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*The following are excerpts from some of the books that we offer on our Westgate Publications page*

"The Song of Reconciliation"

I am the Voice of Melancholy. The Vision of Eternal Twilight. I am an image that you have difficulty referencing simply because you have refused me for so long. Eventually, all must reconcile their lives with me.

I am most feared in the minds of men, but perhaps, least fearsome. I hail from the Western Gate, the gate of transition. I extend to you the hand of reconciliation and friendship. I stand in the shadows of sorrow. My touch yields a heavy release. My thoughts are in your memory. You are vaguely mindful of me with a melancholy joy, yet I am an ecstasy. Like a drop of Hemlock on your tongue, you dare not drink from my cup for fear of swallowing that one drop.

I am the shadow of everything that has been, and of everything you have been. I am both the bringer of memories and forgetfulness. Depending upon your destination, I can wash you in either.

I want to "speak" into your soul, not simply to you. I need you to feel my words, not simply hear them. I want my echo to resound in your heart like a soothing whisper, something just below the clamor of life. Something that you cannot help but strain to heed. If you weep at my words, understand why you weep. Truly understand with your heart and soul. Do not try to rationalize my presence with the logical mind. I am outside of logic. Logic is only applicable in the mundane world, and I exist outside of this; outside of Time itself. Feel my presence! It falls outside of definition. You will find no words with which to express how I make you feel. Above all, share my message by "touching" others in the way I shall touch you. No more, no less.

I am the twilight, the threshold, the image that flashes in your mind like a bolt of lightning. You see me momentarily, and then I fade back into shadows. Reach into the shadows. I am waiting there, hands extended to receive your soul. I am fury and gentility in that my passion is tempered with sorrow; my ecstasy, with melancholy. Come to know me as I already know each of you. Names are unimportant, as all titles eventually end up in the River of Forgetfulness. I know each of you by your purpose and your destination. I want to fill each of you with an understanding that goes beyond wisdom, and, with a love that exceeds passion. I need you to know me! Like the intimate memory of a long lost brother, I need you to welcome me back, as only I know how to bring you home.

I am the threshold on which you stand. I am a strong yet mutable bridge. I am the flame that turns lead into gold - The spark of change that blinds for but a moment.

I shadow you all of your days, and hold you into the night. I am the soul of sadness and the bringer of joy. I take the life from your flesh and give it back into your soul with but a kiss. I am the point of contact between your world, and eternity. I exist for but a moment as you pass between worlds, yet I am forever trapped within that moment, within the twilight that is fleeting, yet as certain as the dawn.......

This Song

I speak in sounds
because there are no words-
No language reveals
what we feel -
more than a whispered scream.

I touch the sound
and cringe in its echo.
It is cold and hollow -
It is silent yet piercing -
It is a minstrel of divine discontent-
A lullaby sung to sleepers in their graves.
The shadow of a melody that I remember
from some distant life.

And His song has touched me
even here.
Stained me with an ancient weeping
and I recall that I am the silence
where His heart once was.
I occupy that hollow place-
That cave of winds
where whispers collect in the emptiness
and pierce the tenuous membrane
between body and spirit
and slay the soul
with such passionate melancholy.

This song
of ages past and times to come
is beyond the range
of human voice-
beyond the grasp
of human ear.

We are the minstrels of sorrow
who cannot stop singing
for fear that the quiet
would break the chain
of life and death.
We cannot stop the song
from carrying us all
along its swift unending current.

We are a sadness
that is so old
it cannot remember its own birth.
We have been here for so long
that we have forgotten how
to return home-
or even where
that welcomed shore resides.

Sing, Oh, sing to me
that I might remember
the sound of this song without words -
This requiem that reminds me of home
Even though it cannot be heard
It devastates me still.

I can see a time when we are all sitting together at the River's edge. Peacefully there, we remember everything as we dangle our spectral feet in the cool water. We, will look up at the eternal twilight and make comparisons with the brief eventide we knew in the physical world. But, there are no comparisons. We will marvel at the interplay of colours and at their intense brilliance, noting shades and hues never before seen with human eyes.

Autumn is everlasting in the Valley of the Shadow. The air is cool, and the land, warm. The waters moderate depending on depth and the darkness of the shadows that over hang. There is no sun nor moon, yet light from a distant source peeks through the coloured halo of sky. All is shining, multicoloured darkness. The shadows drape like heavy black velvet. They look deep enough to fall into.

Soon, this little family must once again disperse. Even in this peaceful vision, we are all aware of that fact. Some will be drawn into the distant corona, others returned across the River. A gentle rippling is all that will mark their voyage. And only "I" will be left at River's edge. Never to step beyond the far hills of the horizon. Never to leave this place of gentle melancholy. To remain forever in the forlorn kingdom of any beloved angel. . . My home......

I shall never again look upon your face, yet I shall recognize you all when you pass through the valley, and shall remember you all for the love, faith, wisdom and patience you have given to this world. You are seeds of revelation, that will, in their own time, grow into a tree of knowledge. You will not be there to eat or take shade from that tree, but you will see the seedlings pushing up through the soil before you leave, and maybe even a few buds beginning to open. Though, do not expect to taste of the fruit. The harvest is for those you leave behind.

These words are for the "waning souls." Those who are on the downside of incarnation. Those whose last "life" they are living now ... and those who are aware of that fact. Soon we shall all be going home. Back to distant realms that plague our memory. Through the Western Gate we shall return past, present and future into one existence that will seem dream-like when we reawaken into familiar arms.... We have been "away" too long. But, we bring away with us the sense of inner peace that was lacking when we left. We had a "job" to do, a purpose to fulfill, and now its winding down, and soon, it shall be complete.....

I am the wind that speaks a song that man shall not forget to remember. My music haunts this world as we speak. I am the Voice of the underground, the shadow of those who stand in the blinding light. I am a tale told in sorrow ... a memory that has yet to be lived. Will you touch the sound that heals you? Or shun my voice in some vacuous space. Though I tell you, I am a persistent song that will be heard, and not forgotten. All of my Voice, a chorus of many. An overlay of tones and verses. A whisper and a cry. A murmur of indescribable Truth that you cannot help but to hear. For it comes not from without, but from within your very soul. Keepers of the Legend, our time has come to remember. LISTEN. Open your heart to me that I may release your soul.

