*STORY: The Never Ceasing Front Line

I am but an elderly caretaker of this ancient cathedral in Cannes, Belgium. And I know some of these details will only degrade my credibility, but I want to be honest to my experience of these events, especially if I do not make it through the night. After my duties preparing the church for the "ICUC: International Conference of Unified Churches" were completed on June 21st, 2023, I retired to the steeple, an open-air space left by where the church bell once hung, as I had many times before. I then took a 30 mg dose of Psilocybin to relax and meditate. Of course I could hear the voices of the attendees gathering below, but I also became aware of other voices loud and clear in this open-air 'room' where I was.

I saw no bodies to go with these voices, at first.

Eventually I started to make out, through slight glimmers and shapes of light, there seemed to be a table around which was seated mostly male figures with candles and papers laid out across the table before them. A couple of times, at first, I sensed what felt like glances from their eyes as well. But I settled to the floor in the corner of this room and held as still as I could as I listened, and tried to discern any more visual details.

A prominent voice rang out, it was weird, but I could only hear it if I listened with a certain part of my brain. "Our most foundational accomplishment in the last 500 years was to make them believe that there is not a constant war for their world."

Another voice added on, "And I think THAT understanding is crucial for us to be able to keep soaking our messaging, unnoticed, through the West-- especially the so called Christian culture."

"Post-Christian!" Another voice. A pause followed the stern exclamation. "I worked hard for that status. It vexes me when none of you remember that."

A few moments later the commentary continued as before.

"Anyways, we cannot put them on edge by letting them recognize us."

Another voice: "The brilliance which allowed this was when Succubus made 'Love' such a single-faceted concept in English and the West; now so many complexities are simplified into that word every time it slips off their tongue. Since they have simplified the "God is love" concept, This makes no reason good enough to fight a war over, for that would not be loving." There was a smile in this voice's tone. "And tolerance becomes important above all else, so that no one feels 'unloved'," The word was spoken in mocking elongation.

"Our ways are only now being allowed to be spoken again, and tolerated in their culture, at least in America."

I started to recognize the different voices as they spoke more.

"Since how long?-- for my records. I'm taking some notes"

"Well, I'd say we were silenced, of course in the enlightenment, as were most spiritual campaigns, but," and then with disgust, "the Great Awakening, as they call it, made any mention of us anathema in any sort of public square."

"Anyway, I've seen our symbols and sacred tools and things finally being allowed into mainstream culture. No more witch hunts. You can find clothing with pentagrams and third eyes in storefront windows. Might I say some cultures in Christianity even invite it."

"In the name of tolerance, that is, I put forth to the note-taker again."

Then another voice rose, "I have even seen a tarot deck being sold as a form of Christian meditation, and hearing from God."

"Well it is, hearing from god." This was said with a smirk. "It's just not always from the god they're expecting to hear from." Followed by a chuckle that stayed inside the throat.

"I feel very unseen." Said a woman's voice. "Does no one acknowledge how, in South America I almost completely replaced Catholicism with pagan sorcery, nearly a century ago?!"

"It is not fully Witchy, you Asshole." Said the other female voice. "It is not true Paganism if they still cannot step brazenly into the town square in the ritual robes."

I listened to the conversation go on like this for perhaps an hour. At some point during this time my hand fell from my lap to the floor and was pricked on an exposed nail. I clasped it and thought it had gone unnoticed.

But at some point they said, "What shall we do with this one?" There was silence and I caught glimmers of rings moving on hands and the rustle of the turning of leather coats in such a way that I had the very powerful impression they were all looking over at me. "We could do so much with just a drop of his old putrid blood."

"There it is, he has pricked himself on a nail. I love when they do it to themselves.

"Not putrid. Glorious."

It was then I scrambled to leave. But as I turned over to crawl out I realized I was still very dizzy from the drugs. And I took a moment to steady myself before I carried on. But that is the last thing I remember before I woke up, 3am I believe it was. I was extremely dehydrated and incredibly weak. I was on my stomach. I found my pants around my ankles and my shirt unbuttoned. I found several inch-long slices in my skin just big enough to harvest a bit of blood, perhaps, and one long slice just under my ribcage. I managed to gain my bearings enough to climb down from the rafters, drink some of the holy water from the basin, and walk home. And that is where I write this now. Upon looking in the mirror I saw a pentagram written in blood across my face and doodles of childish stick figures doing perverse things on my chest. And my skin is so pale. I found a rope with a noose already tied into it in my jacket pocket. I drew a fire in my fireplace to immediately burn it, but I find strange impulses drawing me to put my hands, feet and even head into the flames. I wish I hadn't taken the hallucinogenic, I feel I would have mastery of much more of my wits.

I am feeling weak, so if I do not survive, may this writing endure to serve preventing of these forces from doing the same quietly, or perhaps brazenly, to the rest of the human race.

---

Raw Spoon, March 7, 2025