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Brad and Sherry Steiger

Please Visit his Official Web Site ~ edwardshanahan.com

Conscious Channeler Edward Shanahan





The Nightmare, Henry Fuseli, 1781 (The Detroit Institute of Arts, Detroit)


“And they are called Incubi from their practice of overlaying, that is debauching. For they often lust lecherously after women, and copulate with them…the foulest venereal acts are performed by such devils, not for the sake of delectation, but for the pollution of the souls and bodies of those to whom they act as . . . Incubi [and] through such action complete conception and generation by women can take place.”

The Malleus Maleficarum of Heinrich Kramer and James Sprenger, Part One, Question Three.

A thirty-seven year old female in the Midwest began experiencing strange sensations of something walking or crawling over the bed she and her husband shared. Sometimes the movements would occur while both were completely awake; occasionally, indentations would appear on the blankets corresponding to the “steps” of the invisible intruder. On at least two separate nights, the woman awakened to fondling and touches arousing her sexually: fully awake, she realized her husband was sleeping soundly next to her.

Though she tried to shake it off as a vivid dream – her husband had, after all, been sick for several years and his condition had made sexual relations impossible. Perhaps the disturbing, very real dreams were the simple result of frustration resulting from dealing with such a prolonged illness. But a few months later, after her husband’s death, the woman found herself alone in her bed and about to discover the truth about her nocturnal visitations . . .

Within no time the invisible entities were back in her bed and, perhaps in grief and exhaustion, the woman finally gave in to their advances. The experience defied description and once she had succumbed to the foreplay of her unseen seducers she found herself needing sex constantly, twenty-four hours a day. She became immediately addicted to the attentions of the entities now, evidently, with her constantly; they never tired, either, and were ready to oblige her growing sexual addiction.


de: Nachtmahr1802
Füssli, Johann Heinrich

The woman tried to rationalize that the spirit visitations were from kind, well-meaning spirits, higher intelligences from another more advanced plane of existence. But deep in her mind she knew differently as the frequency of the encounters increased and her need for constant sex began to interfere with her day-to-day existence.

She began to make some attempt at resistance, feeble at first, but with each encounter she felt herself more determined to put an end to the visits. As her will grew stronger, to her dismay, the encounters became more aggressive; soon gentle seduction became something more like attack. Steeling her will, she made the best attempt possible to resist the spirits who were now constantly with her and constantly engaging in sexual activity with her. But it was to no avail.

Something had been triggered the moment she first relented to the lustful entities and from that instant they had the upper hand. When she finally resorted to prayers and pleas to God to end the foul attacks she was introduced to a new experience at the hand of what she described as a “more powerful” spirit than the others and able to subdue the others. The presence of this entity was heralded by extreme cold and tingling from head to toe just before the sexual foreplay would begin. During visits from this particular entity, whether she resisted or not, the sex act was brutal and she was paralyzed – unable to participate or to stop it from happening. She had become the sexual slave of something not of this world and she, in a weak moment, had shackled herself to her fate.

Though lesser in numbers, the male progeny of the demon goddess Lilith were nonetheless a force to be reckoned with – offspring following in the footsteps of their father, the very, very, very bad angel Sammael.

The Devil Tarot Card Icon, by Ricardo Pustanio © 2005 gold leaf mixed medium on wood 8.5 x 11 inches

These satanic sons of the fall inherited their parents’ flagrant disregard for the Creator and the natural order of things; they also bore deep within them the hatred of their parents for the children of Adam and Eve, whom they looked upon as prey and prizes in a game of eternal ruination.

While their sisters and sometimes lovers the succubi and maras relied upon the seduction and glamour to tempt men into the sin of copulation with demons, the male incubi were imbued with a natural allure that gave them power to overcome even the most chaste females. It was said of the incubi that they, like their angelic father, possessed much of the nobility inherent in their nature at the beginning of time. It made sense, after all, that they should become the heirs of this higher quality from their forebear, who was created along with the angels who remained loyal before the throne of God. But in the lower regions of the human world, where the veil between the natural and unnatural is often tenuous, the beauty and nobility of their nature would serve them well and, though they were devils, they would often meet little resistance among the daughters of man.

“…for the nature that was given them has not been changed…their nature remained intact and very splendid, although they cannot use it for any good purpose.”

The Malleus Maleficarum of Heinrich Kramer and James Sprenger, Part One, Question Three.

