Not What He Expected

Richard Moult - Banais (Lady of the Wedding)

This was not what he expected. He had spent months, following his reading of The Satanic Bible, posting replies on self-described ‘satanic’ internet forums to such an extent that he – or rather his self-assumed pseudonym – had garnered a certain positive reputation among other self-described ‘satanists’ all of whom seemed to revere and regularly quote that book written as it was by a certain Howard Stanton Levey, who of course used a pseudonym in order to hide his real identity, given the plagiaristic nature of most of the contents of that mass-produced and now rather popular book.

Plying him with praise – massaging his ego – they, using the ‘private message’ facilities on such internet forums, had enticed him here on a warm albeit cloudy day in late August. Enticed, because the messages were supposedly from a young woman who had expressed an interest in him given – or so she said – his knowledge of satanism. And which messages had sometimes included a web-link to suggestive images of a certain young women.

So there he was, a mere nineteen years of age and self-assured as he was, waiting in the fading twilight for the promised tryst with that voluptuous young woman. Waiting, hoping, his head-piece filled with both sexual and egoistic dreams. There: where ancient, twisted, often moss-covered, trees of Oak had settled and grown near a long-abandoned stone quarry in the county borderland that marked the edge of the English Peak District national park.

Waited, until he could but dimly see a figure approach him. Then she and him were both smiling, if for different reasons; and he was so intent on leering at her that he neither saw nor heard the approach of those behind him: those three women who crept upon him to bind his wrists behind his back.

Of course he struggled; or tried to. Kicking out and shouting obscenities as he lay, bound, on his back. For was he not a proud satanist who believed in indulgence, in treating those who annoyed you cruelly and without mercy, in what lex talionis meant and implied? Who was he – with his youthful masculine body honed by regular training in a gym – to be subdued by mere women?

But they were mocking him before, in the twilight dark, placing a hood over his head, gagging him, and carrying him down toward a nearby narrow stream where heavy stones were placed on his legs, arms, abdomen, and chest; almost – but not quite – crushing them.

So it was that he, supine, heard a feminine voice declaim:

Here is he who believed he knew our secret:
But just look at him now and laugh
For we have so easily overcome his much-believed-in outer strength.

Now, wash your throats with sparkling wine
For Sirius returns
And we women are warm and wanton!
Before me, you were sightless:
You looked, but could not see;
Before me, you had no hearing:
You heard sounds, but could not listen.
Before me, you swarmed with men,
But did not enjoy.
But I arrived, opened my body and
Brought you lust, softness, understanding, and love.
My breasts pleased you
And brought forth darkness and much joy.

I, who crushes your enemies and who washes in a basin full of
Their blood.
For you are my daughters and a nexion to our Dark Gods:
Before you my sisters I offer you this body so that his blood
Will feed your virgin flesh.

He heard laughter, the sound of bottles of Champagne being opened, and then – not that long thereafter – felt the dreadful pain as a sharp long-bladed knife slit his throat. So he gasped, gurgled, as his life-blood drained away, some of it collected in a basin to be smeared on breasts and faces.


Sister Morgan
Dark Daughters of Baphomet
127 Year Of Fayen


Night Of The Opfer

Richard Moult - Banais (Lady of the Wedding)
Night Of The Opfer

Her opfer was dead and she took advantage of her night seclusion to mutilate his body, stabbing at his eyes with her hand-crafted Puma knife before castrating him in a symbolic act and stuffing his mouth with her severed trophies. She had enticed him there, having hunted him down in a far more unemotional way than he had hunted, and raped, his female victims over a period of some years, and – there – in that clearing in a copse in the hills of South Shropshire she left his body for wild animals, and Ravens, to do with it what instinctively they were wont to – and fittingly would – do.

Melusine was waiting for her when, some hours later, she returned to the cottage they shared near where the River Teme wound its slow and ancient rural way toward the town of Ludlow. No words between them were needed and they left the files strewn upon the kitchen tables to wend their way toward a bath to cleanse her of the blood and then to the bedroom that they for several years had shared. Tomorrow, tomorrow, there would be time enough to peruse those files again to choose another victim; files supplied by a male law enforcement friend who – beguiled by, in love with, and a lover of – Melusine so willingly kept them informed.

Dawn with its Summer warmth and early light found her languidly naked and she kissed her sleeping lover before – as a ballet dancer might – she gracefully descended the stairs. There was Champagne to open, a full flute to raise in honour and memory of her deed, and she settled down to read those files, remembering. Yes, always remembering her own young so innocent sister who so many years ago had been brutally raped and murdered.

