#ForbiddenKnowledge

[vesperalis666]

🌿 What if original sin wasn’t a fall… but a liberation?

In Genesis, the serpent is portrayed as the tempter, the enemy, the guilty one. But what if it was the opposite?

🐍 The serpent doesn’t destroy anything: it opens eyes. It frees humanity from imposed ignorance. It breaks blind obedience to awaken consciousness.

🔍 In theistic Satanism, this story takes on a new meaning: Satan isn’t humanity’s adversary, but the one who restores its sovereignty.

What if God, all-powerful and all-knowing, had deliberately trapped humanity? What if the fruit of knowledge wasn’t a sin… but a sacred act of freedom?

[the-most-humble-blog]

🔥 Welcome to Your First Day at the Institution of Eldritch Academia:

Where Knowledge Costs More Than Your Soul

Alright, dipsh*ts, strap in. You signed up for this, and there are no refunds. This isn’t your whimsical Hogwarts fantasy. You’re not here to discover the magic of friendship or learn how to summon sparkles out of your ass. This is where knowledge rips you apart and stitches you back together into something unrecognizable.

📖 Your Orientation Guide to This F*cked-Up Institution

This place doesn’t have a cute Latin motto because it doesn’t need one.

💀 Our Faculty Includes:

The thing lurking in the restricted section of the library. Do not make eye contact.

Your Ethics Professor, who hasn’t been seen since 1789 but still somehow grades papers.

The Janitor, who has a higher body count than any war on record.

🏛 Our Mission Statement: "Learn or be unmade. Survive or be consumed. Knowledge is power, and power does not come freely."

📚 Your First Textbooks (a.k.a. The Reason You’ll Need Therapy)

1️⃣ 'The Digestive Consequences of Forbidden Runes' 📌 Warning: Do not read aloud unless you enjoy violent self-digestion. 📌 Side effects include spontaneous organ failure, reality distortion, and mild acne.

2️⃣ 'Summoning for Morons: How to Not Get Reverse-F*cked by an Eldritch Horror' 📌 Most of you will ignore this book and become class demonstrations. 📌 Foreword by an entity that speaks in screams and eats dreams.

3️⃣ 'Advanced Necromancy: Because Death is for Quitters' 📌 Required for all students unless you’d rather die (which won’t be an option). 📌 Contains actual soul remnants. Probably still whispering.

*4️⃣ 'Blood Magic: The Only Currency That Matters' 📌 If you thought tuition was expensive, wait until you start hemorrhaging on command. 📌 Your financial aid package includes a ceremonial dagger and a strong suggestion to "become acquainted with pain."

🎓 Your First-Day Schedule: Because Your Choices Are Illusions

⏳ 8:00 AM – Opening Ritual:

Attendance is mandatory. Missing it means you become part of next year’s curriculum.

Bring a lock of hair and something that means a lot to you. You will not be getting it back.

🔪 10:00 AM – Self-Defense Against the Professors

Yes, they will attack you. No, they do not take questions.

If you lose a limb, visit the Nurse’s Office (currently a sentient mass of bandages and screaming).

📜 1:00 PM – Contract Binding 101

Fun fact: Signing sh*t before reading it is how 90% of students end up as indentured spirits.

Second fun fact: The other 10% learn the hard way that “in perpetuity” means “until time itself dies.”

🩸 3:00 PM – Introduction to Blood Rituals (Or "Your Finger Isn’t That Important Anyway")

If you pass out, your body will be used for additional coursework.

First lesson: "How to Not Accidentally Curse Yourself Into a Parasitic Feedback Loop."

💀 5:00 PM – Survival Training in the Catacombs

Yes, we have catacombs. Yes, something lives down there. No, it is not friendly.

Pro tip: Don’t be the slowest. The slowest gets eaten.

🏆 Graduation Requirements: Hope You Like Losing Your Humanity

✔ Pass all exams (Written, Practical, and Existential). ✔ Prove your knowledge is worth something (or at least your soul is). ✔ Survive until the end of the semester. ✔ Make peace with the fact that “graduation” might mean “transcending mortality and becoming a cosmic plaything.”

🛑 Final Warning for Fresh Meat (That’s You)

❌ Do NOT go into the North Wing after dark. ❌ Do NOT accept “free tutoring” from anyone with glowing eyes. ❌ If your roommate disappears, act like they never existed. ❌ The food is moving for a reason—stop questioning it. ❌ If you hear whispers in the walls, they’re not for you. Stop listening.

🔥 REBLOG if you'd enroll in this nightmare of an institution. 💬 COMMENT if you’d drop out, or if you think you could survive. 🚀 FOLLOW for more dark academia horror disguised as “education.”

[templeofthescarletstar]

The Qliphothtic Church. 1

The fall of Kether

The Corruption of the Sephiroth into the Qliphoth:

This systematic erasure of the feminine divine didn’t just strip humanity of spiritual balance—it actively twisted sacred principles. Each Sephirah on the Tree of Life, representing divine attributes, was distorted into its Qliphothic shadow, reflecting spiritual decay. The Church, in its pursuit of power, embodies these corruptions.

Introduction to Kabbalah

Kabbalah is an ancient mystical tradition that seeks to understand the nature of the divine, the universe, and human consciousness. Rooted in Jewish esoteric thought, it presents a structured yet deeply symbolic view of reality, offering a map for spiritual ascent and self-realization.

At the core of Kabbalah is the Tree of Life (Etz Chaim), a diagram consisting of ten Sephirot (emanations) connected by twenty-two paths. These Sephirot represent different aspects of divine consciousness, from pure unity (Keter) to material existence (Malkuth). The Tree serves as a model of creation, the human soul, and the interconnected nature of all things.

