What magnetic pull
we are drawn to at the end
of our light, the darkness
encircles us with her strength.
There is no escape
from the unknown expanse.
She brings you to the badlands.
She carries you to the dry barren
stretch of sky
where the stars too have been extinguished.
Hawks cry their parting love.
Women wail and she heeds
their pleas with unyielding love.
As all are born,
so too must they go.
into the dark expanse.
~Jeszika Le Vye
“Merciful Father, I have squandered my days with plans of many things. This was not among them. But at this moment, I beg only to live the next few minutes well. For all we ought to have thought, and have not thought; all we ought to have said, and have not said; all we ought to have done, and have not done; I pray thee God for forgiveness.”
~ Ahmed Ibn Fahdlan: “The 13th Warrior: ”
If we are fortunate,
we are given a warning.
there is only the sudden horror,
the wrench of being torn apart;
of being reminded
that nothing is permanent,
not even the ones we love,
the ones our lives revolve around.
Life is a fragile affair.
We are all dancing
on the edge of a precipice,
a dizzying cliff so high
we can’t see the bottom.
One by one,
we lose those we love most
into the dark ravine.
So we must cherish them
We will lose them
or they will lose us
This is certain.
There is no time for bickering.
And their loss
will leave a great pit in our hearts;
a pit we struggle to avoid
during the day
and fall into at night.
unable to accept this loss,
unable to determine
the worth of life without them,
jump into that black pit
spiritually or physically,
hoping to find them there.
And some survive
the barren, empty aching,
the unanswered prayers,
the sleepless nights
when their breath is crushed
under the weight of silence
and all that it means.
Somehow, some survive all that and,
like a flower opening after a storm,
they slowly begin to remember
the one they lost
in a different way…
the irrepressible spirit,
the generous heart,
the way their smile made them feel,
the encouragement they gave
even as their own dreams were dying.
And in time, they fill the pit
with other memories
the only memories that really matter.
We will still cry.
We will always cry.
But with loving reflection
more than hopeless longing.
And that is how we survive.
That is how the story should end.
That is how they would want it to be.
I am not resigned to the shutting away of loving hearts in the hard ground.
So it is, and so it will be, for so it has been, time out of mind:
Into the darkness they go, the wise and the lovely. Crowned
With lilies and with laurel they go; but I am not resigned.
Lovers and thinkers, into the earth with you.
Be one with the dull, the indiscriminate dust.
A fragment of what you felt, of what you knew,
A formula, a phrase remains, — but the best is lost.
The answers quick and keen, the honest look, the laughter, the love,
They are gone. They have gone to feed the roses. Elegant and curled
Is the blossom. Fragrant is the blossom. I know. But I do not approve.
More precious was the light in your eyes than all the roses in the world.
Down, down, down into the darkness of the grave
Gently they go, the beautiful, the tender, the kind;
Quietly they go, the intelligent, the witty, the brave.
I know. But I do not approve. And I am not resigned.
~Edna St Vincent Millay
I am the Life and the Light and the Way.
The earth is my garden.
Each of the souls I plant as seeds
Germinates and flowers in its season
And in each I am fulfilled.
There is no cause for grief
When a blossom fades
But only rejoicing for the beauty it held
And praise that my will is done
And my plan served.
I am one with all creatures
And none is ever lost
But only restored to me
Having never left me at all.
For what is Eternal
Cannot be separated from its Source.
I am with you all,
And each of you is a channel for my Light.
Feel my Love
Enfold you now and evermore.
From: The Book of Runes
“In the cycle of nature there is no such thing as victory or defeat: there is only movement. The winter struggles to reign supreme, but, in the end, is obliged to accept spring’s victory, which brings with it flowers and happiness. The summer would like to make its warm days last for ever, because it believes that warmth is good for the earth, but, finally, it has to accept the arrival of autumn, which will allow the earth to rest. The gazelle eats the grass and is devoured by the lion. It isn’t a matter of who is the strongest, but God’s way of showing us the cycle of death and resurrection.
And within that cycle there are neither winners nor losers, there are only stages that must be gone through. When the human heart understands this, it is free, able to accept difficult times and not be deceived by moments of glory. Both will pass. One will succeed the other. And the cycle will continue until we liberate ourselves from the flesh and find the Divine Energy.
