#Spirit Medium

[heavenlee773]

A drawing I made of Toritsuka 😋😋

(I saw a post saying that he’s literally just Mineta from MHA if he was attractive and I can’t stop thinking about it☹️)

Anyways I love him.

-🤍

[bob-artist]

My new free webcomic INTO THE SMOKE launches in 2 weeks!!!

[shihlun]

Tom Ferentz

- Taiwan

1985

[niofo]

The Flame Eternal by Sylvia Feketekuty

not only i just wanted to share how adorable emmrich is (again), but yk, this bit got me thinking. could this be the continuation of that spirit medium idea they started and then subsequently dropped in asunder? would it be that emmrich is so good with necromancy and has spirit friends (manfred, audric) bcos he is a spirit medium? is he free thursday night to medium my spirit, my spirit really needs mediuming, pls call me

[harajuno]

The Fey family can never catch a break ( right belongs to @codemonki )

[laughroditee]

Your Ghost | Part 2 - XIII Death

Part 1 is here

CW: this story takes place after Soap's death and contains supernatural elements, tarot, mentions of death and blood

Summary: Evangeline reluctantly goes to talk to Simon about Johnny at Johnny's urging.

Mood Music:

The ghost of John MacTavish looked down at me with a serious expression.  “I did.  I need yer help, Evangeline.  Yer the only one who can do it.”

“No,” I said.

He blinked. “‘No?’”

“No,” I repeated, my eyes a little too wide. 

“Ye haven’t even heard what I want from ye.”  John looked annoyed, his brows drawing down in a frown that lined his face. It made him look maybe just a little bit intimidating.  Having issues with displeasing someone, who me?

“Don’t want to.  Can’t.”  I shook my head for extra emphasis as if I needed it.  “Mm-mm.”

“Are ye always so childish?” 

Oof, right in the feelings.  “You want me to talk to someone, don’t you?” I accused, my finger jabbing the air at him.  

“How—?”

“Knight of Swords.  Air.  Communication,” I explained as if this were common knowledge and a perfectly logical conclusion to reach.  “You just have that very chatty air about you, and I dunno, man, I’m not about that life.  I have social anxiety.  I don’t play well with strangers because I’m too busy having a heart attack around them.  It’s just not a strength that I have.”

John looked momentarily apologetic before despair swallowed the expression.  This gave me pause.  Fuck me and my Catholic guilt.  “Fine!  Okay, alright, I’ll hear you out, but I can’t promise you anything.”  I sat down on the edge of the bed, just trying to quell the anxious jitters making my fingers shake, The Knight of Swords card dancing slightly in my grasp.  I placed it back with the other two in the reading and looked up at my ghostly kinsman.

John’s examining gaze was concerned as he stood across from me.  “Ye alright, lass?”

Reminding myself to take a deep breath, I simply nodded.

A single confirmation nod from John was all he gave before launching into his story.  “I was a soldier in life.  SAS.  British special forces.  We were on a mission a few months ago, chasin’ a Russian terrorist in the London tunnels.  Makarov.”  His eyes blazed as the memories washed through him, spitting his enemy’s name as if it were poison.  “We had ‘im too.  But the fucker was slippery.  My captain and I got shot while we were diffusin’ a bomb.”  John’s hand went to his shoulder as if to soothe the phantom wound.  “Makarov was about to finish ‘im off – my captain, I mean – but I managed to get up and clap the bastard, only… I ended up gettin’ shot in the head.  Killed instantly.  Then Makarov buggered off.”

I listened intently to John’s story, my heart squeezing in my chest for him.  “I’m so sorry, John.  I… don’t know what else to say.  You were really brave.”

He smirked.  “A lot of good it did me.  Still, Captain Price is alive, and I dunnae regret that.”  His eyes seemed focused on something far away, and I waited for him to continue.

When he didn’t, I had to prompt him.  “John?  What is it that you want from me?”

His eyes refocused on me, his mouth set in a grim line.  “I need yer help, Evangeline….  My boyfriend was there that day.  One of my teammates.  He’s not doin’ well.”

Shit.  I blew out a long breath as if I was trying to exorcise my demons.  “I’m so sorry,” I repeated uselessly.  “John, I’m… probably the last person you want to go and talk to your boyfriend about your death or literally anything else.  I suck at this kind of thing.  I never know what to say to grieving people, even if I’ve known them forever.  Words just aren’t enough.”

“Please,” he said, kneeling by the bed, his ghostly hand passing through mine as it lay on my lap, chilling me.  “You’re all I have, lass.”

Despite the urgency in his voice, I was hesitant for reasons that should have been obvious.  I stared down at the three cards on the bed once again, reinterpreting the reading as The Knight of Swords representing John, the Death card — for the first time in one of my readings — representing his literal death, and the Three of Swords representing his boyfriend’s subsequent heartbreak.  There are always multiple ways to interpret the cards in every situation; you just have to move through it and see what fits—a little like grief.

I looked back at him with an expression of resignation on my face.  “You’re lucky I like you.”

His face lit up.  “So you’ll do it?”

I sighed, coming to terms with the decision I was about to make.  “Yeah.  I’ll do it.”

“Sorry I called ye childish,” he said apologetically.

“Mm.”

“Yer beau’iful,” he tried again.

I gave him a grin.  “Aww, how kind of you to say.”

“Yes, I am kind. Now you compliment me.”

“Why should I when you just did it yourself?”

He chuckled before his expression sobered.  “Thank you, Evangeline. I cannae repay the favor you’re doin’ me.”

I looked back at him, noting how similar our eyes were.  “You can owe me in the next life, how’s that?”

“Sounds like a fair deal.  So, are ye gonna clean up this mess?”

“Sorry, you’ll have to clean yourself up.”

“Funny.”

I leaned down and started to gather my fallen tarot cards, picking out carpet lint and hairs occasionally as I stacked the deck.

”Y’know…,” he began, “ye make me wish I could’ve met you while I was livin’.  Think we coulda been friends?”

Deck neatly in hand, I looked up at him, a warm, bittersweet feeling blossoming inside my chest.  “Yeah, I think we could’ve been.  Could still be.”

He laughed.  “Well, bein’ friends with me is a blessing in itself.”

“I’m sure it is.”

We headed out by taxi to John’s old flat to see his boyfriend, Simon.  Simon Riley.  I turned the name over in my mind as we drove, wondering what kind of man he was.  It was odd traveling in a car with a complete stranger, knowing that you have a ghost with you.  I kept looking at the driver in the rearview mirror, paranoid that he’d be able to see John, but aside from my own awkwardness, the trip concluded uneventfully.

I stared at the door that I was supposed to be knocking on and felt immediately threatened, that familiar fight-or-flight feeling making my extremities tingle.  “Shit.  John, I can’t…”

“Easy.  I’ll be right here; I won’t leave ye.  But we have to get in and get to Simon, alright?  The eejit’s blootered.”

I stared at him in confusion.  “He’s what?”

John rolled his eyes, exasperated.  “Drinkin’, hen.  He’s right sloshed.  Now get knockin’.”

Stepping toward the door, I looked at John and said, “I feel like your Scottish level just increased.”  I wrapped my knuckles on the door before I lost my nerve and stepped back.

He smirked, though it didn’t reach his eyes.  “I think yer just too American to understand—“

The door flew open, revealing the personification of my Death card: an enormous man wearing a skull balaclava, no shirt, about one billion muscles, and an appropriately sized scowl.  His displeasure was evident despite the mask covering his features.  It radiated off of him in waves like heat, like the smell of alcohol that invaded my nostrils as it drifted out from him.  Piercing dark eyes stared down at me briefly before squinting, and then he slammed the door in my face.  I could hear his heavy footfalls retreating further into the flat.  I looked at John, at a complete loss, and maybe with a bit of anxiety.  Just a wee bit.

He sighed.  “Knock again, Evangeline.  He’ll answer.”  

“Why do you not look convinced?”

“Because I’m not.”

