To So Acausally Be Alive

Order of Nine Angles

O9A

°°°°°°°°°

To So Acausally Be Alive

They were there even if no human – no human technology – could detect them. There, deep below the surface of that ocean.

But she had dreamed of them, every day for months, and just had to go. Down, deep down, where no human could survive. Would they welcome or ignore her so leaving her to die?

Nevertheless, she dived; she had to dive there from a chartered boat and miles beyond where the ocean left the island of Puerto Rico far far behind. Dived in her wet-suit, in her life-giving mask with her deep-sea tanks of breathable Earth atmosphere strapped upon her human back.

But no one – no human, no alien being or beings – came to save her. And so she descended, unconscious, down deeper down, until her human life left her and her body touched, deathly fell upon, the dark abyssal ocean floor.

But something – something strange and not quite human within her – somehow remained alive; unseeing, unthinking in human words; and needing no breathable atmosphere to live. For some-thing within her was somehow aware in a non-phenomenal, unhuman, way of some type of non-body dwelling living beings surrounding and welcoming her, there.

She, the human, was dead. A mere corpse to be fed upon by such sightless sea – ocean-dwelling – denizens as had evolved to exist in such a watery unlit deep.

But the un-human part of her was home, at last. Home and now living in those acausal, those timeless, dimensions where some of her Earth-seeding ancestors still lived. For as she then so wordlessly understood every descended semi-human being had to mortally, to causally, die in order to so acausally live.

Rachael S.
2018 ev


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Night Of The Opfer

Richard Moult - Banais (Lady of the Wedding)
Annia
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.

A.M.
O9A
127 yf


 

One Autumn Evening

Order of Nine Angles

O9A

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

R.P.
Shropshire, 2014


Kiss Me Hard

O9A

O9A

Kiss Me Hard Before You Go

Perhaps it was the music – the song – which had echoed in his head before he fell asleep that cold night after another bleak, overcast, Winter’s day had seen the middle-aged recent divorcee leaving his rural cottage trying to occupy his wakeful weekend hours by walking, alone as was his habit, on the Mendip hills where, in that warm Summer long gone, he had so many times sat down to remember: there where Black Down gave way to Rowberrow Warren and where, one day, he found a tick had parasitically attached itself to his leg.

Or perhaps it was that image – entitled Mistress of Earth – he, while browsing the Internet, had that evening found that caused him to dream of a time, a place, where he, somehow a youthful Undertaker, was charged with washing and preparing the young naked body of a woman in readiness for her funeral. She looked so youthfully peaceful, there in that rather clinical room; and beautiful with red lipstick still adorning her lips and an ebony skin that seemed to belie the dream-reality of her days-ago death. He had to touch her, of course, as part of his work, but wanted to in way far beyond professional, and he – slightly trembling – was looking at her breasts, the fingers of his right hand inching nearer and nearer and nearer toward contact, when she opened her eyes, her left hand grasping his so strongly his whole body became numb and he paralysed with something suffusing, enveloping, entering, him so that all he could do was silently, aghast, look down at himself as if from the ceiling above while she kissed him so hard there was blood, his blood, covering his lips, his neck, her face.

He had awoken then, sweating, terrified, kicking at his bed-clothes in a still desperate dream-effort to get away. Then, for a long time he sat on the edge of his bed staring, without feeling, out of the window into the quiet, the still, darkness beyond where no breeze stirred the piles of fallen rotting leaves in that cottage garden. Sat staring, until a feeling of shame, utter shame, came upon him. For he had so wanted to touch her; to run his hands over her breasts, her thighs. And it was when, desirous and needful of a fortifying large glass of Brandy, that he – passing the mirror that hung in his hall – saw her body again. For she was there, looking back at him from that mirror: standing, smiling, naked still, enticing, and alive with no blood on her lips, neck, face. Moving slowly, it seemed, toward him and drawing him in toward her with a promise, of something.

He could not, just could not, did not want to, resist; and, with the arrivance of daylight, a cold Winter’s reality found that small cottage empty. ‘Burrington man disappears without a trace,’ read the small headline on an inside page of the local newspaper, several weeks too late.

O9A


House Of The O9A

O9A
House Of The O9A

 

She knew there was something wrong as soon as she entered the house. The dim light; the smell; the damp dilapidation born of decades of neglect. Once, a century or so ago, it must have been a warm, a welcoming, Edwardian family home, detached from its similar neighbours by its own gardens in that street of a seaside town, and built of stone quarried locally with stained leaded glass around the front door and fireplaces in every room and a wooden staircase winding its way to the two upper stories where perhaps several generations of children had slept, dreamed, and happily played.

But now: now, she shivered as he, that man of some thirty years and beginning to bald, led her toward and into a rear room whose large grimy window showed a small overgrown town garden and a Cherry tree whose dying leaves seemed reluctant to fall even though a cold November wind swayed them violently to and fro. And looking, seeing, feeling, how those leaves seemed to so tenaciously still cling to life she, then so young, sensed something that made her recoil from that window. For, although she did not yet know that every room in that house concealed a body – each in various stages of decomposition or mummification – she felt in that moment their torment (their death, decay) singing, reaching, out to her.

She should have been next, for her room – upstairs – was ready with sheets and shroud freshly starched; but she had in her listening to their soft lamenting voices turned that few seconds required to see him lunging toward her, a long hunting knife in his hand. Then, somehow, in some way, he was gasping; awed – as his face and eyes showed – by her sudden movement, with the blood of his life spraying out from his chest. For in her turning and in her life-affirming strength she had caught and deflected his arm sufficient for the blade to be pointed inward upon himself. She stood back, then, to watch his falling and the life draining from him. And when, not long after, he was dead with that now bloodied knife sticking out of his chest she felt she heard some ghostly chorus singing of their thanks.

She left him there, as seemed only fitting, quietly closing the front door as she walked slowly away out in the last fading sunlight of that November day knowing what it was that she must do and where she must now live.

A year later that same English seaside town found her, returned from her worldwide travels. Still young in appearance – although not in her eyes – she might have gone unnoticed as she athletically ran along the promenade that, for over a mile, skirted the bay then at that hour on that day home to a calmful sea of a late October high tide. Might have gone unnoticed, were it not for the fact that her pink running attire, her apparent effortless running style, her lithe body, and her dark hair (gathered by a band and swaying side to side from her slender neck as she ran), garnished a particular type of attention from some men, and from the occasional woman. She did not mind this attention – even enjoyed it, given her new persona – and she was nearing the end of that morning run, slowing down as passed through the nearby park that led to her house, when she saw the attack.

A young man, taking advantage of the deserted park, was grasping the handbag of an elderly woman who refused to let it go. He punched that elderly lady, then kicked her as she fell to the ground.

“I wouldn’t do that,” Ceridwyn said to him.

Startled – for he had not seen nor heard her approach – he stopped, then arrogantly smiled. But she calmly, softly, touched him on his shoulder, the merest touch, and he stooped as if tired, exhausted, before – with his his eyes downturned – he shambled awkwardly away while she, after helping the woman to her feet, continued up that slight slope through the trees that led past the wrought-iron Victorian park gate to her welcoming Edwardian-built home.

Soon the Cherry tree in that small tidy town garden – fructified last December by fresh, and old, compost – might once again be reluctant to give up its leaves, and she would sit, by the window and a warming fire, dreaming of, and planning, new sinister adventures. And she would that evening smile, in her O9A house, thinking of that mugger and the nightmares that would now haunt his dreams for years and years to come. Or maybe, just maybe, she would take him and soon for her third opfer.

O9A
121 yfayen

Source: Sinister Vignettes From The Order of Nine Angles (scheduled for publication Fall 2014 ev)