In the annals of occult literature, especially in the writings that come to us from the Middle Ages, there are hundreds of accounts of demons who lurk in the shadow realms of the unseen world, waiting for a moment to strike – but this hunter has only one prey, human females. Knowingly, stealthily, slowly and often with infinite patience the invader will make his presence known, visiting its victim while she slumbers, taking advantage of the dream state to introduce itself to her as if emanating from her deepest yearnings. Within time and with patience the predator sexual spirit, the incubi, will obtain all that it desires and more, preying on the lustful weaknesses that plague the physical state.

It is frequently found that some women have knowingly invited and succumbed to the sexual seduction of these incubus devils; still others have become victims by unwittingly allowing an incubus entry to the physical plane through misguided witchcraft or amateur attempts at divination. Once realized on this plane, the incubi will slowly begin to work its sexual magic until the victim responds, trancelike, all the while attempting to rationalize the experience, all the while unable to share anything about it with any human from the waking world.

During the witch persecutions of the Middle Ages it was taken as fact that all women suspected or convicted of practicing witchcraft had been the willing concubines of these unnatural devil lovers, these “sons of perdition.” That witches should rightfully be damned and destroyed based on this assumption led to their inevitable end in the purging fires of the Inquisition. But the great Inquisitors of the time held that all women, regardless of whether or not they practiced witchcraft or not – all women were unable to restrain themselves when it came to the delectations of their incubi lovers. The fear was that a man might never know, for a fact, whether his good wife was actually the secret sexual toy of an unseen and extremely virile underworld spirit.



Because of their descent in line from one of the brightest of God’s angels – Sammael was a powerful angel of the throne of God before the fall – these incubi had the added attraction of their inherently sublime natures. Often they would appear as figures of shining light, clad in nearly all the splendor their father wore at the creation of the world. Only later, after the shine had worn off, did the woman thus deceived actually see her lover in his actual, sometimes awful, incubus state – a woman might awake to find a goat-like creature or, most awful, a corpse in the bed next to her, once the mantle of glamour had been breached.

“It is a very general belief, the truth of which is vouched for by many from their own experience, or at least from hearsay as having been experienced by men of undoubted trustworthiness, that [they]…(which are commonly called Incubi) have appeared to wanton women and have sought and obtained coition with them. And that certain devils…assiduously attempt and achieve this filthiness is vouched for by so many credible witnesses that it would seem impudent to deny it…And that which seems true to many cannot be altogether false.”

The Malleus Maleficarum of Heinrich Kramer and James Sprenger, Part One, Question Three.

A widely held belief is that some incubi are able to engage in sexual relations and even to father children on unknowing victims by taking possession of the body of a human man. These possessed individuals would often go about as perfectly normal looking men, although there was always something not “quite right” about them – something aloof and hard to define. Always they demonstrated a sadistic nature and a love of evil behavior, though usually they are able to hide this from their female prey.

Time after time, as recorded throughout the folklore and traditions of many cultures, the incubus-man would behave in a predictable manner: seeking out a weak, shy or neglected female the demon would enter her life like a knight in shining armor, the long-hoped-for lover arriving at last. Soon, however, the victim finds that all her resistance is worn down and before she realizes it she has given herself in more ways than just a promise or a vow. Deflowered, often defamed, ruined in the eyes of her family and community, the woman, once abandoned by the incubus, will often give in to her despair and take her own life.

Occasionally, the incubus-man would simply abandon his victim without explanation or promise of return. The lucky ones were able to live out honorable lives as spinsters, rationalizing that the events never even happened. Some, more lucky, would find other willing suitors, but the memory of the devil who had plagued her, and the fear of its return, was never far from mind.

BRIDAL BALLAD by Edgar Allen Poe

The ring is on my hand,
And the wreath is on my brow;
Satins and jewels grand
Are all at my command,
And I am happy now.

And my lord he loves me well;
But, when first he breathed his vow,
I felt my bosom swell –
For the words rang as a knell,
And the voice seemed HIS who fell
In the battle down the dell,
And who is happy now.

But he spoke to re-assure me,
And he kissed my pallid brow,
While a reverie came o’er me,
And to the church-yard bore me
(Thinking him dead D’Elormie),
“Oh, I am happy now!”

And thus the words were spoken,
And this the plighted vow;
And, though my faith be broken,
And, though my heart be broken,
Here is a ring, as token
That I am happy now! –
Behold the golden token
That PROVES me happy now!

Would God I could awaken!
For I dream I know not how,
And my soul is sorely shaken
Lest an evil step be taken, --
Lest the dead who is forsaken
May not be happy now.

Some incubi are spirits of place who prey not on a single victim, but on many over a period of several years. Ghost-like in their location-specific nature, these spirits do, nonetheless, fit the definition of incubi in that they are responsible for regular sexual attacks on unsuspecting females who come within their reach. WAKE ME GENTLY IF YOU CAN!

