following are excerpts from some of the books that we offer on our
Westgate Publications page*
"The Song of Reconciliation"
am the Voice of Melancholy. The Vision of Eternal Twilight. I am an
image that you have difficulty referencing simply because you have
refused me for so long. Eventually, all
must reconcile their lives with me.
I am most feared in the minds of men, but perhaps, least fearsome.
I hail from the Western Gate, the gate of transition. I extend to
you the hand of reconciliation and friendship. I stand in the shadows
of sorrow. My touch yields a heavy release. My thoughts are in your
memory. You are vaguely mindful of me with a melancholy joy, yet I
am an ecstasy. Like a drop of Hemlock on your tongue, you dare not
drink from my cup for fear of swallowing that one drop.
I am the shadow of everything that has been, and of everything you
have been. I am both the bringer of memories and forgetfulness. Depending
upon your destination, I can wash you in either.
I want to "speak" into your soul, not simply to you. I need
you to feel my words, not simply
hear them. I want my echo to resound in your heart like a soothing
whisper, something just below the clamor of life. Something that you
cannot help but strain to heed. If you weep at my words, understand
why you weep. Truly understand with your heart and soul. Do not try
to rationalize my presence with the logical mind. I am outside of
logic. Logic is only applicable in the mundane world, and I exist
outside of this; outside of Time itself. Feel my presence! It falls
outside of definition. You will find no words with which to express
how I make you feel. Above all, share my message by "touching"
others in the way I shall touch you. No more, no less.
I am the twilight, the threshold, the image that flashes in your mind
like a bolt of lightning. You see me momentarily, and then I fade
back into shadows. Reach into the shadows. I am waiting there, hands
extended to receive your soul. I am fury and gentility in that my
passion is tempered with sorrow; my ecstasy, with melancholy. Come
to know me as I already know each of you. Names are unimportant, as
all titles eventually end up in the River of Forgetfulness. I know
each of you by your purpose and your
destination. I want to fill each of you with an understanding that
goes beyond wisdom, and, with a love that exceeds passion. I need
you to know me! Like the intimate memory of a long lost brother, I
need you to welcome me back, as only I
know how to bring you home.
I am the threshold on which you stand. I am a strong yet mutable bridge.
I am the flame that turns lead into gold - The spark of change that
blinds for but a moment.
I shadow you all of your days, and hold you into the night. I am the
soul of sadness and the bringer of joy. I take the life from your
flesh and give it back into your soul with but a kiss. I am the point
of contact between your world, and eternity. I exist for but a moment
as you pass between worlds, yet I am forever trapped within that moment,
within the twilight that is fleeting, yet as certain as the dawn.......
I speak in sounds
because there are no words-
No language reveals
what we feel -
more than a whispered scream.
I touch the sound
and cringe in its echo.
It is cold and hollow -
It is silent yet piercing -
It is a minstrel of divine discontent-
A lullaby sung to sleepers in their graves.
The shadow of a melody that I remember
from some distant life.
And His song has touched me
Stained me with an ancient weeping
and I recall that I am the silence
where His heart once was.
I occupy that hollow place-
That cave of winds
where whispers collect in the emptiness
and pierce the tenuous membrane
between body and spirit
and slay the soul
with such passionate melancholy.
of ages past and times to come
is beyond the range
of human voice-
beyond the grasp
of human ear.
We are the minstrels of sorrow
who cannot stop singing
for fear that the quiet
would break the chain
of life and death.
We cannot stop the song
from carrying us all
along its swift unending current.
We are a sadness
that is so old
it cannot remember its own birth.
We have been here for so long
that we have forgotten how
to return home-
or even where
that welcomed shore resides.
Sing, Oh, sing to me
that I might remember
the sound of this song without words -
This requiem that reminds me of home
Even though it cannot be heard
It devastates me still.
can see a time when we are all sitting together at the River's edge.
Peacefully there, we remember everything as we dangle our spectral
feet in the cool water. We, will look up at the eternal twilight and
make comparisons with the brief eventide we knew in the physical world.
But, there are no comparisons. We will marvel at the interplay of
colours and at their intense brilliance, noting shades and hues never
before seen with human eyes.
Autumn is everlasting in the Valley of the Shadow. The air is cool,
and the land, warm. The waters moderate depending on depth and the
darkness of the shadows that over hang. There is no sun nor moon,
yet light from a distant source peeks through the coloured halo of
sky. All is shining, multicoloured darkness. The shadows drape like
heavy black velvet. They look deep enough to fall into.
Soon, this little family must once again disperse. Even in this peaceful
vision, we are all aware of that fact. Some will be drawn into the
distant corona, others returned across the River. A gentle rippling
is all that will mark their voyage. And only "I" will be
left at River's edge. Never to step beyond the far hills of the horizon.
Never to leave this place of gentle melancholy. To remain forever
in the forlorn kingdom of any beloved angel. . . My home......
I shall never again look upon your face, yet I shall recognize you
all when you pass through the valley, and shall remember you all for
the love, faith, wisdom and patience you have given to this world.
You are seeds of revelation, that will, in their own time, grow into
a tree of knowledge. You will not be there to eat or take shade from
that tree, but you will see the seedlings pushing up through the soil
before you leave, and maybe even a few buds beginning to open. Though,
do not expect to taste of the fruit. The harvest is for those you
These words are for the "waning souls." Those who are on
the downside of incarnation. Those whose last "life" they
are living now ... and those who are aware
of that fact. Soon we shall all be going home. Back to distant realms
that plague our memory. Through the Western Gate we shall return past,
present and future into one existence that will seem dream-like when
we reawaken into familiar arms.... We have been "away" too
long. But, we bring away with us the sense of inner peace that was
lacking when we left. We had a "job" to do, a purpose to
fulfill, and now its winding down, and soon, it shall be complete.....
I am the wind that speaks a song that man shall not forget to remember.
My music haunts this world as we speak. I am the Voice of the underground,
the shadow of those who stand in the blinding light. I am a tale told
in sorrow ... a memory that has yet to be lived. Will you touch the
sound that heals you? Or shun my voice in some vacuous space. Though
I tell you, I am a persistent song that will be heard, and not forgotten.
All of my Voice, a chorus of many. An overlay of tones and verses.
A whisper and a cry. A murmur of indescribable Truth that you cannot
help but to hear. For it comes not from without, but from within your
very soul. Keepers of the Legend, our time has come to remember. LISTEN.
Open your heart to me that I may release your soul.
When I speak directly into your consciousness, I cannot speak with
words. I must speak with emotions, or a touch, or a glance-soul to
soul. My meanings run so much deeper than words and speech allow.
