Occult Detective, Part II / #Occult30


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


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

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