One such experience occurred to a young woman traveling from Northern California to Oregon to visit family one holiday season. Having set out late in the day, when night came on she found herself tired of driving and in need of a place to rest. She pulled into a well-kept, well-lit hotel off the main highway, one of a popular chain. Within a short time she was locking herself into a clean and secure hotel room.

After a quick shower, the woman prepared for bed. She had a long drive ahead of her in the morning and wanted to get an early start. Finally settled in, she turned out the lights and fell quickly to sleep.

Some time later she awoke to an icy chill in the room. Her eyes flew wide as she perceived that everything was not right. Lifting her head to look around, she was horrified to see what looked like hand prints in deep indentations near the foot of the bed on either side of her legs. She instinctively reached for the light, but before she could turn it on she felt the strong grip of an unseen force pulling the bed covers off. She tried to move but was instantly and painfully forced down onto the mattress. Her clothes were ripped away. The crushing weight of the unseen spirit made it impossible for her to move or call out. Unbearable waves of pain shook her body as something, unseen and unyielding was forcing itself into her again and again. Soon she felt the invisible being seem to stiffen and then its grip lessened slightly. She chose this moment to try to bolt.

Immediately it was on her again, grabbing her legs as she clawed at the carpet between the bed and the hotel room door. Once again it attacked her, pushing her face into the carpet; again she could not utter a sound or even move.

For the rest of the dark hours of the night these attacks were repeated, again and again. As the first grey light of day seeped into the room, the entity was gone as quickly as it had arrived.


"Oh, where have you been, my long, long love,
this seven years and more?"
"Oh, I've come to seek my former vows
Ye granted me before."
"Oh, do not speak of your former vows,
For they will breed sad strife;
Oh, do not speak of your former vows,
For I have become a wife."
He turned him right and round about,
And the tear blinded his eye:
"I would never have trodden on this ground
If it had not been for thee."
"If I was to leave my husband dear,
And my two babes also,
Oh, what have you to take me to,
If with you I should go?"

Thus begins a famous English folk song of the early 17th century based, more than likely, on an even older folk tradition that for centuries served as a cautionary tale against mourning overmuch for the loss of a love. When the woman asked where it is her returned lover will take her to, the answer, ultimately, is the frozen wastes of hell.

As with so many similar tales, the man who had gone away so many years ago was no man at all but a demon incubus in the form and shape of a man. And usually he has returned to make good on some dark promise pledged between the lovers long years before. The Demon Lover By Ricardo Pustanio 2006.

The old and wise would often counsel against mourning too much for the dead. This, they said, made the dead unable to rest and, they warned, often called them back when they ought to be allowed to move on in peace. But in every age there are crises large and small which result in the separation of lovers and the loss of dear ones. It is difficult to comfort a young heart thus severed by untimely death; it is even more difficult to prevent the longing that incubi rely upon to lure their prey into the very depths of hell, cheating heaven of two souls in the bargain. Here is one way this may be:

During the years of the Civil War many thousands of American families were displaced or were disrupted by the battles sweeping across the United States. Many thousands of sons, lovers and husbands were swept off – willingly or not – to fight in the great conflict then redefining our nation. It was not uncommon for whole villages and communities to be emptied of every able bodied man, leaving only children and grandfathers behind; brothers of one family were often allowed to remain with the state militia they had joined and this meant that they would face the conflict all together instead of being separated – very obviously a two-edged sword.

Such was the case in one small farming community in the hills of Tennessee. Fathers, husbands, and sons – all the fine manhood of the area rushed up to fight for the cause and all marched away together, gone to be soldiers for Dixie.

Among these fine men was the betrothed of a merchant’s daughter who watched from the upper windows of her father’s dry goods store as the militia filed out of town, rank upon grey rank fading into the dusty horizon. The young woman watched until the sharp flicker of sunlight on the tip of a bayonet was the last sight she had of the soldiers and of her dearly beloved.

This was in the spring. As spring gave way to summer and word of distant battles came to the village, she was comforted by some few letters from her dearest and even a steely photograph arrived showing her loved one very proper and stern in his army duds. She put it in a special place on the mantelpiece of her bedroom. But after this, there was nothing, no word at all from her beloved. To keep away the sullen thoughts she would sit beside the window in the dying summer sunlight and work painstakingly at her needlepoint or read again from the books that she and her dear one had treasured together.

Summer gave way to autumn and still there was no word from him, nor, it must be said, from any of the bright young men who had marched away so gallantly in the springtime. Soon the crowns of gold and orange that ringed the mountaintops gave way to somber brown. Winter had come and with no news of her heart’s desire. But with the first hints of snow letters came through the post confirming the worst fears of many of the village residents. She was not spared: her beloved was missing, presumed dead.