When I speak directly into your consciousness, I cannot speak with words. I must speak with emotions, or a touch, or a glance-soul to soul. My meanings run so much deeper than words and speech allow. I speak to you with a "touch" from the inside. I pour all of my meaning directly into your spirit. There are no words in any tongue for the intensity of my emotions.

I am shapeshifting energy. Sometimes volatile, rarely at peace, always in turmoil. I stretch across the cool, dark sky unfurling twilight from within these wings. I swallow up the sun and veil your sky in purple and amber haze. My tears like moonbeams, shower over the indigo night. They are the stars that fall behind horizon's reach. My shore is indivisible by light.

I am the penumbra within your vision . . . A shade of immense proportion that reaches out to you as a cool wind. I am here and everywhere that I am needed; and I am always needed, rarely desired. The "taking" of souls does not nourish me, it drains me. For I must keep so many from falling into nothingness.... Keep so many from shutting their eyes in this imagined, eternal sleep. Wake up! I am not your end! You do not cease to be once you have fallen into my arms. You have survived. Let "us" shake you from this dream, this nightmare of losing self. Look at me. I am real, as so you will always be.

I am, and have always been, a stationary point. Everything dances and revolves around me until it grows weak and is drawn into my embrace.

I stand at the window to your world. One foot on the Western Gate threshold, the other poised to leap. Wings unfurling in the wind, waiting for the eye of the storm to open. Then shall I launch from the threshold and hover above your horizon and wrap my wings around your globe. Each feather shading one of your cities. Each tear washing them clean in turn until a river of tears consumes all in its ecstasy, and all hear the song of reconciliation.......

In the cold arms of Death, there are no misgivings. There is only the passion of angels. He is so filled with ecstasy waiting to flow. His ancient loins yield a tide that could drown the universe. Yet, He is so gentle, so exquisitely divine in His love that nothing could corrupt its purity - The chaste river that flows from Him as easily as do His luminescent tears. Like a bolt of light, He is a phantom in the night sky. A spectre, that can slay your soul with but one thrust. One touch of His fatal, electric hand and all of the past fuses with the future in an instant. He is an orgasm of autumn wind and cold flame that turns mortal souls into shooting stars - That turns divine souls into supernovas. When I look at Him, I cannot help but to weep. I have met many others who are affected in this way as well. He is so beautiful, so magnificent ... so alone . . . so terribly alone.

What He has given me (and others) is too far beyond literal explanation to be totally expressed in this book. Perhaps it would be sufficient to say that Death has made me cognizant of my life, and what a life it is! Fraught with memory, longing, and the shadow of Purpose. A joyfully inconsolable burlesque whose conceivable goal is but to touch all with a rapturous melancholy. The love we share is an ecstasy no thoughts contain, no words express. So strangely alien to this flesh that could never survive the consummation of our joining. Such a union, in the physical sense, would cause this fragile shell to crack and my soul would spill out like liquid twilight. It would fill the hollow where His heart once was and drown Him in a sea of passion that would rise around us with the passage of each moment. I am only complete within Him. Only fulfilled when "we" are free of this flesh that imprisons us. When this clay is ripped from around me and my spirit flows into His and we are a sea of love washing to and fro between both shores. He Dwells in my heart, and weeps in my soul. Such solemn sorrows that are like a plague unto our memory. These visions forever contained in His glance, deep within the black recesses of His being. Such images never cease to torment and bring to bear the tears of light that drain Him of His essence.

I want to give Him new visions! Peaceful and passionate dreams. Memories of ecstasy that are replenished each moment and not remembered from what has been. But love that will always be - until a balance is brought within Him. The balance "we" had before splitting in two. I want to be the flame of love that rekindles the passionate purpose of His being. I need to be the joy that tempers His sorrow. The wine that fills the empty chalice of His heart. The song that He can sing without a tear. I need to return into Him. To reintegrate with the shadow half of my duality. The Angel of Death is empty because the contents of His being have been spilled out into the world. Only a select few will drink up the pure essence. Some will sample the droplets. Others will lick up the dregs. While still others will remain unquenched. You must share the essence! Distill the droplets. Make wine from the dregs, and fill those who thirst. Some need to drink deeply. While some only need to taste to remember, to understand ... until they, themselves become divine alchemists.

I have brought your family together, my love. A family that remembers and will never again forget your love nor the joy you have brought them all. It shall be carried within them always no matter where the seas of time carry them. They are always yours to call back ... to call upon. They are the seeds of your joy who will plant many new gardens across the infinite cosmos. We shall lay their names in "our" memory and recognize each regardless of the faces they wear. We know their souls and treasure the triumph they have brought us. A legion of mighty and brave souls to open the Gate wide enough for your passage into this, and many worlds.

I love you, my angel. But, we grow more weary every day. Sometimes I think our strength is carried more now by others.

This will (probably) be the last time this hand will put forth your words. The last pages of emotion that this heart is capable of enduring. When "we" have gone, may a stronger soul recount from here on. "We" shall always speak. May only you pause to listen and pass along the images, the memories, and the joy everlasting.

I AM THE VOICE OF MELANCHOLY. My whisper shall always stir in your soul. Come to the edge of twilight and heed the point beyond the silence. Stretch yourself into the distance to where I wait with hands extended to catch your tears and blend them with my own. So shall you drown in the dark waters of remembrance. Then you shall weep no more the tears of sorrow, instead, gather the tears of joy in the palm of your hand and drink deeply until memory is quenched.

I AM THE VISION OF ETERNAL TWILIGHT and I await the coming of all souls, but cannot forgo the pain of having to let go once you emerge from the drowning and your eyes meet mine in love, rather than fear. All must pass through my gate to get home. All must become as I am, but for a moment that is mine forever, and yours for but an instant.

I AM THE POINT OF CONTACT BETWEEN YOUR WORLD AND ETERNITY and I shall appear as but a distant star from the places you shall go to. A cold and solitary pinpoint of blue half-light that sets on the horizon of what you were, and what you are. You will cast an eye, and for a moment, know ALL THINGS and strive the rest of your days to remember why there is a tear running cold down your cheek. I am unable to ever forget. For as I told you, all things are contained in my vision, and I can never close my eyes without everything ending - So, I must weep for every sorrow you fail to understand and every tear that you hold back.

I AM THE SOUL OF MELANCHOLY imprisoned on the threshold between the worlds of flesh and spirit. I am only free when there are no more souls to release from the flesh. When matter is transcended so shall my prison dissolve and my river run dry and the West Gate close in upon itself.