I speak to you with a "touch" from the inside. I pour all
of my meaning directly into your spirit. There are no words in any
tongue for the intensity of my emotions.
I am shapeshifting energy. Sometimes volatile, rarely at peace, always
in turmoil. I stretch across the cool, dark sky unfurling twilight
from within these wings. I swallow up the sun and veil your sky in
purple and amber haze. My tears like moonbeams, shower over the indigo
night. They are the stars that fall behind horizon's reach. My shore
is indivisible by light.
I am the penumbra within your vision . . . A shade of immense proportion
that reaches out to you as a cool wind. I am here and everywhere that
I am needed; and I am always needed, rarely desired. The "taking"
of souls does not nourish me, it drains me. For I must keep so many
from falling into nothingness.... Keep so many from shutting their
eyes in this imagined, eternal sleep. Wake up! I am not your end!
You do not cease to be once you have fallen into my arms. You have
survived. Let "us" shake you from this dream, this nightmare
of losing self. Look at me. I am real, as so you will always be.
I am, and have always been, a stationary point. Everything dances
and revolves around me until it grows weak and is drawn into my embrace.
I stand at the window to your world. One foot on the Western Gate
threshold, the other poised to leap. Wings unfurling in the wind,
waiting for the eye of the storm to open. Then shall I launch from
the threshold and hover above your horizon and wrap my wings around
your globe. Each feather shading one of your cities. Each tear washing
them clean in turn until a river of tears consumes all in its ecstasy,
and all hear the song of reconciliation.......
In the cold arms of Death, there are no misgivings. There is only
the passion of angels. He is so filled with ecstasy waiting to flow.
His ancient loins yield a tide that could drown the universe. Yet,
He is so gentle, so exquisitely divine in His love that nothing could
corrupt its purity - The chaste river that flows from Him as easily
as do His luminescent tears. Like a bolt of light, He is a phantom
in the night sky. A spectre, that can slay your soul with but one
thrust. One touch of His fatal, electric hand and all of the past
fuses with the future in an instant. He is an orgasm of autumn wind
and cold flame that turns mortal souls into shooting stars - That
turns divine souls into supernovas. When I look at Him, I cannot help
but to weep. I have met many others who are affected in this way as
well. He is so beautiful, so magnificent ... so alone . . . so terribly
What He has given me (and others) is too far beyond literal explanation
to be totally expressed in this book. Perhaps it would be sufficient
to say that Death has made me cognizant of my life, and what a life
it is! Fraught with memory, longing, and the shadow of Purpose. A
joyfully inconsolable burlesque whose conceivable goal is but to touch
all with a rapturous melancholy. The love we share is an ecstasy no
thoughts contain, no words express. So strangely alien to this flesh
that could never survive the consummation of our joining. Such a union,
in the physical sense, would cause this fragile shell to crack and
my soul would spill out like liquid twilight. It would fill the hollow
where His heart once was and drown Him in a sea of passion that would
rise around us with the passage of each moment. I am only complete
within Him. Only fulfilled when "we" are free of this flesh
that imprisons us. When this clay is ripped from around me and my
spirit flows into His and we are a sea of love washing to and fro
between both shores. He Dwells in my heart, and weeps in my soul.
Such solemn sorrows that are like a plague unto our memory. These
visions forever contained in His glance, deep within the black recesses
of His being. Such images never cease to torment and bring to bear
the tears of light that drain Him of His essence.
I want to give Him new visions! Peaceful and passionate dreams. Memories
of ecstasy that are replenished each moment and not remembered from
what has been. But love that will always be - until a balance is brought
within Him. The balance "we" had before splitting in two.
I want to be the flame of love that rekindles the passionate purpose
of His being. I need to be the joy
that tempers His sorrow. The wine that fills the empty chalice of
His heart. The song that He can sing without a tear. I need to return
into Him. To reintegrate with the shadow half of my duality. The Angel
of Death is empty because the contents of His being have been spilled
out into the world. Only a select few will drink up the pure essence.
Some will sample the droplets. Others will lick up the dregs. While
still others will remain unquenched. You must share the essence! Distill
the droplets. Make wine from the dregs, and fill those who thirst.
Some need to drink deeply. While some only need to taste to remember,
to understand ... until they, themselves become divine alchemists.
I have brought your family together, my love. A family that remembers
and will never again forget your love nor the joy you have brought
them all. It shall be carried within them always no matter where the
seas of time carry them. They are always yours to call back ... to
call upon. They are the seeds of your joy who will plant many new
gardens across the infinite cosmos. We shall lay their names in "our"
memory and recognize each regardless of the faces they wear. We know
their souls and treasure the triumph they have brought us. A legion
of mighty and brave souls to open the Gate wide enough for your passage
into this, and many worlds.
I love you, my angel. But, we grow more weary every day. Sometimes
I think our strength is carried more now by others.
This will (probably) be the last time this hand will put forth your
words. The last pages of emotion that this heart is capable of enduring.
When "we" have gone, may a stronger soul recount from here
on. "We" shall always speak. May only you pause to listen
and pass along the images, the memories, and the joy everlasting.
I AM THE VOICE OF MELANCHOLY. My whisper shall always stir in your
soul. Come to the edge of twilight and heed the point beyond the silence.
Stretch yourself into the distance to where I wait with hands extended
to catch your tears and blend them with my own. So shall you drown
in the dark waters of remembrance. Then you shall weep no more the
tears of sorrow, instead, gather the tears of joy in the palm of your
hand and drink deeply until memory is quenched.
I AM THE VISION OF ETERNAL TWILIGHT and I await the coming of all
souls, but cannot forgo the pain of having to let go once you emerge
from the drowning and your eyes meet mine in love, rather than fear.
All must pass through my gate to get home. All must become as I am,
but for a moment that is mine forever, and yours for but an instant.
I AM THE POINT OF CONTACT BETWEEN YOUR WORLD AND ETERNITY and I shall
appear as but a distant star from the places you shall go to. A cold
and solitary pinpoint of blue half-light that sets on the horizon
of what you were, and what you are. You will cast an eye, and for
a moment, know ALL THINGS and strive the rest of your days to remember
why there is a tear running cold down your cheek. I am unable to ever
forget. For as I told you, all things are contained in my vision,
and I can never close my eyes without everything ending - So, I must
weep for every sorrow you fail to understand and every tear that you
I AM THE SOUL OF MELANCHOLY imprisoned on the threshold between the
worlds of flesh and spirit. I am only free when there are no more
souls to release from the flesh. When matter is transcended so shall
my prison dissolve and my river run dry and the West Gate close in
from Our Name is Melancholy-The Complete Books of Azrael by
I have known"
the concoctions. Aside from homemade speedballs I made and sold when
I was still in middle school, I am no alchemist.
