#headless rite

[polyphanes]

Reading the Hermetica: Various Entries in the Greek Magical Papyri

For this week’s Reading the Hermetica discussion, we’re shifting tracks a bit and taking a look at a healthy selection of miscellaneous and various texts from the Greek Magical Papyri (PGM): I.197—222, IV.1115—1166, IV.1167—1226, IV.1596—1715, XII.201—269, VII.756—794, VII.862—918, VII.317—318, and V.96—172.  For this, you should get yourself a copy of Betz’ The Greek Magical Papyri in…

[asinusrufus]

"My Name is Heart encircled by a Serpent; come and follow me"

[spookygibberish]

Funeralworms comprise a genus of Juggernaut characterized by a heavily-built, serpentine form, the absence of eyes, a single pair of broad, paddle-like forelimbs, and a prominent array of individually articulated, crushing jaws. They are employed in the disposal of organic materials, the production of high quality fertilizer, and the reclamation of Ibis tissue from corpses. The latter function earning them a central role in Bibat funeral rites, hence the name.

In Bibat, it is believed that Ibis tissue, while a powerful creative force in life, is equally capable of corruption, especially when touched by death. It is therefor not adequate to bury the Ibistouched, since Ibis tissue, if allowed to decompose, has the potential to render the earth fallow and breed illness. By consuming the Ibistouched dead, Funeralworms collect the Ibis tissue from the flesh, freeing it from corruption, purifying it, and accumulating it in their bodies to be returned to the Oracle System. It is mandatory that the corpses of all dagnyds, Sansin, Thrones and Throne-children both headless and unbodied alike, be fed to the Funeralworm. This is not a necessary funeral rite for those who are not Ibistouched, but the devout often choose to have it preformed upon their death. If a funeralworm is not available, cremation is an acceptable alternative.

Funeralworms are semi-aquatic dagnyds that reside entirely in special pools (bymūt)constructed for their housing. At their least elaborate, bymūt are little more than shallow ponds dug into clay soil, but they are often encircled by a low, stone fence with an offering platform at one end, and a chamber for dung collection at the other. These pools are usually located several kilometers from areas of habitation, although many larger cities have grown to encircle bymūt that were originally constructed a more acceptable distance away. These tend to be the most elaborate of their kind, ending up with bespoke temple complexes erected around them. As the functions of the Funeralworm are deeply linked to Bibat customs, their husbandry is entirely handled by Sansin, though the service they offer is a public one.

The design of the bymūt is necessary for the survival of fully mature funeralworms, who are not only so large as to be incapable of freely moving over dry land, but risk being crushed beneath their own weight without the support of water. Newborn funeralworms, at about a meter and a half in length, are the most mobile of their kind, and often attempt to escape their bymūt to explore. This is usually permitted (with supervision), as such young individuals have limited processing capacity, and rarely exist in a context where the sole burden of waste management relies on them. Many Sansin are sympathetic to the plight of the Funeralworm, and see little purpose in restricting the movement of a creature which never approaches agile at any age, and for most of its decades long life will be confined to a single small pool.

Despite a life spent entirely in water, Funeralworms are entirely air-breathing, and are not particularly good swimmers. They are protected from flooding by the high fat content of their bodies, which renders them buoyant and unlikely to drown. The greatest risk floods pose is temptation. Rising water allows Funeralworms the opportunity to travel freely from their bymūt, and many die after becoming stranded once the water level recedes, especially those which are particularly old and heavy.

[ome-magical-ramblings]

The (Black Cube/Qareen) Shadow Double Binding Ritual

This will be ONLY the ritual procedure, if you want to read the theory of it then I recommend reading the posts below if you need to get an idea on it.

preliminary readings:

Saturn Square spell

Qareen in Arab Magical Literature and the Shadow in Greek Magical Papyri

Appendix to previous post: Shadow/Double as the time-space extension.

When you press read more below it will be JUST the procedure, and there's an assumption that you know what you're doing, accept the risk of it, and have the ability or skill to do this well.

Materials needed:

Frankincense,

Benzoin,

Myrrh

paper doll of person

(kardec) prayer book

Headless Rite written out or printed out

Jar

scissor

Instructions for the paper doll:

The head square will be the saturn square with offset of the person's "lucky number" + the "Black Cube" number calculated.

the chest square would the saturn square offset with the person's lucky number ALONE.

You will cut the head of the paper doll and tape it inside the jar while the body of the doll is taped outside the jar

There's a verse to be written on the neck space and it can be a protective verse from bible or Quran depending on your choice. The left arm of the paper doll will have the Quran verse 37:7, for the right arm it will be an excerpt of the verse 2:255 (وَلَا يَـُٔودُهُۥ حِفْظُهُمَا ۚ) [ and the preservation of both does not tire Him. ] The Legs, left leg will be 19:1 and right leg will be 42:1-2 [حمعسق ]. Now to give an example for the head and body square, let's say that the name of the person is "Sussy Baka" the lucky number for our special guest would be

S u s s y - 103 19 21 19 19 25

B a k a - 15 2 1 11 1

Total is 118.

Now you take the square of Saturn

for the BODY it will be

122 - 127 - 120

121 - 123 - 125

126 - 119 - 124

For the HEAD it will be the same PLUS 60('Black Cube')

182 - 187 - 180

181- 183 - 186

186- 179 - 185

Example Photo:

Baptize the paper doll:

Fumigate the room and the jar(by flipping it over the incense/censer) with Frankincense with Benzoin

recite the prayer "During the Judgement when before the sentence"

Then command the black cube of the person that they're welcome inside the jar, tell them that you want to elevate them and give them a better place.