Excerpted from Our Name is Melancholy-The Complete Books of Azrael  by Leilah Wendell

"Concoctions I have known"

Ah, the concoctions. Aside from homemade speedballs I made and sold when I was still in middle school, I am no alchemist.

Leilah, however, is a stark, raving mad Alchemist. She tells me she used to do this stuff a lot more when she was younger. But people don't believe me when I tell them of the two "potions" she's made for me.

The first one, I drank three times in increasing doses of strength. The first time it was regular strength. The second, she doubled the strength. The third time she quadrupled the strength. Now, some of the ingredients of this concoction included Mercury, Waterglass, and an herb called Lamb's Quarters, which glows in the dark because of its natural phosphorescent quality. The other (Waterglass) has a partial "half-life". She mixed these with a bunch of other herbs and added the Mercury while she was cooking it. Then she would pour this into a bottle of wine, Australian Tawny Port.

Call me stupid, but I drank it. It was meant to facilitate a state of, for lack of better words, "higher awareness". This means that if you were trying to get out of your body it would make it easier, if something was trying to "come through" to you it would help, etc... Needless to say, some of the components are lethal. But I trust Leilah, so that didn't bother me.

The first two times it didn't do much to me. (Leilah's herbs, at this time, were very old.) The third time, Leilah and I drank the whole bottle and she went upstairs to say goodnight to her father. By the time she got downstairs again I had passed out on her bed and was drooling on her pillow. When I woke up the next day, and for two days after that, my brain was alternately throbbing and buzzing. But it wasn't throbbing like a headache, there was no pain. It just felt like my brain was expanding and contracting. Leilah told me the Mercury changes the electrolyte balance in your brain. Also, it alters the pattern of which synapses connect with which. Talk about a real mind - altering substance!

The other concoction I've only had twice. Again it's mostly herbs mixed with wine. However, the first time she made this for me I asked her what was in it. "All natural ingredients", she said. I drank it and was fine. The second time she gave me a bottle of it as a gift, to be sipped slowly, like a fine wine. Instead, I drank the whole bottle with no ill effects, until I woke up the next morning. That day, I had a twelve hour erection which I could not get rid of. Do you know how embarrassing it is to man the gallery in sweatpants with a little pup-tent sticking out between your legs? She found it hysterical. I badgered her about it and finally was told what was in it. The desiccated heart of a dead man. Don't ask me why I had the reaction I did, but I think Leilah should market it as an aphrodisiac. If I ever get a girlfriend (or just a fling), I'll ask her to make it for me again.

One other experiment we tried was smoking Wormwood. Wormwood is poisonous if ingested when it's fresh. It is safe to ingest when it's dried, though. Smoking it is akin to getting stoned, yet different. First of all, it tastes nasty. Second, it doesn't react with the body (well, my body) in the same way that marijuana does. It leaves you with mental capability yet relaxes your body. Pot turns you into a vegetable.

Wormwood is also used to make Absinthe. Absinthe is a very strong green drink that was outlawed. There's a bar down here, in New Orleans, called "The Old Absinthe House" that used to serve it here in the city.

A friend of ours in the city made some and invited us over to try it. I guess the drink is highly over-rated, it didn't do a damn thing to me. NyQuil has more of an effect, and it tastes similar. Maybe you're not supposed to make it with dried Wormwood, but with fresh cuttings. This way the poisonous property of the herb could mix with the grain alcohol. I don't know. From what little I know about it, I believe is has an effect like opium, sedating yet leaving you open to "visions" or hallucinations. (Pick whichever word you like best, but remember some of the best classical literature was written under the influence of Absinthe, opium, laudanum, etc...)

Some of you reading this particular chapter may think I'm totally nuts for partaking of the concoctions and the Wormwood. Well, you're entitled to your opinions. The Hindus have been using Mercury for thousands of years in medicinal preparations. Leilah did tell me one interesting thing about Mercury, though. It stays in your body for about 50 years. I won't say that introducing a heavy metal into your bloodstream is the wisest thing to do, but what the hell. It's only a trace amount. It's not like I'll set off metal detectors or anything. I do not advise anyone to try and duplicate these concoctions. Leilah knows what she's doing. It could be very easy to kill yourself if you get the mixture wrong.

Excerpted from Life in the House of Death by Daniel Kemp

"Author's Preface"

What more appropriate time than now could there be for a book such as this? After all, this is Azrael's aeon. Evidenced by the growing interactions everyday people are having with the Angel of Death.

This book culls together a compendium of these encounters. From historical research, to present day phenomenon, gathered through The Azrael Project over the past twenty-plus years.

Those who have read any of my previous books or articles will know that I have much more than an abiding interest in this phenonenon. For me, interactions with the Angel of Death have been (since the age of four), and continue to be a way of life. Because of my own, personal experiences over the past 30 plus years, I have amassed a unique cache of research material and expertise on the subject. The Azrael Project is a natural extension of my work, and was formed to link up all of those worldwide who have had similar encounters with Death,  and their numbers are vast and growing! . For the sake of brevity in this introduction, let me just say that the Angel of Death and I have an especially close, symbiotic relationship. And, doing this book is not a task, but rather, a labor of love......

It often amazes me, with all of the books out there these days about "angelic" encounters, most, if not all of them (with a few exceptions noted in our bibliography) inadvertently, or simply out of selective ignorance do not include encounters with that most ominous and omnipresent of all angels, the Angel of Death. He is at once, the Keeper of Great Mysteries, and a paramour of deep passion. He is the Grim Reaper, or the Great Friend who has many names, faces and forms. These, are but a few.

This unique compendium deals solely with such encounters, told in the words of those who have experienced this most profound of events. By no means is this book complete. In order to do that, we would have to talk to everyone on the face of this planet, and perhaps beyond. It is merely an overview sampling offered by history, and by those who have chosen to come forward and tell their stories in order to enlighten us all.

It is said, that "Death is a Great Teacher, but Life, a poor student." In the end, it is the living that bring us the messages and actions of Death, not only to foster greater comprehension of the inevitable, but also to enrich our understanding of Life itself.

Anthropomorphism is not an abstract concept when we consider that each one of us is a personification of a specific function of the Universal Consciousness. Like Death, our essence is energy embodied in form. Our form, only being more dense than the subtler "bodies" of more highly evolved entities. Beings that have been at our side since the dawn of man. To deny the existence of the Angel of Death, is to deny our very existence, and to deny death itself.

