A short story by Thomas LeRoy
Since it goes without saying that you are reading this, it’s also obvious that a worthy, or maybe “receptive”, candidate has been located to relay this message. This communication is being transmitted by the will of the Ipsissimus, a conscious projection of pure thought from the primordial depths of the Dark Absolute, an admission of the one and only who found what lies beyond the collective unconscious in a void free of spatial, or temporal, configuration.
But I’m getting ahead of myself.
Carl Gustav Jung believed the collective unconscious was a place, a location, where the archetypes dwell to send out their avatars: the gods and monsters, angels and demons. Many have visited this realm, and I know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that Friedrich Nietzsche was one of them. He did not go mad from venereal poisoning, brain cancer, or that malady that removed his father from the coporeal layer called “softening of the brain”. No, all are lies. Nietzsche was not a victim of madness, but instead he was a psychonaut that dared to venture into the collective unconscious. Now, one would state that that is no great feat, for many through the use of meditation, drugs, or ritual, have dipped a toe into its depths. The difference is that the great philosopher fully immersed himself into the Abyss by sheer will, and he retained his ego — his conscious identity — in the abode of the archetypes.
Still don’t get it?
Let me explain it this way.
When one delves into the deep subconscious the ego is dissolved, it becomes one with the greater collective, like a water-balloon popped in a filled tub, thus resulting in the temporary annihilation of the mind’s personal identity. I am convinced that Nietzsche’s ego never became one with the collective unconscious, that he took it whole and intact into that abysmal profundity, and what was left behind — that body — was but a husk, a husk his horrid sister utilized in a dreadful case of exploitation and psychogenic incest. But I am not Nietzsche, for a mind such as his only comes about once in a millennia, and that being so, I must utilize other means to achieve that ultimate goal of all dark adepts — Apotheosis. And going head-first into the collective unconscious, with one’s ego intact, is a short-cut to that goal.
Lucky for me finding aid in my quest would not be all that difficult, for I am the owner of an occult bookstore. Located in an old Victorian that predates San Francisco’s 1906 Earthquake, it’s filled with beautiful hardwood shelves lined with candles, herbs, rings, pendants, and those wonderful leather-bound tomes — sans paperbacks. This store is perhaps the last of its kind in California, a state where you mostly find “New Age” book-sellers of inane drivel, and not sellers of truly “occultic” content. Much of my sales are done online, but there are still a surprising amount of walk-ins. I’ve owned the store for twelve years, purchasing it after inheriting a rather healthy sum from my otherwise worthless parents, they having died in a freak hot-tub accident. Their meaty cadavers stewed in that giant crock-pot for days, gray flesh sliding off bone (I wonder what it smelled like?). Eventually this morbid tableau was discovered by my sister, Nikolett. Since our parents were both from Hungary, I referred to the affair as the “Goulash Incident” to the local media and now she won’t speak to me. Oh well.
Trying to retain a business in California is no easy feat, and this being San Francisco the homeless have compounded the problem. Begging, shooting-up, shitting, pissing and passing out on the sidewalk in front of one’s establishment can put a damper on business. And sometimes these “urban campers” pitch tents right in front of my door, with no regard for me or my customers.
On that rainy-gray morning of December 2nd it was no different. A tiny blue dome-tent, held together with duct-tape, sat there before the door to my bookstore like a malignant growth.
“Hey,” I said as I shook the tent. “You gotta fuckin’ go.” There came no sound but that of traffic and the patter of rain on the tent. “I’m not fuckin’ around. You gotta go!”
“What . . . ?” came a gravelly voice from inside.
“You heard me.”
There was a long pause, then, “Okay. But the rain . . .”
“That’s your God damned problem!”
The tent zipped open and out crawled a large being in a filthy yellow hoodie. He slid out like a maggot being squeezed out of a zit.
“Holy fuck . . . ” I said, just above a whisper.
He slowly came to his feet and stood before me, tall, much taller than me. Hunched and disheveled, his eyes were tiny deep-set black orbs in a jaundiced face that was a twisted mass of scar tissue — that, I swear, moved! I don’t mean like a tic or a muscle twitch, but undulated, squirmed, like a bowl filled with earthworms. And he smelled of piss or patchouli, I couldn’t tell which.
“You have the book,” he said. I don’t think it was a question.
Looking at that face inside the hoodie caused an awful sensation, like icy spiders crawling up my spine. This bastard creeped me the fuck out. “I have lots of books,” I said. “Now, go!”
