All Roads End at Rosslyn / #Occult30

Posted in #occult30 on June 30, 2020 by Occult Detective

occult30

Day Thirty of #Occult30, bringing an end
to our month long celebration of the
Strange & Unusual

ALL ROADS END AT ROSSLYN

To celebrate the last day of  #Occult30, I want to share my trip to one of the most fascinating landmarks I’ve ever had the pleasure to explore. While I did not have a full-fledged paranormal encounter there, there was no denying the weight of the place and the sense of wonder and excitement that held me in thrall.

On the morning of the 26th of March, 19 years past, my wife and I got up early and walked through a light mist and boarded a bus that set out across the Scottish countryside.

When Kim and I first made plans to travel to Scotland there was one special destination that was at the very top of our “must see” list. We were excited and passed the time chatting with our fellow passengers, especially with a young Australian college student named Sophie who was backpacking across Europe.

As we rolled into the village of Roslin, I felt an electricity in the air. It was a feeling that would become amplified as we disembarked and walked up the gravel lane and laid eyes on one of the most magnificent pieces of architecture ever conceived.

rosslyn3

Rosslyn Chapel is well known today, thanks in large part to Dan Brown’s 2003 literary phenomenon The Da Vinci Code.  I understand that it has since been overrun with tourists, but when we arrived on that cold, early spring morning, it was a small handful of us that walked the hallowed grounds. In fact, Kim and I spent hours in the Chapel alone, without another soul around.

Interior of Rosslyn Chapel - both Master and Apprentice Pillars visible

The Chapel was enveloped by a network of scaffolding as renovations were underway, but that steel cage did nothing to diminish its awesome beauty. Intricately detailed with Masonic symbols, gargoyles, green men, historic figures, and Norse gods, Rosslyn Chapel was as much art as it was a place of worship. It was the single most impressive structure I’ve ever stood in, and it was all ours… We just didn’t want to leave and we lingered about, gazing in wide wonder and poring over every delicate inch of this monument to the esoteric mystery traditions.

rosslyn1The Apprentice Pillar, symbol of blessed Yggdrasil, was a marvel and the inscription there — “Wine is strong, a king is stronger, women are stronger still, but truth conquers all” — rang true for me.

Being alone, we jumped the velvet rope meant to dissuade entry and descended into the lower crypt and explored the cells. Here we certainly felt a presence. A broken headstone, leaning against the wall, was inscribed “Knights Templar”. The cells were cold and spartan and my mind swam with the thoughts of what secrets this place had held.

We walked the graveyard for a bit, then climbed the scaffolding to pore over the roof and the carvings there unseen from below. We capped the adventure with a tour of the on-site Museum of Freemasonry and had a lovely chat with the Chapel Staff, all eager to share their thoughts and stories on this marvelous piece of Scots and Templar history.

And there you have it. I hope you enjoyed the various tales I spread out over the month. I tried to keep them varied, and strayed away from some of the more elaborate and controversial yarns. I have a book planned that will cover many of these subjects, but thought a taste was in order.

As an experiment, it largely was positive. While there was little interaction of the blog itself, I did have people reach out over facebook and email to share their own stories. I think most would prefer to avoid the spotlight that a public confession invites.

So for now, beannachd leibh. It was fun. We’ll have to do it again sometime… I’ve always more stories to tell.

Alba Gu Brath!

 

The Magic of Merlin (Occult Detective, Part III) / #Occult30

Posted in #occult30 on June 29, 2020 by Occult Detective

occult30

Day Twenty-Nine of #Occult30 —
a month long celebration of
True Tales of the Strange & Unusual.

The Magic of Merlin
Occult Detective, Part III

Merlin

In the small town of Galveston, about 20 miles from my front door, you’ll find the Beckett-Lawrence Museum of Magic and Witchcraft run by the “Official Witch of Indiana”, as certified by then Governor Edgar D. Whitcomb, Lawrence Lawrence, also known as Merlin.

The Museum began in 1937, in a small log cabin, established by Merlin’s great-grandparents, Henry Beckett, a Universalist pastor, and his wife Lydia, who made Druidic amulets, read Tarot, and prepared herbal remedies. It was moved into the family home at a later date and eventually came under the stewardship of Merlin.