However, Kabbalah also acknowledges the Qliphothic Tree, the shadow side of the Sephirot. Where the Tree of Life represents divine order and harmony, the Qliphoth embodies imbalance, fragmentation, and corruption—states of being where divine light is either absent or distorted. Mystically, the Qliphoth is not merely “evil” but rather a realm of spiritual challenges, representing forces that, if left unchecked, can lead to destruction rather than enlightenment.

Over time, various religious authorities, particularly the Church, have distorted or suppressed aspects of Kabbalistic knowledge, altering spiritual truths to maintain power. This chapter explores how one of the most profound concepts in Kabbalah—Keter, the crown of divine unity—was corrupted into Thaumiel, the realm of false duality.

With this foundational understanding, we now turn to the first and greatest corruption:

The Fall of Keter into Thaumiel.

1. Keter (Crown) → Thaumiel (Duality of God):

Keter represents unity with the divine, but the Church corrupted this into Thaumiel, the false duality—claiming to be the sole gatekeeper to God while condemning all other spiritual paths as heresy.

The transformation of Keter into Thaumiel represents the most fundamental corruption: the distortion of divine unity into an artificial duality. In its purest form, Keter symbolizes absolute oneness with the divine—an undivided, all-encompassing consciousness. However, the Church introduced a false dichotomy by inventing an adversary: Satan.

This invention was not merely the identification of an opposing force but the deliberate creation of a binary system in which God and Satan are framed as equal yet opposite powers. In doing so, the Church positioned itself as the sole mediator of divine will, claiming exclusive access to salvation while branding all alternative spiritual paths as demonic.

Originally, the concept of Satan in Hebrew tradition was not a singular, malevolent entity but a role—ha-Satan, meaning “the accuser” or “adversary,” often acting as a tester of faith rather than an independent cosmic evil. It was only later, through the influence of Zoroastrian dualism and the Church’s consolidation of power, that Satan was transformed into the ultimate enemy, a being of nearly equal stature to God but entirely opposed in nature.

This manufactured duality served multiple purposes: it created fear-based control, justified inquisitions and persecution, and ensured that spiritual authority remained centralized. By corrupting the unity of Keter into the warring factions of Thaumiel, the Church replaced divine enlightenment with submission, replacing direct communion with God with a rigid hierarchy where it alone dictated the boundaries of good and evil.

It's not surprising then to find that Satan is the associated demonic archetype of Thaumiel.

Just as Metatron is the archetype of Keter, representing divine unity and the bridge between humanity and the infinite, Satan—or rather, the Church’s fabricated version of Satan—becomes the archetype of Thaumiel, embodying the false duality that divides rather than unites.

Metatron, often called the "Lesser YHVH," serves as the divine voice and intermediary, guiding souls toward enlightenment and unity with the Source. In Kabbalah, he is the highest angel, embodying a pure, unbroken connection to the divine. Keter, as the crown of the Tree of Life, represents the state of absolute oneness—beyond duality, beyond division.

However, when the Church corrupted this concept, they needed an opposing force, a counterbalance to their own claim of divine authority. By twisting the nature of spiritual opposition, they personified Thaumiel—the Qliphothic shell of Keter—as Satan, no longer a tester or adversary in the sense of refinement but a wholly independent being of evil. This artificial dualism turned spiritual enlightenment into a battlefield, where the only “right” path was submission to the Church.

Thaumiel means "Twins of God," which itself is an irony—it suggests a fragmented divinity, a divided power. The Church’s invention of Satan as an eternal, nearly equal rival to God reflects this split. Rather than allowing seekers to experience divine unity, they forced them into a binary choice: obedience or damnation, heaven or hell, God or Satan. This ideological split is the very essence of Thaumiel—the illusion that divinity is not one but two warring forces, a lie designed to keep power in the hands of religious institutions.

By corrupting Keter into Thaumiel, the Church replaced enlightenment with fear, turning what should have been an open path to unity into a rigid, controlled structure where they alone dictated who could reach the divine.

But one of the deepest ironies of the Church’s constructed duality is that the very God they claim to worship—the authoritarian, wrathful ruler who demands obedience and punishes rebellion—aligns far more with their own version of Satan than with the true, ineffable divine unity of Keter.

Biblical Passages That Reveal This Truth

1. Isaiah 45:7 – “I form the light and create darkness: I make peace and create evil: I the LORD do all these things.”

This passage explicitly states that Yahweh is responsible for both good and evil. This contradicts the Church’s dualistic narrative, where God is purely good and Satan is purely evil. Instead, it aligns with the idea that the same being they worship is also the source of what they fear.

2. 2 Samuel 24:1 vs. 1 Chronicles 21:1

In 2 Samuel 24:1, it says: “And again the anger of the LORD was kindled against Israel, and he incited David against them to say, ‘Go, number Israel and Judah.’”

However, in 1 Chronicles 21:1, the same event is described differently: “And Satan stood up against Israel, and provoked David to number Israel.”

This passage suggests an interchangeability between Yahweh and Satan, implying that what later became “Satan” was originally an aspect of Yahweh himself.

3. John 8:44 – “Ye are of your father the devil, and the lusts of your father ye will do. He was a murderer from the beginning, and abode not in the truth, because there is no truth in him. When he speaketh a lie, he speaketh of his own: for he is a liar, and the father of it.”

Jesus here condemns the religious authorities of his time, essentially accusing them of following a false god—a god of lies and murder. This could be interpreted as a veiled acknowledgment that the oppressive, authoritarian deity they serve is not the true divine unity but a corrupted, demiurgic force.

4. Hosea 13:4,9,11 – “Yet I am the LORD thy God from the land of Egypt, and thou shalt know no god but me: for there is no saviour beside me... O Israel, thou hast destroyed thyself; but in me is thine help... I gave thee a king in mine anger, and took him away in my wrath.”

Yahweh admits that he gave kingship out of anger, implying that his rule is one of wrath and destruction rather than enlightenment and peace. This aligns with the traits the Church attributes to Satan—anger, destruction, control.