“The play.” A thick, dirty hand gestured toward the door to the bookstore.
“Get out of here,” I said.
“The book . . . the play,” he said again.
“I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about,” I said as I pointed down the street. “But you just have to go!”
He stared at me with those wet, beady eyes, then sighed. I watched as he went down on his knees and reached into his tent pulling out a plastic bag that I guess was stuffed with his treasured belongings. He stood and grabbed his tent, whole, not bothering to close it up.
“Have you seen the yellow sign?” he whispered.
“Have you seen the yellow sign?” he said louder.
“What did I say?”
He began to walk away, tent in one hand, bag in the other, and for a third time he muttered over his shoulder, “Have you seen the yellow sign?”
As I unlocked the door I kept an eye on the lumbering hulk until he disappeared around the corner onto Taylor Street. I wiped the rain from my face and stepped inside.
I remember the first time I set foot in Lilith’s Grotto Bookstore and Occult Supplies back about twenty years ago. The smell. Besides the perfume of incense, herbs, and candles, there was the scent of old leather and old paper. After a while I couldn’t smell that potpourri any longer, having grown accustomed to it. I missed it. Besides the average occult supplies, the store’s main reason for existing were those wonderful old volumes, especially the leather bound ones of black, brown, gray, and, in some cases, dark-green lining the shelves with pages of black ink filled with words, symbols, drawings and sigils. I almost hated to sell them, some were very rare and expensive. Selling a single grimiore could keep me in the black for months. As a matter of fact that very day I sold two, an 1839 Düsseldorf edition of Unaussprechlichen Kulten by Friedrich Wilhelm von Junzt, and a copy of The Grimorium Verum, dated 1817. After that second sale I turned the sign over on the door, closing early.
But as I was about to lock up, the words of the bum from that morning came back to me. No, it wasn’t the bullshit about the “Yellow Sign”, it was what he said about “the book” and “the play”. I only had one book that was a play in the store. It was a copy of The King in Yellow, but it was kept in the back, locked up in a glass case with other equally rare — or in this case — abhorrent volumes. It was said that if read, or acted out, it would drive one mad. I don’t know if I really believed it, this information given to me by Mr. Blackburn, the old man that sold me the book along with the rest of the store. But knowing the psychological power of words, this was not far fetched. Letters are symbols, powerful symbols, that if arranged in a certain order can speak both to the conscious and subconscious, wreak havoc, alter lives, and change the world. Why couldn’t the words in that play drive one mad?
Later that night, with my mind still twisting and turning, I had dinner with my cousin, Janos. He had just returned from India where he had spent his honeymoon. His new wife is a fine piece of ass named Carla. Anyway, I, the Ipsissimus, have absolute recall, so the following will be the conversation I had with Janos verbatim. Understand it takes place in a dimly lit restaurant amongst the rich and affected of San Francisco who consumed meals they first have to take pics of to post online; high-dollar meals the women will just vomit up and the men will shit out. I won’t bother with any extraneous nonsense, just the dialogue.
Here’s how it went:
“How’s the store doing?”
“Not bad. Sold two rare volumes today.”
“Nice. Did you make a few bucks?”
“More than a few.”
Have you heard from Geneviève lately?”
“No. She won’t speak to me. Even blocked me on Facebook and Twitter.”
“Well . . . you did screw the housekeeper. You’re still not speaking to Nikolett, either, are you? You’ve got a habit of alienating the important women in your life.”
“How could I not fuck Lupe? She’s beautiful! You’d do the same if you were in my position.”
“No, I wouldn’t. Did you forget that I just got married?”
“Where did you go on your honeymoon?”
“India, you dumb-shit.”
“I know that, but where in India?”
“All over, but spent most of our time in Varanasi.”
“Cool. See any Aghori?”
“You mean the road-side attractions for gullible tourists?”
“Some Aghori, maybe.”
“I don’t know about that.”
“I think most of them are just fucked up losers who use the spiritual as an excuse. Even if some are legit, I don’t get the point.”
“It’s about going to extremes to reach a higher state of consciousness.”
“No, really. They think excess, living an extreme life-style, will allow them to achieve an enlightened state. It’s like the ancient Greek cult of Dionysus, or Bataille’s limit-experience. Divine madness, if you will.”
“So, I guess the junkies down in the Tenderloin must be buddhas then?”
What Janos said made me think of the bum in yellow from earlier this morning. Then it struck me like a blow to the forehead. I’ve been searching for my own spiritual apotheosis for years and now I had the answer! Divine madness!