The museum, which mostly occupied the home’s detached garage, contained Aleister Crowley ‘s salt and water set, the authentic ritual tools of Gerald Gardner, magical and psychic artifacts from the ancient Aztec, and a plethora of tv and movie memorabilia signed by actors and directors whom had sought out Merlin’s services as a psychic.

He drove an old beat up white van held together seemingly with witch-themed bumper stickers, glued on doll parts, and duct tape.

In the backyard was a miniature Stonehenge where Merlin’s Coven held court, and the house itself was adorned with a crazy assortment of Hallowe’en decorations and antique oddities.

It was a teenagers’ playground, as you can well imagine. My friends and I made frequent drives over, and while I was dubious of many of Merlin’s claims, one of my friends in particular was quite taken with him and his supposed magical prowess.

He purchased from Merlin a beautiful antique perfume bottle filled with a pungent ink black oil that smelled of cinnamon. Merlin told him it was a powerful protection from all evil. He cherished that bottle.

A year later, our friend lost his life in a tragic car accident. He was just seventeen years old. At the wake, his mother passed around a box of his belongings, encouraging us each to take items to remember him by. I took a couple of D&D miniatures he had painted, an Army patch that he had pinned to one of his fatigue jackets, and the perfume bottle.

I placed it in one of my curio boxes and stored it away with my most treasured items.

Fast forward another year later. Summer, 1986. I covered some of this in the previous two entries, as I’m sure you recall.

The concerted attack against me was escalating. It felt like I was being buried under the weight of it. Rumors circulated that I was the ringleader of a nationwide cult, that I had harmed people in ways I care not to repeat. All grossly untrue. Despite a predilection for illicit substances and an interest in the paranormal and occult, I was a good kid. A tad immature and inexperienced perhaps, but I was a kind-hearted soul to a fault.

I was convinced, and still wholeheartedly believe, that dark forces were working against me. I was sitting with friends one evening, discussing my fears and how so far my attempts at shielding myself from what I was confident was a curse were in vain, when something strange happened before all of our eyes.

As I spoke, I felt something drip onto the forehead. I wiped it away. Then another plop fell from the sky. It was black, oily, dripping down my forehead and alongside my nose. I wiped it away again, then a third drop fell. I smelt my fingers and I was met by the scent of cinnamon.

My friends were stunned.

I had no doubt it was the protection from evil oil my friend had purchased from Merlin.

It was falling from the thin air, anointing me.

I dug out the bottle from its hiding place. It was still there as I had left it save for some of the oil was missing…

Soon after, the rumors began to die down. My luck had rebounded. And the house, where we believed the dark coven gathered, burned to the ground and we stopped seeing signs of their activity in and around the Mississinewa.

Later that fall, we went to visit our friend’s grave. It was Hallowe’en night. I dug a hole several feet down and returned that perfume bottle to him, thanking him for what he had done for me.

I had always been intrigued by the figure of Lawrence Lawrence, Magician and Psychic, known as Merlin among the witches of “In Diana”. Yes, I had my doubts, but I visited his museum one last time and I told him my story, thanking him for his part in it.

Merlin had considered himself something of an occult detective as well, claiming to have worked many cases for law enforcement, all centered around the Satanic Panic of late. He told me I had a bright future ahead of me. That there would be darkness, followed by light.

You know what — He was right.

For all the kitschiness of the Beckett-Lawrence Museum of Magic and Witchcraft, there was, in the end, something to it, be it the power of belief or something more, it’s impossible for me to say.

All I know is, when I was anointed by that oil, it materializing from out of the ether as it did, I chose to believe as my friend had.

And the darkness passed…

Crystal River / #Occult30

Posted in #occult30 on June 28, 2020 by Occult Detective

occult30

Day Twenty-Eight of #Occult30 —
a month long celebration of
True Tales of the Strange & Unusual.

Crystal River

By the early 90s I was struggling. As is all too often the case, I had become dependent on drugs and alcohol. Whatever gains I had made spiritually were being laid waste by addiction. After a magical time in the desert southwest, I had returned to the mundane world and my factory job and was slipping into a dark place emotionally.

