Archive for the #occult30 Category

Dinner for Wolves / #Occult30

Posted in #occult30 on June 20, 2020 by Occult Detective

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

Dinner for Wolves

Short post today, from my phone. It’s Midsummer, and there’s a lot on my plate. I hope the solstice is one filled with magic and wonder for you all.

Here’s a quick little stroll down memory lane, to a summer solstice in days gone by. The year was 1993.

A friend I had met during my adventures in the southwest reached out to me, telling me of “Dogman” sightings in the Batesville, Arkansas area.

He was convinced it was a skinwalker.

In Navajo culture, a skin-walker is a witch who can take on the form of an animal— most often that of a wolf.

It didn’t take much convincing. I packed my bags and headed south… back to the land of my forefathers.

After interviewing witnesses and scouring the town for clues, we made our way up into the Ozarks, hiking, camping, and tracking a wolfpack through those mountains.

While we never found our prey, never identified the skinwalker, it was an amazing journey— one that left an indelible mark on me and influenced all the investigations that came after…

Occult Detective, Part I / #Occult30

Posted in #occult30 on June 19, 2020 by Occult Detective


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

Occult Detective, Part I

As those of you who have been following along know, I’ve had a lifelong fascination with occult detective fiction, in print, tv, and movies, and a thirst for the supernatural and occult sciences from a very early age.

In the summer of 1986, those worlds collided, quite by accident.

One of my favorite haunts was the Pearson’s Mill Shelter House which sat atop a hill overlooking the Cliffs and the Mississenwa Lake. My friends and I would gather there, under the cover of darkness, put the fireplace to good use, and proceed to drink cheap liquor, smoke way too many cigarettes, and ponder the mysteries of the multiverse and our place within the fabric of such things.

It was harmless, youthful fun, with a philosophical and certainly metaphysical bent. It was, however, the very height of the so-called Satanic Panic, thus we were often looked upon with suspicion, myself in particular, but then people were afraid and anything with even the slightest hint of the occult was suspect.

One evening, near Midsummer, a small gathering was underway, though we were, thankfully, not into full revelry mode, as we were approached from the woods by a Conservation Officer.

We were all under age, but we were careful to avoid any obvious offense.

thothThe CO, a young man only slightly older than ourselves, asked us some innocuous questions, but it was obvious he was shaken by something else. He noticed that, alongside my guitar case was a deck of Tarot cards and Crowley’s Book of Thoth.

He asked if we were into satanism and black magic and I spent a fair amount of time explaining my personal beliefs, with others chiming in, until his suspicions were adequately quelled. My studies at Ball State in Witchcraft, Magic, and Religion had afforded me the vocabulary to accurately differentiate between the various types of magic, and he was suitably impressed.

He asked me if I wanted to see something… in the woods. Something he had recently come across. Something I might be able to explain to him.

I agreed, and my pal Brent and I followed the CO into the woods, a lone flashlight our only guide. What we were led to was revolting.

In a small clearing, not far from where two abandoned houses would be discovered in a few short weeks, the CO’s flashlight played against a grisly scene: a black cat lay pinned to the earth by kitchen steak knives within an encircled pentagram made of salt. Spent candles were at the points of the star. A short distance away were the remains of a campfire, poorly constructed, full of ash and the remnants of burnt logs.

ozzHis asked my opinion on it and after kicking around the scene, it was obviously kids. Cruel, sick kids, but kids nonetheless. There were PBR cans and a melted cassette tape case in the campfire — Ozzy’s Blizzard of Ozz.

What you had were what they used to call ‘self-styled satanists’.

You know the type, no? Teens out for a thrill, acting out against their parents, using the trappings of heavy metal music as their vehicle, not realizing that it was all marketing. The tropes of heavy metal were the equivalent of a Hammer horror movie.

Brent and I were gutted, though. We felt horrible for that poor cat, who was made to suffer at the hands of some sick and twisted kids.

