Page 87 of The Witching Hours

No table.

No chairs.

No graffiti.

I wondered what had happened to the black paint defacing the walls. I doubted David and Molly had painted over the vandalism. If they hadn’t, it meant that the entities attempting to communicate could create and withdraw graphic messages at will. That was both interesting and unique in the sense that I hadn’t heard of it before.

Looking out the back living room windows I spied the dining furniture. Not only were the dining table and chairs set up in the backyard, but the table was set for a dinner party to begin any minute. A pink linen tablecloth sat under china, crystal, and silver that had probably been passed down to Molly and was probably never used.

On impulse I decided to see what would happen if I threw something into the middle of the dining room. My purse was still dangling from my shoulder. I reached in and felt keys, but rejected using them as a test. Continuing to feel around I fingers touched lipstick.Lipstick!Yes.

I pulled it free and tossed it up into the center of the room so that it came to within a couple of feet of the ten-foot ceiling. It promptly fell to the hardwood floor with a clatter. Honestly, I was relieved. I liked that lipstick.

“Hmmm.” I said to myself suddenly wishing Wolf was with me. Talking to oneself is so much easier to explain when your cat companion is nearby.

I could’ve shown myself through the entire house, but deemed it a poor use of my time. We knew where the disturbance originated. That meant I knew where to set up shop.

Returning for the train case, I rolled it toward the dining room. When the house was built, the dining room was probably a wholly contained room connected to the living room by a door. It was my guess that some previous owner had decided to remove most of the wall that once separated the two rooms and leave in its place an open archway about eight feet in width.

I opened my train case on top of a pleather ottoman in the living room and took out the supplies I felt moved to use. My next step was, arguably, the most important part of my process. Silencing my phone. 911 wouldn’t be useful anyway.

The middle of the dining room floor became the site of my circle, which I drew in salt leaving the ring open a few inches. I set white candles inside the circle at cardinal points.

After a few phone calls that morning, I’d found a florist who had an asphodel plant in full bloom with white flowers. Asphodel is the flower of the underworld. Of course, it would be premature to say that I was dealing with creatures from the underworld but it might be useful and there was no downside. Spirits dedicated to the light wouldn’t be offended. Spirits dedicated to shadow would be flattered. If the opportunity presented itself, I could use the asphodel as a gift, or olive branch, or prelude to peace treaty, or all three bundled.

When I set the asphodel at the western point of the circle closest to the wall, the house tilted toward that side. I stumbled a little, but caught my balance. Looking around, I could see that nothing had changed except my perspective. The house was on a twenty-degree tilt, but the water in the clear flower vase on the living room table was level. The magazine on the credenza by the front door had not slid away. The non-functioning drapes that hung at each end of the bank of living room windows werevertical. Looking down, I saw that the candles hadn’t moved and even the crystal grains of Irish sea salt were undisturbed by a gravity that, apparently, was for me and me alone.

In short, it looked like the tilt was all in my mind.

“Hmmm,” I said again. “Very interesting.”

As if in acknowledgement of my pronouncement, the house returned to normal.

Okay.

Last items to be added before I closed my circle and lit the candles were my two dragon chalices, a bottle of absinthe, my rosewood wand, matches (which I prefer over wand lighters), a small copper bowl, a small notepad, and a very ornate pen that I consecrated for use only in magickal workings years before.

Simple but brilliant. I had spiritual armor for personal protection in the form of salt and my Eye of Horus necklace, space protection in my salt circle, a ‘phone’ line in the form of candles, gifts of absinthe and asphodel, and the ability to cast on the fly with my wand, notepad, pen, and fire.

My methodology is my own, forged in years of experimentation to find out what approach is harmonious to my unique vibration and relationship to the earth plane. Experimentation to discover one’s unique approach is also the method I teach. What is learned by rote is useless in magick. What is learned by experience is invaluable. Even the workings outlined in my Master Grimoire are not understood by me as inerrant scripture. I make at least one change to everything I touch because customized magick is the only magick that actually works.

As I stood up straight to survey my handiwork, I thought I saw movement in my periphery. When I turned my head, I gasped a little and jumped back because there was a large leather book floating just inches from my face. Apparently, someonewanted me to read the title because it was oriented correctly. It was a good thing I’d jumped back because at my age I either had to put on glasses or establish a little distance to read.

What Dreams May Come.

It was a novel about a journey through hell, among other things. Like communication with discarnate entities often is, the context-free message was so vague it was useless. Was it threat, intimidation, or just a parlor trick to get my attention?

I had to fight the impulse to swipe it away and, when I say fight, I mean I had to exercise some considerable self-discipline. There’s something irritating, if not downright offensive, about objects defying gravity and floating in the air. When I turned away, demonstrating that I intended to simply leave it there, it fell to the floor unceremoniously.

Splat!

Huh.

Bending down to pick it up, I admired the quality of the leather and the gilded page edges from a bygone era of beautiful books. It seemed unlikely that a young, struggling family had invested in such a collectible.

Setting it aside on a nearby table, I entered the circle being careful not to disturb the salt, set the copper bowl on a marble pentagram plaque, and closed the circle by pinching the salt grains into the ring formed with their brethren.

I turned three times clockwise saying, “Circle be. East to west. Hallowed home. All are blest. Circle be. South to north. Veil pierce, bring magick forth. Circle be, Holy Mound. Sacred seal, round and round.”

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