“I appreciate your honesty.  Is he gonna kill me?” I asked, somehow finding the nerve to knock again through my blooming dissociation.  It was a genuine fear.  What do I actually know about these guys?  Not much.  John hadn’t told me anything about Simon besides that they were both in the military.  He most certainly didn’t tell me about how absofuckinglutely intimidating his man was; he looked like he could just break me in half with those dark brooding eyeballs of his, no hands necessary.  My heart lurched, palpitating in my chest wildly like a canary in a proverbial coal mine.

“He won’t kill ye,” John assured me and my anxiety.

Ten beats passed. Nothing.

“Steamin’ bloody Jesus,” John said in frustration and then disappeared through the wall of the flat.  I could hear him swearing and yelling, all in vain.  He emerged, raking a hand through his mohawk in irritation.  When his eyes finally locked with mine, a silent plea filled them.

I didn’t like that look on John’s face; the pain and concern etched there was almost a tangible thing, and it hurt.  It made me feel edgy and a bit unstable, as if the ground beneath me wasn’t as sturdy as I believed before coming out here.  I stepped up and knocked again, louder, more insistent.  For him.

This time, I could hear the lumbering stomps of Simon’s gait as he approached the door to the flat, and I braced myself for whatever might come.  My hair sucked forward from the sudden vacuum the door caused, and I nearly expected the door to be ripped from its hinges, such was the velocity at which the door opened.  I hadn’t stepped back, but Jesus, I wished that I had.

“The fuck do you want?”  Simon’s voice was a low growl, his thick British accent raking across me like a physical attack.

There was that small animal voice in the back of my head as I looked up at the angry behemoth at the door, which said, with zero doubt, “You are going to die.”  He braced a forearm on the doorframe, leaning in closer.  My eyes widened fractionally with every millimeter that decreased between us.  Shit.

“Um… A-are you Simon?  Simon Riley?”

He blinked at me with unfocused eyes.  He’d been drinking heavily as he reeked of alcohol, which was wonderful for me because we all know that drunk people are totally predictable.  “Who’s askin’?”

My eyes flicked to John, who stood beside the door, nodding encouragingly.  “M-my name is Evangeline.  I’m here about John—"

“Johnny,” John — or Johnny — corrected me.

“Johnny?”  I glanced at my ghostly companion, who nodded.

Simon narrowed his eyes.  “The fuck you on about?”

“Look, I know this will sound crazy, but he sent me here with a message.”  This was a bit of a stretch since, now that I thought about it, Johnny didn’t actually give me a message for Simon.

“So, what, you’re a bloody fortune teller?” Simon asked, his gravelly voice seething with bitter outrage.

Shit shit shit shit shit.  “No, that’s not—“ I started, taking a defensive step backward, but he barreled on.

“What the fuck do you want here?”

“Johnny wanted me to—“ 

I had little time to react before he picked me up by my jacket lapels and slammed me against his door, the air quickly evicted from my lungs.  The back of my head stung as I looked in horror at him.

“Johnny doesn’t want anything.  He’s fucking dead.”

I froze under his gaze, which was both hateful and wounded, the cold rush of adrenaline coursing through my bloodstream.

Johnny interjected in a panic, “The first thing I ever said to him was, ‘I’ll save you a seat, sir.’  Tell him!”

I could feel my throat starting to close up.  I couldn’t move, couldn’t talk, couldn’t breathe.

“Shit.”  Johnny rushed forward, moving through Simon, trying to get him to loosen his grip, but it was useless.  Next, he passed through me, my body feeling the chill of his presence, a strange, otherworldly shiver as suddenly, my mouth moved.

“LT, let ‘er go.”  The voice was mine, but the speaker was Johnny, his Scottish inflection clear in my voice.

Part 3

[intothesmoke]

"I'm trying my best to help him but I'm just so, so gay 🥲"

[pluralprompts]

Prompt #1,753

Character A has always been able to see ghosts. They try not to draw attention from spirits, but Ghost B has been such a consistent presence that they're basically Character A's older sibling at this point. Recently, Character A has been trying to figure out how to suggest that Ghost B possess them on occasion to go out and have their own fun, rather than just tagging along to watch Character A live their life.