PRAYER DURING THE JUDGEMENT WHEN BEFORE THE SENTENCE ( from Collection of Selected Prayers by Allan Kardec)

Almighty God. Supreme Justice; Infinite Bondage. In this critical moment I could fail. Your mission is more superior to the sad condition of a mortal condemned to material life by his defects. I humble in front of you with the grave burdens of my defects. I ask your clemency oh! Lord, and the ceremony of God spirits, to help me in this difficult act of my existence. Still in the delayed state of our world we considered it necessary for our social equilibrium. Oh! my God, if in this deserted dwelling, the brother is obliged to judge his brother, because man's law demands it as a duty, your justice is also reflected in them, because this at the same time is a punishment deserved by our miseries and our moral delays. My soul suffers oh! God, feels his brother, and in the necessity to fulfill a duty which will set me in the destiny, I pray to you, oh! celestial Father, I implore your grace, judge me first and with the repentance of my own faults, permit me to elevate myself to your infallible tribune with a pure conscience, and that your radiant light descend over me, and make me see with clarity the fault of he who I condemn, and the causes which make him have trouble with justice. Good spirits, and tutelar angel of mine, do not forsake me; protect also the accused one; let his spiritual guide defend him so that his imprisonment will be less heavy, and let his test be more pleasant to him. Help us all to supplicate our Lord, to give us merit in this life to come to the promised land, and by the betterment of our spirits, only God will be our judge, under whose shelter of infinite bondage we will be protected for eternal happiness.

Exorcise the Black Cube into the jar

Fumigate the jar with myrrh by letting it's face hover over the censer and letting the whole jar get the incense smoke inside of it. pull out your copy of headless rite

start charging the black cube like you're rushing it into the jar to be inside the jar and once you finish immediately close the jar and seal it, you can also wax it

Done!

That's basically the whole procedure and this post almost got me automatically terminated by tumblr's bot for some god unknown reason or something in my blog did it lol, anyway next post will be the actual interview between my volunteer W.F. and his experience after 40 days of having his shadow/black cube sealed into a jar(the one shown above)

[porcelainseashore]

Hunter: You Want It Darker

Another session of Hunter, another case of reality mindfucks your cell so bad that... well, let's just say that Domino effect is gonna be glorious.

Kudos to my ST for being a master as usual at building up tension and an unsettling atmosphere from day one. What makes matters worse is that we're supposedly a bunch of experienced hunters who have been sent in to Bismarck, North Dakota (technically, Ruso, the middle of nowhere) to investigate another cell that went dark in January on assignment, but we're slowly losing our minds and behaving like ants on fire. Yes, imagine this -> 🐜🔥🚨

A compilation of instances that have caught us off-guard include:

Airport staff and weather reports indicate a rapid drop in temperature and a storm incoming, but outside it's an Indian summer. Meanwhile, the car thermometer registers a completely different number.

People we interact with (including our contact!) repeat weird sentences out of the blue that they don't remember saying. "Tick tock, time's a wastin'." Gaslighting 101, much?

Electronics turn on and off by themselves. Someone knocks on the door of Lola's hotel room, but no one's there.

The radio emits ominous messages or talks to us—well, mostly Björn—"the face" of our group who is currently having a complete meltdown, hurrah!

At a nondescript shop in rural Ruso (meaning it's the only building we've seen for miles) where the other cell were suspected to be hiding out at, there's a presence, a void shadow, but the place is empty. Inside, there's a plaque hanging above the frame of the main door, which states: "Happy trails! Go freely and leave something of the happiness you bring, neighbor!" 🧛 ALERT??

After much mundane investigation, we broke open a locked up darkened room, and like jack-in-the-fucking-box found two headless corpses, their limbs broken off, neatly folded into each other within a travel trunk.

Downstairs, the shopkeeper turns up as if nothing has happened. Carl, our group's "muscle" exchanges pleasantries to disarm him, but the moment Carl asks why there's a dismembered body, the shopkeeper says, "Because you put it there." / "I kept the room warm for you. I was worried you weren’t going to come back. Took you long enough." / "Did it hurt when he folded you into the chest?" And of course, he switches back to normal afterward.

Later, those corpses turn into mannequins.

There's an electrical light switch that's not attached to any light source, but its wiring extends and seems embedded into the very foundations of the house.

Björn hears the radio talking to him: "She broke the seal. We are the error. We have to go back. Time is folding in on itself. (Something) god machine." Carl and Lola (we, the players, were separated into different voice chats!) are not privy to this and think he's going mad.

Eventually, both Björn and Carl hear a deeply distorted voice between the static (that our ST so lovingly played a recording of on stream to freak us out). "One lock, one breach. Tick tock, told you not to look, but here you are again. Are we having fun?" The radio breaks down.

While jostling with the shopkeeper, his head abruptly explodes, showering Björn and Lola in blood, viscera, and bone shrapnel which cuts into their faces.

Oh, and our car is gone. Someone drove it away while we were busy playing "he said, she said." Along with no phone reception.

At the end of the session, I joked that because we reached breaking point several times in the game, and Lola has the Castigation rite of Hellfire but with no corresponding ability of how to control it (I purposely built her as a chaos starter), she would be the epitome of Carrie, covered in blood and burning the whole place down in flames. My cellmates replied, "Who knows, maybe Lola actually did that in another iteration... or a warp in time." 👀

To ramble any further would be a never ending essay and I feel like I'm not doing it enough justice! The way the ST introduces these elements is so sudden and unexpected, we're genuinely creeped out, doing double-takes, and going "what in the actual fuck?"

GG, my friends 🤘

Dividers by @rattenprince

[a-french-coconut]

Drew Tanaka (part 1)

I've already posted some extracts but I wanted to keep writing the fic here (:

A first punch leaves the mirror shattered and her fist bloodied.

There’s a traitor. 

An another one sends flying all the beauty products standing on the shelves of Cabin 10’s bathroom. 

“-Oh my gods, honey, are you crying ? What happened ? 

-Charlie is— oh Drew I… it’s all my fault but he told me he—

-Silena, what happened to Beckendorf ? 

-HE’S DEAD DREW ! He… he blew himself up to sabotage Luke’s armies because someone told him they were coming ! Oh no, hum, forget I said anything sweetheart, okay ? The counsellors are supposed to keep it secret ‘cause we wouldn’t want to cause a panic right ? Hey, Drew ? Are you listening to me ? You can’t tell anyone about this you hear me ?” 

A third punch lands on the wall, bruising severely Drew’s knuckles but the pain is better than what’s she’s been feeling since Silena slipped up. 

There’s a traitor, there’s a fucking traitor who wants them all dead, they killed Beckendorf, they probably killed Lee and Castor and they will kill everyone else if Drew doesn’t find who it is. 

There’s a scorching inferno in her heart. She never suspected she could hate someone she doesn’t know with such passion (oh buy you know them don’t you ? Odds are the traitor already talked with you, laughed with you, trained with you.).

Before she can break her hand landing a fourth punch, someone knock on the door and ask if everything is all right. 

“No” she wants to snarl back, “we are all going to die because of some heartless monster !” 

Instead she just responds with a sharp “everything’s fine, coming out is a few minutes. Can’t a girl finish her makeup in peace for gods’ sake ?”. She hears an offended huff and she knows she’s alone again. 

No matter what other people think, Drew Tanaka is nor heartless nor a bitch. She might lack some basic empathy skills but last time she checks, she’s not responsible for everyone’s feelings just because she’s the daughter of the goddess of Love. Plus, Silena is empathic enough for the both of them. Except that she’s been a mess of tears and chocolate for the last two days and just like that, pure white-hot rage burns from her heart to her veins, a firestorm blazing in her blood and igniting her whole body aflame. 

Drew cares about Silena. She’s the one who welcomed her with a warm smile and chocolate gifted by her father. She’s the one laughed with as she told her stories about Sasha and the one who held her after she saw his headless body on the ground during the Battle of the Labyrinth. She’s the one she yelled at for thinking herself above the Rite of Passage and continuing dating Charles Beckendorf when Drew had to break the heart of his best friend only for him to die two weeks later. Silena is the sister Drew loves and adores, all resentment and bitterness melted away by those blue eyes and kind smile. That means that the bastard who got her boyfriend’s sister killed is going to pay for what he did. 

For Drew is the daughter of Aphrodite Areia, the warlike goddess. 

Every monster and demigod who dare venture in the Midtown Tunnel is shot down by Drew and her siblings. Her arms ache from stringing her bow far too many times and the occasional stab for those getting a little too closer. Love is as compassionate as it is merciless and Drew has no qualms in slitting an enemy’s throat (they will join the other ghosts in her nightmares), not when she hears Silena’s mourning cries in her ears. She wonders where her older sister is right now. The girl disappeared hours ago, going back to Camp to convince Clarisse to come fight with them. She’s sure her sister managed to convince her, the stubborn daughter of war loves Silena as much as she does. She is proven right when she hears whispers of the girl warrior dragging a drakon behind her (she does not know of the blue-eyed girl whose face has been deformed by acid, a silver charm bracelet found on her arm).

The moon slowly bows to the sun as she disappears and the sky turns a bright summer blue. The fight is over for now, the only moment of peace found in death because no one would dare attack when each side recovers their friends and siblings’ corpses from the battleground (not when they could be the next body lying on the ground), ensuring them proper funeral rites. 

part 2 posted !

[charmwasjess]

You know, if you think about it, Dooku did technically die at a ripe old age, doing what he loved, surrounded by his grandchildren. And if you think about the fact that his headless, handless corpse got sucked out into Coruscant’s atmosphere during the breakup of the Invisible Hand, it’s not NOT dissimilar to the Serennian death rites where they place their dead on funeral moons that orbit Serenno, AND if you think about the fact that Coruscant and the Jedi Temple was really the only true home he ever knew for most of his life AND IF YOU THINK ABOUT…

[talonabraxas]

The Bornless Ritual

The rite has borne various titles, such as the Bornless One, Liber Samekh, and the Preliminary Invocation.

“I summon you, Headless One, who created earth and heaven, who created night and day, you who created the Light and the Darkness; you are Osoronnophris whom none has ever seen; you are Iabas; you are Iapos; you have distinguished the just from the unjust....”

Art: Jose Gabriel Alegría Sabogal.

Text from the Greek Magical papyri

[mermaidsirennikita]

Any monsterfucker romances recs since Halloween is upon us?

I haven't read a ton of monster romance, but I'd recommend these"

Hollow by C.M. Nascosta seems like necessary Halloween reading for me. It's a two-story bind-up in which one of the stories involves Katrina falling for the headless horseman and looking for a way for them to be together... Kind of a dark way.... And the other of which is Ichabod Crane getting railed in a locker room by two headless horsemen. I am not kidd.

Then there's Nascosta's Run, Run Rabbit, my favorite things she's done, about werewolf lawyers fucking nasty because they hate each other and then falling in love by accident. This is VERY wolfy, and involves some shifted sex, which is why I'll include it under monsterfucking (which I see as something separate from like, normal paranormal romance that has more humanoid characters).

How to Marry a Marble Marquis by Nascosta is a historical monster romance in which the (human) heroine is trying to find a husband, and seeks help from a slutty gargoyle marquis who is totally fine with her using him to get off while he's sleeping (and also a statue), among other things. Historical romance girlies, this is for youuuu

A Lady of Rooksgrave Manor by Kathryn Moon is a polyamorous erotic historical monster romance. The heroine is a sex worker who takes on the job to sleep with monsters and keep them happy, but she ends up making a real relationship with... a handful of them. I think there's a sphynx, a vampire, a Jekyll/Hyde type, a gollum, an inviisble dude, and... I think that's it but I HONESTLY can't be sure. The Basilisk of Star Manor is set in the same world, but the heroine only handles one guy. A basilisk.