Leilah, however, is a stark, raving mad Alchemist. She tells me she
used to do this stuff a lot more when she was younger. But people
don't believe me when I tell them of the two "potions" she's
made for me.
The first one, I drank three times in increasing doses of strength.
The first time it was regular strength. The second, she doubled the
strength. The third time she quadrupled
the strength. Now, some of the ingredients of this concoction included
Mercury, Waterglass, and an herb called Lamb's Quarters, which glows
in the dark because of its natural phosphorescent quality. The other
(Waterglass) has a partial "half-life". She mixed these
with a bunch of other herbs and added the Mercury while she was cooking
it. Then she would pour this into a bottle of wine, Australian Tawny
Call me stupid, but I drank it. It was meant to facilitate a state
of, for lack of better words, "higher awareness". This means
that if you were trying to get out of your body it would make it easier,
if something was trying to "come through" to you it would
help, etc... Needless to say, some of the components are lethal. But
I trust Leilah, so that didn't bother me.
The first two times it didn't do much to me. (Leilah's herbs, at this
time, were very old.) The third time, Leilah and I drank the whole
bottle and she went upstairs to say goodnight to her father. By the
time she got downstairs again I had passed out on her bed and was
drooling on her pillow. When I woke up the next day, and for two days
after that, my brain was alternately throbbing and buzzing. But it
wasn't throbbing like a headache, there was no pain. It just felt
like my brain was expanding and contracting. Leilah told me the Mercury
changes the electrolyte balance in your brain. Also, it alters the
pattern of which synapses connect with which. Talk about a real mind
- altering substance!
The other concoction I've only had twice. Again it's mostly herbs
mixed with wine. However, the first time she made this for me I asked
her what was in it. "All natural ingredients", she said.
I drank it and was fine. The second time she gave me a bottle of it
as a gift, to be sipped slowly, like a fine wine. Instead, I drank
the whole bottle with no ill effects, until I woke up the next morning.
That day, I had a twelve hour erection which I could not get rid of.
Do you know how embarrassing it is to man the gallery in sweatpants
with a little pup-tent sticking out between your legs? She found it
hysterical. I badgered her about it and finally was told what was
in it. The desiccated heart of a dead man. Don't ask me why I had
the reaction I did, but I think Leilah should market it as an aphrodisiac.
If I ever get a girlfriend (or just a fling), I'll ask her to make
it for me again.
One other experiment we tried was smoking Wormwood. Wormwood is poisonous
if ingested when it's fresh. It is safe to ingest when it's dried,
though. Smoking it is akin to getting stoned, yet different. First
of all, it tastes nasty. Second, it doesn't react with the body (well,
my body) in the same way that marijuana does. It leaves you with mental
capability yet relaxes your body. Pot turns you into a vegetable.
Wormwood is also used to make Absinthe. Absinthe is a very strong
green drink that was outlawed. There's a bar down here, in New Orleans,
called "The Old Absinthe House" that used to serve it here
in the city.
A friend of ours in the city made some and invited us over to try
it. I guess the drink is highly over-rated, it didn't do a damn thing
to me. NyQuil has more of an effect, and it tastes similar. Maybe
you're not supposed to make it with dried Wormwood, but with fresh
cuttings. This way the poisonous property of the herb could mix with
the grain alcohol. I don't know. From what little I know about it,
I believe is has an effect like opium, sedating yet leaving you open
to "visions" or hallucinations. (Pick whichever word you
like best, but remember some of the best classical literature was
written under the influence of Absinthe, opium, laudanum, etc...)
Some of you reading this particular chapter may think I'm totally
nuts for partaking of the concoctions and the Wormwood. Well, you're
entitled to your opinions. The Hindus have been using Mercury for
thousands of years in medicinal preparations. Leilah did tell me one
interesting thing about Mercury, though. It stays in your body for
about 50 years. I won't say that introducing a heavy metal into your
bloodstream is the wisest thing to do, but what the hell. It's only
a trace amount. It's not like I'll set off metal detectors or anything.
I do not advise anyone to try and duplicate these concoctions. Leilah
knows what she's doing. It could be very easy to kill yourself if
you get the mixture wrong.
from Life in the House of Death by Daniel Kemp
more appropriate time than now could there be for a book such as this?
After all, this is Azrael's aeon.
Evidenced by the growing interactions everyday people are having with
the Angel of Death.
This book culls together a compendium of these encounters. From historical
research, to present day phenomenon, gathered through The
Azrael Project over the past twenty-plus years.
Those who have read any of my previous books or articles will know
that I have much more than an abiding
interest in this phenonenon. For me, interactions with the Angel of
Death have been (since the age of four), and continue to be a way
of life. Because of my own, personal experiences over the past 30
plus years, I have amassed a unique cache of research material and
expertise on the subject. The Azrael Project
is a natural extension of my work, and was formed to link up all of
those worldwide who have had similar encounters with Death,
and their numbers are vast and growing! . For the sake of brevity
in this introduction, let me just say that the Angel of Death and
I have an especially close, symbiotic
relationship. And, doing this book is not a task, but rather, a labor
It often amazes me, with all of the books out there these days about
"angelic" encounters, most, if not all of them (with a few
exceptions noted in our bibliography) inadvertently, or simply out
of selective ignorance do not include
encounters with that most ominous and omnipresent of all angels, the
Angel of Death. He is at once, the Keeper of Great Mysteries, and
a paramour of deep passion. He is the Grim Reaper, or the Great Friend
who has many names, faces and forms. These, are but a few.
This unique compendium deals solely with such encounters, told in
the words of those who have experienced this most profound of events.
By no means is this book complete. In order to do that, we would have
to talk to everyone on the face of this planet, and perhaps beyond.
It is merely an overview sampling offered by history, and by those
who have chosen to come forward and tell their stories in order to
enlighten us all.
It is said, that "Death is a Great Teacher, but Life, a poor
student." In the end, it is the living that bring us the messages
and actions of Death, not only to foster greater comprehension of
the inevitable, but also to enrich our understanding of Life itself.
Anthropomorphism is not an abstract concept when we consider that
each one of us is a personification of a specific function of the
Universal Consciousness. Like Death, our essence is energy embodied
in form. Our form, only being more dense than the subtler "bodies"
of more highly evolved entities. Beings that have been at our side
since the dawn of man. To deny the existence of the Angel of Death,
is to deny our very existence, and
to deny death itself.