In an attempt to right my course, I accepted an early retirement and received a sizable amount of money as a result.

I went back to university, moved in with old friends, and then began to spiral out of control.

I was drinking heavily and had developed a cocaine habit that ate through my finances.

I just couldn’t get my act together. I had been walking in Crowley’s shadow a bit too closely…

One afternoon, someone complained of being bored. I was high and reading, I think, an issue of Magical Blend. There was an article about the top 10 spiritual sites in North America. Number 10 was a 2000 year old mound complex located in Crystal River, Florida.

I suggested we hit the road and check it out. I was in need of a spiritual kickstart and thought this fit the bill.

I drove straight through— 18 hours, fueled by illegal substances and a desire to get my mind and spirit aligned right, not seeing just how far I had fallen.

Arriving on site, I consumed psychedelics, waited for them to kick in, then marched solemnly toward the mound structure.

I was filled with awe and reverence, convinced this was the life-affirming catalyst I needed.

I climbed the long stair, feeling transcendent. I could feel the power of that sacred place. Arms outstretched, I reached the top of the mound, eyes closed. I walked to the edge, prepared for gnosis. I opened my eyes and — found myself looking out over a trailer park.

I came  crashing back to earth. We left, dejected. We set up camp in a nearby woods, continued our party through the night, and then I drove straight through again, back to Indiana.

All with no sleep. More than 48 hours, and it would be another day and a half before I finally crashed.

Within a year I quit drinking and hard drugs cold turkey. I’ve been sober now for 28 years. Crystal River was not my rock bottom, but it was close and, I believe, the beginning of my recovery.

The dichotomy and juxtaposition of Crystal River mirrored the conflict I was mired in. On one hand, I had risen to unimaginable spiritual heights, but my soul was a trailer park of dependency and depression.

I was alone and lost, but Crystal River awakened in me a hunger to become better.

Yes, I had found myself in a very dark place, but I am thankful for it. I would not be the man I am today otherwise.

Lords & New Creatures / #Occult30

Posted in #occult30 on June 27, 2020 by Occult Detective

occult30

Day Twenty-Seven of #Occult30 —
a month long celebration of
True Tales of the Strange & Unusual.

Lords & New Creatures

Short discussion today. Storms are rolling in and I’m blogging from my phone.

The world has been turned upside down, no? Between the pandemic and civil unrest, life prior to March seems like a distant memory.

So much has changed for the majority of the world, but if I am being honest, life here in the Haunted Hoosier Heartland is largely the same, at least for me.

Which brings me to today’s topic.

In 1988 I was well into my experimentation with psychedelics. While many of my peers used drugs recreationally, I had always viewed them as a spiritual tool and utilized them in meditation and ritual.

32 years ago this very week, I was in the midst of one of those meditative experiences, having ingested a heroic dose of lysergic acid diethylamide.

A number of interesting and peculiar interactions had already taken place when dawn rolled around. As the sun first kissed the horizon I was struck by a sliver of light, like a shimmering silver thread, and My spirit was lifted up, slightly out of my body, as if I had one  foot in the world and one in the heavens.

Without words, an otherworldly intelligence was communicating with me. I instinctively knew its message. It was as crystal clear as a nursery rhyme.

The message? Something terrible was coming. Make your life here, for this land is sacred. Here you will be safe.

I took that message to heart and here I have built a life for me and my family.

For years I have wondered about the truth of that vision — that communication with something beyond myself.

Now I wonder no more…

Occult Detective, Part II / #Occult30

Posted in #occult30 on June 26, 2020 by Occult Detective

occult30

Day Twenty-Six of #Occult30 — a month long celebration of
True Tales of the Strange & Unusual.

OCCULT DETECTIVE, PART II

Late Summer. 1986. I won’t go into the details, but things were not going so well in my little corner of the world. There was definitely something… unnatural going on. I was having fractured, but prescient dreams. Stories kept coming back to me that made me realize I was under fire from all sides. It felt like someone had painted a target on my back. I have no doubt I was under psychic attack and forces were moving against me, both in the mundane world and the magical.