Bound to the Shadow Prince by Ruby Dixon is a fun fantasy romance in which the hero is a GIANT GARGOYLE THING. And also a virgin! The heroine is a princess who must fulfill this like, ancient rite thing by staying locked in a castle with him for... seven years, I wanna say? But then they get horny. As one does.

And then, if you are down for more conventional paranormals... Immortals After Dark has vampires, werewolves, ghosts, demons, witches, sorceresses, that one guy with wings, valkyries, succubi.... It's just got a lot. Lothaire awaits, people. Every romance reader has gotta read Lothaire. (Unless, you know, it would be harmful lol.) Come on now. Everyone says you've gotta read for the blood blowjob, but A Hunger Like No Other has a blood blowjob. Lothaire has a blood 69 lmao

[shady-tavern]

Preview of "Doll House" the February Patreon Short Story

(warnings ahead for implied murder and attempted kidnapping, please take care of yourselves)

*.*.*

There was an old, abandoned manor outside the town, the road leading up to it overgrown and half swallowed by vegetation. There were plenty of rumors surrounding it, that years ago a powerful sorceress had lived there and one day she had vanished without a trace.

Other rumors said the place had belonged to a terrible woman who kidnapped people off the streets to turn them into monsters and one day the gods had struck her down, banishing her from this world.

Some whispered that the manor had been a meeting place for an obscure cult that wanted to revive a dead god, complete with blood sacrifices and ritual chants.

But no matter the rumors, they all had one thing in common: the manor was haunted.

Plenty of friends dared each other to set foot into the manor, it was practically a rite of passage at this point. But no matter who went inside, they all ran back out screaming, terrified down to their bones and a number of them had returned bleeding and bruised. 

Some babbled about headless creatures, the next talked about living shadows and others again whispered that there was a terrible prince of the underworld calling the manor home, his hair red as blood.

You remembered a year when the mayor had decided to get the building either torn down or renovated, but no matter who had shown up, be they priests or adventurers, they all had been chased from the manor without fail, refusing to go back in. 

These days there was a standing order to leave it be, the mayor hoping that the manor would rot and erode away and one day it's inhabitants would be gone with it.

You had never set foot into the manor yourself, too busy working and running errands for your parents, but you had glimpsed it a few times here and there when you had visited a neighboring town. 

It was a tall and ominous structure and after every storm it looked just a little more worse for wear. Mostly though you put it out of your mind, you had other things to worry about than a building that didn't hurt anyone so long as they didn't set foot into it.

"Welcome home," you heard your mother call out as you entered the house. "Would you join us in the kitchen? A potential husband is here to see you!"

You bit back an aggrieved sigh, a dull headache immediately starting to pull at your temples. For weeks now your parents were of the opinion that you had to get married regardless of your opinion on the matter. 

In your opinion, they were miffed that their neighbors had made such good matches for their children, marrying their sons and daughters away to merchants and rich farmers and even the daughter of a famous adventurer in one case. 

You, on the other hand, had no desire to marry and most certainly not when the other person was a stranger. You wanted to marry for love, which was a sentiment that had brought you quite the derisive lecture from your parents.

Love didn't matter when money and stability could await you instead. They conveniently didn't mention their envy for those around them with good fortunes or their jealousy if someone did better than them. Your parents were braggarts who liked to spread tall tales about themselves in the tavern, at market day and with any travelers they spoke to.

You knew they had been richer than they were now once, but had gotten tricked to give up a chunk of their savings, after which they had been forced to give up a number of luxuries as a result.

It had left your parents bitter and angry and since they hadn't managed to get their fortune back on their own, they were counting on you to do it instead.

Their bragging had brought people to their doorstep to meet you and ask for your hand, but, well, you were very ordinary. So ordinary in fact that plenty of people had described you as quite plain in the past. Mediocre at best.

Taking a bracing breath, you took off your cloak and boots to put on your house slippers instead and you walked into the kitchen without a smile on your face. You weren't going to lie to these strangers who had gotten lured here by your parents' promises of your talents and gifts and good looks.

The thing was, you did have a talent. A little spark of magic that no one knew where it had come from, but your parents hadn't hesitated in selling your services to anyone who wanted to pay enough. Anything that had broken you could fix with just a touch of your hand.

So far, the lack of good looks and the kind of dowry your parents had boasted about had ensured that all prospective partners had bowed out graciously. Rather quickly even. 

The fact that you didn't want to get married had caused a number of them to leave as well, citing that they did not desire a spouse that would end up resenting them for taking away their choices.

When you saw the man sitting across from your parents at their table, you knew immediately who he was. There had been rumors surrounding him for months now, whispers about the exiled lord turned merchant. The wealthiest merchant of their lands, the man whose fingertips supposedly turned copper to gold.

The man who was rumored to collect magical folk to take revenge on the people who had ousted him from his position on the king's council. Who had taken his nobility away from him.

You met his gaze, cold and calculating and pleased and you knew with a bone-deep certainty that he'd wed you. No amount of plainness, no lack of a generous dowry and no refusal on your end would change that.

"My dear," he said, all refined grace and gentle tone and sweet smile and hungry eyes. "You are truly radiant."

What a fucking liar. 

"Your fiance is truly generous," your father said with a jovial tone and equally hungry eyes. "He's paying us your dowry in exchange for a swift marriage."

The former lord kept smiling like the sweetest, gentlest man and you knew to others he would have looked like a dream. Rich, rather good looking and with plenty of business connections for his wealth to keep growing.

"No," you said, lips numb and your heart pounding in a way that carved fear into the inside of your ribcage with every beat. "I don't want to marry him."

The looks your parents sent you almost made you flinch, threatening and dangerous, their smiles suddenly made of blades.

"There will be a wedding," your mother decided firmly and the former lord nodded amiably, like you hadn't said anything at all. "We will meet you at the temple tomorrow."