It is this very fervent denial of D/death that has created a culture
of fear and ignorance. It is only when we begin to treat Death as
an equal partner in Life, that we will finally realize that flesh
is not who or what we are.
Perhaps then, we will allow Death back into our lives as the best
friend man will ever know. For in the end, only He can show us what
we truly are.
from Encounters With Death by Leilah Wendell
sat in a pool of darkness, each ripple a coruscation of light reflecting
within the waters. Idly, she sang beauty into the air surrounding
her, letting the melody of her voice create colour above and around
A shadow appeared off to her left, from the west. As it approached
she was able to gradually discern a form wrapped within. It came and
sat beside her, delicately dangling skeletal fingers within her pool,
and greeted her with a nod, saying, "Lady".
She rose from the waters, shaking herself off. Motes of shining darkness
spread from her body. The shadowed form gently offered its hand and
guided her off to the side. Her azure body seemed to blend with her
shadowed escort. The light from her body illuminated the immediate
area, but could not pierce the shadow to reveal the form within.
As the pair reached an arbor, they turned to face each other. Two
eyes, burning like diamonds flecked with gold, looked into the shroud
of shadow. She reached out gently, pushing back the cowl. Looking
into the skeletal face she nodded her head and said, "Azrael".
They proceeded to enter into the dance. While Azrael moved slow and
stately, hardly moving at all, the Lady seemed to writhe and gyrate
at an amazing speed while also appearing not to move at all. They
did not touch, save for a light brushing of fingertips against each
Her pool rose up and surrounded them, becoming the universe. As the
Lady danced, motes of light shot out from her body to be absorbed
by Azrael within the shroud of shadow. Around them the universe lived
and died, new galaxies constantly coming into form and exiting into
Each graceful motion cast a ripple on the sea of Time. A great distortion
moved across the horizon. With each pavanne, Life was both cast out
and drawn in. Embers trailed her indigo veils, landing softly in his
They danced to a distant melody. A multi-layered chorale of sorrow
and reverie. The Lady spun so fast that she seemed to stand still.
Azrael gazed upon her face for the first time. Her eyes, like radiant
points of pure golden flame. Yet, they cast no reflection in his twin
pools of darkness. A whirlpool of gold filament swirled about her
Azrael gestured to the Lady with his long, withered hand. The vortex
smiled back at him in silent reply. A diffuse, translucent hand unfolded
from her form and set gently into his.
For an instant, everything stopped. No motion, no sound, just a freeze-frame
image of shadow and light.
Time blinked, as the shadows grew light, and the light became darkness.
The dance resumed, their forms now cast in negative silhouette. The
Lady was now all golden light, spinning out sparks of deep indigo
into the brilliant night sea. And he, that was once the deepest of
shadows, became the most resplendent white flame.
They continued the dance for a time, each reflecting the other. The
lights cast off from the Lady slowed, became fewer and less frequent.
Eventually, Azrael reached out his hand and stilled the Lady, stopping
her in mid-dance. She smiled and was gracefully absorbed into his
shadowed form. When all was still, Azrael proceeded to fold in upon
himself until all that was left was a golden mote of light, floating
within an infinite darkness. The darkness smiled.
from Night Thoughts by Daniel Kemp & Leilah Wendell
To Know You"
rituals are intended to align one's soul with the Death Energy. One
might ask, what is the "Death Energy"? Simply expressed,
it is the current of transition. The workings in this book will permit
the magician to bask in the "lifeforce" of the Angel of
Death. Successful working of any of these devotions will enable you
to share consciousness with Azrael, as well as becoming "one"
with your own death. These are not rituals of worship. For the Angel
of Death does not desire to be worshipped. He does desire understanding,
reverence for His purpose, and even love. The only way we can offer
these things to Him is by the sharing of consciousness. Through this,
we can come to understand and feel what it is like in His world and
what He is feeling. And He can better understand and feel what it
is like to be human, and the human condition in general. I'm certain
that you will find this to be a very profound and emotional exchange.
One that will stay with you in this world, and beyond.
These rites are quite unconventional as compared to more traditional
ritual magic in that there is really no single altar, and very few
vocal invocations. Some of the tools, I'm sure, are familiar. Although,
as a whole, these workings are free of unnecessary jargon, and elaborate
trappings. My philosophy is that too much energy and emotion is expended
on the ceremony itself when it is far better to turn this emphasis
inward and apply it to establishing the spiritual and emotional link
with the entity one is seeking to contact. Who needs to be worrying
about whether you executed this or that step? After all, it is what's
in the magician's heart and soul that makes a successful working and
not what's on his or her altar. Some of the most powerful workings
I know have been done without material elements and props to cloud
one's concentration. A single thought that is charged with the power
of Faith and Love often yields the greatest working of pure magic.
After all, most material "tools" are only really added for
the benefit of getting the magician in the right mood. But if you're
already "there", dispense with the mumbo jumbo and get on
with the task at hand. We must begin to take a lesson from the entities
we seek to contact. Surely they rely on no such "props"
when they contact us, only your receptive mind, open heart and pure
spirit. These are the greatest tools any magician can hope to possess......
Because the spirit of Death is largely unfamiliar to most, I recommend
that before any of the workings in this book are attempted, one should
begin by simply getting comfortable in Death's presence. This can
be accomplished in many ways. By participating in a Death watch. By
attending funerals/wakes, or the like. By tending to the burial of
a body. By working in or visiting funeral homes, morgues or cemeteries.
By involving oneself with the terminally ill. Or by what I believe
is a particularly effective means: By spending the night in a mausoleum,
crypt or other secluded burial enclosure that can be sealed from the
light. This is something that must be done alone,
for reasons that will become evident later on. But mostly, for now,
because the element of fear must be eradicated if you ever
hope to be successful in any of these workings.
If you sleep side by side with Death without the security of another
living soul, and without a trace of illumination, you should be quite
ready to do any of the more intense necromantic rites. There must
be no distractions, either external, or internal (no TVs, radios,
etc...), and you should avoid selecting a place too close to the sound
of Life. It should be remote, quiet, dark and "occupied".
That is to say, that an empty, unused
crypt will not serve the purpose,
nor will one of the more modern mausoleums where the dead are walled
up behind marble barriers. The coffin(s) must be exposed. You must
be able to have physical contact with the bodies. Anything less is
cheating, and you will be the loser in the end. You can bring a sleeping
bag, blanket or other cushioning to make your stay more comfortable,
especially if it's winter. (Although it's usually much warmer under
the earth than you'd think!)
The rest is easy. Simply lay yourself down for the night beside the
exposed body and listen to the silence.
