darkness. Nothing. Was it –

It was the odor that announced his arrival. The most awful, putrescent stink I’ve ever known. It smelled like the church was filled with thousands of bloated, sun-baked corpses. I dry-heaved at the stench, my stomach roiling and violently twisting in revolt.
The stitches of my injured hand burst.

I lifted my eyes for only a moment. His form was unspeakable. An insidious darkness, a void opened to reality.
Aziuth had come!

My body lost all its strength, I fell to the floor loosing my bladder.
“Speak, slave.” The demon’s voice was sharp, metallic.
I strained to lift my head again, to behold the horrifying shape of Aziuth. My flesh wanted flee the utter awfulness of the moment. My voice failed me.

The demon made a deep, almost purring noise. Like a satisfied lion about to eviscerate his prey.

“O great Aziuth, dread prince of spoiled flesh and broken slaves. Favor me now. Favor me with one request.”
“Speak.” He commanded, impatient.
“Show me your true form,” I managed before my forehead hit the ground again.

The awful purring stopped. The air grew hot and dense. I could feel the floor vibrating beneath me.

I heard a wet, choking noise. I lifted my head, my limbs suddenly feeling weightless. In front of me, I saw what looked like the moldering corpse of a malformed fetus. The torso was frightful: pale and rubbery, with a twisted and exposed spine. The limbs were shrunken, useless. The head was enormous and misshapen with an open cavity for a nose and long, jagged teeth. The Thing seemed to struggle to breathe and wallowed uselessly on the floor.

I got to my feet and looked in utter shock at the creature.
“Aziuth?” I said in dumbstruck.
It coughed in response.
I stood a moment. Was this a trap? Some deception? No, I realized, Aziuth does not deceive. He only gives naked truth.
“You’re pathetic,” I approached slowly, “I crapped more frightening things than you in that bucket over there.”

The monster’s pale body turned rosy, it tried to kick a withered leg.

“I could crush you right now, couldn’t I?” I put my foot on its enormous and nauseating head, “That’s what a worm like you deserves, isn’t it?”

Edgar suddenly appeared. Having chewed through his leash, he approached the monster, curious. He sniffed it, licked the rubbery form, and then lifted his leg.

A laugh burst from my lips. The great and terrible Aziuth had just been pissed on by a dog who was going to be his sacrifice.

“Are you really so pitiful, Aziuth?”
The tiny demon’s body shook with rage.

The Metamorphosis

I don’t remember what happened next beyond a deafening clap of thunder. When I woke, I was back in the hospital. The same pretty, auburn-haired nurse tending to me though I don’t know if she recognizes me. Aziuth aided my metamorphosis.

Two things to know about demons: First, before their Fall, demons were magnificently beautiful creatures. If we could see angels in their pure form, we’d probably mistake them for gods or goddesses. Demons, however, lost that when they lost Heaven. Thus, they often change their form when appearing to humans (all the better to deceive or overwhelm us). Second, like I said before, demons have huge egos. Martin Luther once said if you can’t drive the devil away with scripture, jeer him. Satan can’t stand to be made fun of.

That’s how I figured out how to defeat Aziuth. There would be no way I could outwit him on his own terms, asking and answering riddles. The only means of defeating him would be to force him to show me his true form and then humiliate him. The only thing I hadn’t taken into account was what Aziuth would do in retaliation.

My once slender frame is now bloated to about four-hundred pounds. My legs and right arm have shrunken to useless appendages. My mouth is stretched into a permanent and frightening half-grin and my right eye-socket has drifted down next to my nose.

Thankfully, despite all of this, I can still speak and my left hand can still write.

The doctors and police are baffled. No one knows how I could have ended up in this condition, or how I ended up in a small Baptist church, covered in blood with a dog.

Knowing comes with a cost. It’s steeper than I would have imagined, but I don’t regret it. I always admired the Devil, so it’s fitting that I probably look a bit like him.

Credit To – Anselm

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The Gatekeeper

October 10, 2014 at 12:00 AM
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If you’re reading this, you probably think that it is just another fake story. Well, it could be. But if you wish, you can take a risk. Follow my instructions. See what happens and maybe have your life become so much better. Or so much worse. It’s really up to you.

First, you must go to the mountains. It doesn’t matter where you live. Any set of mountains will work, as long as you can find a cave. Big or small, unknown or well-explored, vibrant or dead, it doesn’t matter as long as it extends further than the sun’s light at sunset. The darkness is important.
Sunset is an important time, when the bonds between worlds weaken as the Earth sinks into twilight. This band of weakness allows one to exploit the natural weak points in the fabric of space and time. I’ve learned this by experience, as have many others. Not many of them are still where they could even be contacted, however.

You must stand at the mouth of the cave as the world sinks into darkness. The timing here needn’t be perfect: as long as you begin at sunset, you will not encounter any complications. You must not have any technology or religious paraphernalia on you. The technology will stop you from beginning the process. Religious paraphernalia…well they simply don’t like it when you go in there with protection of that sort. It won’t help, so don’t even try.