Your father got up, his hand clasping your shoulder. What would have looked friendly and encouraging to outsiders was in truth a painfully tight hold that kept you from escaping.

You barely heard the rest of the conversation, your knees feeling faintly weak. A part of you reasoned that there was no need to be this scared. That it was a bit nonsensical in fact. You had heard nothing but rumors about the former lord and rumors were hardly ever completely true. He had been nothing but polite and even as he left he offered you a little bow.

But your gut instinct was yowling like an angry cat, raking sharp claws down your spine in warning, tugging at your innards, demanding that you escape. Get away.

You held carefully still and said nothing when your parents berated you sharply after closing the door behind their guest. You stared at them blankly, fingers cold and shaky. 

They started to talk about all the fortune you would bring them, that you had to think of your parents for they had raised you, after all. Weren't you going to be a good child, they loved you after all, didn't they?

The cold numbness was replaced by a sudden surge of anger. It burned the ice away and gripped your heart, made your spine snap straight and your lips itched with the instinctive desire to pull back and bare your teeth.

"I'll head to bed," you said, interrupting their lectures and cajoling and needling. Their guilt-tripping, as if you had been at fault for all their bad decisions in life. As if, by them deciding to have a child, you had signed a contract to be at their beck and call.

You went into your room, closing the door behind you a bit sharply, ignoring their huffs and reprimanding remarks. You heard muffled steps before the door got locked from the outside.

You were angry enough to scream.

Exhaling explosively, you started to pace, wrangling the anger and betrayal and hurt writhing through you under enough control that you could think. You eyed your window, gauging if you could squeeze outside and escape.

You should run, even if you had no money on you. Your ability to repair all kinds of things should help you with landing a job somewhere, or you could exchange your skills for money like you had done your entire life. Only, this time you'd get to keep the money instead of handing it over to your parents.

Swallowing, you stood still for a long moment, weighing the unknown of the large world out there against the marriage to a man who would marry you against your will. In the end, it wasn't much of a decision.

You grabbed what things you could gather without drawing the attention of your parents by making too much noise. The last thing you wanted was for them to catch on and nail the window shut. 

You very gently opened your clothes chest to grab a change of clothes, using a jacket to knot everything into a semi-practical bundle. There wasn't really anything else you could take, not with your small, practical backpack hanging on a hook by the front door, along with your cloak and shoes.

You sat on your bed and waited, heart pounding strongly. You waited until the sound of dinner came and passed, until you heard the steps of your parents as they headed to bed and then you waited a little more. 

You waited until the moon stood right above the house before you eased the window open. Gently and carefully, bit by bit, so it would be as quiet as possible. Peering outside, you forced yourself to wait another moment to see if the shadows would move or someone's steps would rustle the grass growing in the yard. 

You listened carefully for someone's breathing and shifting, any hint that someone was waiting outside to stop you from escaping. You didn't put such a thing past your parents.

But there was no one, at least no one you could see. With the bundled up clothes tucked under one arm, you carefully wriggled outside, bare feet finding cool earth and faintly damp grass.

Your heart was pounding hard enough that it felt as though you held a giant drum between your ribs. Slipping away from the house on quiet feet, you only allowed yourself to exhale with relief once you climbed over the fence to reach the neighboring yard. All you had to do now -

Hands grabbed you, one clamping over your mouth to muffle your startled yell and you were hoisted off your feet like you weighed nothing, pressed against a broad chest.

"I was hoping you'd run," you heard the former lord's smiling voice ahead of you. He addressed whoever had you in their grasp. "Let's leave before the parents wake up, don't let that one get away."

With rising horror you quickly connected the dots. The former lord would kidnap you and this way he wouldn't have to marry you or pay your parents for your hand. He could play the snubbed fiance tomorrow at the temple and leave with a swish of his fancy cloak and a scathing comment. Your parents would be fuming, but they wouldn't find you.

No one would, if he took you and before long, everyone in town would assume that you had run, disappearing into the big wide world. And under any other circumstances, they would have been right.

No matter how hard you fought, the arms that kept you clamped against a stranger's chest were as immovable as iron bars. The hand covering your mouth gripped you so tightly it was going to leave bruises, your jaw hurting.

"What a fiery spirit," the former lord laughed quietly once he reached an alley between houses, a carriage waiting for him. "That's going to be very useful, please hold on to that."

It sounded mocking and in the dim lights of the carriage lanterns, you saw the way he grinned at you, condescending and triumphant. The carriage door was decorated with a rearing horse with two blades crossing behind it, the metal shining in the low light. It looked like a coat of arms, which wouldn't surprise you, considering the man in front of you was a former lord.

He opened the carriage door with a fancy little flourish and your captor managed to wrangle you inside with minimal trouble, mostly because when you tried to put a foot against the carriage frame, you realized that they would absolutely just shove you in and break your leg in the process if you didn't move it.

Apparently, so long as you didn't die or grew unfit for work, it didn't matter if you got hurt.

You got tossed onto a seat and the carriage door was slammed shut before you so much as scrambled into a sitting position. You heard a lock click and two people climbing onto the coach. 

Within seconds the carriage lurched into motion and you found yourself falling back against the cushioned seat, head spinning and fear clawing your insides to ribbons.

You had to get out, you had to escape, but when you threw yourself against the carriage door as best you could, it held strong. Your hands scrambled around in the dark, fingertips trying to find some kind of weak spot, any kind of weak spot.

You felt panic and despair beating higher and higher, like an injured bird caught inside a room, frantically bumping around faster and faster with increasing helplessness.

Until your fingertips found a small corner of where the window used to be and a plank of wood had been nailed onto it instead. You dug in.

By the time you managed to pry the edge away, your fingertips were bleeding and everything hurt, but it didn't matter. It didn't matter when you managed to put your whole weight behind it and slowly pry the plank of wood away bit by bit. You had to be careful not to grip the nails that poked out on the other side of the wood.