[floorpillow]

Made myself a fey clan girlie. Still unnamed as of right now but her younger sister was killed and she devotes herself to solving the mystery because nobody else cared to. Now she seeks that same justice for others (spirit medium prosecutor whooaaaa)

her hair is tied in a low bun at the back of her head, I did not feel like drawing a side profile today :hearteyes:

[vvyvernicus]

Prologue Teaser

Fandom: Black Butler

Word count: 2,274

This is a short introductory chapter to one of my many fan projects. It doesn't feature any canon characters, but is the backstory to an original character before they join the main cast. I will upload this, along with the second chapter (which will feature canon characters) to AO3 upon its completion. Until then, I wanted to share this short teaser.

In 1865, in the waning midsummer, a peculiar girl was born along the western coast of Italy. By the age of four, she claimed to see and hear things others couldn’t—spirits. This revelation brought her ridicule and even beatings from those who saw her speaking to the invisible. Her name was Lucia Santoro.

Raised by her single mother and blind grandfather, Lucia experienced two vastly different reactions to her gift. Her mother, overwhelmed by hardship, berated her, lamenting the burden of a child she believed was mentally ill. Her grandfather, however, understood. He would sit with her, telling her how special her gift was, urging her to treat the spirits with compassion. But after his death, Lucia’s mother became more unstable, lashing out more frequently. When Lucia was seven, her mother quietly took her own life while her daughter slept peacefully through the night. And just as they both departed her life, another presence entered.

Celia—a spirit who had once lived in England—took it upon herself to raise Lucia for several years. Under Celia’s stern yet caring guidance, Lucia learned to read, write, and speak English, along with many other skills. Though Celia could be strict, she was a motherly figure, teaching Lucia to be patient and kind, lessons that would stay with her forever. But when Lucia turned fourteen, Celia departed, vanishing without a word. From that day forward, Lucia never saw her again.

Despite her absence, Lucia was self-sufficient. She continued to hone the skills Celia had taught her, relying on spirits for companionship while avoiding people. Eventually, a spirit guided her to a special grimoire—an ancient text that would allow her to harness her abilities with greater precision. With the grimoire in hand, Lucia found herself drawn into all manner of adventures, each one teaching her more about the spiritual world she inhabited.

Yet, every gift comes with a cost. Lucia soon learned from other spirits that mediums like her often descended into madness by the time they reached their twentieth year. With no cure in sight, Lucia resigned herself to her fate, deciding to spend her remaining time aiding as many spirits as she could before her mind unraveled. 

__________________ ׂׂૢ་༘࿐

Along the western coast of Tuscany sat an old house that overlooked the Ligurian Sea. The house was generally quiet aside from the creaking of the floorboards and the occasional rat scuttling over them. The walls too were mostly hollow and drafty, allowing the salty air to permeate the insides. All would be rather quiet—for a normal person at least.

“Che palle! It's your birthday and you are spending it lying on the floor?”

A voice loudly passed through the walls, yet echoed off none of them. Its audibility did not reach the sensitive ears of a nearby mouse, which peacefully slept in the far corner of the room.

“Maria, don't be rude. If she wants to lay around, it is her choice to do so.”

Another voice spoke up in the quiet house, although not as loud as the other's. Once more the mouse slept peacefully and was undisturbed. The two voices might have well been non-existent to the small creature. Not that it was their target to begin with. 

“Having a little rest is fine, but it's her birthday for God's sake! And just look at her—she looks like a corpse!” Maria's voice cried out before pointing at the cause of her frustration. She let out a sigh, trying to calm herself down before she continued speaking.

“By the way, when was the last time you even bathed, spazzatura della grondaia?”