When the time is right, take off your shoes. This is a sign of respect. They like that. Then close your eyes and begin to walk forward. Don’t worry about falling; they will keep you moving. If the cave you chose was short, you may notice that you don’t hit the end. If this happens, the floor will seem to level out regardless of the cave’s layout. You’ve been set on a path to the same place, and it is vital that you not open your eyes. If this doesn’t happen, don’t worry. If you had no technology and followed the previous instructions, the ritual is not for you. The fates have another destiny in mind for you, one that cannot be altered by a ritual such as this.

You might hear whispering around you, may feel cool digits trailing across your back and chest. It will be so cold that it burns when they touch your bare skin. Do not react. They are simply curious to see one of bound flesh crossing through their realm. Unless you offend them, they will not do any intentional harm. Stay silent, keep your eyes closed, and continue moving forward. The whispers will grow louder as you go, angry voices rising above their whispered words, almost recognizable as English. It is especially important here that you do not react. This voices’ owners do not belong there. They are the poor souls who lost themselves in this realm, straying from the path yet not offending the hosts before they were beyond harm. That is why you must continue in a straight line. Stepping off the path will sever your soul, binding it eternally to a realm of shadow where the denizens do not want you.

My own experience has shown that this walking seems to last for an eternity. But as long as you stay on path and ignore the distractions, you will be alright. When the smooth, level ground that you have been walking on suddenly becomes the sloped and gritty floor of a cave again, you can open your eyes. In front of you is a tunnel. The floor covered in grit. It will be lit by four sets of torches attached to the walls by wooden sconces. Crystals, even precious gemstones, will dot the walls every few feet. Feel free to touch them; they are not cursed, though you will not be able to separate them from the walls. At the end of the hall will be a door. Its appearance will vary, but it will always be out of place in the underground place you find yourself in.

While it will not explicitly harm you, I do not recommend turning around. You adventurous souls who might actually do this will find it hard to resist the temptation to follow the glow you will see. The path you arrived through will be gone, replaced by two branching pathways. The effects inside them will vary, but the glow will remain. If you do feel tempted to go down them, do so at your own risk. The torch-lit tunnel is the only exit once you have made it this far, and it is not going to be there when you come back. And, if you see a shadow across the wall in either tunnel, run. For the love of God, turn tail and flee to the door. Unlike the natives of the twilight realm, these creatures are entirely intent on bringing harm to you. Only he can protect you.

The he whom I speak of will become apparent as you pass the third set of torches. A seemingly-human male will just pop into existence against the door, hands clasped in front of him like an attendant at a hotel. It will be like he was always there. When you pass the fourth, he will see you and smile. Not one of those ‘I wonder what your insides will look like sprayed across the wall’ kind of smiles, but a genuine ‘Ah, it’s good to see you’ smile.

He will note your missing shoes with a polite nod, and offer his hand for you to shake. If he has a glove on, feel free to do so. If not, don’t. Touching his skin will have you take his place. This only happens when you have offended him in some way, such as by speaking before he is ready. He won’t take offense to you not shaking his hand even if he is wearing a glove.

He will greet you with a few simple words. The phrase he uses will vary depending on your nationality, though it will always be polite. It bears no significance on what follows. He will ask two questions, one will be simple. “Where do you wish to go?”

Think long and hard on your answer. Because, if you do not offend him through lies or simply being impolite, that is where you will be when the door is opened. Specify the time frame as well, for that will make a difference. No matter what you have in mind, he will not do what you suggest unless you are specific. It’s a monkey’s paw effect, really. If you aren’t specific, you may end up in a bad situation. Such as being deposited in that spot, during the Jurassic or Cretaceous periods. Or after all life on Earth has died.

You could specify an area in a fictional universe, or a different real world. You will be taken there, such is the power and benefit of this ritual. But remember: you will not be changed in the transit. Suddenly showing up on an alien planet with no record of ever existing tends to be bad for your health.

The second question will be the most dangerous part of this ritual. He will ask a question, a personal one. Your answer must be the truth. Do not be hasty; the question may seem simple, but it is not. You might think you know the answer, but make sure. Odds are it might be on something that you have lied to yourself about for years, or that you only half remember. If you answer correctly, he will happily deposit you in the position of your choice. If you lie, whether intentionally or not, he will happily open the door for you still.

Unfortunately, this time the destination will be much less pleasant. This gatekeeper has access to places so much worse than you can imagine. And if you lie to him…well, he can put you in any fictional world that he so desires. I’m sure you people are creative, so must I really spell out the result for you?

Credit To – Ozymandeos

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A Sailor Without Two Coins

October 9, 2014 at 12:00 AM
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Many a sailor, no matter how brave and fearless, knows well how unpredictable and deadly the sea can be. Before every setting of the sails, a prayer goes throughout the crew, praying to God for the safety of their voyage. A wise man knows that prayers are not always answered and many a man has traveled to the briny depths of the sea, never to be seen again. Some men say though, they have managed to cheat death in those moments with a ritual that may not be worth living for later.