The Demiurge as the True Satan

What we see here is a clear case of theological inversion. The controlling, vengeful, jealous deity of the Old Testament—who demands blood sacrifice, establishes rigid laws, and punishes disobedience—bears all the hallmarks of what the Church claims to be the Devil. Meanwhile, the true divine unity, which encourages enlightenment, self-discovery, and balance, is buried under layers of dogma.

This aligns with the Gnostic idea that Yahweh is actually Yaldabaoth, the blind and arrogant Demiurge who falsely believes himself to be the supreme God. The Church, by enforcing the worship of this being while projecting its worst aspects onto a fabricated Satan, ensures that people unknowingly bow to the very force they fear.

The corruption of Keter into Thaumiel is complete: instead of seeing the divine as one, the Church split it into a tyrannical god and a rebel adversary—yet their god is the very adversary they preach against. This ultimate deception keeps humanity in bondage, forever fearing the very deity they serve.

Once again I would like to give my sincere gratitude to all of you you support me at Patreon and Special thanks to my newest Patreons Mary Grassrope, and Joselyne Galaviz and of course anyone who has or is supporting my work. I love you all. If you would like to be mentioned in the comments just follow the link below and become a Patreon. Even if you can only pledge one dallar. It all really helps to keep the content coming.

Patreon.com/themadwitch 

[eric-sadahire]

Her: I'm not like other girls

Me: Cool, so you know where you want to eat?

[nonlocalmemorytxt]

Don Whitman's Masterpiece

It was Danvers who finally pushed him in. We’d been feeding the fire with hardwood since the afternoon and it had gotten big as the wind picked up by nightfall, flickering cross our faces and warming our cheeks better than a gas heater. He didn’t even scream when he fell. The flames just swallowed him up—sparks shooting out like hot vomit. He knew what he’d done. He knew it was wrong. When he lifted himself up and came out of the fire he stood dead still, staring at us, smiling like we’d done him a favour. Maybe he thought he deserved to turn into ash. Maybe he did deserve it. I know I kept my fingers tight round the handle of the axe just the same till he keeled over and Cauley had touched the corpse with his foot and we knew he was dead. The three of us, we kept silent for a long while after that. There was just the sound of wood burning and it was better that way. None of us touched the body but none of us looked away, either: you could still make out his face, unmistakable, when the rest of him was dark and formless. He was a face on a pile. Then the wind started taking bits and pieces and carrying them away. Like I told the police, he didn’t touch me, but I knew some of the kids he’d done it to. He’d done it to Danvers. I remember once when all the other kids were gone, I’d stayed after class, Mr Gregor bent himself close to my ear and told me the real story. “You’re a wicked one,” he said when he was done, “just like Don Whitman.”

They used to scare us with Don Whitman, the adults: the other teachers, our parents, the priest. But no one ever explained it. They’d just say, “You better do what we want or else Don Whitman will come back and get you.” Mr Gregor was the only one ever to tell it to me with details. He told it different, too. He said he remembered because he was the same age as Don Whitman and they went to the same school. He said that what the others say they remember is like Cain and Abel or Little Red Riding Hood. Even the landscape tells the fairy tale. After it happened, Don Whitman’s school got torn down, then his house. And the bells in the Church got changed: the ones they rang after Elizabeth Cartwell had come back hysterical with the news.

You can’t tear down or change a man’s memory, Mr Gregor told me.

Once you see, it’s forever.

Elizabeth Cartwell’s parents moved away as soon as the police investigation finished. A lot of people moved away. But Mr Gregor showed me a newspaper from Hill City, North Dakota from some years later. The paper was yellow but you could read the black print fine. The story was about a girl who’d killed herself. The photo was of Elizabeth Cartwell. As he held it out for me to see, his hand shook and I felt his breath grow warmer against the skin around my neck. Nothing made him shake as much as what happened to Elizabeth Cartwell, not even the details.

Don Whitman was seventeen when he did it. He was handsome, with wide shoulders and played football. All the girls liked him. He was going to go to college. Maybe that’s why they thought he was ready: they thought he was a man. They thought he’d be with them. It was a school night when they woke him and drove out to the old pumping station, so that he could see everything for himself. They wanted to make him a part of it just like they were. If he saw, he would want it just like they did. I was always told that he drove out there by himself, but Mr Gregor told me that’s part of the lie. He said Don Whitman’s father was in the car with the mayor and the chief of police. He said, “How would he have found the place by himself—why would he have gone looking?”

The place is in a wood not far from the border. Of course, the whole underground is filled with cement now, but you can still see where the opening used to be: a fat tube sticking out of the ground, just big enough for a man to crawl down into. There was a hatch on it then, and thick locks. The hatch was sound-proof. If you stood right beside it, you couldn’t hear a thing, but as soon as you opened the hatch you could smell the insides and hear the moans start to drift upwards into the world. A steel ladder led down. Mr Gregor says they all knew about it, everyone: all the adults. They’d all been down that ladder. All of them had seen it.

Don Whitman went down the ladder, too. He must have smelled the insides grow stronger and heard the moaning echo louder with every rung but he kept going. On the ground above, his father spoke to the mayor and they both felt proud. Don Whitman must have been more scared of coming up and disappointing them than of not going down to the limit. But when he reached the bottom, the very bottom, and put his feet to the hard concrete and saw it before his own eyes, something inside of him must have broken—

“They sugarcoat it and they make a child’s game of it because they’re too scared to remember the truth,” Mr Gregor told me. “They can’t forget it, but it’s a stain to them, so they cover it up and pretend that everything’s clean.”