I had pissed someone off.

After being led into the woods to see the perverse altar, things had been a spiral. I was becoming paranoid and on the verge of a nervous breakdown. And I’ll be honest with you — drugs and alcohol were becoming a bit of a problem.

Strange days, indeed.

One night, again at the Pearson’s Mill Shelter House, the CO returned. He called me over and asked if I was up to seeing something… peculiar, but not at night. He didn’t want to go there at night. He asked if we could meet in the morning and take a drive south of Converse. I readily agreed and we met at the Corner Store across from the Converse Public Library.

Driving out into the country we came to an abandoned farmhouse. The windows were all gone, the paint faded, the roof was little more than a sieve. We parked in the side yard and made our way around back, past the old milk house and in through the gutted kitchen.

It was a bloody mess.

I couldn’t help but think it had been a nice home once, but now it was a ruin, full of beer cans and refuse, with the walls all tagged up with spray paint, mostly juvenile stuff — swear words and crude depictions of male and female genitalia, with the occasional pentagram, swastika, inverted cross, band names, and of course, declarations of love, which I always found weird — I love Jenny scrawled beside an elongated penis, nazi symbols, and devil horns that frame Iron Maiden Rulz? How romantic.

Anyway, the CO led me to a dodgy staircase and we climbed to the second floor. I prepared myself for something akin to the first desecration he had led me to.

This was altogether different.

The walls were covered in intricate runes, sigils, and symbols, all painted in black on what plaster still clung to the lathe underneath. The sigils of the 72 demons of the Ars Goetia were present and accounted for, as well as signs I did not recognize. I recall the Vegvisir alongside bind-runes. There was an inverted Monas Hieroglyphica. Astrological symbols tucked in here and there. And more. Lots more. Names. Initials. All painstakingly hand-inscribed, and with a steady hand at that.

Spent candles were everywhere…

In the center of the room, painted in white, was a delicate circle of protection and a summoning triangle. It was based on Crowley’s variant, but there was no Hebrew. Instead the writing was in Theban.

This was obviously the work of someone who knew what they were doing, and knew enough to alter things with specific intent.

I fed the CO as much info as I could, but I had come ill-prepared. No notebook. No camera. I resolved to come back, to capture as much as I could so I could decipher what the magician was up to. Unfortunately, on my return, the stair and ceiling had collapsed. Not long after, the place was demolished.

Today, the property is producing crops, oblivious to whatever magic had been worked there.

I learned a valuable lesson from the experience, however — always be prepared. It still irks me to this day that I collected no evidence from the scene. It was really something else.

to be continued

It’s All in the Cards / #Occult30

Posted in #occult30 on June 25, 2020 by Occult Detective

occult30

Day Twenty-Five of #Occult30 — a month long celebration of
True Tales of the Strange & Unusual.

It’s All in the Cards

LenormandToday, the 25th of June, marks the 177th anniversary of the death of one of the most influential cartomancers of all time, Madame Marie Anne Lenormand. She read the fortunes of the likes of Empress Josephine and Tsar Alexander I, as well as many notable French revolutionaries. Her professional career spanned more than 40 years.

When she died in 1843, her only living heir, a nephew, took her fortune, more than 500,000 francs, and, being a devout Catholic, burned her considerable occult library and destroyed all of her esoteric paraphernalia.

What a tremendous legacy we were robbed of.

I’ve had a near lifelong passion for cartomancy since I was a kid. I bought my first Tarot deck, the Rider-Waite deck illustrated by Pixie, in 1979 at Cole’s Bookstore in the Marion Mall. I’ve had dozens of decks since, and have even designed a few. I published my Occult Detective Tarot for a very limited time a few years back, and individual card designs have been licensed for t-shirts, posters, and even book covers.

tarotread4.3.18

I read Tarot as a part time job while in college, mostly in the mid-80s, and I’ve been “entertainment” at various parties over the years, and I used to read for several friends and clients on a regular basis, but I mostly look to the cards on personal matters these days.

I’ve always found that most people don’t really want to know what the cards can teach them. It’s either a novelty, or they’re looking for some kind of validation. The truth is often far too messy. for them.