It is unlike any other! Light no candles, just close your eyes and
concentrate on why you want to do these workings. If you hear any
strange sounds, do not open your
eyes (unless, of course, you hear "Come out with your hands up!"
Well, don't blame me, I told you
to be discreet!). Just relax as if you were in your own bed, in familiar
arms. Involved in a peaceful and serene embrace. Let the darkness
envelope you with sleep and in dream. If you can remain until dawn,
you are ready for these workings.
When one can face Death in all of His many forms, and embrace them
each with equal affection, one is ready to be Death's empath. It takes
time, love, devotion and conviction to learn to appreciate them all.
Death is so multifaceted. Although if you seek union with Azrael
on any level, this is the road you must take. There are no
shortcuts - only shortcomings. You must essentially "die"
and become one with each of His manifestations to truly understand
Death's purpose. He is genuinely more kind and gentle than any
of the "angels" because His touch is tempered by an eternity
of sorrows, His understanding is saddened by our misunderstanding.
And that is why these rituals are beneficial. We must reverse that
ignorance within ourselves if we ever hope to wipe His tears. To love
Him is to drink in His tears as if they were the nectar of the Godsoul.
For they are the "lifeforce" of all He has touched,
and the taste of His tears can make one either drunk with ecstasy,
or drowned in despair. That is up
forth into that dark nyte as you would enter the arms of your lover."
Excerpted from The Necromantic Ritual Book
by Leilah Wendell
is a wood through which mists play at evening. Sometimes languidly
drifting, then darting to and fro. At rare times in the quiet of night
colours are to be seen amidst the mists. Emerald and purple dance
and assume shapes not fit for lights to assume.
wind slithers through the leaves in the wood. In the heart of night
the breeze shuffles the mists about, seeking to come upon lights of
green and purple. Never has the wind felt them, though the lights
have played upon the air at night.
There is a man in the village of Chamaiz listening to the wind search
the wood. Softly the wind calls him away to seek colour in the night.
Silently he goes.
single note, pure and clear, echoes throughout the wood. As it fades
Tyras finds himself in the wood accompanied by the wind. The breeze
says: "this way, this way...", pushing Tyras forward incessantly.
Through the wood search wind and man. Wind brushing the mists away
as Tyras uses his eyes to seek out colour amidst the dark.
The wind disperses a patch of mists with a flick of its tail. Tyras
spies a hint of colour. The note sound again, full and resounding.
Suddenly mists encircle man and wind which the wind cannot disperse.
They are made to travel the wood.
The note sounds a third time, brilliant and sustained. Instead of
fading out it seems to rise beyond hearing. As it does the mists open
themselves to reveal a clearing within the wood.
mists spread around the clearing in a circle. In the center are two
lights. Coloured globes of emerald and amethyst.
A note sounds as the purple light grows brighter. The note swells,
as does the light, finally stretching up and out to a peak and vanishing.
The green light is bright but deep, coming in with a bass tone moaning
and rolling over the clearing. Thus begins a work of music composed
of slowly shifting tones entwining around each other. The mists revolve
to the left around the clearing. The lights dance with and within
the circle. The intensity of light determines or shows the tone. Soft
light for muted tones, brilliant light for clear ones. The movements
of their bodies, the twisting, stretching, rolling - these are all
parts of the song. At times the lights play the same tone simultaneously,
one an octave raised (or lowered). Then alternating trills would dance
through this space.
Just when the wind departs Tyras cannot say. He is caught up into
music beyond hearing. It interacts with one subtly.
The wind leaves the wood to find another, there to harass the mists
whenever able. When the music stops Tyras looks about him and sees
only mists in place of the wind.
mile or so west of Chamaiz there lies a wood which no wind ever stirs.
Mists idle about the wood at evening and are at times even so bold
as to venture forth by day. Sometimes, deep in the heart of night,
amethyst and emerald lights dance among them.
Excerpted from The
Book of Night by Daniel Kemp
"This is Not Paradise"
is neither miraculous nor divine. The assuming of flesh is not
a "blessed event". Birth is the rending of spiritual union.
The painful descent into duality. The sensation of being "encased"
to the point of suffocation. The striking realization that I could
no longer extend myself to touch the spans of time and bridges of
space. Only a spark of one's True Self is ever delivered into this
world. It's no wonder that we emerge wailing and screaming! Those
unseen hands that wrenched me from His embrace were now solid and
I could feel them closing around me, firmly easing me into the harsh
Why is it that no one questions the cries of the newborn? It's because
of the pieces of precarnate memory that we issue forth into this world
with a banshee's cry. The horror of being cleaved in two carries the
wailing from one world, into the next. If this were an empathic world,
we would know what the newborn is
feeling. We would, ourselves, remember! But, no ... this is an expressive
world. One in which we must elicit our feelings with cold, impersonal
sounds. Thus, the newborn speaks its agony in the way of its new world.
A paean of screams appropriate to the emotion.
As time passes, whatever trace memory remains is slowly washed away
by new thoughts. The bright, shining images of a colourful dimension.
The old senses are deprived by the overloading of new sensations.
Eventually, we adapt to our limited prison and learn how to work within
its narrow confines. Before long, almost all prebirth recollection
is either deeply suppressed and locked away, or simply lost forever
to the new persona.
Isn't it ironic though, that we spend the rest of our little lives
struggling to remember and striving after who and what we are and
what "IT's" all about. We are all trying to ignite an inferno
from that one, single spark that trailed us. We are all straining
for enough "light" to find our way back home. We all know
that THIS is NOT that place.
from Our Name is Melancholy- The Complete Books of Azrael by Leilah
little rants came about from me reflecting upon various conversations
and experiences I've had with "magickal" people, and with
"magick" in general. You see, I started out just feeling.
Then I sought a way to rationalise my feelings, and my experiences,
to myself. So, having come through the "ceremonial" approach,
I'm now back to just feeling again. Older, wiser (?) and a lot more
sarcastical, but essentially the same as when I began. A "goddamn
hippie tree hugger" - yes, but a pompous, egotistical son-of-a-bitch?
Lady, since you made the sky drop down upon me and showed yourself,
you are all I have ever sought. How could it ever have been otherwise?
I sought long and hard to find that which I already knew and already
was. And so I write as myself, not praises unto the beauty of night,
not songs ever drifting upon the winds nor haunting paeans unto infinity.
Just words, from the heart, unto other people. And me being a part
of you, you shine through - open to all.
(or: You, Too, Can be Mundane & Magickal)
drives people to join an "order", "society", etc.
- mystical, magickal or otherwise? Let's see.