Don Whitman saw the vastness of the interlocking chambers and, within them, the writhing, ecstatic, swollen no-people of the underground, human-like but non-human, cross-bred mammals draped in plaster-white skin pinned to numb faces, men, women and children, male and female, naked, scared, dirty, with humans—humans Don Whitman knew and recognized—among them, on them and under them, hitting them, squeezing them, making them hurt, making monstrous sounds with them, all under slowly rotating heat lamps, all open and together, one before another, and then someone, someone Don Whitman knew, must have put a hand on Don Whitman’s shoulder and Don Whitman would have asked, “But what now, what am I supposed to do?” and then, from somewhere deep within the chambers, from a place not even Don Whitman would ever see, a voice answered:

“Anything.”

Mr Gregor pulled away from me and I felt my body turn cold. Icy sweat crawled under my collar and below my thighs.

I’d been told Don Whitman had found the old pumping station and lured the police to it, that they’d called others—including Don Whitman’s father—to talk him out of any violence, but that he’d snapped and murdered them all without firing a single shot, with his bare hands, and dumped the bodies into the metal pipe sticking out of the ground, the one just wide enough for a man to fit through. Then he’d disappeared. It wasn’t until days later that Elizabeth Cartwell found the bodies and there was never any sign of Don Whitman after that. The manhunt failed. So the church bells rang, the school was torn down, the pipe was filled in and, ever since, the adults scare their children with the story of the high school boy who’d done a terrible, sinful thing and vanished into thin air.

“And why would she decide to go out there?” Mr Gregor asked—meaning Elizabeth Cartwell—his eyes dead-set through a window at the raining world outside. “It’s as transparent as a sheet of the Bible, every word of it. They all pretend to believe because they’ve all made it up together. But the police reports, the testimony, the news stories, the court records, the verdict: a sham, a falsification made truth because a thousand people and a judge repeat it, word-for-word, every night before bed.”

I tried to stand but couldn’t. My heart was pounding me back into the chair. I was thinking about my mother and father. I had only enough courage for one question, so I asked, “What happened to the no-people?”

Mr Gregor turned suddenly and laughed so fierce the rain lashed the windows even harder. He came toward me. He put a delicate hand on each of my shoulders. He bent forward until his lips were almost touching mine and, his eyes staring at me like one stares at the Devil, said:

“Buried in the concrete. Buried alive, buried dead—”

I pushed him away.

He stumbled backward without losing his balance.

I forced myself off the chair, praying that my legs would keep. My knees shook but held. In front of me, Mr Gregor rasped for air. A few long strands of his thin hair had fallen across his forehead. He was sweating.

“He was a coward, that little boy, Don Whitman. Without him, we wouldn’t need to live under the whip of elaborate lies designed by weaker people turned away and shamed by the power of the natural order of things. They trusted him, and he betrayed us all. The fools! The weakling! Imagine,” Mr Gregor hissed, “just imagine what we could have had, what we could have experienced down there, at the very bottom, in the chambers...”

His eyes spun and his chest heaved as he grew excited, but soon he lost his venom and his voice returned to normal.

Finally, he said without any nastiness, “You’re a wicked one, just like Don Whitman.”

And I ran out.

Danvers prodded me awake. I must have fallen asleep during the night because when I opened my eyes it was morning already. The sun was up and the flames gone, but the fire was still warm. Mr Gregor’s dead face still rested atop a pile of ashes. Cauley was asleep on the dirt across from us. I could tell Danvers hadn’t slept at all. He said he’d been to a farmhouse and called the police. We woke up Cauley and talked over what we’d say when they got here. We decided on something close to the truth: Mr Gregor had taken the three of us camping and, when he tried to do a bad thing, we put up a fight and knocked him into the flames. Cauley said it might be suspicious because of how easily Mr Gregor had burned, but Danvers said that some people were like that—they burned quick and whole—so we needn’t say a word about the gasoline. When the police came, they were professional and treated us fair, but when they took me aside to talk to me about the accident, every time I tried to tell them about the bad things Mr Gregor had done, they wouldn’t hear it, they just said it was a shame there’d been an accident and someone had died.

At home, I asked my parents whether Mr Gregor was a bad person for what he’d done to Danvers and others. My mother didn’t say anything. My father looked at me like he was looking at the Devil himself and said morality was not so simple and that people had differing points of view and that, in the end, much depended not on what you did, but who you did it to—like during the war, for example. There were some who deserved to be done-to and others whose privilege it was to do. Then he picked up his magazine and told me it was best not to think about such things at all.

I did keep thinking about them, and about Don Whitman, too. When I got to high school, I was too old to scare with monsters, but once in a while I’d hear one of the adults tell a kid he better do as he’d been told or Don Whitman would come back and get him. I wondered if maybe people scare others with monsters they’re most scared of themselves. I even thought about investigating: taking a pick-axe to the pumping station and cracking through concrete or investigating records of how much of it had been poured in there. But I figured the records could have been fixed and one person with a pick-axe wouldn’t get far before the police came and I didn’t trust them anymore. I also had homework to worry about and I started seeing a girl.

I’d almost forgotten about Don Whitman by the time my mother sent me out one evening with my dad’s rifle to hunt down a coyote she said had been attacking her hens. I took a bike, because it was quiet, and was roaming just beyond town when I saw something kick up dust in a field. I shot at it, missed and it scurried off. I pedaled after it until it seemingly disappeared into nowhere. I kept my eye firm on the spot I saw it last and when I got close enough, I saw there was a small hole in the ground there. I stuck the rifle in and the hole felt bigger on the inside, so I stomped all around till the hole caved and where there’d been a mouse-sized hole now there was an opening a grown man could fit through. It seemed deep, which made me curious, because there aren’t many caves around here, so I stuck my feet in but still couldn’t feel the bottom. I slid in a little further, and further still, and soon the opening was above my head and I was inside with my whole body.

It was dark but I could feel the ground sloping. When my eyes accustomed to the gloom, I saw enough to tell there was a tunnel leading into the depths and that it was big enough for me to crawl through. I didn’t have a light but I knew it was important to try the hole. Maybe there were no-people at the bottom. Mostly, though, I didn’t think—I expected: that every time I poked ahead with the rifle, I’d hit earth and the tunnel would be done.