The cards are far more than some sort of parlor game.

tarot spread

In recent years, meaning the past twenty, I have been developing a method for using Tarot as a means to aid paranormal investigations, something I hope to share in a publication in the near future.

I hold that the Tarot is an invaluable tool and resource and highly recommend its counsel.

MagicianI have, in recent months, returned to using my old Robin Wood deck that I picked up from Marilene Isaacs Kauffman back in 1991, the last time I put her sensory deprivation tank to use. That was my deck of choice in the early 90s and it’s been nice to put my hands on them again.

The beautiful thing about the Tarot is that, in addition to being instruments of divination, they are works of art. I have loved so many, from Lady Harris’ Thoth deck for Crowley to Miranda Grey’s Merlin deck. On of my favorites was David Palladini’s Aquarian Tarot, but alas that deck was stolen from me in the late 80s and I’ve never got around to replacing it. I may have to rectify that as it really was a beautiful, art nouveau-inspired collection.

Aquarian-Tarot

Regardless of your preference the Tarot is an inspiring tool of divination and self-reflection, and a valued part of my occult detective bag of tricks.

How about you? Do you have a favorite deck? If so, I’d love to hear about them.

Seven Pillars / #Occult30

Posted in #occult30 on June 24, 2020 by Occult Detective

occult30

Day Twenty-Four of #Occult30 — a month long celebration of
True Tales of the Strange & Unusual.

SEVEN PILLARS

Driving along the Old Francis Slocum Trail that parallels the course of the Mississinewa River you’ll happen upon Westleigh Farms, an impressive estate that was home to a young Cole Porter. Built by Porter’s grandfather, J. O. Cole,  it’s a gorgeous property, sitting behind a wrought iron fence, well above the waters of the Mississinewa.

Below it lies Seven Pillars, a sacred site to the Miami Indians. Seven columns, carved into the limestone by the rise and fall of the river’s waters, stand out as a testament to nature’s wonders. For centuries, weathering along the bedding of the Liston Creek Limestone and the scouring action of the Mississinewa have carved rounded buttresses and grotto-like alcoves in the north bluff of the river, reaching from 25 to 50 feet above low water. The Miami used the area as a trading post with French trappers, and as a place where they held tribal counsel. Men judged harshly would often times be beheaded there from atop the cliff, their heads toppling into the waters below.

7pillars

The Miami, or Mihtohseeniaki, believed the site to be home to what Europeans would refer to as fairy-folk, or land wights… preternatural beings who live between this world and the next, with the natural formations of the Pillars being a gateway between these worlds.

pillars4Seven Pillars is more than a geological curiosity, it is the epicenter to all the weird and wonderful paranormal phenomena in northern Indiana and home to unseen forces, sentient apparitions, and residual manifestations…

I spent years out at that site, marveling at the beauty of it, and trying to make contact with the spirits there. I witnessed the fluid mist as it drifted on the winds, and I heard the sounds of panicked feet stumbling through the icy waters…

But I’d never been able to capture anything on tape or film.

In 1994, my brother and I were out that way, taking pictures of Seven Pillars and the Porter House with a cheap disposable camera. Imagine our surprise when we had the pictures developed and the image below was captured.

PORTER

In late 2004 I was asked to contribute to Jeff Belanger’s Encyclopedia of Haunted Places, the first directory to be written by dozens of the world’s leading paranormal investigators. One of the three entries I submitted concerned this truly amazing site that has been a part of my life for nearly fifty years.

FrancesSlocumTrailThePillars

It’s little wonder as to why the local tribes of Native Americans were drawn to this place. One can sense the energies that ebb and flow from this site held sacred for hundreds of years. A preternatural nexus, with a confluence of telluric currents and ley line convergences, Seven Pillars is home to myths and legends punctuated by an aura of mystery and inspiring beauty.

PillarsPeruIndiana

The Doom That Came to Goose Creek / #Occult30

Posted in #occult30 on June 23, 2020 by Occult Detective

occult30

Day Twenty-Three of #Occult30 — a month long celebration of
True Tales of the Strange & Unusual.