Now she gave herself entirely over to grief, believing the worst to be true. If her were alive, she told herself, he would communicate with her somehow, some way. Listless and red-eyed, she wandered through each cold day in a daze; when night came, it brought no peace, and the tears returned to plague her. Alone, in the solemn darkness of her room night after night she would call out the name of her lover in a hoarse whisper, thinking only the darkness could hear.

But one moonless night near the end of that horrible year there came the sound of a horse galloping through the empty byways. Nearer and nearer it came, as if all the devils of hell were chasing it. Drawn to the window by the strange cacophony which seemed to suddenly halt very near, she looked out and there, standing on a blanket of new snow, was the panting horse and beside it stood the unmistakable form of her dear lover! He was looking up at her, she could tell, and she threw the window open, blinded by tears.

“Come down,” he called to her in a voice that seemed hollow in the cold night. “We haven’t much time.” She was not deterred and nodding to him, she swiftly turned and sped from her bedroom, down the stairs and out the front door of the house.

He had already mounted the smoking, sweaty beast and as she approached her reached out with a strong arm and pulled her up into the saddle behind him. She was overjoyed; she laid her head against his back, enthralled by the feel of him, the rough-hewn fabric of his butternut grey uniform against her cheek. But suddenly it struck her – how awfully, awfully cold he was. It wasn’t just the night air that beat against her as they rode, swift as the wind, into the pitch-blackness. His body was frigid against her arms and about him was a smell, oddly familiar and distressful. She shivered and he responded by saying, “It is not far now!”

She sat up just enough to see over his shoulder. The dark fingers of the trees wheeled away above them as the horse galloped on. Soon, in the distance, there came into view the forms of crosses and headstones, gleaming unearthly white in the dark night.

“But -- !” was all she managed before the horse leapt and in that final leap cleared the low fence of the burying ground. When its raging hooves once again struck the earth she was jolted slightly in the saddle and he had to reach for her to keep her from falling. What she saw horrified her and froze her face in a contorted look of terror and ghastly realization: it was the form of her lover that held her, but the face was a mangled mass of skeletal bone and fragments of flesh, empty eye sockets and the death grin of a cadaver.

“You called to me,” said a hollow, faraway voice, “and I came back for you!”

The young woman screamed pitiably as the horse leaped yet again. This time down and into a rectangle of earthen loam that fell about them as they disappeared into the yawning maw of the devouring earth.

In the morning, all that remained was a pile of freshly dug earth where the snow had not yet fallen.


Cold blows the wind on my true love,
Soft falls the gentle rain,
I never had but one true love,
And in greenwood he lies slain.

Oh, I’d lose much for my true love…
…I’ll sit and I’ll mourn upon his grave
For twelve months and a day.

When the twelve months and one day had passed
The ghost began to speak:
“Who is it that sits all on my grave
And will not let me sleep?”

‘Tis I, ‘tis I thine own true love,
That sits upon your grave,
I ask of one kiss from your sweet lips,
And that is all I crave.

“My lips they are as clay my love,
My breath is earthy strong,
And if you should kiss these clay-cold lips
Your toil t’would not be long.

Look down in the yonder garden there,
Love, where we used to walk –
The fairest flower that ever bloomed
Has withered unto the stalk.
The stalk it has withered and dried my love –
So will our hearts decay.

So wait yourself content, my love,
‘Til Death calls you away.”



The power of love and the accompanying blessing of sexual union is something profoundly desired in every human since the beginning of time. That it is possible for devils in the form of incubi and demon lovers to pervert and distort these most human of desires is disturbing to contemplate. That we might possibly invite them in, knowingly or unknowingly, is not very much more comfort.

In the accumulated wisdom of folk tradition is a cautionary tale for all eras, especially those influenced by great conflagrations in which the young and the tenderhearted easily tether themselves in unfit and unsubstantial unions. As it was in times past, when in the dark night, desires took the form of uninvited sexual trysts with ethereal denizens of the realms of hell, so in more modern times the possibility remains: One is never quite certain, when one gives away so dear a gift as a heart or physical intimacy, that the receiver completely deserves such a gift.

Perhaps the greatest and most well known adaptation of the old tales of incubi and demon lovers is the short story by author Elizabeth Bowen aptly titled “The Demon Lover.” No other modern author seems to have grasped more successfully the ability of the incubi to cast its seductive spell and the results of one woman’s response to the lure, even many years later.