While the other voice disapproved of Maria's referring to her as ‘gutter rubbish’, it hardly seemed to bother the woman who laid on the floorboards. It was a warranted question, as even by commoner standards, she was considerably filthy. Her reddish brown hair was pulled into a braid that had no shortage of debris woven in it. Though after a few seconds of thinking, she finally looked up at them, her silver eyes glossed over with exhaustion. 

“I believe it's been… two weeks?” she answered, her voice slightly hoarse. 

At the sound of her faint voice, the little mouse finally stirred from its slumber. It was not startled but now on alert. The small creature eyed the woman with caution as it observed her from across the small room.

“You are truly…” Maria wanted to say more, but knew that her words would hold no weight. If she had put off bathing for this long, calling her actions repulsive wouldn't change her mind. 

Still lying lifelessly on the floor, the young woman gazed up at her two visitors. Both of them had come out of their way to find her. It would be rude to completely ignore their concerns. Even if they didn't matter much in the end. 

“I’ll wash up later, I promise. The ocean is right outside,” was her response. Just as she said that, the sound of waves crashing against the cliff side echoed upwards to the house.

“I might as well drag you in myself! Are you trying to make yourself ill?” Maria growled, but fully knew that that would be a task too difficult in her current state.

Ignoring her continued protests, the other woman turned her attention to the less demanding soul in the room.

“Anthony?” the woman all but rasped out—a side effect of not having water in several hours. “Why did the two of you come to find me today?”

The two people that had visited the still alive woman were far removed from the average person. Or rather they were people once. While they still had the forms of their old human selves, it was rare that others could see or hear them. One of the people given such a gift was the one they chose to converse with. And with that ability came a moral duty. 

“Why, to visit our friend Lucia on her birthday of course! At your age, you mortals still count birthdays. This is… your twenty-second, yes?” he said with an incredulous smile on his face. Most likely not the whole truth, but a good enough excuse. 

“Twenty-third,” Lucia corrected, a weakened grin forming on her face. “But astoundingly accurate for a spirit. You all are always losing track of time. I'm honestly a bit jealous.”

The dead never had to worry about trivial things such as time. Nor did they usually concern themselves with the living. But as Lucia was one of the only people who could converse with them, she was a bit higher on their radar. After all, through her they could interact with the living world in a more personal way. 

“We also came across some news you may be interested in,” Maria said, drifting over to sit in front of Lucia. Half of her legs sunk right through the floor as she did so. 

And there it was. Lucia couldn't help but smile though. Even now, the spirits would come to her for aid. 

“This noble, Damon-something, recently experienced quite the horror in England while on a business trip,” she chuckled, grinning mischievously. “His skin was all charred and he kept going on about this haunted Phantomhive mansion. Might be something particularly exciting you'd want to look into.”

News from the spirits had to be another big reason why she continued to stick around, even in her current condition. Their retellings may not be entirely accurate and sometimes too dramatic, but she still loved hearing from them either way. That said, a man nearly getting burned alive was nothing new. Same went for haunted houses. However, something else stood out to her. 

“The Phantomhive estate…” Lucia muttered as she recalled the familiar surname.

This wasn't the first time she had heard about it. It was around two years prior during the winter when she was first told about that place. The entire mansion had gone up in flames after most of the inhabitants were killed. With that little bit of information, it wasn't enough to warrant an investigation. And Lucia was already past twenty at that point.

“It's too much of a hassle to go all the way there. Besides, there are plenty of wayward spirits I can assist here in Italy,” Lucia said, brushing off the suggestion.

There was no reason for her to even leave this house. Especially not when the madness could settle in any day now. It should have already consumed her. So she'd rather be in a secluded area to pass away peacefully.

“But isn't helping other spirits like that more important? If they cause too much trouble, they could end up exorcized!” Maria growled, much to the surprise of her ghostly companion.

There was a lot of truth to her words. It was not unheard of for a particularly angry spirit to possess severely dangerous supernatural abilities—starting fires was one of the more common ones. Priests would be sent to dispel any demonic activity and sometimes that included angered spirits. In actuality, most spirits themselves were not wholly evil and bent on harming others. So Lucia would often seek them out to calm them in an attempt of saving them from a second, more permanent death. 