He had laughed when she had found him, certain as he was of his strength. For she was only a slip of a young woman knocking angrily on the door of his council flat in that London borough. But he did not see the seven round two-and-half inch barrel stainless steel revolver she hid behind her back, and he, intent again on rape, was about to grab her by the throat when she shot him in the face and then – as he lay twitching and bloodied on the ground – twice in the head. She smiled, then, for he had fancied himself a modern urban predator, his flat home to posters of lurid horror films and a small bookshelf containing works by Nietzsche, de Sade, and a well-thumbed paperback copy of The Satanic Bible. He even had the phrase “Satan represents indulgence” tattooed on his chest.

But there he lay, dead; conquered by a mere slip of a young woman. For her inner darkness was more dark and deadly than he or his Homo Hubris kind could ever conceive, except perhaps in such a sleeping nightmare as would wake them, sweating, having had them kicking their night-time coverings away as they sought to but were unable to flee from some loathsome if unseen terror.

So she that bright Summer morning once again washed her throat with champagne, believing as she did in her right to hunt down and cull any such male mundane.

127 yf


Hangster’s Gate

Mousa of Swords: The Sinister Tarot by Richard Moult


Hangster’s Gate

Winter came early to the Shropshire town: a cold wind with brief hail that changed suddenly to rain to leave a damp covering of mist.

An old man in an old cart drawn by a sagging pony crossed himself as he saw Yapp shuffle by him along the cobbled lane toward the entrance to the Raven Inn. It was warm, inside the ancient Inn, but dark from fire and pipe smoke, and Yapp took his customary horn of free ale to sit alone on his corner bench by the log fire. The silence that had followed his entrance soon filled, and only one man still stared at him.

The man was Abigail’s husband, and he pushed his cap back from his forehead before moving toward Yapp. His companions, dressed like him in their work clothes, tried to restrain him, but he pushed them aside. He reached Yapp’s table and kicked it aside with his boot.

Slowly Yapp stood up. He was a wiry man and seemed insubstantial beside the bulk of Abigail’s husband.

“Wha you been doin? To her!” Abigail’s husband clenched his fists and moved closer.

Yapp stared at him, his unshaven face twitching slightly, and then he smiled.

“I canna move! I canna move!” shouted Abigail’s husband.

Yapp smiled again, drank the rest of his ale and walked slowly toward the door.

“I be beshrewed!” the big man cried among the silence.

Yapp turned to him, made a gesture with his hand and left the Inn as Abigail’s husband found himself able to move.

No one followed Yapp outside.

A carriage and pair raced past him as he walked down the lane. The young lady inside, heading for the warmth and comfort of Priory Hall was alarmed at seeing him and turned away. This pleased him, as the prospect of the walk to his cottage, miles distant, pleased him – for it was the night of Autumnal Equinox.

The journey was not tiresome, and he enjoyed the walk, the mist and darkening sky that came with the twilight hour. The moon would be late to rise, and he walked briskly. Soon, he was above the town and at the place where the three lanes met. His own way took him down, past the small collection of cottages, almhouses and a church, toward the wooded precints of Yarchester Hall. He stopped, once, but could not see the distant summit of Brown Clee Hill where he had possessed Abigail.

It had been a long ride back in the wind and the rain, but the horses had been strong, almost wild, and he smiled in remembrance, for that night Abigail has warmed his bed.

Tomorrow, perhaps, they might go to Raven’s Seat. It would be all over by then, for another seventeen years. No one would stop or trouble them.

His way lead into the trees, along a narrow path, down the Devil’s Dingle to Hangster’s Gate and the clearing. There was nothing in the clearing – except the mist-swathed gibbet with its recent victim swinging gently in the breeze. He would need the hand, and with practiced care, he unsheathed his knife to stretch and cut the dead man’s left hand away.

Less than a day old, the body had already lost its eyes to ravens.

It was not far from the clearing to his cottage, and he walked slowly, every few moments stopping to stand and listen. There was nothing, no sound – except a faint sighing as the breeze stirred the trees around. A lighted candle shone from the one small window of his cottage. It was a sign, and he stopped to creep down and glimpse inside. There were voices inside and as he looked he saw Abigail standing near a young man. He saw her draw the youth toward her and place his hand on her breast. Heard her laughing; saw her kiss the youth and press her body into his. Then she was dancing around him, laughing and singing as she stripped her clothes away to lay naked and inviting on the sphagnum moss that formed the mattress of Yapp’s bed. Then the youth was upon her, struggling to wrest himself from his own clothes.