The book. The play. The King in Yellow was the answer!
After dinner (which I paid for, even though Janos came up with the idea) I raced back to the bookstore and to that locked bookcase of the rare and abhorrent. I located the play on the second shelf between a copy of The Munich Manual of Demon Magic and The Grand Grimoire. On the old cloth cover was a design. I ran my fingers over the textured symbol which I guess was the “Yellow Sign”. I dared not open it, but when should I? Only when I was ready, ready to attempt my dive into the Abyss. Tonight might work. Why not tonight? It was a Friday, I’d have the weekend. Besides, this wasn’t the Abramelin Ritual I was performing, it wouldn’t take months. It was an original work. But still, certain safeguards were unavoidable.
I went back out into the main store-front. There wasn’t much room with the many shelves, but there was an old wooden display table a few feet in front of the check-out desk I could move after I removed the books and knick-knacks. This I did with little effort. Now I had roughly a 15 x 10 space of dark, hard-wood floor I could work with. Perfect. Grabbing chalk, candles and salts, I began prepping. This being an older building, the only window was that on the front-door, which was easily covered with the black cloth I had removed from the display table. Didn’t need the bums peeking in. I poured a line of salt just before the threshold, then I drew a triangle on the floor with the ubiquitous circle around it. Next came runes and sigils that held personal significance to me, filling most of the bare floor. Remember this is my ritual. How I prepare it, and how I perform it, is all up to me. Drawing the sigils took a few hours, because in some cases I had to grab a book or two to recharge my memory. When I had completed the sigils, I took three pillar candles, two red and one black, and positioned them at the three points of the triangle, the black candle to the west. I lit them, turned off the lights, and stripped down to my waist and sat in the triangle in a lotus position, The King in Yellow on the floor before me. I meditated for a good hour before I dared reached for that book. When I finally had the guts to do so, I opened it, flipped through the first few pages, then began to read.
At first I did not read it aloud, attempting to grasp what it was about. The play had three main characters: Cassilda, Camilla and someone simply called “The Stranger”, who I think is possibly the King in Yellow himself. When I got to Act 1, Scene 2 of the play, I read it aloud:
“Along the shore the cloud waves break,
The twin suns sink behind the lake,
The shadows lengthen
“Strange is the night where black stars rise,
And strange moons circle through the skies,
But stranger still is
“Songs that the Hyades shall sing,
Where flap the tatters of the King,
Must die unheard in
“Song of my soul, my voice is dead,
Die thou, unsung, as tears unshed
Shall dry and die in
I fell silent and looked around. I felt okay and everything looked fine, my reality hadn’t morphed, or dissolved.
Okay, continue reading.
But before I could utter the next word I felt light-headed. Then came a rush throughout my body, beginning in my head, then my chest, then into my gut, as though I’d been grabbed and pulled down. I dropped the book and put my hands flat on the floor, bracing myself. God, it hurt! My legs kicked out. I knocked over a candle. I let out a scream as my body tightened and spasmed. It was as though gravity had grown stronger, stronger by ten fold, maybe, I don’t know, but I couldn’t take it any longer and blacked out.
My eyes have opened, but I do not see the bookstore, no, but a reality beyond all knowing. I am here and it is now, having just sent out the message, that which you have read. Oh, the sensation! I have done it! My soul swells, my awareness is wide, more open than all imagining. I am formless and can see in all directions all at once as though I am one great eye, one great pupil, I see all, all at once! Here is where I am. Here is who I am. I am the Ipsissimus! Greater than all the gods, those simple avatars of the archetypes, I am greater! Far greater! The Trimurty is but a slapstick comedy team compared to me, and Yahweh is a louse on my scrotum! I am even greater than the archetypes themselves! And their collective unconscious is but a small room filled with third-rate actors waiting to audition for parts in a play written by a hack. I’ve done it! From here I proclaim that the greatest of all goals has been accomplished! This, here, is where I am right now as I watch colors swirl, turn, dance. I watch the dance of the dense azure vapors play about like deep-sea tendrils, while tempestuous waves of violet crash against smokey vermilion shores. I have found eternity and we are one! I am what was before the Big Bang, and what will be after the Big Crush. Time has no meaning to me because space has no meaning to me! Space is a parted curtain that I have stepped through and onto this stage of limitless possibilities!
What? What is this?