Here, then, is Bowen’s masterpiece of devilish fiction, in its entirety.


by Elizabeth Bowen (1945)

Towards the end of her day in London Mrs. Drover went round to her shut-up house to look for several things she wanted to take away. Some belonged to herself, some to her family, who were by now used to their country life. It was late August; it had been a steamy, showery day: at the moment the trees down the pavement glittered in an escape of humid yellow afternoon sun. Against the next batch of clouds, already piling up ink-dark, broken chimneys and parapets stood out. In her once familiar street, as in any unused channel, an unfamiliar queerness had silted up; a cat wove itself in and out of railings, but no human eye watched Mrs. Drover’s return. Shifting some parcels under her arm, she slowly forced the latchkey in an unwilling lock, then gave the door, which had warped, a push with her knee. Dead air came out to meet her as she went in.

The staircase window having been boarded up, no light came down into the hall. But one door, she could just see, stood ajar, so she went quickly through into the room and unshuttered the big window in there. Now the prosaic woman, looking about her, was more perplexed than she knew by everything that she saw, by traces of her long former habit of life – the yellow smoke-stain up the white marble mantelpiece, the ring left by a vase on the top of the escritoire, the bruise in the wallpaper where, on the door being thrown open widely, the china handle had always hit the wall. The piano, having gone away to be stored, had left what looked like claw-marks on its part of the parquet. Though not much dust had seeped in, each object wore a film of another kind; and, the only ventilation being the chimney, the whole drawing room smelled of the cold hearth. Mrs. Drover put down her parcels on the escritoire and left the room to proceed upstairs; the things she wanted were in the bedroom closet.

She had been anxious to see how the house was – the part-time caretaker she shared with some neighbors was away this week on his holiday, known to be not yet back. At the best of times he did not look in often and she was never sure that she trusted him. There were some cracks in the structure, left by the last bombing, on which she was anxious to keep an eye. Not that one could do anything –

A shaft of refracted daylight now lay across the hall. She stopped dead and stared at the hall table – on this lay a letter addressed to her.

She thought first – then the caretaker must be back. All the same, who, seeing the house shuttered, would have dropped a letter in at the box? It was not a circular, it was not a bill. And the post office redirected, to the address in the country, everything for her that came through the post. The caretaker (even if her were back) did not know she was due in London today – her call here had been planned to be a surprise – so his negligence in the matter of this letter, leaving it to wait in the dusk and dust, annoyed her. Annoyed, she picked up the letter, which bore no stamp. But it cannot be important, or they would know…. She took the letter rapidly upstairs with her, without a stop to look at the writing till she reached what had been her bedroom, where she let in light. The room looked over the garden and other gardens: the sun had gone in; as the clouds sharpened and lowered, the trees and rank lawns seemed already to smoke with dark. Her reluctance to look again at the letter came from the fact that she felt intruded upon – and by someone contemptuous of her ways. However, in the tenseness preceding the fall of rain she read it: it was a few lines.

“Dear Kathleen,

You will not have forgotten that today is our anniversary, and the day we said. The years have gone by at once slowly and fast. In view of the fact that nothing has changed, I shall rely upon you to keep your promise. I was sorry to see you leave London, but was satisfied that you would be back in time. You may expect me, therefore, at the hour arranged.

Until then…K.”

Mrs. Drover looked for the date: it was today’s. She dropped the letter onto the bedsprings, then picked it up to see the writing again – her lips, beneath the remains of lipstick, beginning to go white. She felt so much the change in her own face that she went to the mirror, polished a clear patch in it and looked at once urgently and stealthily in. She was confronted by a woman of forty-four, with eyes staring out under a hat brim that had been rather carelessly pulled down. She had not put on any more powder since she left the shop where she ate her solitary tea. The pearls her husband had given her on their marriage hung loose round her now rather thinner throat, slipping into the V of the pink wool jumper her sister knitted last autumn as they sat around the fire. Mrs. Drover’s most normal expression was one of controlled worry, but of assent. Since the birth of the third of her little boys, attended by a quite serious illness, she had had an intermittent muscular flicker to the left of her mouth, but in spite of this she could always sustain a manner that was at once energetic and calm.