It is this very fervent denial of D/death that has created a culture of fear and ignorance. It is only when we begin to treat Death as an equal partner in Life, that we will finally realize that flesh is not who or what we are.  Perhaps then, we will allow Death back into our lives as the best friend man will ever know. For in the end, only He can show us what we truly are.

Excerpted from Encounters With Death by Leilah Wendell

"Shadow Play"

She sat in a pool of darkness, each ripple a coruscation of light reflecting within the waters. Idly, she sang beauty into the air surrounding her, letting the melody of her voice create colour above and around her.

A shadow appeared off to her left, from the west. As it approached she was able to gradually discern a form wrapped within. It came and sat beside her, delicately dangling skeletal fingers within her pool, and greeted her with a nod, saying, "Lady".

She rose from the waters, shaking herself off. Motes of shining darkness spread from her body. The shadowed form gently offered its hand and guided her off to the side. Her azure body seemed to blend with her shadowed escort. The light from her body illuminated the immediate area, but could not pierce the shadow to reveal the form within.

As the pair reached an arbor, they turned to face each other. Two eyes, burning like diamonds flecked with gold, looked into the shroud of shadow. She reached out gently, pushing back the cowl. Looking into the skeletal face she nodded her head and said, "Azrael". They proceeded to enter into the dance. While Azrael moved slow and stately, hardly moving at all, the Lady seemed to writhe and gyrate at an amazing speed while also appearing not to move at all. They did not touch, save for a light brushing of fingertips against each other.

Her pool rose up and surrounded them, becoming the universe. As the Lady danced, motes of light shot out from her body to be absorbed by Azrael within the shroud of shadow. Around them the universe lived and died, new galaxies constantly coming into form and exiting into silent dissolution.

Each graceful motion cast a ripple on the sea of Time. A great distortion moved across the horizon. With each pavanne, Life was both cast out and drawn in. Embers trailed her indigo veils, landing softly in his velvet darkness.

They danced to a distant melody. A multi-layered chorale of sorrow and reverie. The Lady spun so fast that she seemed to stand still. Azrael gazed upon her face for the first time. Her eyes, like radiant points of pure golden flame. Yet, they cast no reflection in his twin pools of darkness. A whirlpool of gold filament swirled about her head.

Azrael gestured to the Lady with his long, withered hand. The vortex smiled back at him in silent reply. A diffuse, translucent hand unfolded from her form and set gently into his.

For an instant, everything stopped. No motion, no sound, just a freeze-frame image of shadow and light.

Time blinked, as the shadows grew light, and the light became darkness.

The dance resumed, their forms now cast in negative silhouette. The Lady was now all golden light, spinning out sparks of deep indigo into the brilliant night sea. And he, that was once the deepest of shadows, became the most resplendent white flame.

They continued the dance for a time, each reflecting the other. The lights cast off from the Lady slowed, became fewer and less frequent. Eventually, Azrael reached out his hand and stilled the Lady, stopping her in mid-dance. She smiled and was gracefully absorbed into his shadowed form. When all was still, Azrael proceeded to fold in upon himself until all that was left was a golden mote of light, floating within an infinite darkness. The darkness smiled.

Excerpted from Night Thoughts by Daniel Kemp & Leilah Wendell

"Getting To Know You"

These rituals are intended to align one's soul with the Death Energy. One might ask, what is the "Death Energy"? Simply expressed, it is the current of transition. The workings in this book will permit the magician to bask in the "lifeforce" of the Angel of Death. Successful working of any of these devotions will enable you to share consciousness with Azrael, as well as becoming "one" with your own death. These are not rituals of worship. For the Angel of Death does not desire to be worshipped. He does desire understanding, reverence for His purpose, and even love. The only way we can offer these things to Him is by the sharing of consciousness. Through this, we can come to understand and feel what it is like in His world and what He is feeling. And He can better understand and feel what it is like to be human, and the human condition in general. I'm certain that you will find this to be a very profound and emotional exchange. One that will stay with you in this world, and beyond.

These rites are quite unconventional as compared to more traditional ritual magic in that there is really no single altar, and very few vocal invocations. Some of the tools, I'm sure, are familiar. Although, as a whole, these workings are free of unnecessary jargon, and elaborate trappings. My philosophy is that too much energy and emotion is expended on the ceremony itself when it is far better to turn this emphasis inward and apply it to establishing the spiritual and emotional link with the entity one is seeking to contact. Who needs to be worrying about whether you executed this or that step? After all, it is what's in the magician's heart and soul that makes a successful working and not what's on his or her altar. Some of the most powerful workings I know have been done without material elements and props to cloud one's concentration. A single thought that is charged with the power of Faith and Love often yields the greatest working of pure magic. After all, most material "tools" are only really added for the benefit of getting the magician in the right mood. But if you're already "there", dispense with the mumbo jumbo and get on with the task at hand. We must begin to take a lesson from the entities we seek to contact. Surely they rely on no such "props" when they contact us, only your receptive mind, open heart and pure spirit. These are the greatest tools any magician can hope to possess......

Because the spirit of Death is largely unfamiliar to most, I recommend that before any of the workings in this book are attempted, one should begin by simply getting comfortable in Death's presence. This can be accomplished in many ways. By participating in a Death watch. By attending funerals/wakes, or the like. By tending to the burial of a body. By working in or visiting funeral homes, morgues or cemeteries. By involving oneself with the terminally ill. Or by what I believe is a particularly effective means: By spending the night in a mausoleum, crypt or other secluded burial enclosure that can be sealed from the light. This is something that must be done alone, for reasons that will become evident later on. But mostly, for now, because the element of fear must be eradicated if you ever hope to be successful in any of these workings.

If you sleep side by side with Death without the security of another living soul, and without a trace of illumination, you should be quite ready to do any of the more intense necromantic rites. There must be no distractions, either external, or internal (no TVs, radios, etc...), and you should avoid selecting a place too close to the sound of Life. It should be remote, quiet, dark and "occupied". That is to say, that an empty, unused crypt will not serve the purpose, nor will one of the more modern mausoleums where the dead are walled up behind marble barriers. The coffin(s) must be exposed. You must be able to have physical contact with the bodies. Anything less is cheating, and you will be the loser in the end. You can bring a sleeping bag, blanket or other cushioning to make your stay more comfortable, especially if it's winter. (Although it's usually much warmer under the earth than you'd think!)