Therefore, when the fighter is in the ring – whether by his own choice or because unfathomable destiny has placed him there – may his spirit be filled with joy at the prospect of the fight ahead. If he holds on to his dignity and his honor then, even if he loses the fight, he will never be defeated, because his soul will remain intact. And he will blame no one for what is happening to him. Ever since he fell in love for th first time and was rejected, he has known that this did not put “paid” to his ability to love. What is true in love is also true in war.”
by Paulo Coelho
Violette was born into one of the wealthiest families in Old New Orleans to Robért and Yvette. They once lived in a beautiful home on the edge of the Old Quarter on lands then owned by members of the great Marigny family. But though they were wealthy and rich in love, for several years the greatest blessing – that of a healthy child seemed to elude them.
On the advice of an elderly aunt, Robert sought the help of one of the most famous physicians then practicing in New Orleans, Dr. Joseph Victor Gottschalk, known to all as “Physician, Surgeon, Occultist and Accoucheur.” Gottschalk was to serve his clients only too well, for when his skills as physician helped produce the desired result – pregnancy in Yvette – his services as an “accoucheur,” the French name for male mid-wife, were then also required.
Violette came into the world in one of those vibrant New Orleans springs. They named her Violette as her eyes were of the color of pure amethyst. For the first time, the couple felt their married life was now complete. The child thrived under the care of Dr. Gottschalk who had secured a mulatto woman to provide constant care for the beautiful little girl. Violette’s life was of pampered elegance, because her parents had so longed for a child. The doctor himself presented little Violette with a pair of beautiful amethyst earrings, a mere reflection of the color of her eyes, that had been sent to him by his sister Adelaide in Philadelphia as a gift for the little girl.
Robert’s business often took him to more distant areas of the estates where he was supposed to have acted on behalf of Count Marigny in the capacity of manager of the estate overseers. Little Violette would watch wide-eyed when her father rode away to work and would wait patiently in her nursery, sometimes for several days, for his return.
Eventually, as she grew, she made her discontent with Robert’s absence well known, throwing a tantrum every time he prepared to depart and insisting that he take her with him. Yvette, however, always objected to the mere suggestion that Robert might take Violette into the swampy lowlands and woods of the unoccupied estates where she might be exposed, so Yvette assumed, to all sorts of dangers, not the least of which were the slaves and Native Indians who resided there
One day Yvette received a message that her mother was ill and Yvette was adamant that Violette should not make the rigorous trip perhaps to be exposed to the dangers of the road. So Violette was to remain at home in the care of her mulatto nurse while Yvette went to her mother’s aid. Now it was said that the nurse always spoiled the now five-year-old Violette, giving in to her whims and letting her have almost anything she asked for. So it was that on a day when Robert was departing and Violette was embroiled in another of her violent tantrums the well-meaning nurse gave in to Violette’s demands to accompany her father. And Robert, seeing no harm in it, agreed to take the little girl along.
On the fifth day Robert came running home carrying Violette in his hands. Dr. Gottschalk was immediately summoned who took Robert aside. The news was grave. Violette had contracted a delirium fever, possibly Scarlet fever or malaria, and it had so drained her tiny body that there was little hope of her survival. “But I do not expect that she will be with us tomorrow”, said the physician. Robert, already wracked with guilt at having taken Violette against his wife’s constant wishes. Just before dawn she passed away.
Gottschalk made the funeral arrangements for Violette as her father Robert succumbed to his grief and could not be comforted. Word was sent to St. John’s Parish to tell Yvette that her dearest child was no more. They laid Violette in the soil of the Esplanade Ridge and were loathe to leave her there when the time came to go. Robert and Yvette were terribly grieved. All business, all domestic obligations seemed to come to a complete halt and had it not been for the reliable servants, the home and lands might have gone derelict.
Now in those days money might buy anything. Whether in league with God or the Devil, Robert did not care. He would find the person who would help him put an end to his pain and bring back the mind of his beloved wife. Thus, lurking outside the gates of Congo Square in the wild torchlight of one of the great vodoun “bamboulas,” Robert made the hellish pact with the mavens of Marie Laveau’s secret sosyete. They had agreed to attempt to bring back his beloved Little Violette.