 When at last you pulled the plank full away, you were covered in sweat and you realized the carriage had left the town behind. Peering outside carefully, you saw the lights of the town growing further and further away, the forest rising dark and ominous to the right and left.

The carriage had to slow down now, however, to avoid accidents and that was probably the best chance you were going to get. Tossing the board aside, you reached outside to grope around for the handle of the carriage door. You found it, along with the latch that kept the door locked tight.

Fumbling that open, you waited until the carriage slowed a little further to round a bend in the road before you yanked the door open. You still fell more than you jumped outside, but that didn't matter, not when you managed to roll to your feet again almost immediately without hurting yourself.

You heard shouts behind you, the door banging noisily against the carriage and you didn't waste another second to sprint into the forest as fast as your feet would carry you.

You heard the sound of someone hitting the dirt behind you and heavy steps following, your heart racing faster and faster and you suddenly, viciously understood how hares must feel fleeing from hunters.

You certainly felt like a prey animal, running and leaping over roots and branches, your body feeling lighter than it ever had as your panic pushed you onward faster and faster, desperation sharpening each and every single one of your senses.

You had no idea how you avoided running into trees or tripping over roots, but you couldn't avoid the wrought iron fence that suddenly loomed out of the dark. You slammed painfully into it and the second your fingertips found something to hold onto you hauled yourself up.

You reached the top just as someone slammed into the fence a little to your left and you didn't dare look back and check, instead you just jumped down the other side.

Staggering upright again you started sprinting for the large house looming ahead, the manor – that manor, the haunted one, you realized – your breathing as fast and heavy as your heartbeat. 

The manor might be your only chance to escape. Even if you had to face down whatever lived there, be it ghosts or demons or other horrors, they might take care of your pursuer as well. You had to bet your life on that, or you'd end up back in that carriage.

The property truly was as overgrown and rundown as stories had said, the steps leading up to the front door uneven and worn and dead leaves crunched under your bare feet. The front door wasn't locked, to your immense relief and you threw it open, rushing inside and immediately you tripped over a fold in the foyer carpet.

Sprawling down painfully, you scrambled to get up, hearing heavy steps pound up the stairs behind you. You did look back now and you got a glimpse of your pursuer, of the blank mask that covered their face. It was too flat to allow any space for the nose and there were no slits to peer through. It was just one solid, thin piece of metal.

Instinctively you knew that whoever that was, whatever that was, it wasn't human. It might not even be alive. You stumbled back without looking away, your heart now pounding painfully hard, each beat feeling like the fall of a hammer against the inside of your ribcage.

You stared at the thing heading for you as unerringly as a force of nature, when all of a sudden, a large shape dropped to the ground between the two of you with a heavy, loud crash that even the thick foyer carpet couldn't fully muffle.

When the shape straightened, you stared up at an incredibly tall person with strong shoulders and a dancer's grace. Long legs and long hair that shimmered a dark, bloody red.

"You are not welcome here," a smooth, steady voice said, a man's voice, and you saw a blade glint as the man shifted his arm. The blade in his hand was lowered but at an angle that would allow a quick upwards sweep. "Leave or we'll make you."

There was a beat of silence, weighty and tense and you noticed another moving shape along the ceiling, just barely visible in the dark. Your pursuer stood still, motionless, before taking a single, firm step forward.

*.*.*

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[xenogirl8]

As Capital marches headless

The Leviathan lies dormant ever watching sleepless dread

All problems find they magnetize to that great horrid head

The Gaia body stands abused by shrugging Atlas’s flaw

So that even liberal freedom-speak must one day talk of law

We’ve lost our friends to reason and we’ve lost our hands to rhyme

We lose our vital seasons as we contemplate lost time

Tomorrow’s world must than be built by ashes of today

If all you have is fear to bring, then I suggest you pray

As Capital strides headless all the Anarchist shall scream

“Onwards faithful soldier, our dead god then is our king”

So tell the parents, and the children, science is our rites

And we brush our teeth with plastic and then sing ourselves goodnight

If once a lifetime every soul did dare to have a dream

Clear-view you honest traitor, your critique shall set us free

[der-unverantwortliche]

NESTLED IN DREAD: THE ART OF HARRY MORRIS

It would appear that Harry Morris has the maximum contempt for reality. On the other hand, he has performed the service of distilling away its dross in order to picture its essence: pure dread. So this contempt also pays homage to its object, honoring it with scorn and raw exposures. No decor­ative comforts are allowed in his work, no natural light of day, no human reference points. No, no, no--the cry of a mind protesting its dreadful revelations and at the same time finding them well worth the revel. Dread: both reality and escape from it. Dread: both the sum of things fled from and the ticket out of town. Not to mention the ultimate destination. Next stop, the Haven of Dread. It is not fear that inhabits such a series as Scenes from Lautreamont's Maldoror. Fear implies hope, and these images are as far from hope as they are from the morning newspaper and the evening news, as well as from all the daily agitations which fill the hours between. Neither is it shock or fright, horror or terror that forms the center of these scenes. Or rather, such states so permeate Harry Morris's collagework as to institute them as the norm, to expand these irruptions in reality until they come to fill every square inch of it. And thus reality's volatile moments are smoothed out into an even atmosphere of dread, a climate of all horror and no hope, a place where nothing bothers to move toward or away from doom and desolation. Every­thing already lives there, and there is nowhere else to turn. This is, above all, a stable universe; its scenes, in dread, are forever fixed. Let us look at some of them.