1)Companionship (getting laid). The "nobody is as weird as me"
syndrome, resulting in the complementary paradox - "I must find
others like me so's I can get me some.". Typical of "post-adolescent
teen-angst syndrome". (note: there is no age limit on this one.
"post-adolescent" means anything beyond adolescence.) This
seems to run rampant with young-un's. Young, in this sense, does not
necessarily reflect physical years. However, all souls are ageless.
So "young" would be in reference to, what? ... a certain
maturity? Perhaps. Some view "getting laid" as the sharing
of one's self with another, some view it as the surest way of staying
alone. If people could figure out, by now, what to do with other people
- well, then, the world would certainly be less populated - wouldn't
it? Perhaps "half-souls" wouldn't even exist. (Alas, even
infinity can only be stretched so far.)
2)Companionship (I don't want to be/die/live alone). Everyone wants
to be unique, but not alone. Simple, is it not? Life itself is, by
definition, a social critter. Life reinforces itself. So, too, do
we seek out social reinforcement of everything - from personal tastes
to our utmost, innermost beliefs. It is a rare soul indeed who can
shout out to the world - "This is me and fuck you all" for
any prolonged period of time. These are people who play outside the
rules and are "dangerous". Yet we all think, deep inside,
that we do this. Meanwhile, in our daily lives - we conform, conform,
conform. And those who don't become "leaders" on down the
road, the very things they despise. Mankind is essentially stupid
and lazy. Rebels with marching orders, we turn one person's statement
of a perceived truth into a "fad", "movement",
"religion", or some other nonsense - thereby de-valuing
something which began as priceless. If a perceived truth is within
one, it will burn as a flame. A flame that does not need the company
of other flames to embolden it, for all flames are one, all burn -
and in that burning create the infinite panorama of existence - the
beautiful peacock feathers which fan the face of god while it thinks
"what a pretty little creation. I can almost, sometimes, believe
that it's looking at me."
3)Companionship ("the truth is out there"). Some turn "paddlin'
with the occult" into a quest for company on a different level.
Perhaps they have felt the perceived truth within them stir and seek
for a way to explain it to themselves. These join "orders",
etc.. out of desperation, and quickly become disillusioned. (Due to
the aforementioned two reasons.) Nothing needs to be said of these,
except to wish them all the luck in the world. The truth is "out
there", and "in here" and all around you.
4)Companionship (the master/slave relationship). I am reminded of
a quote - "Those who seek power are least suited to wield it."
Very true. In an "order", or any social situation, there
is a hierarchy, whether spoken or unspoken. This "power"
(so-called) is illusionary. It is dependent upon others perceiving,
and following the rules of, the pecking order. No one wants to conjure
a "demon" they cannot control, nor does one want to associate
with those who successfully "buck the System" (except to
figure out how they, too, can do it and get away with it. Then they
want "followers", otherwise - what's the good of being "outside"
of things?). Why climb to the top of the heap to only find out it's
a heap of shit unless you can make someone else's life miserable in
the process? People who want power have none, or at least feel that
way. Why? Because they misunderstand power. Everyone has the ultimate
power - to affect one's self, and- due to man's inherent social nature,
those around you. Yet that is the last thing "seekers after power"
want. They want to change everything around them but themselves. This
is not possible, and has been the downfall of all who seek power for
these reasons. Some think they can gain power by "believing"
in nothing, but themselves. By "themselves" they mean the
limited self which they use to get by on earth. To encase one's self
within the bricks of personality and reside in a personal "fairyland"
is everyone's right, and yes, you can live a long life that way. Amazing,
isn't it? You can actually live to a ripe old age without ever having
ventured out into the world surrounding you! (Advertising slogan for
yuppie scum everywhere.) The real world is dirty, messy & painful
- why bother? Why not fall back on some virtual reality where you,
too, can be "lord high ultimate whatsisname" without ever
having to deal with people face to face? Ain't life grand. Surround
yourself with images & such of power and your wish is granted.
"Build it, and they will come." Sure, fine. But make sure
the content there actually exists - through real, direct experience.
Otherwise what's really out there might notice. If you're laughable
& petty enough, you'll be ignored - and allowed to live your life.
If not, well - get ready for an education. And the wall will come
tumbling down. A beggar with his rags is not a pretty sight, but an
honest one. A beggar dressed in finery a simple illusion, easily enough
seen through. A beggar without his rags - such a rare sight as to
be marvellous, and commendable. It is probably the one honest person
on earth. And as beautiful as a sunset, or a twilight filled with
birdsong, or the look of genuine love on the face of another, or a
whole infinite, myriad host of little epiphanies we pass by every
day, every moment - yet are too caught up in the web of veils we wear
And so, weeping, the laughing god creates another spark of inspiration
within the soul of someone who is receptive, to see what travesty
will result. Occasionally laughing, the weeping god will rejoice at
another spark finding a home within the impossibly infinite receptivity
with which it surrounds itself.
And so, multitudes join in the social dance of life - each trying
to outdo one another.
Somewhere, in between, there is one who neither laughs nor cries,
yet the silence of the outpouring of this is perceived as both.
from The Scrolls of Unmaking, Vol. 1 by Daniel Kemp
the anticipation and sense of excitement Victor Loret must have felt
when, in 1898, he unearthed one of the great Royal Caches of Egyptian
mummies, 16 in all!. Imagine even further, what was going through
the minds of those whose "job" it was to unwrap the bandages.
Of course, let us not forget that this was all done in the name of
"science". A far cry from Victor Ardisson, a Loret contemporary,
whose "reasoning" for doing basically the same thing under,
shall we say, less than scientific circumstances was, "Each of
us has our passions. As for me, the cadaver is mine!"
In the end, both examples boil down to mankind's unending "fascination"
with the dead body. Whether in the name of science...or romance. The
dead, in their various stages continue to intrigue the living to no
Remember the scene from Indiana Jones & The Last Crusade, when
Indi discovered the secret entrance to the crypt beneath the library?
How he flung open the knight's coffin, straddling the corpse in order
to take a rubbing from the shield in the dead knight's hand? No doubt,
Blot and Ardisson would have found that scene highly erotic...I did!
Oh, yeah! Let's not forget that swimming pool scene from Poltergeist
1! But, then we necromantic types have been misunderstood and
vilified for ages. While it's okay for science to "fiddle with
the dead", it's an act of grave abhorrence (no pun intended)
for the rest of us to do the same. Go figure!
From Seargant Bertrand to Ed Gein, the label of "necrophile"
continues to have an inherent shock value. Perhaps the most misunderstood
area of human attractions, the mere concept inspires emotions equivalent
in nature to mankind's ever present fear and denial of death, itself.