The Doom That Came to Goose Creek

Late Autumn, 1983. Thirteen high school kids drove out to a secluded area in the Mississinewa State Forest and performed a ritual from the so-called Simon Necronomicon. What follows are some of the highlights.

cthulhu header

First, the set up. A large number of us used to eat lunch together in the school cafeteria, our ages ranging from 13-17. Most were band and orchestra kids. Most of us played D&D and read Lovecraft and Howard.

One day, as a joke, a couple of us performed a “ritual sacrifice” of a Hostess snack cake. People called us “The Ho-Ho Killers”. It was funny, at least to a bunch of teenagers. No harm was done or intended.

We talked and joked a lot about magic and the occult. It was the height of the Satanic Panic, after all, and we were feeling particularly attacked by the adults (and some peers) in our communities for the music we listened to, the games we played, and the books we read.

One day, one of our group brought in the Simon Necronomicon, a slim mass market paperback published by Avon on my birthday three years before. It was a mishmash of HP Lovecraft, Aleister Crowley, and Sumerian Mythology that played into Wilson and Shea’s Illuminatus! Trilogy as well.

It would be years before I learned the real history behind the book. For us, at that lunch table, it was as close to a real grimoire as we’d ever come across. We decided, then and there, to perform one of the rituals from the book. Fall break was coming up, and we knew the perfect place — Goose Creek.

cthulhu header

As I recall, a week later, we all met to head out to our chosen spot. We had trouble finding Goose Creek road in the dark, however, missing our turn and ending up near Peru. As we were in three separate cars, we had pulled over in the parking lot of a granary to get our bearings.

That’s when we realized we’d forgotten several necessary items for our little misadventure. One car of kids opted to drive around and approach random houses under the pretense of a “Christian Youth Group Scavenger Hunt” to collect the basic items we’d forgotten.

Once we had figured out where we were, it was easy enough to make our way back to the long, potholed drive to the graveled lot that sat above Goose Creek.

The road further was blocked by a steel barrier. The old roadway itself, eaten up by vegetation growing up through the cracks in the pavement, with years of runoff on either side eating away at the old road, till it was but a sliver of its former self.

cthulhu header

It was dark. Overcast, with black, ominous clouds. The evening’s “high priest” stayed behind with one other, while I marched the rest of the group down the hill to what awaited below.

Goose Creek was a small tributary that fed into what was now the Mississinewa Reservoir. When the Army Corps of Engineers created the lake, this whole area was flooded, but the water was released every fall, draining the lake to reveal the ghosts of what had once been.

A county road used to bisect Goose Creek, a bridge traversing its course. That road was normally underwater, but now it was exposed to the night, the bridge long gone, with the road ending abruptly where the bridge had once stood, and beginning again across the divide.

This is where our summoning circle would be constructed.

But as we walked down the ravaged road, the night near pitch black, the full moon suddenly appeared overhead, the clouds separating around it and spilling its majestic light down upon us… but then one of the kids muttered, “oh my god, look at it,” pointing to the moon.

The clouds had framed the moon in what looked like an inverted pentagram.

Everyone became very nervous at that point, made even worse, as we continued our approach. With better visibility, we now saw that the fractured roadway was covered in dead fish. Someone commented on the Christian symbolism of the fish and how this was a bad omen.

In the waters surrounding us were dozens of dead trees jutting up from the mucky swamp like accusing fingers pointing to the heavens.

Bad omens? Overactive imaginations? Take your pick. Regardless, the fear among these teens was palpable.

I sealed them inside a circle of protection, then waited as the “priest” joined us, coming down the hill. The ritual was a disaster, of course, we were kids after all. What followed has long been debated, but the ensuing aftermath — the tears, the screams, the terror as ten kids broke from that protective circle in a frenzied sprint up the hill and to their cars above… It was all overblown and bordered on parody.

The rumors that grew from that night, the legend that sprung from it, followed me, in particular, for many years. There were accusations, incriminations, and interrogations in the weeks that followed, all baseless and dramatized, fed by the Satanic Panic.

In the end, it was a fun, fright-filled evening spent among friends that got overblown once it made the rounds at school… and then the administration got involved. It was an ugly scene, but luckily, I had good teachers that stood up for me and my friends.