The ritual is fairly simple, but not one that one wants to use unless they are in mortal peril and know it. Providing that they are not sinking fast enough in the water to choke their words, a man must repeat the words, “Devil take my soul across the Styx, God has abandoned me,” three times at the top of his lungs. If he truly puts himself and his soul into it, the Ferryman shall come, no matter how much the waves rage and toss. His ship shall not be turned, nor shall he capsize. The man shall feel his wrist grabbed and be pulled into the boat. From there, he will not feel the waves rocking him. He will feel no hunger, no thirst, only the breath in his lungs and the wind blow softly across his wet face.
It is important that the man does not look up into his eyes. This is because calling him out is a trick. You see, the Ferryman will not take a soul across the Styx without payment. He will hear him speak, asking for payment. When he asks, he must proclaim that he is without payment and needs to go get it from home. The Ferryman will then begin to row to the sailor’s home shore.

He cannot look at him at all the entire way. If it takes three days and three nights, it will not matter. This is because if the Ferryman looks into your eyes, he will know you are lying and return you to the waters to drown.

When you finally reach the shore, the sailor must thank him and tell him he will return shortly. The sailor can never return to the sea after this. The Ferryman will never come to the shore to collect, only be there by the water, awaiting his payment. If a sailor ever does set foot on a boat again, he and all the men on it shall perish in a violent and destructive manner.

Be warned though. One cannot outrun the Ferryman forever. I know a man who is in his last years and fears closing his eyes at night, lest he pass from this world and his soul meet the Ferryman once more. He feels the grip around his wrist tighter and tighter at night with each dream when he finally falls into sleep, and sees a monstrous face looking at him enraged.

No one truly cheats the Ferryman. He is simply far more patient than most realize.

Credit To – AMD

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The Gift of Sight

October 8, 2014 at 12:00 PM
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Did you know that you can always see your nose, but your brain chooses to ignore it? The point is your brain can make you blind to certain aspects of reality. There is a way to see the things your brain ignores. Though, be warned, what has been seen cannot be unseen.

First, you will need a computer; tablets work just as well. After you find yourself a suitable device, you will need a location. It doesn’t have to be a special place, but medium sized houses or apartments work the best. The next thing you will have to do is close every single door in the location. This is why large abandoned buildings don’t work well. When at your chosen location, you must make sure you are completely alone.

Once you enter the chosen location, you can’t leave or you’ll have to start over at a different location. When you’re sure you’re alone and every door is closed, you can perform the next step. You have to wait. No matter what time you entered, you will have to wait exactly twenty four hours and then wait until two thirty in the morning. You don’t have to begin at two thirty, but the ritual will not work anytime before two thirty and after four forty five.

When you feel the time is right, choose a room to start the ritual. Go in and close the door behind you. Sit directly in the center of the room and make sure the door is directly behind your back. Finally, turn on your device. At this point, stopping the ritual will be impossible. There are some things you shouldn’t do:


As soon as your device is finished loading up, it will automatically go into your web browser and open up a website. The website is always random and is never the same for any two people. The website will only display a play button. You do not have to do anything because the video will play itself. The video does not have a length.

Images and words will appear. The words will not make any sense to you and will seem like gibberish. The images depend on you. Some people see violent depictions of war, some people see places they’ve never visited, some people see distant planets. No matter the subject of the first few images you see, the tone of the images will eventually take on a…darker tone.

No matter how disturbing the images become, you must not look away. Even as you hear the doors in the location opening and slamming shut. Even as you hear the door behind you opening, do not turn your gaze from your device. Act ignorant to your surroundings. Such ignorance will be the only barrier between you and the horrors you have allowed to reside with you.

After an undetermined amount of time, the images and words will stop and a live video feed will play. The video will show your location. The camera will approach the front door and enter. You will hear the front door open and close. Keep watching the feed. The camera will go throughout the building and every door the camera stops at will open.

As the camera makes its way to the room you are currently in, the hair on the back of your neck will stand up. Once again, the door behind you will open and you will feel a strong chill. Your hands will shake as the video shows your back. The video flash to a demonic caricature of your face.

At this point, your eyes will involuntarily shut and you will become immobilized. Footsteps will be heard approaching you. They will stop when they’re directly behind you. After a agonizing minute, you will feel a cold, bony, hand on your shoulder. You will hear a low, rumbling voice speak to you. It will say: “What do you desire most?”

This is a trick question and anything you say will cause you to be disemboweled and force fed your entrails. The only way to get out of this alive is to answer the question with this statement: “I want my eyes to be open.” If you have been sincere in your attempt at the ritual, your body will be under your control again and you will be able to open your eyes.

When you open your eyes, you will be in your bedroom. You won’t be able to remember the location where you performed the ritual, but that doesn’t matter anymore. What does matter will be clear to you when you look out a window; You will now be able see all that you weren’t able to before performing the ritual.

Every horror story you read or hear or see…all of them are somewhat based on truth. Although, the reality is much, much, more frightening. You will now be able to see it all. The stuff of nightmares. Creatures that your brain has been ignoring will be ever so clear. They are the things that go bump in the night. You will be able to tell who else can see. But this is a gift and a curse. They know you can see them now. They feed off your fear…and their hunger is never satisfied.

Credit To – UNIversial666

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