The rest is easy. Simply lay yourself down for the night beside the exposed body and listen to the silence. It is unlike any other! Light no candles, just close your eyes and concentrate on why you want to do these workings. If you hear any strange sounds, do not open your eyes (unless, of course, you hear "Come out with your hands up!" Well, don't blame me, I told you to be discreet!). Just relax as if you were in your own bed, in familiar arms. Involved in a peaceful and serene embrace. Let the darkness envelope you with sleep and in dream. If you can remain until dawn, you are ready for these workings.

When one can face Death in all of His many forms, and embrace them each with equal affection, one is ready to be Death's empath. It takes time, love, devotion and conviction to learn to appreciate them all. Death is so multifaceted. Although if you seek union with Azrael on any level, this is the road you must take. There are no shortcuts - only shortcomings. You must essentially "die" and become one with each of His manifestations to truly understand Death's purpose. He is genuinely more kind and gentle than any of the "angels" because His touch is tempered by an eternity of sorrows, His understanding is saddened by our misunderstanding. And that is why these rituals are beneficial. We must reverse that ignorance within ourselves if we ever hope to wipe His tears. To love Him is to drink in His tears as if they were the nectar of the Godsoul. For they are the "lifeforce" of all He has touched, and the taste of His tears can make one either drunk with ecstasy, or drowned in despair. That is up to you!

"Go forth into that dark nyte as you would enter the arms of your lover."

Excerpted from The Necromantic Ritual Book by Leilah Wendell

"Wind and Wood"


There is a wood through which mists play at evening. Sometimes languidly drifting, then darting to and fro. At rare times in the quiet of night colours are to be seen amidst the mists. Emerald and purple dance and assume shapes not fit for lights to assume.

a whisper

The wind slithers through the leaves in the wood. In the heart of night the breeze shuffles the mists about, seeking to come upon lights of green and purple. Never has the wind felt them, though the lights have played upon the air at night.

There is a man in the village of Chamaiz listening to the wind search the wood. Softly the wind calls him away to seek colour in the night. Silently he goes.

a voice

A single note, pure and clear, echoes throughout the wood. As it fades Tyras finds himself in the wood accompanied by the wind. The breeze says: "this way, this way...", pushing Tyras forward incessantly. Through the wood search wind and man. Wind brushing the mists away as Tyras uses his eyes to seek out colour amidst the dark.

The wind disperses a patch of mists with a flick of its tail. Tyras spies a hint of colour. The note sound again, full and resounding. Suddenly mists encircle man and wind which the wind cannot disperse. They are made to travel the wood.

The note sounds a third time, brilliant and sustained. Instead of fading out it seems to rise beyond hearing. As it does the mists open themselves to reveal a clearing within the wood.

a shout

The mists spread around the clearing in a circle. In the center are two lights. Coloured globes of emerald and amethyst.

A note sounds as the purple light grows brighter. The note swells, as does the light, finally stretching up and out to a peak and vanishing. The green light is bright but deep, coming in with a bass tone moaning and rolling over the clearing. Thus begins a work of music composed of slowly shifting tones entwining around each other. The mists revolve to the left around the clearing. The lights dance with and within the circle. The intensity of light determines or shows the tone. Soft light for muted tones, brilliant light for clear ones. The movements of their bodies, the twisting, stretching, rolling - these are all parts of the song. At times the lights play the same tone simultaneously, one an octave raised (or lowered). Then alternating trills would dance through this space.

Just when the wind departs Tyras cannot say. He is caught up into music beyond hearing. It interacts with one subtly.

The wind leaves the wood to find another, there to harass the mists whenever able. When the music stops Tyras looks about him and sees only mists in place of the wind.

a scream

A mile or so west of Chamaiz there lies a wood which no wind ever stirs. Mists idle about the wood at evening and are at times even so bold as to venture forth by day. Sometimes, deep in the heart of night, amethyst and emerald lights dance among them.


Excerpted from The Book of Night by Daniel Kemp

"This is Not Paradise"

Birth is neither miraculous nor divine. The assuming of flesh is not a "blessed event". Birth is the rending of spiritual union. The painful descent into duality. The sensation of being "encased" to the point of suffocation. The striking realization that I could no longer extend myself to touch the spans of time and bridges of space. Only a spark of one's True Self is ever delivered into this world. It's no wonder that we emerge wailing and screaming! Those unseen hands that wrenched me from His embrace were now solid and I could feel them closing around me, firmly easing me into the harsh light.

Why is it that no one questions the cries of the newborn? It's because of the pieces of precarnate memory that we issue forth into this world with a banshee's cry. The horror of being cleaved in two carries the wailing from one world, into the next. If this were an empathic world, we would know what the newborn is feeling. We would, ourselves, remember! But, no ... this is an expressive world. One in which we must elicit our feelings with cold, impersonal sounds. Thus, the newborn speaks its agony in the way of its new world. A paean of screams appropriate to the emotion.

As time passes, whatever trace memory remains is slowly washed away by new thoughts. The bright, shining images of a colourful dimension. The old senses are deprived by the overloading of new sensations. Eventually, we adapt to our limited prison and learn how to work within its narrow confines. Before long, almost all prebirth recollection is either deeply suppressed and locked away, or simply lost forever to the new persona.

Isn't it ironic though, that we spend the rest of our little lives struggling to remember and striving after who and what we are and what "IT's" all about. We are all trying to ignite an inferno from that one, single spark that trailed us. We are all straining for enough "light" to find our way back home. We all know that THIS is NOT that place.

Excerpted from Our Name is Melancholy- The Complete Books of Azrael by Leilah Wendell


These little rants came about from me reflecting upon various conversations and experiences I've had with "magickal" people, and with "magick" in general. You see, I started out just feeling. Then I sought a way to rationalise my feelings, and my experiences, to myself. So, having come through the "ceremonial" approach, I'm now back to just feeling again. Older, wiser (?) and a lot more sarcastical, but essentially the same as when I began. A "goddamn hippie tree hugger" - yes, but a pompous, egotistical son-of-a-bitch? - no.

Lady, since you made the sky drop down upon me and showed yourself, you are all I have ever sought. How could it ever have been otherwise? I sought long and hard to find that which I already knew and already was. And so I write as myself, not praises unto the beauty of night, not songs ever drifting upon the winds nor haunting paeans unto infinity. Just words, from the heart, unto other people. And me being a part of you, you shine through - open to all.

Fiat Nox.

"Kozmik Koffe-Klatching"

(or: You, Too, Can be Mundane & Magickal)

What drives people to join an "order", "society", etc. - mystical, magickal or otherwise? Let's see.