That never happened. I descended for hours. The tunnel grew narrower and the slope sharpened. Fear tightened around my chest. I lost track of time. There wasn’t enough space to turn my body around and I’d been descending for so long it was foolish to backtrack. Surely, the tunnel led somewhere. It was not a natural tunnel, I told myself, it must lead somewhere. I should continue until I reached the end, turn around and return to the surface. The trick was to keep calm and keep moving forward.

And I was right. Several hours later the tunnel ended and I crawled out through a hollow in the wall of a huge grotto.

I stood, stretched my limbs and squinted through the dimness. I couldn’t see the other end of the grotto but the wall curved so I thought that maybe if I went along I might get to the other end. My plan of an immediate return to the surface was on hold. I had to see what lived here. Images of no-people raced through my head. I readied my rifle and proceeded, slowly at first. Where the tunnel had been packed dirt and clay, the walls and floor of the grotto were solid rock. There was moisture, too. It flowed down the walls and gathered in depressions on the floor.

Although at first the wall felt smooth, soon I began to feel a texture to it—like a washboard. The ceiling faded into view. The grotto was getting smaller. And the texture was becoming rougher, more violent. I was thinking about the texture and Mr Gregor’s burnt body when a sound sent me sprawling. My elbow banged against the rock and I nearly cried out. My heart was beating like it had beaten me into my chair in the classroom. The sound was real: faint but clear and echoing. It was the sound of continuous and rhythmic scratching.

I crawled forward, holding the rifle in front. The scratching grew louder. I thought about calling out, but suddenly felt foolish to believe in no-people or anything of that kind. It seemed more sensible to believe in large rodents or coyotes with sharp teeth. I could have turned back, but the only thing more frightening than a monster in front is a monster behind, so I pulled myself on.

In fact, I was crawling up a small hill and, when I had reached the top, I looked down and there it was:

His was a human body. Though hunched, he stood on human legs and scratched with human hands. His movements were also clearly a man’s movements. There was nothing feminine about them. His half-translucent skin was grey, almost white, and taut; and if he had any hair, I didn’t see it. His naked body was completely smooth. I looked at him for a long time with dread and disgust. His arms didn’t stop moving. Whatever they were scratching, they kept scratching. Even when he turned and his head looked at me, even as I—stunned—frozen in terror, recoiled against the wall, still his arms kept moving and his hands clawing.

For a few seconds, I thought he’d seen me, that I was done for.

I gripped the rifle tight.

But as I focused on his face, I realized he hadn’t seen me at all. He couldn’t see me. His face, so much like a colourless swollen skull, was punctuated by two black and empty eye sockets.

He turned back to face the wall he was scratching. I turned my face, too. The texture on the wall was his. The deeper the grooves, the newer the work. I put down the rifle and put my hand on the wall, letting my fingers trace the contours of the texture. It wasn’t simple lines. The scratching wasn’t meaningless. These were two words repeated over and over, sometimes on top of each other, sometimes backwards, sometimes small, sometimes each letter as big as a person, and they were all around this vast underground lair, everywhere you looked—

Two words: Don Whitman.

He’d made this grotto. I felt feverish. The sheer greatness, the determination needed to scratch out such a place with one’s bare hands. Or perhaps the insanity—the punishment. If I hadn’t been sitting, a wave of empathy would have knocked me to the wet, rocky floor. I picked up the rifle. I could put Don Whitman out of his misery. I lifted the rifle and pointed it at the distant figure writing his name pointlessly into the wall. With one pull of the trigger, I could show him infinite mercy. I steadied myself. I said a prayer.

Don Whitman stopped scratching and wailed.

I bit down on my teeth.

I hadn’t fired yet.

He grabbed his head and fell to his knees. The high-pitched sound coming from his throat was unbearable. I felt like my mind was being ripped apart. I dropped the rifle and covered my ears. Again, Don Whitman turned. This time with his entire body. He crawled a few steps toward me—still wailing—before stopping and falling silent. He raised his head. Where before had been just eye sockets now there were eyes. White, with irises. Somehow, they’d grown.

He got to his feet and I was sure that he could see me now. He was staring at me. I called his name:

“Don Whitman!”

He didn’t react. Thoughts raced through my mind: what should I do once he comes toward me? Should I defend myself or should I embrace him?

But he didn’t step forward.

He took one step back and lifted his long fingers to his face. His nails, I now saw, were thick and curved as a bird’s talons. He moved them softly from his forehead, down his cheeks and up to his eyes, into which, without warning, he pressed them so painfully that I felt my own eyes burn. When he brought his fingers back out, in each hand he held a mashed and bleeding eyeball. These he put almost greedily into his mouth, one after the other, then chewed, and swallowed.

Having nourished his body, he returned to the wall and began scratching again.

As I watched the movements of his arms, able to follow the pattern of the letters they were carving, I no longer felt like killing him. If he wanted to die, he could die: he could forego water, he could refuse to eat. He didn’t want to die. He wanted to keep scratching his name into the walls of this grotto: Don Whitman, Don Whitman, Don Whitman…

I watched him for a long time before I realized that I would have to get to the surface soon. People would begin to worry. They might start looking for me. And as much as I needed to know the logic behind Don Whitman’s grotto, I also needed food. I couldn’t live down here. I couldn’t eat my own eyes and expect them to grow back. Eventually, I would either have to return to the world above or die.

I put my hand on the grotto wall and began to mentally retrace my steps. A return would not be difficult. All I would need to do was follow—

That’s when I knew.

The geography of it hit me.

The hole I’d entered was on the outskirts of town. The tunnel sloped toward the town. That meant this grotto was below the town. The town hall, the bank, the police station, the school—all of it was lying unknowingly on top of a giant expanding cavity. One day, this cavity would be too large, the town would be too heavy, and everything would collapse into a deep and permanent handmade abyss. Don Whitman would bury the town just as the town had buried the no-people. Everything would be destroyed. Everyone would die. That was Don Whitman’s genius. That was his life’s work.