I wish we could have helped find the culprits, but the CO was at least relieved this was not an actual black magic working, but I assured him that, even though their knowledge of the dark arts had come from song lyrics and comic books, the intent was very real…

He then told us of other strange happenings in and around Somerset — talk of witches, dark covens, and all manner of creepy goings on. He thanked us for our time, and for educating him on some of what was going on, and then Brent and I stumbled our way through the dark and back to our friends, not realizing that, come Fall, we would run into that CO again and be led into another adventure…

to be continued


Posted in #occult30 on June 18, 2020 by Occult Detective


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



noun: sudden uncontrollable fear or anxiety, often causing wildly unthinking behavior; widespread financial or commercial apprehension provoking hasty action; a frenzied hurry to do something.

verb: feel or cause to feel panic.

origin: early 17th century from French panique, from modern Latin panicus, from Greek panikos, from the name of the god Pan, noted for causing terror, to whom woodland noises were attributed.



aleister.crowleyIo Pan! Io Pan Pan! Pan Pan! Pan,
I am a man:
Do as thou wilt, as a great god can,
O Pan! Io Pan!

—Aleister Crowley, Hymn to Pan



In Thelema, Pan is the giver and taker of life, and the Night of Pan initiates the symbolic death wherein the adept transcends all limitations and experiences oneness with the universe.

Dion Fortune wrote:

I am she who e’er the earth was formed rose from the sea
O first begotten love come unto me
And let the worlds be formed of me and thee

Giver of vine and wine and ecstasy,
God of the garden, shepherd of the lea –
Bringer of fear who maketh men to flee,
I am thy priestess answer unto me!

Although I receive thy gifts thou bringest me –
Life and more life in fullest ecstasy.
I am the moon the moon that draweth thee.
I am the waiting earth that needeth thee.
Come unto me great Pan, come unto me!

The first time I sat in with a coven, an Alexandrian group I met through the New Age bookstore I read Tarot at in the late 80s, they performed what they called The Blessing of Pan, which borrowed heavily from both Crowley and Fortune, but was, nevertheless, a beautiful and powerful ceremony.

It left a lasting impression.


Pan, a pastoral god and patron of shepherds and hunters, being half man and half goat, with horns sprouting from his head, became the physical representation of the Christian Devil. Pagans too conflated him with the Celtic Cernunnos, the Horned God of the Wild Hunt.

The closest of the Norse Pantheon to that of Pan is often thought to be Freyr of the Vanir, who made Alfheim his home and who gave up his dancing sword for the love of Gerðr. Like Pan, he is a god of fertility and virility, but I always felt that Pan’s mercurial nature made him more akin to Loki.

I would say that, where once Pan was commonly raised in sacred rites, there has been a shift in recent years away from his influence. There has been a dramatic transformation underway throughout pagandom.

What was it Merlin said in Excalibur, “The spirits of wood and stream grow silent. It’s the way of things.”

Not everywhere, of course, but it has been noticeable to me, among those of our ilk, as we become more and more fractured and divided.

But some of us remember and hold to the old ways of the wood.

I would be lying if I were to deny the (Pan)ic influence in the forests of my haunted hearth. In the quiet of Hobbitland and the pale of Goose Creek, along the shore line of the Circle of Stone, and in the thick of the Mississinewa, Pan is there. Never (or seldom) seen, the spirit of wanton nature is ever-present, if one has a mind to silence the bustle of modernity.

And therein lies the crux. Pan is the very spirit of nature in all its libidinous glory. He has no place in your cities or towns. He is of the country, where the cunning folk dwell, in those secret places where few are brave enough to venture.

There was a bit of irony perhaps in seeing Pan invoked in the season two finale of Hellier. That their ritual was so obviously successful, but they seemed to miss it (among many other clues throughout) was not lost on many of us.

Pan. Panic. Pandemic.

I feel like we are in the midst of another transformation, that the world is going through the growing pangs of reincarnation. O Pan. Io Pan. What shall we become in the years to follow?

Something more, perhaps, something…wonderful.



Bloodletting / #Occult30

Posted in #occult30 on June 17, 2020 by Occult Detective


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


On June 17, 1462, Vlad Dracula led the infamous Night Attack at Târgoviște, and “caused such terror and turmoil” against Mehmed II’s Ottoman forces that “the sultan abandoned the camp and fled in a shameful manner.”

The result was the Forest of the Dead — 23,844 impaled Turks — on Vlad’s command. This, of course, inspired near countless fictional tales of Vlad the Vampire, called Count Dracula in popular culture.