Turning from her own face as precipitately as she had gone to meet it, she went to the chest where the things were, unlocked it, threw up the lid and knelt to search. But as the rain began to come crashing down she could not keep from looking over her shoulder at the stripped bed on which the letter lay. Behind the blanket of rain the clock of the church that still stood struck six – with rapidly heightening apprehension she counted each of the slow strokes. “The hour arranged . . . My God,” she said, “WHAT hour? How should I . . . ? After twenty-five years . . . “

The young girl talking to the soldier in the garden had not ever completely seen his face. It was dark; they were saying goodbye under a tree. Now and then – for it felt, from not seeing him at this intense moment, as though she had never seen him at all – she verified his presence for these few moments longer by putting out a hand, which he each time pressed, without very much kindness, and painfully, on to one of the breast buttons of his uniform. That cut of the button on the palm of her hand was, principally, what she was to carry away. This was so near the end of a leave from France that she could only wish him already gone. It was August 1916. Being not kissed, being drawn away from and looked at intimidated Kathleen till she imagined spectral glitters in the place of his eyes. Turning away and looking back up the lawn she saw, through the branches of trees, the drawing room window alight: she caught a breath for the moment when she could go running back there into the safe arms of her mother and sister, and cry: “What shall I do, what shall I do? He is gone.”

Hearing her catch her breath, her fiancé said, without feeling: “Cold?”

“You’re going away such a long way.”

“Not so far as you think.”

“I don’t understand.”

“You don’t have to,” he said. “You will. You know what we said.”

“But that was – suppose you – I mean, suppose.”

“I shall be with you,” he said, “sooner or later. You won’t forget that. You need do nothing but wait.”

Only a little more than a minute later she was free to run up the silent lawn. Looking in through the window at her mother and sister, who did not for the moment perceive her, she already felt that unnatural promise drive down between her and the rest of all human kind. No other way of having given herself could have made her feel so apart, lost and forsworn. She could not have plighted a more sinister troth.

Kathleen behaved well when, some months later, her fiancé was reported missing, presumed killed. Her family not only supported her but were able to praise her courage without stint because they could not regret, as a husband for her, the man they knew almost nothing about. They hoped she would, in a year or two, console herself – and had it been only a question of consolation things might have gone much straighter ahead. But her trouble, behind just a little grief, was a complete dislocation from everything. She did not reject other lovers, for these failed to appear: for years she failed to attract men – and with the approach of her thirties she became natural enough to share her family’s anxiousness on this score. She began to put herself out, to wonder; and at thirty-two she was very greatly relieved to find herself being courted by William Drover. She married him, and the two of them settled down in this quiet, arboreal part of Kensington: in this house the years piled up, her children were born and they all lived till they were driven out by the bombs of the next war. Her movements as Mrs. Drover were circumscribed, and she dismissed any idea that they were still watched.

As things were – dead or living the letter-writer sent her only a threat. Unable, for some minutes, to go on kneeling with her back exposed to the empty room, Mrs. Drover rose from the chest to sit on an upright chair whose back was firmly against the wall. The desuetude of her former bedroom, her married London home’s whole air of being a cracked cup from which memory, with its reassuring power, had either evaporated or leaked away, made a crisis – and at just this crisis the letter-writer had, knowledgeably, struck. The hollowness of the house this evening cancelled years on years of voices, habits and steps. Through the shut windows she only heard rain fall on the roofs around. To rally herself, she said she was in a mood – and, for two or three seconds shutting her eyes, told herself that she had imagined the letter. But she opened them – there it lay on the bed.

On the supernatural side of the letter’s entrance she was not permitting her mind to dwell. Who, in London, knew she meant to call at the house today? Evidently, however, this had been known. The caretaker, had he come back, had had no cause to expect her: he would have taken the letter in his pocket, to forward it, at his own time, through the post. There was no other sign that the caretaker had been in – but, if not? Letters dropped in at doors at deserted houses do not fly or walk to tables in halls. They do not sit on the dust of empty tables with the air of certainty that they will be found. There is needed some human hand – but nobody but the caretaker had a key. Under circumstances she did not care to consider, a house can be entered without a key. It was possible that she was not alone now. She might be being waited for, downstairs. Waited for – until when? Until “the hour arranged.” At least that was not six o’clock: six had struck.

She rose from the chair and went over to the locked door.

The thing was, to get out. To fly? No, not that; she had to catch her train. As a woman whose utter dependability was the keystone of her family life she was not willing to return to the country, to her husband, her little boys and her sister, without the objects she had come up to fetch. Resuming work at the chest she set about making up a number of parcels in a rapid, fumbling-decisive way. These, with her shopping parcels, would be too much to carry; these meant a taxi – at the thought of the taxi her heart went up and her normal breathing resumed. I will ring up the taxi now; the taxi cannot come too soon: I shall hear the taxi out there running its engine, till I walk calmly down to it through the hall. I’ll ring up – But no: the telephone is cut off . . . She tugged at a knot she had tied wrong.