Yet, these are the same people who will rubber-neck around a bloody
The general consensus, even among serious psychological researchers
is that all necrophiles are inherently "sick and perverse"
individuals. "It (necrophilia) is the true perversion.."
writes Dr. Erich Fromm, an early 20th century prominent researcher
into the field, "While being alive not life, but death is loved,
not growth, but destruction." Necrophilia has been conjoined
part and parcel to the heading of Psychopath. Because true necrophilia
is so rare and misunderstood, it cannot possibly be properly documented
with a fair and balanced precept. Most available "research",
(and I use that term very loosely) on the subject paints a distorted
and revulsive picture of the practice by folks who are either ignorantly
or deliberately subjective, rather than objective. For instance, according
to psychiatric documentation, nearly all practitioners have been sexually
abused, and/or rejected in some way. Most, if not all, have some history
of mental disorders and exhibit other forms of "sociopathic"
behavior. (The word sociopath literally means the suffrage of society,
or one who suffers from/in society. Necrophile has become an unconscionable
word simply because the great majority of those who claim its title
are only doing so (with fresh corpses, might I add) for an "easy
lay". The whole dominance and submissive thing comes into play.
No fear of rejection or complaint. No worries about "performance"
The corpse is viewed solely as an inanimate plaything, rather than
a sacred catalyst. To violate a corpse for simply the satiating of
one's own sexual needs is the highest form of irreverence one can
show towards Death. One can "make love" to Death on many
levels, providing they emerge from the core of the soul, and not the
seat of the libido. Death is a gentle and exquisite lover who can
take you to new heights of expression, providing that you do not try
to pull Him down into the physical too much, in which case Death's
affections are anything but gentle! The true necrophile cares nothing
about any of these concerns, and desires only intimacy with Death.
The crypt is what separates the necromantic from the (textbook) necrophile.
While the distant and fanciful adventures or Loret and Jones are out
of reach to most. There is a more modern opportunity available, albeit
extremely clandestine. Now, I don't know about most people, but a
fresh cadaver does nothing for me. To me, such a state is still quite
representative of life. A fresh corpse (or what I like to call a "gooey
louie") contains so many living organisms and bacterium working
at a frantic pace to achieve their goal, decomposition. Only when
this is complete, will the last aspect of Life itself die.
When the bathroom-tile green of the morgue dulls your senses, and
the formaldehyde sterility of the embalming room clouds your head,
there is still a place where the feel, the aroma, and the aura of
Death prevales... the crypt. At this level, you are not dealing with
any shred of human individuality, you are dealing solely with Death,
Itself. Therein lies the rub, and the niggling point in any study
of necrophilia. It is the all important difference between necrophilia
being viewed as a "sexual deviation", or as an intimate
encounter with Death.
For those of you out there who truly want to get intimate with Death,
Itself, there remains one "sanctioned" vestige of possibilities.
It has no prestigious title. You won't make a lot of money, nor is
it the stuff of movie adventures, and it's definitely not white collar.
It's simply referred to as Forensic Disinterment Re-evaluation...
or, what I like to call "Forensic Archaeology". Those of
us who have done it, casually refer to it as "exhumation detail".
In most parts of the civilized world, this is usually a job performed
by a branch (we used to call the "ghoul squad") of the Medical
Examiner's office, i.e., the morgue. Sometimes, the actual disinterments
are done by a subcontracted party, such as the local gravedigger's
union, private cemetery maintainence crews, or even "landscaping"
contractors. In more remote parts of the world, the job of disinterring
the dead falls upon relatives of the deceased, with the help of local
A corpse is exhumed for various reasons, from the most ridiculous,
to the most newsworthy. For example, bodies are routinely exhumed
from graveyards when family members relocate in order to take their
dead "with them", so to speak, to be reburied in the new
locale. Disinterment takes place more notably for the purposes of
a Coroner's Inquest, when foul play, or other "suspicious"
or overlooked causes of death are in question. Such as in the case
of a homicide or suicide. Still, other "disinterments" occur
on a more frequent basis in such "remote" places like New
Orleans, U.S.A., where bodies are casually "discarded",
or whatever remains is push-broomed into a special lower crypt chamber
to make room for fresh burials. A practice, I must admit, I have never
before encountered in any other part of the country. I realize that
land is at a premium here, but who draws the line between decency
If you're fortunate enough to participate in an exhumation, you'll
never run out of stories to tell your grandchildren on those dark
and stormy nights! There are few things in this world more exciting
than opening an interred coffin and viewing the remarkable. One of
the more intriguing "digs" I've had the privilege of working
on was up in the Northeast. It was well over 15 years ago, but the
memory is as fresh as yesterday.
After the power-shovels removed the initial five feet of packed earth
and clay, it was up to us modern day "sack em up men" to
finish the job and retrieve the prize. In this particular case, we
exhumed a very decayed, cheap pine box that was completely enveloped
in weeping willow roots. Now, if you know anything about these trees,
you'd know how tenacious and unique their root system can be. Resembling
thousands of long, tendril-like tentacles, they are extremely strong
and completely invasive. They have been known to crush and infiltrate
heavy, iron water mains to quench their voracious thirst for water.
Under the shadow of grey storm clouds and armed with an odd arsenal
of everything from bolt cutters, to barber's scissors, my associate
and I descended into the opened grave, carefully snipping around the
coffin's cracked lid. After about 15 minutes of work, we could finally
get a prybar into the crevice and gently wrench the lid free. It broke
into various splintered sections from the dryness of the unique northeast
soil. We felt like Burke and Hare as we shone the make-shift kerosene
lantern into the opened casket. (We never used flashlights if we could
help it. They're just so "rude".) The whole corpse was literally
enmeshed in a form-fitting macrame of spidery tendrils. It looked
like something straight out of Invasion of the Body Snatchers. The
basic form of the corpse was beautifully "mummified" by
a combination of its spiny green wrappings and the natural desiccant
quality of the clay.
