Friday, January 30, 2015


A being of flesh, with no spirit, would be a sea squirt, or perhaps a mushroom. While a being of spirit, minus flesh, would be naught but an on-going dream. A combination of the two is necessary, at least in our material world and spirits have sought out flesh since the beginning. 

Jonathon has attracted such an entity. Some call them hungry ghosts. Indeed, Johnny Jump Up, our resident ghoul, was one such manifestation. But he is gone, or as gone as disembodied souls can be. While the other one is not.

Imagine life with no sensation. Well, there is sight, or something like it. But even hearing is compromised. What comes through is more a knowledge of the sound in question, rather than the actual frequency. Would you like to have vivid, detailed dreams about char-broiled steaks without ever eating one?

Spirits are everywhere. Most are departed human souls desperate to come back. Others are something else. Beings get lost. There are rips in the fabric of creation. And if they quickly disappear, there's still that instant when they're there. That's when things fall through. Often they pass from one spiritual realm to another. But sometimes they wind up here... and then we have to deal with them.

Let me share a story from the past. A noble family from Normandy, or Brittany, or some such place, possessed of three stout castles, each on its own rich barony, had a son. And when he was of an age to learn the knightly arts they placed him with a neighboring landholder, who gave him, as squire, to a truly chivalrous knight, so that he might learn. Things went well for the first three fortnights. The boy had a good grasp of armory and how to care for it. And he was quite adept at mucking out stalls. Horse turds are not merely discarded, but must be carefully gathered and set aside to feed all manner of vegetables and corn (medieval word for 'grain'). The noble youth had a special talent for doing that. But one day, as he greased his mentor's broadsword, he was cut... a rather deep wound right by the second knuckle of his second finger, on the side where it meets the first. Please know I speak of the left hand. And as he'd earlier been shit sorting, his hands were none to sweet. Therein lies the rub, for it is well known that shit and blood don't mix. The former comes from God, while the later belongs to Satan. Four nights hence the youth was dead. Well the fleshly parts were dead, but the spirit part lived on. Indeed, it beat the meaty parts home by two days. 

One night, as the baron tarried with his concubines (there was no accepted term for them, but that's what they were) a shade appeared by the bed. The plump, naked girl eeked like a mouse and cowered beneath the coarse, rough sheets. But her master knew the ghost-thing standing there and sat up. He blinked. He stammered. He said - Geoffrey, is that you?..... For nine heartbeats there was nothing. Remember, this was a new ghost and new ghosts take time to draw themselves up... though, finally, the ghost said - Aye, father. I am dead. Laid low by Shit-In-Blood disease.... Then the ghost just stood there..... His father shuttered, and whispered - I will make you whole..... Within minutes, a serf was brought forth... a second son, for even the lowly deserve an heir. The castle alchemist quickly dispatched him with three deft thrusts... one to the groin... one to the spleen... one to the neck. And as he lay dying, the father said - Make haste, Geoff. Inhabit the wretch!... So the ghostly youth, familiar with this country remedy, slipped into the bloody innards. And even for a spirit, divorced from actual sensation, that which came through, by whatever means was far from pleasant.

The alchemist sprinkled the ninety nine percent dead serf boy (maybe one hundred percent... who knew?) with a vial of the finest aquavite (Scots whiskey) brought all the way from Cawdor, as he mumbled old, Pictish incantations. All the while, the father screamed - MOVE, boy! DO SOMETHING! Show us YOUR PRESENCE!... They all waited... the father... the plump, naked concubine... the alchemist... plus a few nervous men-at-arms. Maybe there was a wench (servant girl) or two moving among them. That, I do not know.

But presently the ruined corpse began to move... not much, though subtle differences were detected. The quiver of a lip... A trembling foot... A soft, oily fart.

The father rose from the bed, wrapped in its sheets, the better to preserve his baronial dignity (though leaving the naked concubine quite exposed) and knelt by the mess on the floor. The alchemist cleared his throat and said - Master, we must get on..... The baron nodded. Then the in-house 'scientist' yelled - Bring in 'the host!'..... Eight heartbeats later another terrified serf was produced (I suppose he'd been waiting all this time). They tore off his rags and threw him down on the cold, stone floor.....

The incarnation would go on.....

< this passage was included to illustrate the rich lore of spirits and what might be done to 're-house' them... more next time>


learn more... google Vampire Wonderland by Billy Kravitz... but first, before you click, ad a word... ANY word... then click... see where it takes you.... bon voyage.

click ANCIENT TALES to join me on Twitter.
please COMMENT. tell others and thank you for your support.

No comments: