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That which has No Life
anneelter
Like many people I have been fascinated with the Occult since a young age. I began my journey into the Occult a bumbling fool, having tried to sell my soul to the Devil at least three times to no avail at the age of seven. No luck, I suppose he does not want it. And blood writing did not tempt him either. 

The closest I have come to an Occult experience happened around that time in the basement of my best friends who lived next door. There was always something foreboding about that house, a sinister presence seemed to lurk just beyond the veil of suburban normalcy, permeating throughout the open design of the late 80's family home. Whatever it was that was there, the uncanny, the fantastic, that preternarural feeling of dread was all consuming, and the efforts of the mother of my best friends to keep the house tidy did little to scrub away that feeling of deep grime and decay.

Before my best friends lived there lived a family with a very sick infant. He was born with the contents of his abdominal cavity on the outside of his body, and his cries at night could be heard in our house. This is what my parents told me. Maybe that sick child attracted a malevolent force which became attached to the house. Even now, my best friends having long since moved away, the house sickens me. 

We always feared the basement, feared and respected it. And we always played in the basement. It had all the toys a child could wish for in a clean, open space that was perfect for young minds to exercise their imaginations. Cleaning up after games was a strict rule we abided, even though the home my brother and I lived in was messy. 

That force taunted us to clean its besmirched presence I know. It took us one day by surprise. I suggested to my brother and our two friends that we play at a seance. So we turned out the lights, sat on the ground cross-legged and took each other's hands in our own. I knew little of the rules for such a game, but those actions seemed fitting for a fledgling Occultist. I expected nothing to happen, having been let down by the Occult many times before. I was wrong. We all were, and I will never forget that lesson it taught me.
 

Suddenly we started chanting. "White Woman, White Woman, show us your face." Over and over until I felt like the room was spinning, all in synchrony and without provocation or planning. How did we all know the words, and to intone them so deeply in our chests as we did. We chanted on and on, the room spinning, and the grips on each others hands becoming tighter and tighter.

Then it came from around the corner. A large, seven-foot tall apparition floating just above the ground. The White Woman! She floated slowly and serenely, opaque white with a veil covering her face. She would not show us her face. Suddenly I screamed, the game had gone horribly wrong, and just as fast as she came she was gone.

My friend, who I told the story to at the age of 25, suggested that the White Woman was a Cherub, sent to ward away an evil spirit bent on our corruption. Whatever it was that we saw, we will never forget how that sinister force took over our bodies and minds. Who knows what would have happened had I not interrupted the chanting  "White Woman, White Woman, show us your face."


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