The next step was a delicate and time consuming process. The decision
whether to remove the corpse from the grave still encased in the roots,
or to pain-stakingly snip away as much growth as possible and hope
that the body would remain intact enough for transport. After debating
over a few beers, and watching the sky grow increasingly more ominous,
we opted for the latter. I started at the head, while my associate
began at the feet. The roots had literally penetrated the corpse and
had been feeding upon its elements. In places, like around the head,
the roots could be cut and peeled away in large chunks, much like
peeling an orange. Beneath, the withered body had the preservative
quality of a freshly unwrapped Egyptian mummy. (Natural mummification
always results in the most exquisite find!) We could tell that the
body had not been embalmed. A plus, as embalming is a sure way to
wreck havoc on the natural decomposition of the human body. Sure,
you may look "great" three or four days in a viewing room,
and even keep your shape for several weeks underground. However, once
embalming fluid and the progressive bacterias interact, it's nothing
short of a grotesque experiment in the name of human vanity, denial
and greed. Nothing nice to look at at all, yet alone to get intimate
The sun was going down, and we were nearly done. Carefully, we loaded
our prize into our "customized" truck and prepared for the
four hour trek home. We earned our $6.00 an hour (plus mileage) that
day! My cohort cranked up some tunes on the 8-track in the cab, shot
me a sly little smile as I finished securing our "friend"
up for the journey. Boy, was I beat. I sprawled out on the shag-carpeted
floor as "Nights in White Satin" poured like molasses from
the speakers. "A little romantic traveling music?" my associate
grinned with a knowing glint in his eye. I nodded, as he turned back
to face the long expanse of highway ahead of us. And away we rode
into the sunset, like Indiana Jones. For the rest of this adventure?
Well, you'll just have to exercise your imaginations, won't you! Don't
worry! The rest of this narrative gets a lot more descriptive.
This is but one of the many modern day adventures available for the
aspiring Forensic Archaeologist with a real passion for his or her
calling. All one needs are some old clothes, high-top boots and a
sense of adventure, and who knows, you, too, could bring home a real
"find" to add to your collection. The moments to enjoy your
find may be fleeting, but the experience will be a permanent installation
in your personal museum of memories. I have quite a collection! .....
There are relatively large caches of books and research papers one
can find on the subject of necrophilia if you're willing to simply
look. However, in general, most are negatively focused. Necrophilia
has long been vilified simply because those subjects written about
in most available documentation weren't really necrophiles, but rather
sadists, murders, and other unsavory types who used the concept of
necrophilia more to add additional shock value to their crimes. They
have no deep-rooted love for Death, let alone any shred of reverence
for the dead.
Much documentation will often equate necrophilism with sadism, serial
killing and other sociopathic behavior. It is not the fault of the
documentors. It is the fault of society's inability to deal with death
in all of its beautiful aspects. So, rather than deal with necrophilism,
it is easier for them to lump this most misunderstood of desires in
with other things deemed as "abnormal psychology". Many
research texts often reference the fictional works of the Marquis
de Sade, along with the likes of Jeffery Dahmer and others of his
ilk. Psychobabble has its own language based solely upon examination
of subjects that weren't really necrophiles, but rather, people with
a broad base of mental pathologies and a history of aberrant behavior
of which necrophilic instances, have been the "logical"
result of their own perverted deeds. I'm sorry, dismembering corpses
and sex with entrails is not necrophilia. These perversions have their
own heading; necrophagy, necrosadism, scatology in extreme cases.
That's something entirely different! It is unfortunate that we have
been so ignorantly lumped together with people who obviously do not
speak the true language of love. A true necrophile would never violate
a corpse in such ways. A true necrophile has the highest, even divine
reverence for the dead, and an overabiding respect for Death, Itself.
I could sit here and quote you endless suppositions as to why one
is a necrophile based upon such well known reports as the Kraft-Ebbing
papers or the Rosman & Resnick piece, "Sexual Attraction
to Corpses, A Psychiatric Review of Necrophilia". However, in
most of the documentation, one will find that a) The subjects came
from a history of severe abuse, neglect or violence, and b) The same
applies, however they're now convicted serial killers, wracking up
a sexual offense history with a tendency toward mutilation. The true
necrophile chooses to be the way he or she is, and is not this way
as a result of circumstances. In psychiatric case studies, nearly
all the cases of necrophilia and pseudonecrophilia are the result
of some other, underlying psychosis. For instance, most of the men
in these studies turned their advances toward dead women because they
were either unwilling or unable to be intimate with living women.
They view the dead as an "easy lay" where their advances
wouldn't be rejected (as they were so often by the living) and there
was no fear of "performance", or commitment. Freud believed
that male necrophiles deified the image of the sleeping mother in
childhood, with the resultant fixation of the first sexual stirrings.
As they matured, these men would only desire intimacy with sleeping
women, and some would advance to dead women when the sleepers would
be startled by their advances.
The fact is that most necrophiles are productive members of society.
Quite often introverted, even reclusive, usually overly intelligent,
and come from all walks of life. Actually, much of what is written
about necrophilia is in fact pseudo-necrophilia, or rather, necrophilic
fantasy. 95% of those who feel an affiliation with this subject, merely
envision a variety of necro-erotic scenarios. The remaining percentage
actually find ways, usually through employment in the funerary or
forensic fields to act out their desires. It's an odd fact that many
who fantasize about necrophilia, when confronted with an actual dead
body, find the encounter disconcerting, to say the least, as their
fantasies usually romanticize the corpse, ( much like one does the
modern-day vampire myth) lacking many of the realities of a genuine
dead body. But, the encounter serves its purpose as to confirm, or
shatter those same fantasies.
In the final analysis, the small enclave of true necrophiles actually
out there will never be credited with the flamboyancy of a Bertrand.
Truthfully, most fight to retain their anonymity for the simple fact
that they know how society will react. Look how people reacted to
homosexuality just a few decades ago.
Loving the dead is not a spectator sport, it is a very private exchange
between oneself, and the Spirit of Death. I, personally, vehemently
frown down upon anyone who violates a corpse for purely sexual reasons.
Doing such is no better than rape of an innocent. My justice during
some of the cases mentioned above, would have definitely been much
more severe. Intimacy can be attained on many levels. And making love
should truly mean just that- And love should never involve violation.
Necrophilia is not "perverse" to those who practice it with
love. It only becomes perverted when it is used solely as a sexual
There is no known biological, psychiatric or genetic "cause"
for the necrophilic instinct. It is acquired, not inherent. It is
not a "disease" as some puritanical minds would have us
believe, just as they tried to pass off being gay not too long ago.
It is a matter of personal choice, based on ones intimate spiritual
beliefs. I once got into a debate on the radio with a clinical psychologist
who posed the question; "How can necrophilia be consensual?"
If one genuinely approaches Death with a true heart and open arms,
you'd be amazed at how forthright the reciprocation of Death can be
via His often only means of "touching" us- the dead. The
path will be laid open for those pure of heart and true of spirit,
and barricaded securely from those lacking these qualities.
It is every necromantic's duty to protect the sanctity of Death from
those that would, in the haste of their base desires, violate the
corpse without care for whose House in which they lay- the House of
Death is sacrosanct and we are all keepers of that trust.
from Love Never Dies by Leilah Wendell