The Witching Hour Is Currently: 3:41
Listening to: Electric Love by BØRNS
First off, welcome to mine and Curtis’s new blog about the life and times of…well… us! A lot of folks wanted us to start a blog, and this is going to be our new brainchild, so I’m rather excited about it. I mean, I suppose I would be seeing as I’m up at 4 am posting in it, meanwhile getting the new Magickal Menagerie website up.
I suppose to baptize this little experiment, I should keep ya’ll included on some of our adventures!
So we were at a friend’s house about a week ago when talk started up about strange noises, nightmares, the kind of stuff we were used to, and Curtis and I being the curious type, we got out the spirit board and began communicating. Needless to say within minutes we could tell them that there was definitively a negative presence there. Mind you this point was probably around midnight, we were an hour from home, and we were very tired. So, we did the unthinkable for us, and returned home at a decent hour.
For the heck of it, that night, I ordered some Palo Santo sticks and forgot all about it.
They came in he mail 3 days early.
Now I am not one to jump to conclusions, but the first thing I could think was “Maybe they need to be broken in.”
Next thing you know, THAT night, we were there with a spirit board, a 1lb super bundle of sage, some Palo Santo sticks, aged thieves vinegar, salt, crosses, talismans, spellbooks, and anything else you could think to bring. What did our friends bring to the table? French Toast and a Fruit Bar. ie. The entire produce section and crunchy syrupy cinnamon carbohydrate delight. Now we have had people offer us tea or cookies when we would go do a house cleansing or something… but this was above and beyond! We were elated. That’s how we knew the situation was not going to be an easy one.
Step one was cleansing and knocking out anything that wasn’t rooted there. By the time we were done brandishing and setting our different assorted combustables ablaze to cleanse the house the old fashioned way, the entire house looked like the Ghost Rider’s bachelor pad.
We activated a number of talismans and experimented with ether which is incredibly rewarding with people who aren’t familiar with our type of metaphysics because we get to share fun and awesome things with them.
The energy was getting better, but we could feel now distinct clouds of aether, and then, there. they. were.
The 8 core spirits haunting the joint.
They were very interesting but the emotions were palpable.
First we met a wraith/bansidhe cross who loved to bemoan other people’s misfortunes. She channeled through Curtis and was wailing of her pains. We dispatched her back to her home plane, no questions asked.
The next one we met was an imp, who was mainly the culprit for choking nightmares and broken valuables, and he was sent back to his plane as well, but this time by our friend who had learned her abilities in this field (exciting!!).
Third we had a Loupgarou. Now let me tell you I probably have not heard that phrase since I was told it in an old french story when I was around 5 or 6 but the words sparked off my tongue like a pop rock. I knew what he looked like, but I had to make sure. I asked one of the two friends for her phone and looked it up. French lycan. He smirked at me and had quite the playfully hateful aura about him…but his talent and his knowledge were both more than apparent.
We then spent the next 20 minutes teaching said friend how to summon and bind… and he works for the ‘good guys’ now.
We met a grey arts gargoyle who was enjoying the place, a dark star succubus who was terrifying everybody, a man who called himself HumsALot, a troubled teenage suicide victim named Adam, and then the family who broke my heart.
Now every spirit that I connect with is special, and we made sure each of those folks were either bound or found peace. The darkest of dark that refused to be of help were sent back to their home plane, and the aura of he home was now clear with the exception of one spirit. We will call him T.
[Trigger warning, PTSD or Abuse Victims read at own risk, Graphic Material ahead.]
T got me really involved in his life, stepping into me for a moment, knowing that I full well would experience everything he wanted me to. He showed me his beautiful life circa around 1970 give or take a few years. He was the man who had worked every job out there. He had been a handy man, a plumber, a mechanic, and finally a car salesman shortly before he passed away. But T wasn’t haunting the house because he lived there. I asked him why he was still there and he told me to walk until I felt the energy and said “I can’t leave while it is here.” I could not tell if it was in the room where I was or the one directly below it, but I felt him. As everyone began searching for whatever item it could be, I ended up sitting in the middle of the room deeply involved in his reality. I heard screaming and crying as I walked to the bathroom, and there I saw it, the apparition of a crying woman in the bath tub, holding an infant who was not moving. The water around her was a weak shade of red that was steadily clouding. I heard a child crying down the hallway and little footsteps darting down the stairs. “This is the story of my family,” he told me, and my hands grew cold. I sat back down and began shaking as he told me the story of his wife, Yola. Her battle with mental illness and his battle with patience were both lost the same day. He told me about her repeated trips to the mental ward, and it hit me. I recalled a story my friend had told me about a trip to the Asylum back in her college days… It was abandoned with clothes and files on the floor. She no doubt still had some of the items in the house. There was a notebook sitting on the counter that we had been reading through all night. She flipped to the last page and there was a page from the Asylum, yellowed around the edges and noticeably aged. He nodded at me, saying “Take it to the graveyard on P.G. Road…and find my wife.”
We placated him with lavender energy, knowing we had to find the rest of that woman’s file first… but as the house calmed down and we experimented more with ether as the man, no longer in his repeated same-time-every-day drunken behavior loop (the same day repeated for him, every day) began to sit sedatedly, the last spirit of the night I saw in that room was the face of a little African American boy. His name was James, his cheeks were stained with tears, and all he had to say was “Please give daddy peace, he deserves peace.” with that I heard little feet trailing back up the stairs as I nodded at his father. It’s still not finished, but it will be soon. For T, for Yola, for my friends, and especially for little James.
May all the peace of the divine rest upon your roof.
Love, Peace, and Joy,