I’ve had a fascination with the vampire since early childhood. My favorite cinematic Dracula was Jack Palance in Dan Curtis’ 1973 adaptation. Curtis was responsible for many of my most favorite vampire interpretations: the aforementioned Dracula, Dark Shadows’ Barnabas Collins, and the tele-film Kolchak — the Night Stalker.

The question for me has always been — do vampires exist? Or, at the very least, did they? I wish I had an answer for you.

I have never investigated a case in which someone was the victim of a “bloodsucking vampire”, though I have dealt with the psychic kind. But I do not discount the possibility. The sheer volume of folk tales related to vampirism, across continents and varied ethnic and cultural groups clearly means there’s something to it.

Sean ManchesterThe closest I came to taking part in the investigation of reported vampire activity was through an invitation from (so-called) Bishop Seán Manchester, Primate of the British Old Catholic Church, to join him for a return to Highgate, that most notorious and fantastic cemetery wherein he acquired his notoriety, alongside David Farrant, in the 1970s.

I corresponded with Bishop Manchester for some time in the late 90s and early 2000s, and I was keen on the adventure, but we fell out, in large part, because Manchester is more than a bit out there. But in this field, who isn’t?

The Highgate story has always fascinated me, largely because I would love for it to be true.

The story goes, on the night of Halloween 1968, a graveyard desecration occurred in the London cemetery. Someone had arranged flowers taken from graves in circular patterns, with arrows pointing to a freshly dug and uncovered grave. There, a coffin lay exposed and the body inside had an iron stake in the form a cross driven through the lid and into the corpse’s chest.

Heady stuff. Especially for a kid in rural Indiana reading about it in, I believe, an issue of Fate Magazine, circa 1974 or so. It most likely was an earlier edition as my grandfather had stacks of Fate, True Crime, and Detective magazines lying about.

In March of 1970, a mob had descended on Highgate to hunt the vampire after numerous reports of sightings, and following the publicity of Manchester performing an exorcism, not to mention Farrant’s activities as well.

Things were getting out of hand, then in August that same year the charred and headless remains of a woman’s body were found near the Highgate catacomb, with the police declaring it an act of Black Magic.

The seventies really were the headwaters of the occult revival, fueled by pop culture and the global social and political upheavals of those turbulent times.

Makes one wonder if we’re not on the cusp of increased paranormal activity due to our own turmoil.

Apache Sunrise / #Occult30

Posted in #occult30 on June 16, 2020 by Occult Detective


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


apache sunrise

GeronimoGeronimo, hero of the Bedonkohe Apache, an infamous warrior and medicine man, was born on this day, the 16th of June, 1829. He died, a prisoner of war in the custody of the United States, on the 17th of February, 1909.

Geronimo became a cultural icon for people of all races, and is remembered as a fearless leader of men. His dying words were said to be: “I should have never surrendered. I should have fought until I was the last man alive.”

As a kid, growing up on a horse farm, raised by southern parents, I had many western and frontier heroes. Of course, I only knew them from the sanitized versions they share with children, but Geronimo was right there alongside Jesse James, Davy Crockett, Daniel Boone, Tecumseh, Little Turtle, and Doc Holliday, among others. The picture here was on my wall, beside pictures of Fess Parker, Clayton Moore, and Jay Silverheels.

I was blessed to have traveled across the American Southwest, first as an anthropology student interacting with several tribes across Arizona and New Mexico, and again a short time after, immersing myself in the cultures I had only briefly tasted before.


In all, I spent time with the Apache, Havasupai, Hopi, Navajo, and Pueblo, and it was an honor to have done so. I also got to know the chieftain of the Kwakiutl, who was visiting the Hopi while I was there. I was treated with kindness and respect by all, even when I allowed my youth to be less so with them on occasion.


I got to take part in a Navajo peyote ceremony, I witnessed the Hopi call down rain as they sent their gods back to their sacred mountains, watched in awe as a young woman danced the Apache Sunrise and saw Apache warriors carry fire down to appease the mountain spirits. I performed the LBRP in Mesa Verde’s Sun Temple and a Blót in the cliff dwellings.

I have always respected and honored the indigenous peoples of the Americas and have supported many of their causes, and I have been blessed to call several of them my friends.

So, today, on the 191st anniversary of Geronimo’s nativity, I give thanks to all those who have welcomed me into their homes over the years, that broke bread with me, and invited me into their most sacred rites. I salute your unconquered and indomitable spirit.