Once again I feel a tug at my soul, a pulling down. Down! What? This can’t be! I am . . . I fall! I’m falling! What? How can this be! I fall, plummet! Colors all about me rushes upward! Rush upward! The panic! The panic! How can this be? Tearing! Tearing! I feel pain! How?! I am the Ipsissimus!
It stopped. I have stopped. All is still, cloudy, lead-colored clouds, a fog. I have form. I have a body. I am looking down. My body? I touch it. How? My feet are on the ground, slate-colored earth. How? I am watching as the fog clears, opens, parts. And I see about me a city. A city? A city of great onyx domes and monolithic structures, rude imitations of Brutalist architecture, and above is a pale sky of black stars and before me a placid lake beyond which sets twin suns! This can’t be! I am the Ipsissimus! This can’t be!
I hear something, like the flapping of sails. I am turning. I look up. There before me, floating high above, is a great being, massive, in a yellow robe, a hooded yellow robe of creases and wrinkles, flapping slowly, massive! Is it winged? I don’t know, it could be winged. Horror I feel! Horror beyond imagining! I scream! I am screaming! I shrink to my knees as my throat becomes raw? Why? Why am I screaming? It’s the pallid mask that the being wears, this great King in Yellow. I scream as it slowly removes that mask to reveal a face, a jaundiced face . . . a face that is a twisted mass of scar tissue, scar tissue that undulates, squirms, like a bowl filled with earthworms!
A poem by Shalini, member of The Sect of the Horned God
The darkness of your love radiates
Alive and pulsing
Strong and persisting
Seducing, embracing, leading….
Mother Kali….. your dark love embraced me
When I called and you answered
Saviour and protector
Avenger and destroyer
In your power and darkness
I find true love and beauty
Never found in this world
Dance for me, Goddess
In wild, untamed frenzy
Let me hear the bells on your feet
And the beat of the drums
Sweep me off my feet
Like a crazy hurricane
Let me rise like a phoenix
Amidst the destruction of your creation
Let me fly like a dragon
From the ashes….. with you
Renewed, recreated, alive…….
By your eternal love
In the darkness of my soul.
By JB ~ Member of The Sect of the Horned God
We live in a society where entitlement abounds. In the realm of a true Satanist, pride will overcome sloth, but not so with a large chunk of the population.
A whole generation of people have been raised believing they have a right to be taken care of by friends, family, and government. Kids used to be out of the house off to college or the military when they were 18. Now they are living with their parents in their 30’s.
Psychic vampirism has become an art form. Some people, known as codependent martyrs, actually derive pleasure from spending every waking moment helping these people because it helps them temporarily cope with a severe lack of self-esteem. They intentionally surround themselves with the company of weak or infirm people so when these people need help, they are there to swoop in and rescue them.
I am not saying that you shouldn’t help a friend or family member in time of crisis to get back on their feet or help the less fortunate, but remember what Lavey says in TSB: “What am I getting in return.” Has this person helped you in the past? Are you going to get a tax write-off if you donate to this charity or is this charity funding research for the cure of a disease that you or a loved one suffered from?
You also, most importantly, have to determine whether helping that person is in fact helping them, or enabling their vampiric proclivities. When your son moved back in with you after he lost his job, did he immediately start looking for work, or is he loafing around the house resentful, basking in the victim mentality, saying that “there’s just nothing out there.” Chances are, unless we are in another great depression, there IS something out there, perhaps not what he feels he deserves, and a timeline needs to be put on his stay.
We all have known someone in our lives who can’t keep a job because they buck authority due to the fact that they are treated so unfairly and the employer doesn’t give a damn about the employees. While hostile work environments do exist, some people’s definition is VERY liberal and hypocritical self-deceit has enabled these people to believe that no one knows how to run the company better than they do, and the entire corporate world should revolve around them.
What about the old lady next door that is constantly calling you to help her to the bathroom, to get off of the floor because she fell, asking you to pick up her medicine, get her mail, etc, ad nauseam. You may feel guilty about telling her she needs to think about selling her house and moving into a retirement community, but you are going to feel very guilty when she falls, strikes her head and dies after lying on the floor in agony for 6 hours because she couldn’t get to a phone.
The most egregious form of vampirism is the addict that feeds off of his wife who enables him by supporting him financially, taking his verbal and physical abuse, turning a blind eye to blatant infidelity, all because divorcing him is frowned upon by the church.
Satanism states indulgence…not abstinence. There is nothing wrong with indulging in a little charity but don’t let in turn into a compulsion to the point of becoming a codependent martyr for a psychic vampire to feed off of.