One of them could be called "Bedside Scene." The "action" is all crammed into the corner of a room where leaden walls meet: one wall displays two four-paned, shutter-type windows; the other wall reflects eight ghostly segments of those panes, through which shine the lights entrusted to illuminate an eternal blackness. (Those two staring pinpricks in the night beyond the windows might, after all, be a pair of moons.) Below all this window business, of which more later, a pallid-faced thing with eyes like huge jeweled broaches lies bedridden. Another thing, with a tiny beaked head out of which grow great corkscrew horns, is nursing the thing in the bed, feeding it a serpentine fluid which gushes from a ruddy-textured bulb. A third thing, headless in the lower right foreground, motionlessly looks on. All three of these things were once good women of the Victorian epoch, this is meant to be known. But whatever identities they may have formerly possessed, whatever creditable activities they may have formerly been engaged in, they are now freaks in a mysterious world where they are compelled to carry out a mysterious ritual--automatons performing the rites of dread. Impossible to tell if this scene depicts a perennial situation of panic or one selected from an infinite series of emergencies. In either case, a reassuring constancy is supplied by dread, the dread which is forever. It is always there watching, like those cosmic dots peering in the windows. Yes, the windows. Where they lead is one of the most engrossing questions of Harry Morris's work. They are not like the windows we know, which always give out onto scenes we know, or think we know. These windows give out onto different scenes. Sometimes there is the suggestion of the star-speckled hollows of space beyond the windows, the vast vacancy of infinity. Sometimes there is only a cluster of splotches or an infernal glare, cluttered cul-de-sac. Whatever the backdrop, open cosmos or blind alley, it is an uneventful and unpopulated empti­ness. Nothing and no one resides there, except perhaps a few eyeless entities of a vaguely destructive bent and demonic mysteries as strange as a thunderstorm in outer space. So don't stray too many steps beyond the scene before you. As in a dream, what you see is about all there is to see. And like the windows of a dream, these windows lead, if anywhere, merely to another set of windows in another dream.

The next scene—think of it as the "Mummified Wonder"—appears to be about shadows and light and bandages. But possibly the first two phenomena are merely variant forms of the third. Shadows as a first-aid for dreadful illumination. Light as a fine white gauze hiding a great gaping wound that bleeds blackness. What gashes are hidden beneath this wounded one's wrappings? Such dread in her eyes. Or are they his? This is part of its wonder. But what good or evil would it do for this creature to be one or the other? In these scenes, all differentiations and categories of the waking world are defunct or irrelevant. You may be man, woman, or child across the street of sleep, but here--in the land of dread--you are just one more object among many. Is that you tapping on those windows back there? Welcome, sweet companion, dear old thing.

The last collage to be examined really begs to be given the simple title "Empty Rooms with Decapitated Head." Perhaps this is the same head that was stolen from one of the things in the "Bedside Scene." (Harry Morris's universe seems to have its own laws of conservation of materials.) But actually there are two heads, are there not? That is to say, a head within a head or a head behind a-mask; possibly the relationship is that between core and covering, or could it be some twisted evolution or decom­position going on here? Look at the apples at the base of its neck! Apples, or some kind of bulbous fruit. (Another link with the "Bedside Scene"?) Whatever they are, tempting they are not. At least not in the usual way. Attention should be paid to the windows, once again, and then expanded to take in the whole cryptic architecture of this scene. More than walls seem to have been knocked out, more than rooms have been sunken and split­-leveled. Is this place some hybrid between cathedral and condemned house? Despite the windows and doorways, these rooms offer no way in or out. Cer­tainly not to the wide awake wanderer, that much is sure. But perhaps a sleepwalker could get up those stairs at the back, could climb into the disintegrating glare of dreams. And perhaps only an experienced somnambulist could step out that door at the left and actually end up somewhere. And the artist of these scenes is both. Dream overlaps dream. Dread piles on dread. Thanks to the art of Harry Morris, pure dread finally possesses a geog­raphy, a home deep in some interior landscape where we watch ourselves rave in scenes of contorted glory, where we watch ourselves sleep in the paradoxical peace of perdition, and where we watch ourselves watching ourselves with the infinite eyes of dread.

Thomas Ligotti

[koggthryn]

xii. asters & goldenrod

once, we lay with our skin stripped off us in a field, the grass growing up around us two, your jacket bleeding out beneath our bodies. we watched the wind mills turn over, the cattle slide down into valley villages with butchers and cleavers, the aster and the goldenrod root in the heavens above, rotting there. we exhaled exhaust and moaned against our mouths until the sorrow left us. OH OH, OHHHH GOD. we curled together, strong knees and proud chins and jaws, set. AM I HOPELESS? HAVE I DONE THIS TO MYSELF?

xiii. lamprey

she has learned of cain, condemned, and sinned against her own brother with the jawbone of an ass, blood under nails and adolescence brought to an end. she has been taught to unhinge her jaw and grown to shed skin in sunday school, has tasted the real paleo diet—plucked a lash from her eye, pierced a nail in the rind, peeled the flesh from her thigh—her moon-hungry pack of teeth have sunken into the pungent and the spiced, the wet meat smell of memory in a fine china skull.

xiv. final rites

YOU HAVE RETURNED. YOU HAVE RETURNED. they found your skin smoldering out back, where the dog pisses against the fence and motor oil leaks into the yard. they called in every prayer tree over the phone lines, bowed their necks and heads and lives over you, and the preacher didn't shut his eyes—how lustful—didn't even blink. he pleaded for your soul and made sure you knew it. SHE IS RISEN, PRAISE THE LORD.

xv. trespassing

you're out when you're not supposed to be, tipping your head back, back, back on the church's stoop and looking up. looking, seeking, searching, you find hollow-eyed grief gazing back down, the crucifixion looming over you. the garden angel out back is cracking, paint peeling from its cheeks, from her cheeks, but the wood carving of christ himself, christ almighty himself, doesn't bleed. doesn't cry. and you, you cry: LOOK AWAY LOOK AWAY.