The decaying 1 month old corpse of Little Violette was removed from her resting place in the old Bayou Cemetery and taken to a secret location where for one full cycle of the moon it was subjected to the most powerful vodoun magic that had been performed by that most secret sosyete up to that time.
One night there came a knock at the front door. The couple rushed to open it and was puzzled to see an old vodusi matron standing there, with Violette. The couple burst into tears of joy and happiness. Yvette scooped the little girl into her trembling arms. With violet eyes once again burning with life, the little girl said in a familiar voice like the sound of tinkling glass: “Mama!” With that, the couple’s joy seemed complete.
The woman was denied from visiting their home ever again after bring paid a hefty lumpsum. And joyful it was, at least for a time. When the servants learned of the child’s return they were puzzled as to how the child was reanimated. The mulatto nurse was the most frightened of all the house servants. Fear kept them all in place: fear of what she might be capable of doing.
The once beautiful and vibrant Violette was now somehow different; something about her was never quite “right” and none of the servants liked being in her presence very long. Deep inside the house, pattering footsteps deep in the night troubled the servants; grunting sounds or the sounds of furtive eating could be heard in the darkness outside, but no one had the nerve to investigate.
And while all this happened, Robert and Yvette seemed only to see Violette, living in a perpetual dream state, under the child’s spell. First it was the little night creatures that were found dead, hidden under the spreading low branches or covered in moss in the roots of trees. Some looked as if they had been scaled and skinned alive by claws; others were torn in half, with parts missing.
Another strange occurrence was the disappearance of meat stock in the smoke house and pantry. No fresh cut of meat was safe, evidently, and although at first the cook staff were puzzled they became outright fearful when they observed marks in some of the cured meat that looked as if it had been gnawed upon by little HUMAN teeth… Robert and Yvette seemed blissfully unaware of the change, the servants watched in horror as the little girl seemed, for all intents and purposes, to be decomposing before their eyes. The black magic workers, who instead of restoring her to wholesome life had zombified her!
Now the servants knew they were trapped in a horrible nightmare, and fearful for their own lives they first determined to leave the home. But it was the memory of the beautiful little Violette, the vibrant happiness she had brought to them all when she was alive, that combined with their fierce loyalty to her parents to keep them there. So it was that they made a pact among themselves when the opportunity presented itself, would take the zombie child from the home and kill it, or, if it could not be killed, then bind it to keep it from returning. But they knew they could attempt this without the aid of a powerful vodoun patron.
It is said that they took their case to the daughter of Marie Laveau, Mamzelle Marie, and begged for her aid. Not surprisingly, Mamzelle Marie was angered by what she saw as a horrible act that went against the practices of her mother’s sosyete and the vodoun beliefs in the sanctity of life and death. On the night that the servants appealed to her, Mamzelle Marie said to them: “For Violette, I will give you strength to do this thing. For Violette.”
Of all people it was the faithful mulatto nurse who found the courage and the strength to face the little creature that had taken the place of her beloved Violette. Alone with the zombie child in the grim nursery, the mulatto woman was able to overcome her worst fears and trap the horrible creature in a bedsheet. Tying it tightly in knots and praying in the Krayol language of vodoun, the nurse rushed to a wagon that waited to take her to a rendezvous with Mamzelle Marie herself.
When she arrived at the appointed place, the nurse was surprised to find Mamzelle was not alone: with her was the old vodusi woman who had brought the zombified Violette home. Thinking at first that she had been betrayed, the nurse was reluctant to turn over the kicking bundle that contained the zombie baby. But a look from Mamzelle Marie reassured her and she handed the bundle over to the powerful vodoun mambo.
As soon as Mamzelle Marie took hold of her, the zombie Violette burst into a horrific tantrum, it sounded more like the ravings of a caged animal; there were even marks from the zombie child’s fingernails as she began to claw her way out. Mamzelle Marie shouted a word of Command and the tantrum stopped, then she turned to the nurse. “Go home,” she told her, “and perform the house cleansing ritual that I taught you earlier. Turn your back on this child immediately and forget her. She is in my charge now.”
Violette the zombie child never did return to the house of her parents, who, once she had been removed, seemed to return as if from a dream world; even their grieving had ceased. The loyal servants never mentioned anything about the horrible visitation of the zombie child, nor did the nurse ever reveal what she had done with it. A year and a day from the moment the nurse relinquished the child to Mamzelle Marie, the young couple was blessed with another child: this time a son came to live with Robert and Yvette.