But she never did leave Italy, except one time to go to France. It was just simpler to stay in one spot for years. If spirits wanted to seek her out, finding her was easy. But most simply stayed in their respective regions out of convenience. 

“Have you really lost all resolve to continue caring about us?”

Those words caused her eyes to widen and her slow heartbeat quickened. All her life she had spent for the sake of helping wayward spirits. Her true companions. Gone out of her way at times just for their benefits.

“You know that's not true—”

Her words were cut short when she felt a rumbling underneath her. Another wave had crashed into the side of the rocky cliff. Just a little too hard as the cliff's resistance to water erosion was wearing thin. One more would send part of the cliffside—and the house—down to the rock littered waters below.

Lucia's survival instincts had her clamber to her feet and rush down the steps that led to the ground floor. Just as her feet reached the last step, half of the house decided to break apart and fall down the cliff. In just a few more paces, Lucia launched herself into the slightly muddy grass as the remainder of the house fell into the ocean with a large splash. Just for good measure, she furthered herself from the cliff before plopping down into the muddied grass. 

“England, was it? Maybe I'll go after all,” Lucia chuckled, suppressing a louder laugh at the loss of her shelter. 

Maria shook her head at that.

“You only say that because your tomb—”

“Che meraviglia! Celia will be so proud that you decided to visit her home country,” Anthony interrupted the other spirit with enthusiasm as he clapped his hands together. 

A wry smile came to Lucia's mouth as she thought about her old caretaker. She hadn't seen her since she was fourteen, over nine years ago. There was a chance that she'd meet her again in England. But Lucia didn't want to get her hopes up.

A shrill whistle came from down below, where the house had crashed into the ocean. Within moments, a small trail of black fog shot over the cliffside and spiraled around in the air for a bit. It flitted around in the air for a moment before attempting to dive bomb Anthony—who quickly shifted out of the way. The black ball apparition made its new target Lucia as it landed at the spot next to her feet. 

“Did you lose the rats you were haunting, Fairy?” Lucia asked it as the black blob morphed into a giant rat before returning to its round shape. It let out a wailing cry, seemingly saddened at the losses. 

“Oh? Fae's still with you?” Maria asked, watching the animal spirit swivel around Lucia before resting above the mortal’s shoulder. 

“She comes and goes—just like everyone else,” Lucia said, tickling the spirit blob as it nipped at her fingers.

Unlike the other two who would most likely stay in Italy, Fairy, an animal spirit, held no sentimentality to the land she haunted. So there was a fair chance that she'd accompany Lucia to England too. While not as communicative as a human’s spirit, there were plenty of tasks Lucia could accomplish with Fairy alone. The little spirit was also a bundle of entertainment. 

The journey to England would take several days and a lot of patience. But with nothing else to lose, Lucia was willing to go through with it. Her last act before the madness took over—whenever that will be. Having a goal to work towards was certainly better than rotting away in some abandoned house.

For the first time in a while, the tiniest flicker of excitement stirred in her heart. This would probably be the most adventurous thing she'd done since the short excursion in France several years ago. She didn't know how long this trip would last, or even if she'd return to Italy at all. But she was too enthused to think about the specifics.

Lucia Santoro would finally see what England was like with her own eyes. Only hearing stories and rumors from others, she could only envision it so clearly. In a matter of weeks or perhaps days, she'd uncover many dark secrets lurking beneath the country's polished surface.

It would be to die for. 

[fallensapphires]

Objects: Spirit/Ouija Boards

It’s not just the Spirit World that Ouija can reach. It can explore a realm every bit as strange, that of the unconscious mind, the mind of which we know nothing, precisely because it’s unconscious. Yet it’s an aspect of our own mind. Isn’t it bizarre that our own “hidden” mind is the biggest, and closest, mystery in our life!

[dailydoseofoldshit]

Sourced from the 7 February 1921 issue of The Bridgeport Times; page 1 - accessed via Chronicling America.