xvi. below

and below us, below us garnets churn, minutes unfurling like leaves. we are still waiting. we are still watching out truck windows, watching our faces grow dark in the side mirrors, watching the statelines and welcome centers and exit signs all blur together.

xvii. not a lover

the story goes like this: she looked away for more, and he went missing instead. right there, quick and quiet. light bends and withers around the hole left in this town, avoiding his empty seat, the road sign at his bus stop, the boots left molding on his front stoop. they'll say her name was carved into his gut or wrist or web page. they'll say you can see her calling for him in the tree line, with the strange eyes of a goat. and when he turns back up, if he turns back up, he's lighting up sheet music and staring through cops, face wretched. calling himself PRAGMA LIBER. updating his status just the one time: ONLY HERE TO PROMOTE A SONG. THIS COMMIE PLATFORM CAN SUCK A MOTHERFUCKING DICK.

xviii. study group

WHAT'S YOUR NAME, AGAIN? she wants to apologize, wants to say KATHRYN LAUREN, but KATHRYN LAUREN sounds like windchimes and rose water, like a mother's hopes and dreams, and she is more of a million spider march down the back of a gas pump. she is houses that look like faces and bitter pine needle tea she steeped as a child, was baptized in as a child. she is wild blackberries and clotted blood, ripped-up psalms and an incisor for the tooth-fairy, a headless doll trailing the undergrowth, hand in hand with her. IT DOESN'T MATTER, she says. IT DOESN'T MATTER. WHAT UNIT SHOULD WE START WITH?

xix. vantage

and besides, you breathe differently down here.

xx. rosary

in a box by the bed, there's some tinny sound. our father, and his father before him, left us their dog tags. DALE LYNN. PROTESTANT. we remember his singing in church. we remember his weeping. PORTER, LEONARD. some rust and rot. a dent in the name. we can wait with them, can count every pearl in the chain, keep the seconds in hand, feel them move through us. the days, the months. this is religious, this careful observation of time. and in a darker place, with dust storms and corpses curling into one another, our father counts the pearls. our father before him counts the pearls.

xxi. questions to ask your mother

mom—the word MOM hides a prayer: PLEASE, LOOK AT ME, AFTER ME, PLEASE LISTEN, LISTEN TO ME, PLEASE, PLEASE STROKE MY HEAD, WASH MY BACK, LET ME STAY IN YOUR HOME TONIGHT, PLEASE FEED ME, FEED ME, FEED ME—and you never stop calling her MOM. when you are her height, when the garden angel fractures its wing and cheekbone in a move and dad shoves his hand in your mouth, index and middle finger in the shape of a gun, when the ambulance comes for you and you change your name for the twelfth time, she'll scream THIS IS HOW YOU TREAT ME in your face. you'll want to break the entire length of your life over her head, want to ask DID YOU BRING PRECIOUS THINGS INTO A HOSTILE PLACE OR HOSTILE THINGS INTO A PRECIOUS ONE, but you'll only scream back WHY WON'T YOU JUST HOLD ME?

xxii. observer

look away, please. look away.

'23 september prompts days 12-22 | @nosebleedclub

[ambiguouspuzuma]

Heading home

Of course, a headless horseman never is. The poor creatures are always found laden with the part they never missed, still bearing its burden, just in the wrong place. The crook of an arm, perhaps. The grip of a calloused hand; or resting on the slight curve of a hip, like one of the village girls collecting water from the well.

Heavy lie the arms that bear their own crown. They travel as Perseus, with the gorgon's head tucked under his arm; as the Green Knight, returning from the feast; as a martyred saint, a cephalophore, decapitated and depicted as such. They bear their wounds for all to see, proud or ashamed - and sometimes with an axe in the other hand, just to hammer the point home.

There's a superstition about vampires: cut the head off of your dead, the villagers say, and prevent them coming back to haunt you. In truth, it's the only way to ensure that they will. Ghosts are said to linger because their lives are incomplete, their business unfinished, their souls disturbed. The headless dead are themselves unfinished, and they remain in search of someone who can make them whole again.

It's a traumatic experience, decapitation. Even post-mortem, spirits don't feel right leaving a body in that way: the dead need to be put to rest, and are known to haunt their open graves, their desecrated tombs, until things are put rite. Until then, they live a lost existence: headless, heedless, roaming far across the land in the faint hope of one day finding peace.

None are content with their new lot - tethered to existence, untethered to their body, always moving, never to move on - but the strength of their reaction varies. Some are merely frustrated. One horseman may be seen with his head in his hands, worn down by the burdens of its skull and the restless eternity it brings him. Another may turn violent, taking revenge against his executioners - and some completely lose their heads, creating likewise broken victims of their own.

That is why I have to stay. I appreciate your offer to resolve my own trauma, I really do; you're right about my unfinished business, and one day I intend to complete it for good, and move on from your mortal plane. But just as you found me, I seek out the horsemen: those unfortunate souls whose problem is harder to fix. No living surgeon can work with ectoplasm, you see. Their needles pass directly through the skin, and not in the way you'd like them to.

How many surgeons become ghosts? I'm the only one I know, and I've been looked since before you were born. It might be that I'm their last hope, you see - these long-dead hands the miracle to reunite their broken parts, to suture fully severed necks, to end a century of wandering and finally lead them home. That's why I'm here, as I'm sure you'll understand. I have to stay, or else they always will.

[santoschristos]

The Headless One

The rite has borne various titles, such as the Bornless One, Liber Samekh, and the Preliminary Invocation.

“I summon you, Headless One, who created earth and heaven, who created night and day, you who created the Light and the Darkness; you are Osoronnophris whom none has ever seen; you are Iabas; you are Iapos; you have distinguished the just from the unjust....”

Art: Jose Gabriel Alegría Sabogal.

Text from the Greek Magical papyri

[sarkos]

talked to an occultist today, and after a couple minutes, they recommended I try The Headless Rite.

It was the nicest thing someones said to me in a while