Season of the Witch / #Occult30

Posted in #occult30 on June 15, 2020 by Occult Detective


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


The dictionary still defines a witch as “a woman thought to have magic powers, especially evil ones, popularly depicted as wearing a black cloak and pointed hat and flying on a broomstick.

That image, which still exists as a cartoonish Hallowe’en icon, has not really been a staple of popular culture since the early sixties. Fictional witches such as Gillian Holroyd in Bell, Book, & Candle, or later Samantha Stevens from Bewitched showed a more elegant side to witchery, while notable witches from the real world, such as Maxine Sanders, Patricia Crowther, and Janet Farrar reinforced the idea that witches were more than old crones, cackling about a cauldron.

Of course, the idea of the male witch was far slower to catch hold, despite men being the dominate voices in the media of the time, with Gerald Gardner and Alex Sanders being the most prominent.

As witchcraft began to attract young people throughout the 60s and 70s, the idea of the witch continued to evolve, as more and more authors and speakers began to beat the pagan drum.

There was a paradigm shift it seems in the mid-1980s, correlating with the so-called Satanic Panic, when Witchcraft and Magic in general exploded.

The bookshelves were dominated by Raymond Buckland and Scott Cunningham and you began to see a transformation from the witchcraft of Sanders and Gardner as many of the ceremonial and masonic trappings began to be redressed and given a more nature-based appearance. Cunningham, in particular I think, presented a witchcraft that seemed more modern and a natural evolution from the witchcraft we were first presented with in the more sex-fueled flower generation.

Scott Cunningham was a prolific author, penning such classics as Magical Herbalism, Wicca: A Guide for the Solitary Practitioner, and Living Wicca. While he passed in 1993, he left an indelible mark on what witchcraft would become. As he reshaped the minds of young people in the eighties, they became the authors of the late 90s and 2000s and, with the internet, there are now more flavors of witchcraft than one can shake a wand at.

It seems there was a real push as the Tech Age began to make witchcraft and magic more modern by moving it into the suburbs and inner city.

It has been a constant evolution, some good, some bad, but for some of us, we miss the magical aura those early years of witchcraft offered, when the books were a tad more scarce and it all seemed so much more…mysterious.

Now, witchcraft is everywhere under countless guises and there is no real mystery. So much of it seems like LARPing and cosplay. But there are still honest voices to be had. Authors like Judika Illes, for instance, still have a bit of that erudite, old school swagger, while Mat Auryn is presenting an earnest approach to open and inclusive magical practices.

My own tastes lean toward folkish traditions and ancestral work, with an emphasis on self-reliance and a connection with nature and nature spirits. I long for the root of it, the simple and sublime, where magic is a part of the elements around us, in the country with the cunning folk. I have little use for cities and city dwellers. Too much noise. Too much clutter. Too much…well, everything.

I think that’s where the next shift is going to come. For a time, it seemed like magic was being taken out of the backwoods and in amongst the hustle and bustle of urban life. I see now that more and more are becoming disenchanted with that way of life. The social upheavals we’re experiencing, I believe, are systematic and reflect the separation anxiety of humanity being so far removed from nature.

We have lost our way. Magic is calling us home.


Roswell That Ends Well / #Occult30

Posted in #occult30 on June 14, 2020 by Occult Detective


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


On June 14, 1947, William Brazel and his son came upon clusters of debris about 30 miles north of Roswell, New Mexico. The rest is, as they say — history.

There has been a fascination with Unidentified Flying Objects ever since and I had the bug as a kid, for sure. I collected UFO magazine and comics, and had a scrapbook of clippings from newspapers, mostly from National Inquirer-type rags, but the occasional article from more traditional news sources.

When I was in the fifth grade, our teacher, Mr. Piper, was concerned some kids were falling behind in math, so they gave us all a test. If you scored perfect you got to sit out the rest of the semester and have a free period, more or less.

Admittedly, I cheated. Not proud of it, but I did, and thus about a dozen of us were excused from math, the caveat being we had to do something productive with the time. I convinced my classmates to form a UFO Study Group.

We took over an unused classroom, set up a bulletin board to pin articles to, and we began earnestly poring over hundreds of sightings in books, magazines, and newspapers. Each investigator had a map that we marked sighting locations, then we all came together and produced a final map with all of our finding together.