[marzipanandminutiae]

Just out of idle curiosity (you don't have 2 answer if you don't want to) what do you think of spiritual mediums? I personally find them kind of goulish people who are preying on greiving families, even if they do think they are being helpful. At the same time I kind of do wish there was a way to reach across the veil that is that easy.

(also good luck with the moving; I had a similar experience with surprise furniture I didn't want when I moved into my bedroom! I ended up storing my bedframe and lamenting how ugly the Ikea shit was every night until I broke it by accident!)

Like professional ones? I'm with you- they're mostly grifters looking for money and fame, either from the families themselves or from the publicity they get. Lorraine Warren never charged the families she "helped," but she and her husband sure weren't too high-nosed to take book and TV deals. Even if they do have a genuine gift...well, I'm sensitive to ghosts myself, and in my experience it's pretty inconsistent. Not nearly enough for me to feel confident promising solid results, especially to people in a vulnerable emotional state.

I do believe such things can be real, clearly. I just think banking on them like that is going to inevitably mean making nonsense up to fill in the very natural gaps in one's perception.

Also the Warrens were lying con artists taking advantage of the Satanic Panic, and I'm doubtful that any of their cases were real. #micdrop #justice4BathshebaSherman #ImJustSayingTheMotherInTheTwilightZoneDollEpisodeWasNamedAnnabelle

Sorry you went through the same Furniture Surprise! At least my landlady was kind enough to move some things out to accomodate my stuff, since I didn't know about the situation beforehand.

[ridingthehedge]

I am a death spirit. All my life I felt that it was around me, that I brought it around others. I thought I was bad luck, that one way or another people that I cared about would meet an early demise for knowing me. I always felt like I was a catalyst for trouble, for disorder, for unraveling. Like I would get into a new space or relationship and not long after, things would start falling apart around me. Some things were doomed from the start because of this.

I brought the chaos - and it always frustrated me. I was always told to simmer down, to tame the rage that lived inside of me. To stop asking questions because one day it’d get me killed. It made me wish that I could just forget about any of it and just live a normal and peaceful life without any of the crushing knowledge of time and existence.

But I recently learned that the air of chaos that surrounds me is what brings about change. It gets rid of old ways of life that need to evolve. Destroys people’s perceptions and egos and teaches them what they are made of. What we’re all made of. It taught me that everyone and everything meets their demise at their determined time. And even we, fate’s hands, cannot ever change that. We can only act as we are being guided by the universe.

A death spirit brings about death and decay to those whose time it is to fall away. But the thing about death is that it is indistinguishable from new life. At every end, a new beginning. Such is the circle of life. Always a little wonky, a little imperfect. But always completing eventually. Because the in between is unattainable. Everything eventually becomes itself or dies and emerges a new self.

Often people think of zombies alongside the dead. But the truth is that a zombie is the opposite of death. It is the undead. Resisting the truth of death and decay is how something becomes zombified. An abomination of nature - because there is nothing natural about constant life, never stopping or surrendering. The only kinds of flowers that always have a bloom are either fake or mummified.

I am a spirit of death. I am inevitable. There is nothing that I can do (or haven’t tried) to change this. I come into people’s lives who need to better understand death and decay. To teach them how to surrender to the great void and that healing and true peace come with the surrender. There is no other way to ensure beautiful, abundant life grows in its place.

And they come into my life to teach me about living. To show me the beauty of it and the purpose of it. To remind me that my domain is both here and below. That the best relationships go through an endless cycle of death and rebirth - all to create something that lasts through the expanse of time.

[vintagenews]

Source and details.

[megaeralwrites]

I owe a massive debt of gratitude to M. Lamar Keene--he was one of my key sources of inspiration and information while writing The Shabti. Tragically, Keene died of AIDS in the 1990s. I didn't learn about that until I listened to the podcast Fake Psychic shortly after I finished drafting my book, and I had to take a couple days to grieve. He was a unique and fascinating person, and I hope he found some measure of the peace he spent much of his life searching for.

For more footage of Keene (and some of his Camp Chesterfield colleagues), check out this rare video.