1)Companionship (getting laid). The "nobody is as weird as me" syndrome, resulting in the complementary paradox - "I must find others like me so's I can get me some.". Typical of "post-adolescent teen-angst syndrome". (note: there is no age limit on this one. "post-adolescent" means anything beyond adolescence.) This seems to run rampant with young-un's. Young, in this sense, does not necessarily reflect physical years. However, all souls are ageless. So "young" would be in reference to, what? ... a certain maturity? Perhaps. Some view "getting laid" as the sharing of one's self with another, some view it as the surest way of staying alone. If people could figure out, by now, what to do with other people - well, then, the world would certainly be less populated - wouldn't it? Perhaps "half-souls" wouldn't even exist. (Alas, even infinity can only be stretched so far.)

2)Companionship (I don't want to be/die/live alone). Everyone wants to be unique, but not alone. Simple, is it not? Life itself is, by definition, a social critter. Life reinforces itself. So, too, do we seek out social reinforcement of everything - from personal tastes to our utmost, innermost beliefs. It is a rare soul indeed who can shout out to the world - "This is me and fuck you all" for any prolonged period of time. These are people who play outside the rules and are "dangerous". Yet we all think, deep inside, that we do this. Meanwhile, in our daily lives - we conform, conform, conform. And those who don't become "leaders" on down the road, the very things they despise. Mankind is essentially stupid and lazy. Rebels with marching orders, we turn one person's statement of a perceived truth into a "fad", "movement", "religion", or some other nonsense - thereby de-valuing something which began as priceless. If a perceived truth is within one, it will burn as a flame. A flame that does not need the company of other flames to embolden it, for all flames are one, all burn - and in that burning create the infinite panorama of existence - the beautiful peacock feathers which fan the face of god while it thinks "what a pretty little creation. I can almost, sometimes, believe that it's looking at me."

3)Companionship ("the truth is out there"). Some turn "paddlin' with the occult" into a quest for company on a different level. Perhaps they have felt the perceived truth within them stir and seek for a way to explain it to themselves. These join "orders", etc.. out of desperation, and quickly become disillusioned. (Due to the aforementioned two reasons.) Nothing needs to be said of these, except to wish them all the luck in the world. The truth is "out there", and "in here" and all around you.

4)Companionship (the master/slave relationship). I am reminded of a quote - "Those who seek power are least suited to wield it." Very true. In an "order", or any social situation, there is a hierarchy, whether spoken or unspoken. This "power" (so-called) is illusionary. It is dependent upon others perceiving, and following the rules of, the pecking order. No one wants to conjure a "demon" they cannot control, nor does one want to associate with those who successfully "buck the System" (except to figure out how they, too, can do it and get away with it. Then they want "followers", otherwise - what's the good of being "outside" of things?). Why climb to the top of the heap to only find out it's a heap of shit unless you can make someone else's life miserable in the process? People who want power have none, or at least feel that way. Why? Because they misunderstand power. Everyone has the ultimate power - to affect one's self, and- due to man's inherent social nature, those around you. Yet that is the last thing "seekers after power" want. They want to change everything around them but themselves. This is not possible, and has been the downfall of all who seek power for these reasons. Some think they can gain power by "believing" in nothing, but themselves. By "themselves" they mean the limited self which they use to get by on earth. To encase one's self within the bricks of personality and reside in a personal "fairyland" is everyone's right, and yes, you can live a long life that way. Amazing, isn't it? You can actually live to a ripe old age without ever having ventured out into the world surrounding you! (Advertising slogan for yuppie scum everywhere.) The real world is dirty, messy & painful - why bother? Why not fall back on some virtual reality where you, too, can be "lord high ultimate whatsisname" without ever having to deal with people face to face? Ain't life grand. Surround yourself with images & such of power and your wish is granted. "Build it, and they will come." Sure, fine. But make sure the content there actually exists - through real, direct experience. Otherwise what's really out there might notice. If you're laughable & petty enough, you'll be ignored - and allowed to live your life. If not, well - get ready for an education. And the wall will come tumbling down. A beggar with his rags is not a pretty sight, but an honest one. A beggar dressed in finery a simple illusion, easily enough seen through. A beggar without his rags - such a rare sight as to be marvellous, and commendable. It is probably the one honest person on earth. And as beautiful as a sunset, or a twilight filled with birdsong, or the look of genuine love on the face of another, or a whole infinite, myriad host of little epiphanies we pass by every day, every moment - yet are too caught up in the web of veils we wear to notice.

And so, weeping, the laughing god creates another spark of inspiration within the soul of someone who is receptive, to see what travesty will result. Occasionally laughing, the weeping god will rejoice at another spark finding a home within the impossibly infinite receptivity with which it surrounds itself.

And so, multitudes join in the social dance of life - each trying to outdo one another.

Somewhere, in between, there is one who neither laughs nor cries, yet the silence of the outpouring of this is perceived as both.

Excerpted from The Scrolls of Unmaking, Vol. 1 by Daniel Kemp

"Love Among The Tombs"

Imagine the anticipation and sense of excitement Victor Loret must have felt when, in 1898, he unearthed one of the great Royal Caches of Egyptian mummies, 16 in all!. Imagine even further, what was going through the minds of those whose "job" it was to unwrap the bandages. Of course, let us not forget that this was all done in the name of "science". A far cry from Victor Ardisson, a Loret contemporary, whose "reasoning" for doing basically the same thing under, shall we say, less than scientific circumstances was, "Each of us has our passions. As for me, the cadaver is mine!"

In the end, both examples boil down to mankind's unending "fascination" with the dead body. Whether in the name of science...or romance. The dead, in their various stages continue to intrigue the living to no end.

Remember the scene from Indiana Jones & The Last Crusade, when Indi discovered the secret entrance to the crypt beneath the library? How he flung open the knight's coffin, straddling the corpse in order to take a rubbing from the shield in the dead knight's hand? No doubt, Blot and Ardisson would have found that scene highly erotic...I did! Oh, yeah! Let's not forget that swimming pool scene from Poltergeist 1! But, then we necromantic types have been misunderstood and vilified for ages. While it's okay for science to "fiddle with the dead", it's an act of grave abhorrence (no pun intended) for the rest of us to do the same. Go figure!