We hashed out a theory, hotly debated, and at the end of the semester we presented our findings to the class, then before the whole school which consisted of fourth through sixth graders.

I have had three experiences with “unidentified flying objects”. The first was when I was a kid, seeing a strange light on the western horizon. In retrospect, it was probably Venus.

The second occurrence was while in Florida in the mid-90s, seeing a black triangle flying silently against the night sky.

The third was a little more… eventful.

I blogged the following (with slight edits made this morning) on August 3rd, 2006:

Last night I left my house at the usual time, prepared for my nightly bike ride. Something far from the usual occurred however… Looking into the clear night sky I witnessed a thin streak of fire arcing from the southern horizon. My first thought was that it was a shooting star… but its trail was too long. Suddenly to the north, the fire trail ended in a huge explosion. White hot, it billowed outward, with smaller red fire eruptions coming from the white mass. I heard no sound…

What the hell was it? A plane? A satellite? A spacecraft? I watched as the explosion dissipated in the sky… sparkling debris raining down, then… nothing. The sky was returned to its tranquil splendour.

I rode on to my friend Doug’s house, a fellow riding enthusiast, and we placed a call first to the Indiana State Police, then to the Miami County Sheriff’s Department… I made a statement, filing an official report.

Was it a terrorist attack?

Twenty minutes later I met with the Converse Town Marshal, Roger Bowland, and discussed the matter with him. He had already been briefed by Miami County Dispatch. See, Grant County had already received three reports… two from the town of Swayzee… one from the town of Sweetser… of unidentified objects flying out of the southeast, black triangular shaped against the black sky… no lights, no sound, headed for Converse.

So, there you have it. How about you? Ever experienced something unexplained in the sky? Ever have a run in with “little green men”? If so, I’m all ears.


The Poet & The Gardner / #Occult30

Posted in #occult30 on June 13, 2020 by Occult Detective


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

The Poet & The Gardner

Today marks the nativity of two of my childhood influences — William Butler Yeats in 1865 and Gerald Gardner in 1884. Of the two, it was Yeats who had the more lasting impact. I acquired a first edition of his Mythologies in 1977 at a library book sale for a quarter and just fell in love with his narrative voice.

Of course, it was shortly after this that I learned of his connection to the Golden Dawn, and later still of his adversarial relationship with Crowley.

Crowley had his own connection with Gardner, as well. The Gardnerian Book of Shadows is heavy with the Old Crow’s fingerprints.

How these occultists were so intricately entwined makes for an interesting study…

But I digress.

Where would I have been without the Converse Public Library?

Growing up in a small, rural farming community, one would imagine that my access to books on the esoteric arts would be slim to none, but there on the shelves I found Gardner, alongside Sybil Leek, Patricia Crowther, Cavendish, and more. There were books on UFOs, Cryptozoology, ESP, Astral Projection, and more…

These were all primers for what would come later. They provided a foundation from which I was able to build. Thank goodness for Spiritualist Movement and the later occult revival, that both were so prevalent that they were able to infiltrate even a Christian Conservative Public Library with a population of just over 1000 people in the middle of Cornfield, Indiana.

So, how about you? How were you able to scratch that itch when you were a child? Any hidden gems in your public library?

LISTON GLEN / #Occult30

Posted in #occult30 on June 12, 2020 by Occult Detective


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


I’d been going out to the so-called Murder House of Liston Glen since about 1972 or so. I’ve spoken of Liston Glen before, and the Murder House on many occasions. What follows is the account I wrote in 2011 (with slight edits). Enjoy…

“So, what do you say we go visit a haunted house after Trick or Treating tonight,” my father said with a grin.

superman“Really? A real haunted house?” I was squirming in the passenger seat of my dad’s AMC Gremlin. I’m pretty sure I was wearing my Superman costume that year, complete with the red “Lone Ranger” mask that gripped your face thanks to an elastic string that sure as hell hurt when it snapped against the back of your head. And the damned thing always got wound up in your hair too… but that’s beside the point. My father was going to take me to an honest to goodness haunted house and I couldn’t have been happier.

I remember it like it was yesterday. Driving through the countryside in that bright orange Gremlin, windows cracked so I could breath while dad chain smoked Silva Thins that mingled with the distinctive smell of late October that’s part and parcel to rural farming communities.