It is said, the old vodusi was made to take the zombie child home to live with her. She kept the zombie Violette confined, but when she died there was no trace to be found of Voilette. No one ever knew for certain, but most other vodusi and members of the secret sosyetes assumed that the old woman had finally found a way to destroy the creature she had made.
Generations later the new owners of this home – Mark and Andy purchased the house. They felt that there was something – a residual haunting or possibly an entity – in the home. Andy was constantly complaining about the sound of cats yowling. He and Mark would stand in the kitchen and listen to what sounded like a cat trapped in the other side, yowling to be let out.
When they investigated there was nothing found until one day, when Mark was home alone working on the empty side scraping the old plaster from the gabled ceiling of the little bathroom. As he worked, he revealed what appeared to be a small door; assuming it went into the attic, Mark put some elbow grease into it and by the time Andy returned that evening they could both see the outline of a little trap door. It had been painted shut under the plaster coating and had all the appearances of having been sealed for generations.
Working together they were able to pry the little door open.Peering into the darkness of the attic gable, pushing aside the bones of dead pigeons and rats, sorting through a rusty pile of chains and tattered rags, they came upon what appeared to be an old doll. It was the size of a young child, but it appeared for all intents and purposes to be a mummy doll wrapped in layers of tattered cloth – sheets, curtains, ropes, even lace and a kind of gauze around the face. What caught their eyes though, even in the dim light of the attic, was the dazzling purple flash of a pair of amethyst earrings, still brilliant – and still attached – even after all the intervening years.
Something about the horrid, lifelike “doll” terrified Andy and he insisted that the rickety attic door remain nailed shut at all times. Although Mark wanted to take the thing out of it’s attic home, Andy was having none of that and confessed later that he could barely stand living in the other side of the house knowing the little “creature” was in the empty attic. He even considered moving out at one point, when the confusion of Hurricane Katrina came roaring into everyone’s lives. Mark and Andy were forced to evacuate their home during the storm.
When they returned to their home after the storm they discovered minor damage to their side and a collapsed Chinaberry tree piercing the roof of the empty side. Both men agree that their hearts fell when they saw this and not just because of the horror of insurance claims and FEMA paperwork. It was as if, they said, they “knew” the broken roof meant trouble.
Reluctantly, Mark held the ladder while Andy bravely went to the little attic door and, with a feeble flashlight, looked inside. The mummified doll was nowhere.
Source: Stories That Shocked The World
From the book Werwolves, by Elliott O’Donnell, first published in 1912, we have this account of the ghoulish case of Constance Armande.
The following incident was related to me as having occurred recently in Brittany. A young girl named Constance Armande, in a good station of life, much against the wishes of her family, took up spiritualism and constantly attended seances.
At these seances she witnessed all sorts of phenomena – some in all probability produced by mere trickery on the part of the medium or a confederate, whilst others were, without doubt, the manifestations of bona fide spirits – earthbound phantasms of the lowest and most undesirable order – murderers, lunatics, Vice Elementals, and ghouls.
It is most unwise to risk coming in contact with such spirits, for when they have once made your acquaintance they will attach themselves to you, and are got rid of only with the greatest difficulty. They were most unremitting in their persecution of Constance Armande; they followed her home, and were always rapping on the walls of her room and disturbing and annoying her.
In short, she got no peace, either asleep or awake. In the night she would often wake up screaming, and in an agony of mind rush into her parents’ room and implore their protection, declaring she had dreamed in the most vivid manner possible that frightful-looking creatures, too awful for her to describe, were trying to prevent her awaking in order to keep her with them always.
She told a spiritualist, and he informed her that such dreams were not in reality dreams at all, but projections – that she had, at seances, acquired the power of projection; and, having no control over that power, she projected herself unconsciously, the projection almost always taking place in her sleep.
A medical expert was also consulted, and in accordance with his advice Constance Armande went to the seaside and resorted to every kind of pleasure – balls, concerts, and theatres. But the annoyances still continued, and she was seldom permitted to rest a whole night without being disturbed in a most harrowing manner.
Being a really beautiful girl, she had countless admirers, and eventually she became engaged to Alphonse Mabane, the only son of a very wealthy widow.