In regards to being a martyr, as the old saying goes: “Get off the cross! We need the wood!”
By Thomas LeRoy ~ Founder of The Sect of the Horned God
What is Sinisterism? And are you a Sinisterist? If you’re on the left-hand path, then you very well could be.
The word sinister comes from the Latin word sinistra meaning left. Historically, the left side, and left-handedness, was seen as a negative in most cultures. An example would be if a bird flew by on your left side, it was a bad omen. The left was considered “evil” or “unlucky”, thus giving us the modern English meaning for “sinister”.
Sinisterism, though, is a little used word, but when it is, its most likely by the religious right when sometimes referring to the secular political left. But in the realm of the esoteric, Sinisterism, or Sinisterist, would refer to someone who walks the left-hand path but doesn’t quite fit within an established paradigm. You may not identify as a Luciferian, for example, or appreciate the direction contemporary Satanism is going, but you are still lured by what’s down the Path. You have a hunger that one single paradigm, or discipline, could not satiate, so you take a little of this, or that, from many different disciplines: Satanic, Luciferian, Hermetic, Dark Pagan, Hindu, and so on. Your interest is in the big picture, the philosophy, the psychology, the history and mystery that is the LHP.
For myself, it was Satanism that first put me on the Path. Now, with my personal psychological and philosophical maturation there also came an awareness of my autonomy, so the right-hand path with its societal conformity no longer had any appeal to me. So, like most “Dark Esotericists” in the Western World, Satanism was the first vehicle utilized on the Path. And being an individual with an obsessive nature, when I get into something, whatever it is, devouring all aspects of that topic tends to be the end result. Simply scratching the surface is never enough.
Druidism, the root of much of European esoteric thought, was the starting point followed by Hinduism, Asatru, the dark gods of the Greco-Roman traditions, and so on. Next came the philosophies that corresponded with the Path, and the psychology. Getting down to the foundation, to find that deep psychological under-current that transcends both space and time was the most important aspect.
Because of this, Satanism was not enough. Besides, there was a growing frustration in my gut for contemporary Satanism. It seemed to lose that spark ignited by Anton LaVey. Too many organizations, too many poorly written books, too much anger and pettiness, and so much watering down of the philosophy, now there’s even a right-hand path version. But still my nature was Satanic as codified by Lavey, but the title of Satanist no longer worked for me. Something different was in order. Something that better portrayed my general interest in that “Sinister Path” and all it had to offer. Something that better suited my interests and natural inclinations.
This is why the title of Sinisterist works for me.
Does this also sound like you? If so, then you, too, are a practitioner of Sinisterism and can claim the title of Sinisterist. Why not? You don’t like labels, you say? You say labels are for soap cans? Well boo-fuckin’-hoo, others will give you a label whether you like it or not, so you might as well beat them to the punch. Admit who you are.
You’re a Sinisterist.
By Ryan of the North
I am a warrior,
The blood of fighters and defenders,
To guard what is precious,
And fend away the foreign sword,
By honor, courage and discipline,
To do what is right in all ways,
With tooth and nail I hold on,
To be an offensive shield,
I am the Warrior.
I am a creature,
Separated from the others,
With a viscous apatite,
Licking claws upon bones,
And nursing my offspring,
No words be spoken,
When the eye is open,
I am the Creature.
I am a mentor,
Who let’s the question find the answer
Smack you down with strength
And build you up through resistance,
One final fall right be for deliverance,
Let you feel the need to dig deep,
To pull yourself up on your feet,
Right before release,
I am the Mentor,
I am a rebel,
Sworn to life with liberty,
With freedom’s crown worn,
Tyrants crumble amongst the pillars,
Do what needs done,
Survive, overcome, adapted,
I am the Rebel.
I am a monster,
Twisting bones to dust,
Devouring the flesh of prey,
No remorse will pacify,
No guilt will neutralize,
Unaffected by disgust,
Driven to keep life within,
I am the Monster,
I am an enemy,
Thinking against the grain,
Resisting the will outside,
Blaspheming the sacred,
Inverting the accepted,
Finding the fault in the plan,
One who is hated,
One who loves within hate,
I am the Enemy,
I am a savoir,
Liberating the oppress,
Holding back the villains,
Warding off the unwanted,
Strengthening the weakened,
From ashes to flowers,
I am the Savior,
I am always present,
Not visible yet perceivable,
Not tangible yet fathomable,
The core of all that surrounds,
Buried under costumes of deceit,
Come fall into the deep,
Discover what lies beneath it all,
I am the Self.