The idea of flight . . . He was never kind to me, not really. I don’t remember him kind at all. Mother said he never considered me. He was set on me, that was what it was – not love. Not love, not meaning a person well. What did he do, to make me promise like that? I can’t remember. –But she found that she could.

She remembered with such dreadful acuteness that the twenty-five years since then dissolved like smoke and she instinctively looked for the weal left by the button on the palm of her hand. She remembered not only all that he said and did but the complete suspension of her existence during that August week. I was not myself – they all told me so at the time. She remembered – but with one white burning blank as where acid has dropped on a photograph: UNDER NO CONDITIONS could she remember his FACE.

So, wherever he may be waiting, I shall not know him. You have no time to run from a face you do not expect.

The thing was to get to the taxi before any clock struck what could be the hour. She would slip down the street and round the side of the square to where the square gave on the main road. She would return in the taxi, safe, to her own door, and bring the solid driver into the house with her to pick up the parcels from room to room. The idea of the taxi driver made her decisive, bold: she unlocked her door, went to the top of the staircase and listened down.

She heard nothing – but while she was hearing nothing the passé air of the staircase was disturbed by a draught that traveled up to her face. It emanated from the basement: down there a door or window was being opened by someone who chose this moment to leave the house.

The rain had stopped; the pavements steamily shone as Mrs. Drover let herself out by inches from her own front door into the empty street. The unoccupied houses opposite continued to meet her look with their damaged stare. Making towards the thoroughfare and the taxi, she tried not to keep looking behind. Indeed, the silence was so intense – one of those creeks of London silence exaggerated this summer by the damage of the war – that no tread could have gained on hers unheard. Where her street debouched on the square where people went on living she grew conscious of and checked her unnatural pace. Across the open end of the square two buses impassively passed each other; women, a perambulator, cyclists, a man wheeling a barrow signified, once again, the ordinary flow of life. At the square’s most populous corner should be – and was – the short taxi rank. This evening, only one taxi – but this, although it presented its blank rump, appeared already to be alertly waiting for her. Indeed, without looking round the driver started his engine as she panted up from behind and put her hand on the door. As she did so, the clock struck seven. The taxi faced the main road: to make the trip back to her house it would have to turn – she had settled back on the seat and the taxi HAD turned before she, surprised by its knowing movement, recollected that she had not “said where.” She leaned forward to scratch at the glass panel that divided the driver’s head from her own.

The driver braked to what was almost a stop, turned round and slid the glass panel back: the jolt of this flung Mrs. Drover forward till her face was almost into the glass. Through the aperture driver and passenger, not six inches between them, remained for an eternity eye to eye. Mrs. Drover’s mouth hung open for some seconds before she could issue her first scream. After that she continued to scream freely and to beat with her gloved hands on the glass all round as the taxi, accelerating without mercy, made off with her into the hinterland of deserted streets.


“It is certain also that the following has happened. Husbands have actually seen Incubus devils swiving their wives, although they have thought that they were not devils but men. And when they have taken up a weapon and tried to run them through, the devil has suddenly disappeared, making himself invisible. And then their wives have thrown their arms about them, although they have sometimes been hurt, and railed at their husbands, mocking them, and asking them if they had eyes, or whether THEY were possessed of devils!”

The Malleus Maleficarum of Heinrich Kramer and James Sprenger, Part Two, Question One, Chapter Four.



Whether we call him Satan, Lucifer, Beelzebub - or whether we are afraid to speak his infernal name at all - many people are concerned about the devil.
Devil, Greek diabolos; Lat. diabolus)The Bible, taken literally, clearly states the devil exists. Satan is mentioned by name in 47 passages <MORE>.


Whether we call him The Great Satan, Lucifer, , Shaitan, Beelzebub, Iblis-Satan is also commonly known as the Devil, the "Prince of Darkness,", Belial, and Mephistopheles or the Dragon, the Serpent, the Goat. Or whether we are afraid to speak his unholy infernal name aloud at all - many people are truly concerned about the Devil's great powers over them and others question if he is real. Satan represents metaphysically simply the reverse or the polar opposite of everything in nature. The Kabalists say that the true name of Satan is that of Jehovah placed upside down, for "Satan is not a black god but the negation of the white deity," or the light of Truth. God is light and Satan is the necessary darkness or shadow to set it off, without which pure light would be invisible and incomprehensible. <MORE>


Cursed by the devil. Many Americans believe that serious forces are working against them? Do You? A righteous curse, especially when uttered by persons in authority, was believed to be unfailing in its effect (Gen. 9:25, 27:12; II Kings 2:24; Ecclus. Sirach 3:11). Special names for specific types of curses and evil spells can be found in several modern cultures. A Haunted house Can be cursed as can a person place or ordinary thing.