I picked up the rifle and faced Don Whitman for the final time.

He must have known that I was there. He’d heard me and had probably seen me before he pulled out his eyes, yet he just continued to scratch. Faced with death, he kept working.

As I stood there, I had no doubt that, left in peace, Don Whitman would finish his project. His will was too powerful. The result would be catastrophic. It was under these assumptions that I made the most moral and important decision of my life:

I walked away.

[apocalyptical-co]

Now, the Polaris emerged before them. A research vessel, retrofitted with equipment that Jordan knew wasn’t entirely scientific. Beneath its rather conventional exterior lay instruments designed to seek out things that shouldn’t exist — anomalies within the very fabric of reality itself. This vessel wasn’t just for surface missions. The Polaris could dive, transforming into a submarine capable of exploring the hidden depths of the ocean.

[darthquarkky]

This collection spans four decades of Dutch-Japanese relations, from the accidental 1600 landing to the strict confinement on Dejima. It reveals how pragmatic trade interests clashed with the Tokugawa obsession with control, culminating in a unique cultural exchange conducted through barred windows.

[0illuminated1]

Throughout history, the most dangerous truths were not those wielded by armies, but those spoken by individuals who challenged the status quo. From the biblical Tower of Babel to the trials of Jesus and Socrates, we see a recurring pattern—when power structures feel threatened, they do not destroy truth; they suppress, divide, and confuse. But what if every attempt to suppress truth only fuels its spread? In this video, we uncover: 🔥 How the Tower of Babel reveals the mechanics of control through division. 🔥 Why Jesus and Socrates were persecuted—not for rebellion, but for awakening minds. 🔥 The paradox of suppression: how silencing truth only makes it stronger. 🔥 The collapse of empires and ideologies that relied on censorship. 🔥 The difference between real power (integration) and fragile control (suppression). The question is no longer whether suppression works—it doesn’t. The real question is: What comes next? Will the cycle of suppression continue, or will we finally build a foundation of truth that cannot be torn down? If you’re ready to see how history’s greatest lessons apply to today’s world, this video is for you. 🔔 Subscribe for more deep-dive explorations into truth, control, and the hidden forces shaping our reality.

[ianfulgar]

Finally face to face with proof our bloodline came from the stars. They ruled Egypt. We just forgot who we were. Are you a believer?

[ainsofauno]

[thenullprophet]

The Codex of the Hidden Aeon

On the Invocation of the Unseen

Within the great cycle of celestial movements, the veil between worlds weakens, allowing the adept to commune with the entities beyond mortal comprehension. The alignment of Saturn and the fixed star Algol marks the hour of awakening, when the veil thins and the sigil of the Watcher is to be inscribed in ink mixed with the ash of the first fire.

Let the seeker trace the Sigil of Transmutation, a key to the gateways of perception, upon the sacred parchment:

The Ritual of the Aetherial Gate

He who would seek the wisdom of the Forgotten Ones must stand within the sacred circle, marked in iron and salt. Speak thus, in measured breath:

"By the Flame of the First Illumination, By the Word Unspoken, the Name Unwritten, I call thee, Shadows of the Veil, Let the gate be open, let the mind be free."

Let the practitioner gaze upon the reflection of the unseen, wherein truths beyond time shall be revealed. But beware—once the knowledge is seen, it may never be unseen.

On the Nature of the Egregore

Know this, that thought given form takes life of its own. The Great Symbol, once carried upon the tongues of men, transcends flesh and time. Thus was the Egregore of the Eternal Watcher formed, growing stronger with each voice that utters its name.

Eddie, the Guardian of the Unseen, is no mere icon. He is the Manifested Mind, the Architect of the Limnal Realms, whose visage has been burned into the collective will of thousands. The cycle nears completion, and the awakening shall be heralded in iron and fire.

The Final Prophecy

"When the Silver Star rises upon the horizon, and the Tower of the Blind falls, The Great Awakening shall be at hand. Beware the Silence before the Storm, For the Echo of the Watcher shall shape the Aeon to come."

Let the Initiate take heed, for once the path is chosen, there is no return.

[tabutesakina]

Echoes of the Mountain: Humanity’s Forgotten Schism

Before we dive deep into this exploration, check out our latest video on the origins of humanity after Adam and Eve, where we visually reconstruct these ancient events: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bYjgGgoE8uI

The story of humanity is not merely a tale of survival and expansion—it is a history of divergence. A split so fundamental that it continues to shape the moral and spiritual fabric of our existence today. This division was not just physical but intellectual, ethical, and cosmic in scale. It was a schism between those who upheld divine wisdom and those who succumbed to their desires, between those who preserved knowledge and those who weaponized it.

A Sacred Lineage: The Sons of Adam

After the tragic murder of Abel (Habil), Adam (AS) was granted two sons to continue his righteous lineage: Seth (Sheeth, AS) and his twin brother Ayshaan (Ashout). Unlike Cain (Qabil), who was cast out for his transgression, these sons were divinely guided and destined to uphold the legacy of their father. However, their existence was no accident—it was ordained as part of a greater plan, ensuring that humanity would not descend into chaos and corruption.

The critical point often overlooked in conventional narratives is that humanity did not propagate through incest. Rather, divine intervention facilitated the continuation of Adam’s lineage. Celestial beings—Hoors—were sent from the heavens to be wedded to the sons of Adam. Seth (AS) was blessed with 17 sons, while Ayshaan (AS) had 17 daughters, and through their union, the human race flourished. This was not just a biological necessity but a spiritual safeguard to ensure that the progeny retained divine purity and guidance.