By Thomas LeRoy ~ Founder of The Sect of the Horned God
We have no symbolic life, and we are all badly in need of the symbolic life. Only the symbolic life can express the need of the soul – the daily need of the soul, mind you! And because people have no such thing, they can never step out of this mill – this awful, banal, grinding life in which they are “nothing but.”…Everything is banal; everything is “nothing but,” and that is the reason why people are neurotic. They are simply sick of the whole thing, sick of that banal life, and therefore they want sensation. They even want a war, they all want a war, they are all glad when there is a war, they say, “Thank heaven, now something is going to happen – something bigger than ourselves!” These things go pretty deep, and no wonder people get neurotic. Life is too rational; there is no symbolic existence in which I am something else, in which I am fulfilling my role, my role as one of the actors in the divine drama of life. — C.G. Jung
Why is there a suicide epidemic? Mass shootings? A a deep cultural malaise? Carl Gustav Jung would say it is because the citizens of the modern Western World have lost contact with symbols, such as the metaphors we know as “God” or “The Gods”. The gods are primordial aspects of our being, psychic images connected to the collective unconscious that cannot be fully rationalized. Jung theorized we needed these symbols to express that which could not be wholly known.
Though the gods are buried deeply within the human subconscious, most existed long before us. They were an inherent part of the minds of our primordial ancestors, beings now long extinct: Aphrodite was born to that first creature to display lust; Aries came into existence with the first being to kill another of its kind out of anger; Pan, with that first early, early being to experience irrational fear, etc.
For many thousands of years humankind led lives deep with symbolic meaning. The gods were everywhere and in everything. From the time of the ancient communal fires to the god of Abraham, the gods fed the psyche, bringing about a life-enhancing effect. Even though it’s believed (more often than not) by people without an understanding of metaphorical symbolism, Abrahamism, the preeminent religious philosophy in the West, with all its misuses and abuses, brought nourishment to those overwhelmed with the psychic chaos of being.
But with the Age of Enlightenment, and the escalation of scientific thought, the gods began to die. This deicidal slaughter became so great it caused the 19th century, atheistic German philosopher Friedrich Nietzsche to declare, “God is dead!” But even though he, personally, had no use for the Abrahamic god, Nietzsche saw God’s death as deleterious to the basic belief system of the West. Just as you may not need antidepressants to get through the day, there are many who do, and the removal of such could wreak havoc. Thus, the demise of the Abrahamic system put many people at risk of despair, or meaninglessness. This new atheistic understanding of the world could, or would, lead to pessimism, “a will to nothingness” that was antithetical to a life-affirming philosophy. A nihilistic world was what Nietzsche feared and he stated as such when he wrote:
“What I relate is the history of the next two centuries. I describe what is coming, what can no longer come differently: the advent of nihilism...”
And the events of the 20th century would prove him right.
What is the answer then? Where can one find meaning in a world that has murdered the gods? Many have turned to politics. This form of vehement religiosity is evident in the political tribalism so prevalent in the world today. Others have found the gods in technology, entertainment, and even the sciences. But these solutions are the equivalent to nourishing the body with junk-food — temporarily fulfilling, but detrimental in the long run.
For those on the left-hand path resurrecting the gods is the answer, but one must be wary when performing this act of necromancy. Those longing for a shepherd, fearful to venture forth, would rather follow the herd then carve out their own personal path, will not find solace on the left-hand path. The left-hand path is a dangerous road where the gods are not there to coddle you, but to shake you violently until you awaken to a reality most would rather ignore. They are gods, not of forgiveness and mercy, but dark entities longing to devour you. They are a reminder that the strength to suffer the tribulations of existence should come, not from the whims of the collective, but from your own personal will.
We, The Sect of the Horned God, are the necromancers of the gods. Reanimation of those ancient archetypes is what we have to offer. But the act of invoking is up to you.
By Thomas LeRoy
“The East/West division dissolves when an understanding is gained concerning the common traditional roots of both branches, which lie in the substrata of Indo-European philosophies. Furthermore, the entirely cross-cultural nature of the left-hand path will become more obvious.”
~ Stephen E. Flowers, Ph.D.
The fifth order in The Sect of the Horned God is called “The Order of Shiva”, and because of this we have been asked as to why we incorporate Eastern Left-Hand Path traditions into our philosophy. Truth be told, the East and West are not as different as you may think based upon the existence of similarities amongst the deities, religious practices and mythologies of the Indo-European peoples. Proto-Indo-Europeans (PIE), the people who gave birth to these common traditions, had a pantheon of gods with similar names and attributes as the gods we are more familiar with. Dyēus Phtēr, for example, was their god of the day-lit sky and the chief god of the Indo-European pantheon. The name survives in Greek with Zeus and the vocative form “Zeu pater”; Latin “Jupiter”.
Consequently, the different branches of Indo-Europeans religions (Greco-Roman, Germanic, and Celtic in Europe, and Hindu, Persian, etc. in Asia), have many similarities:
Zeus and Indra — Not only are they both the “King of the Gods” in their respective mythologies, but their weapons of choice (the lightning-bolt) are the same. In spite of being immortals they resemble human beings for they both show emotions of love, jealousy and anger. Both succumbed to the charms of pious mortal women and impersonated their husbands to seduce them and both of them have many wives.
Hercules and Krishna — Hercules tale of the killing of the Stymphalian Birds, and Lord Krishna killing Bakasura, the bird demon. Hercules capturing the Cretan Bull, and Lord Krishna slaying Arishtasura, the bull demon. Hercules rounding up the horses of Diomedes, and Lord Krishna battling against Keshi, the horse demon.
Cernunnos and Pashupati — The most well known depictions of these two gods, one Celtic the other proto-Indian, shows them horned, seated in a lotus position and surrounded by animals. Pashupati is a “proto-Shiva”, Shiva the Destroyer, the god of the left-hand path in the Hindu tradition.
Even the Celtic Druids and Hindu Brahmins share many similar traits. The Druids, for example, were not simply a priesthood, but were the intellectual caste of ancient Celtic society, incorporating judges, lawyers, medical doctors, ambassadors, historians and so forth, not unlike India’s Brahmin caste. Also, the Druid’s relationship with the tribal king, or ri, was very similar to that of the Brahmin and the raja. On a deeper metaphysical level, they also shared the idea of rebirth and the transmigration of the soul.
“The very name Druid is composed of two Celtic word roots which have parallels in Sanskrit. Indeed, the root vid for knowledge, which also emerges in the Sanskrit word Veda, demonstrates the similarity. The Celtic root dru which means ‘immersion’ also appears in Sanskrit. So a Druid was one ‘immersed in knowledge’.”
~ Peter Beresford-Ellis
Turns out there are many similarities between Old Irish (Celtic) and Sanskrit:
Old Irish – aire (freeman),Sanskrit – arya (noble)
Old Irish – noeb (good), Sanskrit – naib (holy)
Old Irish – bodar (deaf), Sanskrit – badhirah (deaf)
Old Irish – nemed (sacred/privileged), Sanskrit – names (respect)
It has been hypothesized that the spiritual traditions of both East and West are based upon the ancient Indo-European philosophy of “The Eternal Natural Law” (also known as “The Perennial Philosophy”), which emphasizes the aspect that both you and the Divine are one. The Asatru, or Odinists, call it “Örlögr”. In Egypt it was “Ma’at”. In Avestan Persian, “Asha”, and in Sanskrit it is called “Sanatana Dharma”. But in the West the Eternal Natural Law was forced into extinction by the Abrahamic faiths, namely Christianity and Islam, whose dogmas preach that one must seek salvation through subservience to the Divine. And much of what we know of The Eternal Natural Law (which in the West had eventually become known as Witchcraft), is filtered through a warped Abrahamic misunderstanding (examples would be The Malleus Maleficarum, or Compendium Maleficarum, books that set forth much of the modern misconceptions). Many throughout the Western World, though, have attempted to revitalize the old ways. But, whether they realize it or not, it is often based upon the bastardized Christian interpretations. This can obviously be seen in Wicca and other forms of modern paganism, while other revisionists have simply resorted to guesswork and faith. Examples of which would be those attempting to resurrect the Greco/Roman traditions, or the Modern Druids.
In the East, though, that tradition has remained unbroken for over 5,000 years. The Abrahamic influence did not supplant Sanatana Dharma. Throughout history the Islamists attempted to bring about its demise, but the old ways prevailed. There it need not be resurrected for it never died. In the West, though, there is a chasm separating modernity from the Eternal Natural Law. It is a wide expanse where we see only tiny, distant images on the far side. But there is a bridge across that chasm, secure and steady, and that bridge is Sanatana Dharma.
“An approach via the East will disentangle many of the arguments from the sometimes hopelessly confused jumble we find in the historical sources of the left-hand path in the West.”
