The Un-Dead Catholic Vampire Nuns and Bishops of West PA
From the Archives of ZAXON Publishing
©1994 ©2014 GLHoke / ZAXON 2108211
A Short Tale About
the Decadent Ghosts of the
Vampire Nuns and Satanic Bishops
Buried in a Western PA Catholic Cemetery
Back in 1993 I visited my Typhonian OTO friends in a revived but once rusting city in Western PA, Soror Ayizan and her mate Frater Ghede (my name for him). They generously took me on a drive that weekend to some of the really old graveyards in that old steel town.
Some background on Soror Ayizan is that she is the accomplished painter of the Shadow Tarot of the 22 Qliphoth of the Nightside of the Kabbalistic Tree accessible through the Daath Sephirah, as written about by the late Kenneth Grant. Over an unknown period of time she and her mate used various techniques to induce trance, some of which I assume were tantricke in nature, and these original paintings were made on canvas of about 4 x 2 foot size. My first visit there I slept in the room where they were stored, but had no problems or disturbing dreams. Since then they have publicized these as a Tarot deck for sale at ungodly prices at Amazon due to its rarity and limited printing at the time, and have painted the minor arcana of this full Shadow Tarot.
One fun story about visiting them was that one time one of their friends came over and it turned out he had been one of the zombie extras in George Romero’s “Night of the Living Dead” low budget B movie which was filmed in Pittsburgh in 1968. If anyone has seen this movie he is the one who gets his arm ripped off during this zombie resurrection.
Perhaps because of their dark magickal workings a Typhonial vortex was generated that opened these dark doorways at the nearby graveyard which has come alive with the vampire inccubi and succubi dead souls that I now relate of here. Or perhaps my own twisted fertile imagination got away from me to come up with these visions.
They drove me to an old Catholic cemetery in a bad part of the city. Near the entrance and the cathedral was what I called Bishop’s Hill. It was on a little knoll surrounded by a black rod iron fence. Crowded within it were the soaring fancy marble grave markers of Archbishops and Bishops and other clergy of that Diocese. The enclosure and grave markers had a gothic and phallic look to it. Yet I knew beneath those proud monuments lay the decayed bodies of those fathers of the church, some of which I am sure had dark secrets to rot within them. What guilt may still dwell within them in their purgatory of the grave that may turn them into hungry ghosts, or sex starved Incubii?
In another part of the cemetery they also took me to one of the strangest cremation repositories I have ever seen. It was shaped like a huge beehive and inside were the niches from floor to ceiling that once held the cremation urns of the ashes of the dead, now stolen and desecrated. Like I said earlier, it was not the best part of the city.
We walked down Bishop’s Hill and there was this huge black iron cross standing with the crossed spear and vinegar sop from the crucifixion, a cross and an X in dark contrast of form.
Just down below there, on the lowest part of the cemetery were the plainly carved small gravestones of the sisters of the nunnery which had been attached to the cathedral. The contrast between their humble graves and those of the male ecclesiastical authorities up on the hill was mind blowing. In Catholic Christianity all that matters is male authority, and the female and all things feminine are “fallen”. At the poor dead nun’s graveyard I could imagine the writhing souls of these virgin nuns turning into blood and sex sucking succubi.
I could further imaging that at midnight under a Dark Moon that large white serpentine ectoplasm ghosts crawl out from beneath the Bishop’s tombs and slide downhill to coil around the Black Cross at the base of the hill where they await the dead souls of the nuns who arise to meet them in the form of red snakes lustfully entwined in religious ecstasy and prepared by flagellating each other, because as Jesus suffered, so must they. Others, the ghosts of pedophile priests who were once schoolmasters, stay on Bishop’s Hill cavorting with each other and the ghosts of choir boys and communing on the semen-coated hosts of the Body-of-Christ. At the nun’s lower graveyards some nuns also stay behind, engaged in their lesbian lusts, using their crucifixes and the mummified phalluses of Jesus and Peter to pleasure each other, drinking from the bloody Cup of Mary Babalon.
The lustful souls of former priests and nuns now meet at the Black Cross where skeletal nuns sit and feel the ghostly serpents crawl out from under the cross, into their yonis and arses, up their spines, licking and sucking at the necks, penetrating their virgin mouths in unholy necrophilic tantra, sucking their remaining astral fluids. This ghastly orgy happens every new moon they say, especially on Good Friday when Jesus is in Hell and Satan rules on earth again.
On my return home my disturbed soul and twisted mind thought up and wrote this as a short story, which has remained all these years in my archives. Now decades later I tried to re-write it here, but I am not a writer as you can see by my all too purple pen. Maybe good writers like those at Freaky Folk Tale and In the Chimehours can turn this into a real Gothic Lovecraftian story, if they dare touch the subject matter.
Pictures from many old websites, Tumblr sites, Bog sites. TNTC
©1994 ©2013 GLHoke