Paranormal: Necromancy: The Nightstalker's Poem by Kevin Wikse

 I have repeatedly heard that interest in the occult and the development of mediumistic talents often results from near-death experiences (NDE) and UFO-based abduction. Like many legitimate experiencers of high strangeness, this began for me when I was young and for the same reasons.

I was either 11 or 12 when I was given a coven-only copy of the art of Necromancy (contacting the dead) employed by the Witches of Solvang, a witch cult operating in Solvang, California. Since then, I have been driven to pursue, document, and experience paranormal phenomena from the inside out. 

The following is an example of that drive. I do not suggest anyone copy what little of my methodologies I share. The paranormal and the occult are not practices to take lightly. They have consequences, and those consequences can be dire. Take me seriously, or laugh, but you have been warned either way. 

In the practices of spiritism and Necromancy, a thing or object through which a person's spirit passes, especially at the time of death, is a powerful relic and point of focus to summon them. In 2016, I secured a very personal item of Richard Ramirez, the Nightstalker, which was on his person when he died. Over several necromantic conjurings, Richard's shade and I agreed on how we would conduct future consultations. 

Richard Ramirez decided on the process of automatic writing. I would allow him the "use" of my left hand to write or sketch. I was to draw a pentagram on my left palm like he did (this would serve as a portal for his shade) and then prick the center to let a drop or two of blood flow. I would place his relic in the middle of the pentagram and curl my fingers around it just enough so I could still hold a pencil or pen. He requested I use the pen and ink for my work with the arcane tomes, the Greater and Lesser Keys of Solomon, and the Grimorium Verm. His fixation on the ink was not surprising. The ink is a mixture of the blood from various birds and reptiles. 

*There is, in truth, a whole ritual and ceremony we developed, but I will not reveal more than what I already have. 

I performed the appropriate necromantic invocations on the agreed-upon night, prepared my writing station, and touched ink dipped pen to parchment...

The following poem is the result of that eerie and unsettling night. 

I remember the dark loom of trees across the reddening twilight. You were there, looking up, watching the sun's failing light. Its dying rays retract back over empty mountains and desolate forests. I was there too, watching you, watching it. Through tree branches, the sun's fading ostentation intricately wove a texture over your face, casting you in the starring role of the fly caught in my spider's web.

I recall descending upon you. The ecstasy of that moment surpassed the few seconds my spirit hung in the air above you, dangling by a barbed wire of malice and sweaty impulse. I concussed the sense from your head before screams could leave your mouth. My industrious hands went to work over your body to render you a sacrifice, the sacrament for the religion of poisonous insects.

You reside now only in the shadowlands. Tightly bound in dark astral weavings, suspended between hungry undead trees. Now and then, I can feel you struggle against the bindings I and fate wrapped you in. With a gentle hush, you settle back into oblivion, unaware of the horrific morning which eternally dawns around you.

When I consider the precious gift I squandered on you, I feel slightly unrequited. So instead, I occupy my mind with visions of ripping the limbs off people with the same remorseless ease those of that so-called civilized demographic might tear the legs from a spider.

-Richard Ramirez (?) via Kevin Wike.