> Read More Here.<

Check out the Succubus female of the species



Lilith is a female Mesopotamian night demon believed to harm male children. In Isaiah 34:14, Lilith (Hebrew Lilit) is a kind of night-demon or animal, translated as onokentauros; in the Septuagint, as lamia; "witch" by Hieronymus of Cardia; and as screech owl in the King James Version of the Bible. In the Talmud and Midrash, Lilith appears as a night demon. She is often identified as the first wife of Adam and sometimes thought to be the mother of all incubi and succubi, a legend that arose in the Middle Ages. Lilith is also sometimes considered to be the paramour of Satan. < More >


The physical appearance of succubi varies just about as much as that of demons in general; there is no single definitive depiction. However, they are almost universally depicted as alluring women with unearthly beauty, often with demonic batlike wings; occasionally, they will be given other demonic features (horns, a tail with a spaded tip, snakelike eyes, hooves, etc). Occasionally they appear simply as an attractive woman in dreams that the victim cannot seem to get off their mind. They lure males and in some cases, the male has seemed to fall "in love" with her. Even out of the dream she will not leave his mind. She will remain there slowly draining energy from him. <More>


The story of Robert Johnson and his infamous crossroads deal with the devil – in which he traded his immortal soul for musical genius – is deeply ingrained in the mythology and legend of the rural South and is one of the best-known tales of American folklore. < more here>

And don't forget the spawn of hell


“I thought it was a little kid, you know? Like, it needed some help. It was just sitting there, hunched over in the gutter. It sounded like it was gasping, or having an asthma attack or something. When I bent down to it and it turned around, I almost died on the spot! It was horrible! And what was worse was how it ran away – it scittered, you know, like a roach on paper! It ran off toward Dauphine [Street]! I tell you what: I don’t walk down there alone anymore!”

-- A real-life encounter with the Devil Baby of Bourbon Street <MORE>








IMAGE SIZE 1024 X 768

Click a thumbnail to view wallpaper, then right-click wallpaper to download



DEMON LOVER Susan Cypher,

This CD, "Songs of the Dark," by Susan Cypher Although Susan Cyphers music is always positive (meaning no screaming, name-calling, or swearing), it often sings with sensuality, sexual overtones, and the taste of flamenco-style guitar. Take the song "Demon Lover," for instance, about that lover you can never forget (not a demon in the ancient terms of the word) but a person whose taste and smell and touch haunts your memory even on your deathbed. http://cdbaby.com/mp3lofi/nightbird-02.m3u,

Susan Cypher Website http://www.cdbaby.com/cd/nightbird


Incubus on the Internet

Incubus (demon) - Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia
The Incubus drains energy from the woman it performs sexual intercourse upon in ... Throughout the movie, the demon is female and referred to as "incubus", ...


The Incubus Explained - A website with information on the occult. http://www.sociopathic.net/Misc/incubus.htm

IMDb: Incubus (1965)
Incubus - Cast, Crew, Reviews, Plot Summary, Comments, Discussion, Taglines, Trailers, Posters, Photos, Showtimes, Link to Official Site, Fan Sites.


Incubus - The Film
Incubus, starring William Shatner and written and directed by Leslie Stevens, has been called 'the best fantasy film since Nosferatu.


MTV: Incubus
MTV Music is the ultimate destination for content on Incubus, including band info, music videos, live performances, news, albums and previews, photos, ...


True Independent
Genre · Artist · Album · Label. Search:. by Artist, by Genre, by Album, by State, by Label. About Us · FAQ's · Terms of Use · Privacy Policy · Advertise ...


Incubus - A 19th Century Fantasy Comic
Incubus, an online comic taking place in a low fantasy version of the late 19th century.


INCUBUS lyrics
or enter artist/album/song to search lyrics for:. INCUBUS LYRICS album: "The Fungus Amungus" You Will Be A Hot Dancer ...


Enjoy Incubus
Official site includes news, discography with sound samples, biography and tour dates.







*New 20 Questions with Your favorite Paranormal Investigators, Authors and Ghost Tours. Each Week Haunted America Tours will spotlight them in our Paranormal Zone.

REESE SMITH Sherri Brake Recco. Jeffrey A. Wargo Peter Haviland
Stacey Allen Mcgee Lee N. Pallas Rebecca Shott Paul Eno

This week we proudly are glad to present Known as the Psychic Wizard King Of Bourbon Street REESE SMITH. A master psychic reader advisor Reese was born of an Illustrious family of powerful psychics and mediums on Maryland's majestic eastern shore. Read More Here!

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