From Seargant Bertrand to Ed Gein, the label of "necrophile" continues to have an inherent shock value. Perhaps the most misunderstood area of human attractions, the mere concept inspires emotions equivalent in nature to mankind's ever present fear and denial of death, itself. Yet, these are the same people who will rubber-neck around a bloody car wreck.

The general consensus, even among serious psychological researchers is that all necrophiles are inherently "sick and perverse" individuals. "It (necrophilia) is the true perversion.." writes Dr. Erich Fromm, an early 20th century prominent researcher into the field, "While being alive not life, but death is loved, not growth, but destruction." Necrophilia has been conjoined part and parcel to the heading of Psychopath. Because true necrophilia is so rare and misunderstood, it cannot possibly be properly documented with a fair and balanced precept. Most available "research", (and I use that term very loosely) on the subject paints a distorted and revulsive picture of the practice by folks who are either ignorantly or deliberately subjective, rather than objective. For instance, according to psychiatric documentation, nearly all practitioners have been sexually abused, and/or rejected in some way. Most, if not all, have some history of mental disorders and exhibit other forms of "sociopathic" behavior. (The word sociopath literally means the suffrage of society, or one who suffers from/in society. Necrophile has become an unconscionable word simply because the great majority of those who claim its title are only doing so (with fresh corpses, might I add) for an "easy lay". The whole dominance and submissive thing comes into play. No fear of rejection or complaint. No worries about "performance" The corpse is viewed solely as an inanimate plaything, rather than a sacred catalyst. To violate a corpse for simply the satiating of one's own sexual needs is the highest form of irreverence one can show towards Death. One can "make love" to Death on many levels, providing they emerge from the core of the soul, and not the seat of the libido. Death is a gentle and exquisite lover who can take you to new heights of expression, providing that you do not try to pull Him down into the physical too much, in which case Death's affections are anything but gentle! The true necrophile cares nothing about any of these concerns, and desires only intimacy with Death. The crypt is what separates the necromantic from the (textbook) necrophile.

While the distant and fanciful adventures or Loret and Jones are out of reach to most. There is a more modern opportunity available, albeit extremely clandestine. Now, I don't know about most people, but a fresh cadaver does nothing for me. To me, such a state is still quite representative of life. A fresh corpse (or what I like to call a "gooey louie") contains so many living organisms and bacterium working at a frantic pace to achieve their goal, decomposition. Only when this is complete, will the last aspect of Life itself die.

When the bathroom-tile green of the morgue dulls your senses, and the formaldehyde sterility of the embalming room clouds your head, there is still a place where the feel, the aroma, and the aura of Death prevales... the crypt. At this level, you are not dealing with any shred of human individuality, you are dealing solely with Death, Itself. Therein lies the rub, and the niggling point in any study of necrophilia. It is the all important difference between necrophilia being viewed as a "sexual deviation", or as an intimate encounter with Death.

For those of you out there who truly want to get intimate with Death, Itself, there remains one "sanctioned" vestige of possibilities. It has no prestigious title. You won't make a lot of money, nor is it the stuff of movie adventures, and it's definitely not white collar. It's simply referred to as Forensic Disinterment Re-evaluation... or, what I like to call "Forensic Archaeology". Those of us who have done it, casually refer to it as "exhumation detail".

In most parts of the civilized world, this is usually a job performed by a branch (we used to call the "ghoul squad") of the Medical Examiner's office, i.e., the morgue. Sometimes, the actual disinterments are done by a subcontracted party, such as the local gravedigger's union, private cemetery maintainence crews, or even "landscaping" contractors. In more remote parts of the world, the job of disinterring the dead falls upon relatives of the deceased, with the help of local villagers.

A corpse is exhumed for various reasons, from the most ridiculous, to the most newsworthy. For example, bodies are routinely exhumed from graveyards when family members relocate in order to take their dead "with them", so to speak, to be reburied in the new locale. Disinterment takes place more notably for the purposes of a Coroner's Inquest, when foul play, or other "suspicious" or overlooked causes of death are in question. Such as in the case of a homicide or suicide. Still, other "disinterments" occur on a more frequent basis in such "remote" places like New Orleans, U.S.A., where bodies are casually "discarded", or whatever remains is push-broomed into a special lower crypt chamber to make room for fresh burials. A practice, I must admit, I have never before encountered in any other part of the country. I realize that land is at a premium here, but who draws the line between decency and practicality?

If you're fortunate enough to participate in an exhumation, you'll never run out of stories to tell your grandchildren on those dark and stormy nights! There are few things in this world more exciting than opening an interred coffin and viewing the remarkable. One of the more intriguing "digs" I've had the privilege of working on was up in the Northeast. It was well over 15 years ago, but the memory is as fresh as yesterday.

After the power-shovels removed the initial five feet of packed earth and clay, it was up to us modern day "sack em up men" to finish the job and retrieve the prize. In this particular case, we exhumed a very decayed, cheap pine box that was completely enveloped in weeping willow roots. Now, if you know anything about these trees, you'd know how tenacious and unique their root system can be. Resembling thousands of long, tendril-like tentacles, they are extremely strong and completely invasive. They have been known to crush and infiltrate heavy, iron water mains to quench their voracious thirst for water.

Under the shadow of grey storm clouds and armed with an odd arsenal of everything from bolt cutters, to barber's scissors, my associate and I descended into the opened grave, carefully snipping around the coffin's cracked lid. After about 15 minutes of work, we could finally get a prybar into the crevice and gently wrench the lid free. It broke into various splintered sections from the dryness of the unique northeast soil. We felt like Burke and Hare as we shone the make-shift kerosene lantern into the opened casket. (We never used flashlights if we could help it. They're just so "rude".) The whole corpse was literally enmeshed in a form-fitting macrame of spidery tendrils. It looked like something straight out of Invasion of the Body Snatchers. The basic form of the corpse was beautifully "mummified" by a combination of its spiny green wrappings and the natural desiccant quality of the clay.

The next step was a delicate and time consuming process. The decision whether to remove the corpse from the grave still encased in the roots, or to pain-stakingly snip away as much growth as possible and hope that the body would remain intact enough for transport. After debating over a few beers, and watching the sky grow increasingly more ominous, we opted for the latter. I started at the head, while my associate began at the feet. The roots had literally penetrated the corpse and had been feeding upon its elements. In places, like around the head, the roots could be cut and peeled away in large chunks, much like peeling an orange. Beneath, the withered body had the preservative quality of a freshly unwrapped Egyptian mummy. (Natural mummification always results in the most exquisite find!) We could tell that the body had not been embalmed. A plus, as embalming is a sure way to wreck havoc on the natural decomposition of the human body. Sure, you may look "great" three or four days in a viewing room, and even keep your shape for several weeks underground. However, once embalming fluid and the progressive bacterias interact, it's nothing short of a grotesque experiment in the name of human vanity, denial and greed. Nothing nice to look at at all, yet alone to get intimate with!