We were good kids. A bit mischievous perhaps, I mean, we were teenagers… but good kids. And that fact has born out.

There’s more to the story. A lot more. But we’ll leave it for now. I mark this date as the beginning of the Nightstalkers and for good reason.

I learned more about the power of magic, the power of belief, in those few hours than anything else had ever taught me. Everything leading up to that point was like kindling collected and tendered. That night was the igniting spark that illuminated the course I have been on ever since.

23 Skidoo / #Occult30

Posted in #occult30 on June 22, 2020 by Occult Detective

occult30

Day Twenty-Two of #Occult30 — a month long celebration of
True Tales of the Strange & Unusual.

23 Skidoo

Notorious gangster and folk hero John Dillinger was born on this day, the 22nd of June, 1903, in Indianapolis, Indiana. Painted as a Robin Hood-like figure of the Great Depression, Dillinger was responsible for more than two dozen bank robberies, the looting of several police stations, and was so slick, he escaped jail twice, once by carving a potato and covering it in shoe shine so that it resembled a gun.

dillinger

Ratted out by the infamous “Woman in Red”, Dillinger was gunned-down by Federal Agents in Chicago on the 22nd of July, 1934, in front of the Biograph Theatre at the age of 31.

While Dillinger was certainly well known to me, being a fellow Hoosier, it wasn’t until I read Robert Anton Wilson & Robert Shea’s Illuminatus! Trilogy that I really took interest.

Strangely enough, and to the pleasures of William S. Burroughs, Wilson, and Shea, Dillinger’s Birthday adds up to 23. 6+2+2+1+9+0+3 = 23, which becomes 2+3=5, to fit the Law of Fives, of course. 23 Skidoo.

Anyway, discovering a Dillinger connection to my hometown of Converse fueled my interests even more. See, Converse is a little town, though it had a bit bustle in its day. Located virtually equidistant from four small cities ripe for plucking — Kokomo, Marion, Peru, and Wabash — made Converse a perfect hide-out for the outlaw.

Legend holds that he took a room frequently in a boarding house by the railroad tracks in my hometown and that he frequented a lawyer’s office on Jefferson Street where after hours poker games were played, and where Dillinger laundered his misbegotten money.

So, where’s the paranormal connection?

First, the room where Dillinger supposedly played poker? Yeah, very active. Is it Dillinger? No, I don’t think so, but we have had interesting experiences there nonetheless. Objects have been moved, doors opened of their own accord, strange orbs have manifested, there has been multiple instances of physical contact, and, yes, once two women were thrown off the bed in that room and the bed itself rose off the ground about six inches and dropped back to the floor — witnessed by my own eyes.

I’ve had unusual experiences at the former boarding house as well. Again, I do not believe they were Dillinger related, but the most odd occurrence was the discovery of a hidden room there, sealed off and only found by accident, when a laborer fell through the roof and into the hitherto unknown room. Inside was a child’s bed, a medicine cabinet, and an old doll.

Strange? Check. Unusual? Absolutely.

As for John Dillinger? Well, he was certainly a character who left his mark on the world before exiting it in a blaze of infamy. A hero? Certainly not, but he was Hoosier born and bred, and they didn’t come more colorful.

 

 

Father’s Day / #Occult30

Posted in #occult30 on June 21, 2020 by Occult Detective

occult30

Being the Twenty-First day of Occult30 — a month long
celebration of the strange and unusual

Father’s Day

Today marks the second I’ve celebrated since my father passed. I now stand at the head of my line, with my son behind me and the hope of future generations that yearn to spring from him.

I miss the men of my bloodline that are no longer here, those men I knew — my father, my paternal grandfather, my maternal grandfather and great-grandfather.

Each had a unique personality, despite all being born in Arkansas. Those similarities of being the product of poverty and migrant labor paled against their very different approaches toward embracing life.

I learned a lot from each of them and hope that I am a better man and father because of the lessons they taught me.

Ancestor worship is at the heart of my spirituality. Today I honor them and all of my forefathers, all the way back to the beginning.

lineage

%d bloggers like this: