Things That Go Bump in The Night !

Anál nathrach,

orth’ bháis’s bethad,

do chél dénmha

“The Charm of Making” Merlin or Myddrin.

If you chant this charm, this mantra, in deep voice it sounds pretty damn spooky. I’ll wager that should you and I ever find ourselves sat around a fading camp fire in an isolated spot and I struck up the chanting. You would have the metaphorical hackles on the back of your neck stand up. You might even shit a brick.

There are loads of people who pooh-pooh the paranormal and things that go bump in the night from the safety of their armchair. But once again I’ll wager that many of these, despite their professed rationality, would not go willingly and alone into a supposed haunted house. Also, if they are brave enough to watch horror movies, they might jump from time to time.

The day we arrived here I went down to the river to talk with the korrigans.

“In Breton folklore, a Korrigan ([kɔˈriːɡɑ̃n]) is a fairy or dwarf-like spirit. The word korrigan means “small-dwarf” (korr means dwarf, ig is a diminutive and the suffix an is a hypocoristic). It is closely related to the Cornish word korrik which means gnome. The name changes according to the place. Among the other names, there are korrig, korred, korrs, kores, couril, crion,goric, kornandon, ozigan, nozigan, teuz, torrigan, viltañs, poulpikan, and paotred ar sabad.”

To me it seemed to be the most sensible thing to do, to say hello and to ask their permission to live amongst them. I was ultra-polite and “spoke” from my heart.

Over the weeks which followed we encountered various ward off charms around the house at “entry points”. These were left by the previous owner a practising catholic, there is even a place where the sun has bleached the outline of her crucifix into the wallpaper. When we were looking for houses out in the Breton countryside, we on occasion noted witch marks, inscribed to ward off bad witches. To a man with north wales blood, this seems perfectly natural.

So, what we profess and how we behave or respond may differ markedly. People like the sound of their own voice.

We were having some odd occurrences here, so I went around the house wearing my insignia and with a smudge stick smouldering. There was something up on the top floor in one of the attics which I encouraged to leave.  When I got into the vide sanitaire, a kind of basement, the smudge stick burst into flame. Residual methane or something that goes bump in the night? I did a deep cleanse.

I mentioned before that my personality is seventh ray. I like planning…

Here is the technique of integration as per The Tibetan.

Ray Seven

  ” ‘I seek to bring the two together. The plan is in my hands. How shall I work? Where lay the emphasis? In the far distance stands the One Who Is. Here at my hand is form, activity, substance, and desire. Can I relate these and fashion thus a form for God? Where shall I send my thought, my power the word that I can speak?

‘I, at the center, stand, the worker in the field of magic. I know some rules, some magical controls, some Words of Power, some forces which I can direct. What shall I do? Danger there is. The task that I have undertaken is not easy of accomplishment, yet I love power. I love to see the forms emerge, created by my mind, and do their work, fulfil the plan and disappear. I can create. The rituals of the Temple of the Lord are known to me. How shall I work?

 ‘Love not the work. Let love of God’s eternal Plan control your life, your mind, your hand, your eye. Work towards the unity of plan and purpose which must find its lasting place on earth. Work with the Plan; focus upon your share in that great work.’

The word goes forth from soul to form: ‘Stand in the center of the pentagram, drawn upon that high place in the East within the light which ever shines. From that illumined center work. Leave not the pentagram. Stand steady in the midst. Then draw a line from that which is without to that which is within and see the Plan take form.’ “

For a period of months, when I got home from my day job teaching science and had eaten, I would light five candles in the shape of pentagram within a circle as per the famous Leonardo da Vinci diagram. I entered from the East and lay down in perfect alignment. I would then mediate and do the Toltec Dreaming practice prone on the floor for around 40 minutes. The candles had to be lit in sequence. When I was finished, I left the pentagram by the East and then extinguished the candles in reverse order. It has to be ceremonial or it does not work.

I’ll wager than none of my colleagues ever imagined that I was doing this.

{After all they knew me so very well and understood all my motives perfectly…}

If you think about it things like graduation ceremonies are forms of ritual magic. A whole bunch of geezers dress up in fancy robes and then process up to a stage like in my case The Royal Albert Hall. The initiates of higher education walk through those about to receive their degrees. There is a master or mistress of ceremonies and some big wig hands out the degrees. Ritual magic is everywhere, just look at the funny wigs in the UK courts. The gavel…you get my drift.

If the world can be explained only by science, as it currently stands, there are no things which go bump in the night. They are illogical and figments, they do not exist.

As a thought experiment:

How strong is your faith?

Would you walk in a graveyard at night?

Would you come with me into a haunted basement?

If I sounded the charm of making and the Dragon’s Breath began to manifest, what would you do?

A Visitation?

In the early hours of this morning, I had an experience which was a bit like a dream but not a dream.

It is to an extent continuing now. There is a presence.

A came to visit, I have spoken to her once in 12 years and that was when she rang me out of the blue to say that someone else, J, had died.

The sense is that A has passed away and fairly recently so. She has come visit to apologise for the part she played in some kind of pact over a decade ago. She has brought J with her though he is much fainter having passed longer.

Through her I can see a meeting in which she and J are sat with two other people I know / knew. In that meeting shenanigans are afoot.

This is not the first time I have had “visits” like this.

My grandfather came to check out how I was doing, no sense of guilt in him only curiosity.

Theoretically it is not the reincarnating Ego or Soul that visits, it is the remnants of one of the lower vehicles still tenuously connected to the Soul and imbued by it. The more form obsessed a being is the longer it lingers in the in between.

At death we cut the crap and see all our BS and wrongdoings for what they are so that we can “plan” our next birth. The Soul wants to work off karma even if the personality does not.

I’ll look out for an obituary to see if this experience has any reality to it.

Hmm  weird start to the day.


Sometimes, if we are prone to internal dialogue or feel guilty about something, we may have trouble going off to sleep.


When the pillow-monster


And the dream-walker



What heinous phantasm this

which walks the stairwells

and corridors of my slumber?


‘tis but thy conscience sire

though near mortal wounded, he.


Must he limp, my chamber

each and every night?


No sire.

He hates to see you lonesome

and would comfort thee.

He knows your yearning deep.


Magician, rid me of this

noisome pest!!


Sire, so great my powers

are they not.

To kill the dream-walker

would be your very end.

He takes your hand

the final ball, unto.


Give me opium

for him to banish!

Give me wine

in which to drown!


Nay sire, ‘twill not work

must him again

to trust

and welcome,

that gash in him to heal.


My nightly terror would then begone?


Aye sire.

Dream-walkers speak oft

most gentle whispers

to welcome ears.



slay this sayer of sooth,

this man of bilious tooth!


Sire, be wise

for not one but two


will visit hence,

‘tis my promise, true.


When the pillow-monster


And the dream-walker


The Hooded Man

hunting echoes

in a canyon

with a ceremonial



wearing an overcoat

of shadows

belonging to

someone else


seeking a river’s tears

under a willow tree

being coy with carp

and an egret


wobbling with

the newborn deer

in ignorance grass

on poppy meadows


where remembering

brings no opium

not for ghosts

or djinns


counting cherry stones

piled in perfect balance

a heap of Sakurai

in the making


a sandwich of Satori

rice paper fine

and as delicate

as dew


the dawn chases away

echoes and shadows

and walks daisies,

petal footsteps in the stream


tickling toes between

washing scales

as the sunlight



the mists yawn

the trees sway

dancing mirror ponds

shimmer sequins


the stars stretch

their cosmic arms

teasing the hair

of night’s sky


and now even echoes

chime no more

Pie Jesu in the snow

as a lamb sings


frolicking with buttercups

and dents-de-lions

shorn of shadow coats

and now naked


no more soul

to clothe him

not now

not ever


the land of shadows

fades misty fast

without meals

or succour


and diamond eyed,

glinting galaxies,

he pulls up his cowl

the hooded man


… … hunts no more

Off the Edge of the World

in the world of

couldn’t possibly be

there are rules



they do not countenance

remnants and ghosts

faint echoes from another



it’s a sphere

don’t you know

people don’t just fall

off the edge of the world


the disappeared

and the vanished

are in the news

still haunting


the void, the space




and then one fine day

he too

fell off the edge of the world