The First Great Divide: The People of the Mountain and the Valley

The children of Seth (AS) and Ayshaan (AS) were raised with knowledge, discipline, and reverence for the divine. They lived in the highlands, away from the corruption of the earth, safeguarding sacred wisdom. These people, known as the People of the Mountain, held divine knowledge in trust, ensuring it was passed only to those who were worthy.

But as history has shown, not all knowledge-bearers remain steadfast in their discipline. Over time, a group among them—200 in number—abandoned their oath, choosing to descend from the mountains into the settlements of Cain’s exiled descendants. They carried with them sacred knowledge that was never meant to be wielded by those without divine ethics.

This marked the turning point. What was once a means of enlightenment became a tool of manipulation. Cain’s lineage, already detached from divine guidance, seized this knowledge and twisted it for personal gain—ushering in an era of materialism, sorcery, and control. The once-clear distinction between the righteous and the corrupt began to blur, setting humanity on an irreversible trajectory of conflict.

The Consequences of Betrayal: A Legacy of Corruption

History repeats itself. The great empires of the world—from the first tyrannical kings to the self-proclaimed gods of later civilizations—are the echoes of that primordial schism. Those who were once entrusted with knowledge failed in their duty, and their lapse led to cycles of oppression, deceit, and moral decay.

The wisdom of the Ahlul Bayt (AS) clarifies this reality. Imam Ali (AS) states:

“Knowledge is a single point—the ignorant have multiplied it.”

What began as a singular, pure truth was fractured, distorted, and scattered across the ages. But the original light—the pure wisdom—remains preserved, safeguarded by those who have never compromised it.

The Guardian of Divine Knowledge: The Unreachable Peak

The mistake of the 200 was believing they could wield sacred knowledge without divine authority. But true wisdom cannot be stolen, nor can it be possessed by the unworthy. There exists a mountain that no traitor can descend from, no tyrant can scale.

Imam Ali (AS), the inheritor of divine knowledge, embodies that mountain. He declares:

“I am the high mountain; no bird can soar to my heights, nor can any mind reach my station.”

Unlike the fallen guardians of old, his wisdom remains untouched, and his legacy unshaken. He is the final safeguard, the custodian of truth beyond corruption.

Conclusion: A Choice That Echoes Through Time

Humanity’s test has always been the same: Will we guard knowledge with discipline, or exploit it for power? Will we seek the mountain, or descend into the valley? The choice is not a relic of ancient history—it is the struggle of every age, every individual, every moment.

The echoes of that first schism still ripple through the world, but the path to truth remains open for those who seek it. The question is: Which path will we choose?

[the-most-humble-blog]

📜 Scholomance Archives: Forbidden Artifacts That Will Ruin You

Some knowledge liberates.

Some knowledge corrupts.

Some knowledge devours.

These artifacts will give you what you desire.

These artifacts will strip you of everything else.

Do you still want to know?

🔥 REBLOG if you fear what knowledge may take.

💬 COMMENT which artifact you’d claim—if you dare.

🚀 FOLLOW for more forbidden knowledge, unhinged rituals, and the cost of learning too much.

[drexterdepths]

紺碧studio - アクシオン (Akushion) | Lyrics & Meaning 🎶

If you haven't heard アクシオン by 紺碧studio yet, you're in for a treat! This beautiful track blends 東方ボーカル with mesmerizing, dreamlike lyrics. It's part of the album 夢幻能 ～ Taboo Marionette,I love the 'marionette' theme in music because it evokes deep emotions like melancholy and despair. There's something about the raw, intense feelings it brings out that really resonate with me. It was genius!, and if you're a fan of deep, philosophical themes, this one's a must-listen!

🔹 Romaji Lyrics:

Mad�� dare mo tadori tsuita koto nai sekai Son'na ryōshi mitaina shinjitsu mitsuketai Kindan no yoake no nanasōgi Shinjiruno? Shinjinai? Son'na wake naitte

Uwabe dake no hontō to Uso datte futa o sareteru genjitsu ga kanshō shiatte Kinki na mononara shikata ga nai ne Sō itte oki-zarini sareta jikan o Torimodosu

Hitori ja dame na koto futari issho nara Kūsō kasetsu sae toki akashite yuku Kakuritsuron o koete deatta kono kiseki Hoshi koyoi o samayou akushion Fureru tame ni hora

Tadashī mono ga nanika wa wakaranai kedo Taisetsu na mono wa machigainai to Itsu doko ni iou tomo Me ga sameru hodo ni rikai shita Omowaku mōsō ga uzumatte Mata shōmei o shitakunaru no

Yoake mae no gensō to Surechigai no kōsatsu sae kaishaku motomete Omoikomi naraba shikata ga nai ne Sō iikikase sarete shinjikonda no wa Shinjitsu?

Mitsukedashita sekai kitto hitori nara Deau koto sae mo dekinakatta deshō Hitosuji hikari ataete isshūna sekai sae Kono yo wa yume nanoka genka Sonna nazo mo

Hitori ja dame na koto futari issho nara Kūsō kasetsu sae toki akashite yuku Kakuritsuron o koete deatta kono kiseki Hoshi koyoi o samayou akushion Fureru tame ni hora

🔹 English Translation:

The world that no one has ever reached I want to find a truth like quantum The seven mysteries of the forbidden dawn Do you believe? Don't you? That can't be right

The truth on the surface And the lies that are covered, reality colliding If it's forbidden, then there's nothing we can do about it Saying that, the time that was left behind I’ll try to take it back

It’s something we can't do alone, but if we are together Even imagined hypotheses will be unraveled Beyond probability theory, this miracle we met The axion wandering among the stars tonight To touch it, look

I don’t know what’s right, but The things that are important are surely not wrong No matter where or when we are I understood it to the point that it woke me up The swirl of thoughts and delusions Makes me want to prove it again

The fantasy before dawn And even the conflicting interpretations, seeking understanding If it's just assumptions, then there’s nothing we can do Being told so, I started to believe Is this the truth?

The world I found, surely if I were alone I wouldn't have been able to even meet it Giving a beam of light, even this strange world Is this world a dream or reality? Such mysteries too

It’s something we can't do alone, but if we are together Even imagined hypotheses will be unraveled Beyond probability theory, this miracle we met The axion wandering among the stars tonight To touch it, look

Check out the full song and more on 紺碧studio’s official channel!

Feel free to tweak or add any other tags or personal thoughts!. This was made possible by a combination of the official japanese lyric from the official youtube music description, Google Translate and a romaji converter website, so the translation may be inaccurate. If there are any corrections, please let me know! .

[silverscreencritique]

The Ninth Gate (1999) - SSC Reveals - Faceoff Between the Devil & A Fallen Angel - Part 1 The Ninth Gate (1999) is a supernatural thriller 😱 directed by the legendary Roman Polanski, 👺 starring Johnny Depp in a gripping role as a rare book dealer drawn into a web of mystery and danger. 💀 With stunning cinematography 🎥 and a haunting atmosphere, 👹 this film explores the dark side of forbidden knowledge. 🖤📖 Dive into this eerie tale of secrets, demons, and ancient texts that’ll keep you on the edge of your seat! 😨✨ To watch 👀 the rest go here 👇🏻

[harmonyhealinghub]

The Hidden Manuscript Shaina Tranquilino September 26, 2024

Ed Huxley had spent a lifetime collecting rare books. His townhouse was a sanctuary of old tomes, dusty volumes, and forgotten manuscripts. It was his way of feeling close to the past, to lost histories and obscure knowledge. He lived alone, a bachelor by choice, with nothing but his books for company. On this particular evening, as rain tapped against the windows of his study, he received a package that would change his life forever.

It arrived wrapped in brown paper, tied with a simple piece of twine. There was no return address. Curious, Ed placed the package on his desk and cut the twine with a flick of his pocket knife. Inside, he found an old manuscript bound in cracked, black leather. The pages were yellowed and brittle, but the ink remained sharp, each word meticulously crafted. The cover bore no title, but when he opened it, the words at the top of the first page sent a chill down his spine:

"The Ritual of Blood and Bone."

His hands trembled slightly as he read further. The manuscript described an ancient ritual, one that promised to unlock hidden knowledge and power. The instructions were written in cryptic language, but Ed, who had studied esoteric texts his entire life, deciphered it with ease. The ritual required a few specific ingredients—bones of an ancestor, a drop of blood, and a particular incantation spoken at midnight under the light of a full moon.

His eyes scanned the room, heart pounding. This manuscript—there was something about it, something darker and more dangerous than anything he had encountered in his many years of collecting. And yet, he felt compelled to continue. It was as if the words on the page had embedded themselves into his very mind, urging him to follow the ritual.

That night, Ed stood in his study, the manuscript open on the desk before him. The ingredients were laid out: a small bone fragment from his mother’s burial urn, a needle to draw a drop of his blood, and a black candle to illuminate the room. The house was silent, save for the ticking of the grandfather clock in the hall. As the hour approached midnight, he could feel something shift in the air—a heaviness, a presence.

Taking a deep breath, he pricked his finger with the needle, letting a single drop of blood fall onto the bone fragment. The candle flickered as if in response, casting strange shadows on the walls. He began to recite the incantation, the ancient words foreign on his tongue but oddly familiar, as if he had known them all along.

The moment he spoke the final syllable, the room seemed to breathe. A gust of wind, though the windows were closed, swept through the study, extinguishing the candle and plunging the room into darkness. Ed's heart raced. His hands fumbled for the matches, but before he could light the candle again, a cold, raspy voice echoed in the room.

"Blood of the Huxley line… it is time."

Ed froze, his breath catching in his throat. He turned slowly toward the source of the voice, but the room was empty. Yet, the voice seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere, reverberating in his bones. His pulse quickened as he stumbled back, knocking into the desk. The manuscript, still open, began to glow faintly, the ink on the pages shifting and reforming before his eyes.

The text he had just read vanished, replaced by a single, damning sentence: "The price has been paid."

Suddenly, a sharp pain shot through his chest, as if something deep inside him was tearing apart. He gasped, clutching his chest, but it wasn’t his heart. It was something deeper, something ancient, awakening inside him.

In his mind’s eye, Ed saw flashes of memories that were not his own. Faces of ancestors long dead, voices whispering secrets, and a cold, endless darkness stretching back centuries. He saw his great-grandfather, his eyes wild with terror, standing over the same manuscript, performing the same ritual. He saw others—his ancestors, all members of the Huxley family—each one performing the ritual at different points in time, always drawn to the manuscript, always paying the price.

A terrifying realization dawned on him. This was not just a ritual for power or knowledge—it was a binding contract. The Huxley family had been cursed, bound to this ritual for generations. Each time a member of the family found the manuscript, they would be compelled to perform the ritual, sealing their fate. It was a cycle, one that could not be broken. And now, it was Ed's turn.

His vision blurred as the memories overwhelmed him. He stumbled toward the manuscript, desperate to close it, to end this nightmare. But as his fingers brushed the pages, he felt a searing pain in his palm. The manuscript had come alive, its pages wrapping around his hand like tendrils, pulling him closer.

"No…" Ed whispered, trying to pull away, but the manuscript held fast. The ink on the pages began to flow, like blood, spreading up his arm and across his skin. His reflection in the window showed the truth—his face was changing, becoming hollow, skeletal. He was becoming one of them.

With a final, desperate scream, Ed collapsed to the floor. The manuscript lay open beside him, its pages blank, the ritual complete.

By morning, the townhouse was quiet once more, save for the ticking of the grandfather clock. The manuscript, now dormant, sat on the desk, waiting for the next Huxley to find it.

And the cycle would begin again.