Shortly before the day fixed for their marriage Madame Mabane was seized with a fit of apoplexy and died. Every one, especially Constance Armande, was overwhelmed with grief, whilst preparations were made for a most impressive funeral.
On the afternoon of the day preceding that on which the funeral was to take place Constance, complaining of a bad headache, went to lie down on her bed, and two hours later strange footsteps were heard coming out of her room and bounding down the stairs. Wondering who it could be, Madame Armande ran to look, and was astonished beyond measure to see Constance – but a Constance she hardly knew – a Constance with the glitter of a ferocious beast in her eyes, and a grim, savage expression in the corners of her mouth.
She did not appear to notice her mother, but passed her by with a light, stealthy tread, utterly unlike her usual walk, crossed the hall, and went out at the front door. Madame Armande was too startled to try and intercept her, or even to make any remark, and returned to the drawing-room greatly agitated.
As hour after hour passed and Constance did not come home, her alarm increased, and she mentioned the incident to her husband, who caused immediate inquiries to be made. Just about the hour the family usually retired to rest there came a violent ring at the front-door bell. It was Alphonse Mabane, pale and ghastly.
“Have you found her?” Monsieur and Madame Armande cried, catching hold of him in their agitation, and dragging him into the hall.
Alphonse nodded. “Let me sit down a moment first,” he gasped. “It will give me time to collect my senses. My nerves are all to pieces!”
He sank into a chair, and, burying his face in his hands, shook convulsively. Monsieur and Madame Armande stood and watched him in agonized silence. After some minutes – to the Armandes it seemed an eternity – spent in this fashion, Alphonse raised his head.
“Your servant,” he said, “came to my house at nine o’clock and asked if Mademoiselle Constance was with me. I said ‘No,’ that I had not seen her all day, and was much alarmed when I was informed that she had left home early in the afternoon and had not yet returned.
I said I would join in the search for her, and was in my bedroom putting on my overcoat, when there came a tap at my door, and Jacques, my valet, with a face as white as a sheet, begged me to go with him upstairs. He led me to the door of my mother’s room, where she lay in her coffin, not yet screwed down. ‘Hark!’ he whispered, touching me on the sleeve, ‘do you hear that?’
“I listened, and from the interior of the room came a curious noise like munching – a steady gnaw, gnaw, gnaw. ‘I heard it just now,’ he whispered, ‘when I was going to shut the landing window – and other sounds, too. Hush!’
“I held my breath, and heard distinctly the swishing and rustling of a dress.
“‘Have you been in?’ I asked.
“He shook his head. ‘I daren’t,’ he whispered. ‘I wouldn’t go in by myself if you were to offer me a million pounds,’ and he trembled so violently that he had to lean against me for support.
“A great terror then seized me, and bidding Jacques follow, I crept downstairs and summoned the rest of the servants. Armed with sticks and lights, we then went in a body to my mother’s room, and throwing open the door, rushed in.
“The lid of the coffin was off, the corpse was lying huddled up on the floor, and crouching over it was Constance. For God’s sake don’t ask me to describe more – the sounds we heard explained everything. When she saw us she emitted a series of savage snarls, sprang at one of the maids, scratched her in the face, and before we could stop her, flew downstairs and out into the street. As soon as our shocked senses had sufficiently recovered we started off in pursuit, but have not been able to find the slightest trace of her.”
At the conclusion of Monsieur Mabane’s story the search was continued. The police were summoned, and a general hue and cry raised, with the result that Constance was eventually found in a cemetery digging frantically at a newly made grave.
At last brought to bay in the chase that ensued, fortunately for her and for all concerned, she plunged into a river, was swept away by the current, and drowned.
This case of Constance Armande seems to me to be clearly a case of ghoulism. What the spiritualist had told her was correct – she had projected herself unconsciously, and the hideous things she imagined were phantoms in a dream were Elementals – ghouls – her projected spirit encountered on the superphysical plane.
After sundry efforts to steal her body when she was thus separated from it, one of them had at length succeeded, and, incarcerated in her beautiful frame, had hastened to satisfy its craving for human carrion.
“It was night, and the rain fell; and, falling, it was rain, but, having fallen, it was blood. And I stood in the morass among the tall lilies, and the rain fell upon my head — and the lilies sighed one unto the other in the solemnity of their desolation.”
~Edgar Allen Poe
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