We rolled past Red Bridge and Liston Glen and pulled onto a narrow drive that came off of Old Francis Slocum. There it was, a quiet two story farmhouse nestled in a copse of trees and overgrown wild grass. A mostly harvested field of corn surrounded the place, but my eyes were locked on that house. Candles burned from the sills of each window, dancing on the chill October wind.

“What is this place?”

“It’s called the Murder House,” my dad said, as we climbed out of the car and walked toward it. “Years ago a family lived here, but one Halloween night something terrible happened. The father woke up and went outside and grabbed his axe and proceeded to chop his wife and two sons up into little pieces and then he burnt them in the woodstove in the basement.”

I audibly gulped as we continued walking forward. My dad pushed open the front door, flashlight in hand. The door creaked menacingly, opening into the front room. A staircase rose upward toward a balcony that led to the bedrooms upstairs. My father’s flashlight followed the stairs up slowly as I stood glued to the threshold.

“After he had let the fire consume their bodies, the man climbed the steps to the upstairs balcony and hung himself. His spirit has remained trapped in this house ever since.”

With that, my dad’s flashlight fell on the figure of a man hanging by a noose from the balcony. I screamed, like any little boy would, and I turned and ran toward the car. My dad was trying to keep up, but I’m afraid he was laughing a bit too hard to match my speed.

And that was my introduction to the Murder House of Liston Glen.

I would return many times over the years. As I got older and could drive myself around, my friends and I would go out to that place and hold séances in the dead of night, and it had become a staple of my Halloweens for many years.

The old place slowly disintegrated until it was but a shell… but it never lost its ominous presence.


Despite my father’s practical joke… it was clear to me that there was something dark and palpable about that place.

deathhouse3In 1986, I was an anthropology student, having just transferred from Ball State to the Kokomo branch of Indiana University. I was required to write a twenty-five page research paper for the Folklore class I was taking, so I recruited my fellow Nightstalkers and we performed experiments and interviewed locals about Murder House.

Murder House had long ago entered into the realm of “urban legend”. The stories collected all were similar. Oh sure, sometimes it was the mother that murdered the family. Two boys would become two girls, or a brother and sister, but always two. The instrument of murder changed from axe, to butcher knife, to baseball bat, or hay hook…


I never learned the truth about what happened there, neither by traditional research or by occult means. Murder House was a mystery, an urban legend used to frighten children and teenagers and a coming of age landmark for people who grew up in that area.

The Murder House of Liston Glen is gone now. Nothing but scant traces of the old foundation laid out like the prehistoric skeletal remains of some bygone monstrosity.

But I remember it, and I remember it well. Sometimes late at night, when I dream of dark things, I find myself back in that old farmhouse and I’m scared for my life.

I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Key House / #Occult30

Posted in #occult30 on June 11, 2020 by Occult Detective


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


Still under the weather, so allow me to preemptively beg your forgiveness for the brevity of today’s post.

Some dear friends of mine moved to Converse in the late 80s, into a spectacular hundred and twenty year old house on St. Road 18. The outside was nice enough, but the inside, with its built-in display cases and bookshelves, and all the trim cut from the same walnut that, according to their abstract, had been cut down to make way for the roadway, was really sublime.

They had not lived there long before strange occurrences began to be commonplace, and I got to experience some of it first hand. It became something of a game. I would come in and lay my keys on the corner of their kitchen breakfast table and soon they’d be gone, usually discovered deep inside a utensil or  junk drawer.

This was the most prominent of several instances of prankish behavior.

As a group, we were all under a lot of stress. Being young, there was a lot of emotional turmoil going on. Relationships were ending, friendships became strained, and that house was a central focus for us. We spent a lot of time together.

The timbre of the house changed even as our fellowship d/evolved.

I should add that there was a fair amount of chemical abuse at this time period as well, but that does not alter the fact that the activity in the house was intermingling with us on a psychic level.

The house, or more accurately, the entities in residence, were feeding on us and I believe our moods were affected. Not that this gives us a pass for some of the things we did, but there was a whole lotta shakin’ goin’ on.

So, ever had something so obviously snatched and hidden from you, or experienced pranks at the hands of something altogether preternatural? I’m all ears…

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