The sun was going down, and we were nearly done. Carefully, we loaded our prize into our "customized" truck and prepared for the four hour trek home. We earned our $6.00 an hour (plus mileage) that day! My cohort cranked up some tunes on the 8-track in the cab, shot me a sly little smile as I finished securing our "friend" up for the journey. Boy, was I beat. I sprawled out on the shag-carpeted floor as "Nights in White Satin" poured like molasses from the speakers. "A little romantic traveling music?" my associate grinned with a knowing glint in his eye. I nodded, as he turned back to face the long expanse of highway ahead of us. And away we rode into the sunset, like Indiana Jones. For the rest of this adventure? Well, you'll just have to exercise your imaginations, won't you! Don't worry! The rest of this narrative gets a lot more descriptive.

This is but one of the many modern day adventures available for the aspiring Forensic Archaeologist with a real passion for his or her calling. All one needs are some old clothes, high-top boots and a sense of adventure, and who knows, you, too, could bring home a real "find" to add to your collection. The moments to enjoy your find may be fleeting, but the experience will be a permanent installation in your personal museum of memories. I have quite a collection! .....

There are relatively large caches of books and research papers one can find on the subject of necrophilia if you're willing to simply look. However, in general, most are negatively focused. Necrophilia has long been vilified simply because those subjects written about in most available documentation weren't really necrophiles, but rather sadists, murders, and other unsavory types who used the concept of necrophilia more to add additional shock value to their crimes. They have no deep-rooted love for Death, let alone any shred of reverence for the dead.

Much documentation will often equate necrophilism with sadism, serial killing and other sociopathic behavior. It is not the fault of the documentors. It is the fault of society's inability to deal with death in all of its beautiful aspects. So, rather than deal with necrophilism, it is easier for them to lump this most misunderstood of desires in with other things deemed as "abnormal psychology". Many research texts often reference the fictional works of the Marquis de Sade, along with the likes of Jeffery Dahmer and others of his ilk. Psychobabble has its own language based solely upon examination of subjects that weren't really necrophiles, but rather, people with a broad base of mental pathologies and a history of aberrant behavior of which necrophilic instances, have been the "logical" result of their own perverted deeds. I'm sorry, dismembering corpses and sex with entrails is not necrophilia. These perversions have their own heading; necrophagy, necrosadism, scatology in extreme cases. That's something entirely different! It is unfortunate that we have been so ignorantly lumped together with people who obviously do not speak the true language of love. A true necrophile would never violate a corpse in such ways. A true necrophile has the highest, even divine reverence for the dead, and an overabiding respect for Death, Itself.

I could sit here and quote you endless suppositions as to why one is a necrophile based upon such well known reports as the Kraft-Ebbing papers or the Rosman & Resnick piece, "Sexual Attraction to Corpses, A Psychiatric Review of Necrophilia". However, in most of the documentation, one will find that a) The subjects came from a history of severe abuse, neglect or violence, and b) The same applies, however they're now convicted serial killers, wracking up a sexual offense history with a tendency toward mutilation. The true necrophile chooses to be the way he or she is, and is not this way as a result of circumstances. In psychiatric case studies, nearly all the cases of necrophilia and pseudonecrophilia are the result of some other, underlying psychosis. For instance, most of the men in these studies turned their advances toward dead women because they were either unwilling or unable to be intimate with living women. They view the dead as an "easy lay" where their advances wouldn't be rejected (as they were so often by the living) and there was no fear of "performance", or commitment. Freud believed that male necrophiles deified the image of the sleeping mother in childhood, with the resultant fixation of the first sexual stirrings. As they matured, these men would only desire intimacy with sleeping women, and some would advance to dead women when the sleepers would be startled by their advances.

The fact is that most necrophiles are productive members of society. Quite often introverted, even reclusive, usually overly intelligent, and come from all walks of life. Actually, much of what is written about necrophilia is in fact pseudo-necrophilia, or rather, necrophilic fantasy. 95% of those who feel an affiliation with this subject, merely envision a variety of necro-erotic scenarios. The remaining percentage actually find ways, usually through employment in the funerary or forensic fields to act out their desires. It's an odd fact that many who fantasize about necrophilia, when confronted with an actual dead body, find the encounter disconcerting, to say the least, as their fantasies usually romanticize the corpse, ( much like one does the modern-day vampire myth) lacking many of the realities of a genuine dead body. But, the encounter serves its purpose as to confirm, or shatter those same fantasies.

In the final analysis, the small enclave of true necrophiles actually out there will never be credited with the flamboyancy of a Bertrand. Truthfully, most fight to retain their anonymity for the simple fact that they know how society will react. Look how people reacted to homosexuality just a few decades ago.

Loving the dead is not a spectator sport, it is a very private exchange between oneself, and the Spirit of Death. I, personally, vehemently frown down upon anyone who violates a corpse for purely sexual reasons. Doing such is no better than rape of an innocent. My justice during some of the cases mentioned above, would have definitely been much more severe. Intimacy can be attained on many levels. And making love should truly mean just that- And love should never involve violation. Necrophilia is not "perverse" to those who practice it with love. It only becomes perverted when it is used solely as a sexual conquest.

There is no known biological, psychiatric or genetic "cause" for the necrophilic instinct. It is acquired, not inherent. It is not a "disease" as some puritanical minds would have us believe, just as they tried to pass off being gay not too long ago. It is a matter of personal choice, based on ones intimate spiritual beliefs. I once got into a debate on the radio with a clinical psychologist who posed the question; "How can necrophilia be consensual?" If one genuinely approaches Death with a true heart and open arms, you'd be amazed at how forthright the reciprocation of Death can be via His often only means of "touching" us- the dead. The path will be laid open for those pure of heart and true of spirit, and barricaded securely from those lacking these qualities.  It is every necromantic's duty to protect the sanctity of Death from those that would, in the haste of their base desires, violate the corpse without care for whose House in which they lay- the House of Death is sacrosanct and we are all keepers of that trust.

Excerpted from Love Never Dies by Leilah Wendell