Yapp heard people approaching along the track and he stood up to hear Abigail’s cries of ecstasy. He waited, until they reached him and they all heard Abigail climax with a scream. The he was inside the cottage, with the others around him. The youth was surprised and tried to stand and Yapp stood aside to let them pin him down on the hard earth floor of the cottage.

An old woman in a dirty bonnet gave a toothless laugh – Abigail laughed, even Yapp laughed as the tall blacksmith tore out the youth’s heart. The was a pail for some of the blood.

Abigail was soon dressed, the body taken away and she led Yapp and the old woman through the trees to another clearing. The moon was rising, the blood was fresh and she took the severed hand from Yapp to dip it in the blood and sprinkle their sacred ground to propitiate their Dark Goddess Baphomet.

Order of Nine Angles
1981 e.v.


One Autumn Evening

Order of Nine Angles


One Autumn Evening


There was nothing outwardly suspicious about the house. It was, apparently, just a normal, old, three-story English town house, built of red brick with a tiled pitched roof whose front sash windows overlooked that narrow – now thankfully traffic-free – short cobbled street and whose wooden front door – raised one step above street level – opened directly onto the widthless pavement.

Positioned as it was in the centre of the town between two churches, St Mary The Virgin and St Alkmund’s, only a few yards from a timbered framed early 17th Century building, and providing as the street did easy pedestrian access to Butcher Row, Grope Lane, and Fish Street, scores of people walked past the house every day, oblivious to the fact that there was another story, hidden below street level: a lower, windowless, ground floor of brick-vaulted ceilings and quarry-tiled floors accessible only from the Sitting Room by an enclosed, door-secured, stone staircase. And it was there, where the only light came from candles and from a warming fire in the brick-built fireplace, that the two young women had, and late last Autumn, undertaken their rite of human culling.

Like the outer appearance of their house, there was nothing outwardly suspicious about those women. No occult jewellery; no trendy hairstyles; no tattoos or body piercings. Their clothes and accessories were discreet, an understated elegance replicated in the interior of their home. Replicated even in the first floor bathroom – one of two in the house – which gave no indication of the events that late Autumn evening when they two, friends and lovers since the Sixth Form, had efficiently with surgical precision dismembered the body; clinically cleaning the bath and its surround until not a trace of death remained, a fact ascertained by the judicious use of a forensic light source.

Their male opfer had been easy, so very easy, to find and entrap. A first killing planned years in advance when they – following a most wyrdful meeting with a strange itinerant bearded man – had studiously researched the occult, choosing university courses and then appropriate occupations to provide them with some of the necessary skills. For one, it was forensic science and a detailed knowledge of anatomy; for the other, investigative experience and useful, professional, contacts with local law enforcement and social services.

As befitted both their personal agenda and their sinister tradition, he – their opfer – had chosen himself. He had a history of violence toward his wife; toward other women; and was once tried in a court of law for rape with the trial halted when his victim – the only prosecution witness – failed to appear in court. He, smiling, was found not guilty and released. She, the prosecution witness, was found the following day near her school, having hung herself from the branch of a tree until she was dead. A week later, and he himself was ensnared: a young woman at night in a Bar, a few words exchanged, and he was there in their house where a drugged drink sufficed, no need for the shadowing armed chaperone until, as planned, they took the mundane down below to smilingly throttle him by the neck until he, for his sins, was satisfyingly dead.

Thus, as they had correctly surmised, no one would miss or even bother to try to find that violent misogynist man; his body parts neatly wrapped, weighed down, and scattered at sea one sunny weekend when, as was often their routine, those lovers travelled to where their small inshore boat was berthed in a Marina. With disposal – and then their passionate lustful intimate Champagne celebrations – over, they began to plan to do a killing deed again and perhaps again, after all of which they, as they had that Autumn evening, would together on the Stiperstones to chant their valedictory chant:

Wash your throats with wine
For we have returned to bring forth Darkness and Joy:
We accept there is no law, no authority, no justice
Except our own
And that culling is a necessary act of Life.
We believe in one guide, Satan,
And in our right to cull mundanes.


O9A Baphomet Dark Goddess

Shropshire, 2014