~ Stephen E. Flowers, Ph.D.
We in The Sect do not want to guess as to what is maybe happening on the far side of the occult chasm. We don’t want to rely on guesswork and faith. We don’t want to believe.
We want to know.
By Eric ~ Member of the Sect of the Horned God
I personally have seen what the power of myth can do to the human mind and how it can touch your very “soul”. My discovery of the occult came around at about the age of 15 and later, around the age of 20, I was introduced to the teachings of Anton LaVey. I loved it. It spoke to me. First I was a skeptic as a teen then, while growing and learning, I began combining my atheism with spirituality and psychology which I feel is the very definition of Rational Occultism.
I was raised into Christianity. Not the suburban Neo-Christians, but rather the hardcore, holy rolling Christians. My family claimed to be”Non-Denominational”, but for all intents and purposes they were Pentecostal. After watching people speak in tongues, casting out demons, dancing, running, screaming, anything you could imagine fanatics doing, they did it. When I was a child I couldn’t even sleep alone or leave my parents’ side because I was so afraid of not being good enough to be included in the “rapture” and would be left behind.
One evening at church, around the age of 14, an evangelist from our church had returned from a mission trip. In our congregation it was common practice for people to be “Slain In The Spirit” and fall out on the floor . The process included white sheets they would lay over the women who wore dresses so they wouldn’t expose themselves. This evangelist claimed that one of the sheets was anointed by god and allowed the “windows of heaven to open up and bless us with the Holy Spirit of god.” Everyone he put this sheet on went insane. The people even went as far to say that they could see six windows of light open up and all in attendance were blessed to be there because there are only 7 windows in heaven-so nearly all of heaven visited us that night. Eventually the cloth made its way near me. My Aunt was beside me and had remained calm through all of this. Once the sheet was placed on her, she began dancing, speaking in tongues, screaming and in, essence, mirroring the fanatic behavior of the congregation. Then the sheet was placed me; I felt nothing. Absolutely nothing. Seeing this, my parents, the children, some older than me, some younger than me, and absolutely everyone surrounded me and began praying and rebuked the spirit of hell that was causing me to resist the lord.
I knew then that I was an atheist and that everyone in my life had been indoctrinated. It started a long and hard path for me as I have never been silent about my beliefs and shouldn’t be expected to.
By Victor ~ Member of the Sect of the Horned God
As a youth I was raised in the church. One of the main tenants that was taught, at what seemed like every sermon or teaching, was the idea “we are to love our enemies, to bless those that curse us, to turn the other cheek”. In these and others was how we would show the world the true love of God, bringing the sinner to his knees. Even in my early teens I always felt that this was some how…..silly. Why should I freely give love to someone that would want to harm me and my family? What good will it do besides getting all of us killed? I battled with this a lot, to the point that this where I began my journey to seek a more common sense approach to who really deserves to be loved.
I began to look at other religions which I thought were not as “weak” as Christianity. I mean, who wants to serve a god that is willing to let me get my ass kicked everyday? I first began to look at Islam, knowing that they had a no nonsense approach to their beliefs. I liked the fact that they wouldn’t just let anyone bulldoze through them, and admittedly it was appealing . But closer examination saw that this too was a religion built on fairy tales and absurd “rules”. So my search continued.
On and on I went until I opened the forbidden door to LaVey and the Church of Satan. It was his words that finally opened my eyes to common sense beliefs. The idea that my love is just that…MY LOVE. I get to choose who or what deserves it. Not because some carpenter told me to “love my neighbor” but because I am more than just some leaf blowing in the wind. My love is more then a tool to bring “the lost” to god. NO! I’m not a leaf….I’m not a sheep either. I am a protector. Like the wolf, I need to to care for and protect my pack. In turn they will care and protect me. I need to keep my eyes open for any enemy that will try to take what is mine and I must fight to death to protect my pack.
It was a revelation to me. Now, I was more free than I ever was in the cell block of religion and no longer had to relinquish my pride and life to those who absolutely did not deserve an ounce of anything from me. It has also made me a happier person. I wasn’t chained to an unrealistic idea that we are some god’s clones and that we need to act like him or all those sinners will go to hell because I didn’t love them enough. I call B.S. on that. If a person needs my love so bad to feel better about themselves perhaps there is something deeper psychologically with them. Perhaps they need professional help beyond just me telling some random stranger or even worse an enemy “I love them”. I won’t let this type of vampire come into my life and drain away any of my emotions that only those I truly care about deserve.