reach out and summon someone
Jordan
Know your local oracle.
That would be me. Let’s see if I’ll last. The scotch certainly won’t. I’ve got a whole bottle and now I’m ready to do a little
drunk demon-dialing. Can you believe it?
I figured Lilith would’ve reached out by now, but it’s been quiet. Absolute radio silence. Where in the hell is she? All you’ve got to do is summon me, she said.
I need to get my head checked. This is such a stupid idea . . . Fuck it. How else am I going to find her? Talk to her? If
she’s not going to speak to me, then I’ll speak to her.
Time to reach out and summon someone.
I’ve been doing my research. The Salem Witch Trials. The Fox Sisters. The Great Harmonia. The Azusa Street Revival. All these
different cultures with their different scriptures. Countless occurrences throughout the centuries, going back to the dawn
of recorded history. Even further, most likely. Possession has been here from the very beginning.
The real million-dollar question is: How am I going to get Lilith back?
I know I flew off the handle the last time we were together, but now I feel exceptionally empty without her. Is this what it feels like after an exorcism? What’s left of the vessel after the demon is cast out? The host feels hollow inside. Completely excavated.
Do hosts ever pine to get possessed again? Ask for their demons to hop back in?
I want—need—Lilith. I don’t know what I am without her anymore.
If only she’d talk to me.
I knew that was her at the bookstore. Had to be. Has she been following me? She was there and gone before we could talk. The
two of us are being too stubborn, we won’t allow ourselves a chance to open up unless it’s on our own terms . . . whatever
they are.
If we could just talk, communicate with one another, we could avoid all this mess.
Like this. What the fuck am I even doing?
Playing with fire, bud . . .
This deep dive into demonic possession comes with the slightest tinge of guilt. I feel like I’m doing a background check on
a girlfriend, digging up demonic intel. What would she say if she knew I was looking over her social media presence? Doesn’t
everybody do that?
A lighthouse, she called me. A beacon. A guiding light to lead others.
An oracle. Summon me, she said. All you’ve got to do is call . . .
She made it sound so easy.
I need more scotch if I’m really going to do this. There isn’t enough alcohol in the world that’s going to make this feel
normal. Then again, what the fuck is normal anymore?
We’re well beyond normal by now.
I dig into the history of possession practitioners.
Shamans. Mediums. The priests or priestesses who entered these altered states of consciousness in order to foresee the future.
Speak to the other side. Prophesize. There are induction techniques for voluntary possession, where the host willingly permit themselves to be taken over by spirits.
Is that what I’m doing here?
Summon me. As if all I have to do is pick up the possession phone. Give a ring—Hey, Lilith, what’s up? How’s it going? You free this Friday? Wanna get together? Go for a drink?
Or—I’m sorry. I’m sorry I’ve been an asshole. I’m sorry that the black hole in the center of my chest has sucked the love out
of us both, but I don’t know what to do. I don’t know who else to talk to about any of this. You’re the only one who makes
me feel complete and I don’t know who I am without you. I’ve been a fucking shithead, and I want you to forgive me.
Maybe I could leave a voicemail. A possessed message or something. Leave your message at the sound of the beeeeep. Lilith can listen to me baring my soul later.
What soul? I almost forgot . . .
I don’t have one.
Is that true? Would I even know? I can’t think about that now. One thing at a time.
Rulers are appointed by prophets. Oracles declare holy war. Or prevent them. Possession has been in politics since the Old
Testament and beyond.
In Polynesia, there is talk of “God Boxes”—mediums who allowed themselves to be vessels for various deities, who would then
advise their leaders.
And here I am, just trying to call the girl I like.
Shamans heal those who are possessed, extracting spirits. They healed those members of their community who were stricken by
illness, thought to be demonic.
Is this what I am? A god box definitely has a ring to it . . .
Maybe I dragged something back after I died. Maybe this darkness was always there, but it was only after the bike accident
that I opened this door within me.
Lilith said as much, didn’t she? Who’s to say I didn’t already have the ability to see demons? This is more than just I-see-dead-people. She wants me to get in touch with my dark side. Maybe this is what she meant. I’m an empath. A goddamn shaman.
Let’s give this a spin, shall we? Worth a shot. What do I have to lose?
Christ, what do I have left?
Today’s arts and crafts project is super simple: A summoning circle.
Let’s get to invoking our very own demon.
All I want is one.
The Netra Tantra speaks to weak spots in a person’s soul. Through these fissures within the host, it’s possible for demons
to slip inside and possess a human being. These entryways are inside all of us, apparently. Cracks in the shadows of ourselves.
We are a doorway. Once these demons slip through, they are in our world.
I am a lighthouse. I am a beacon to lead demons through. I will light the way.
I guide them inside.
If I can just get Lilith back, lure Lilith in, bring her back to me, we can talk this all through. She’ll have to listen to
me. Let me explain myself.
She makes me feel something I’ve never felt before. I don’t feel empty when she’s here with me. But I don’t know how to talk
about these things because I’ve always felt like I’ve needed to hide them from other people. That this part of me should stay
buried forever. Far away from what others see. How could I explain this? This—
evil
—dark side? All the dark thoughts? The things we’re constantly told you should never say out loud, never share, never act
upon? Those are the things Lilith wants from me. She keeps encouraging me to act upon those impulses . . . and then she completely
abandons me.
I’ve stalled enough. If I’m going to fucking do this, let’s do this.
I’m calling her. I’m getting her back. Hell or high water.
Here goes nothing . . .
Start with a summoning circle. So my handy-dandy how-to book says. I found a particularly dusty tome at the library—The Divine and the Demoniac—an esoteric text that purports to know how to conjure up your very own pal from the underworld. Demonology for Dummies, basically.
I’m bringing the romance to necromancy. The candles are all lit. My living room smells like a Bed, Bath and Beyond showroom. I pushed the couch back,
rolled up the rug, swept the dust bunnies. I grabbed a box of iodized salt and spread a circle around the room, fit for two.
There are no breaks in the trail of Morton’s. Otherwise, whatever I conjure could roam free without me.
Next up—I draw a circle with chalk. The salt barrier is for protection, apparently, while the chalk draws the demon in. Brings
them forth.
Done. What’s next? The final ingredient is . . . blood. The book asks for an animal’s. A goat—but I’m not about to sacrifice
anything living in my living room. I could lose my lease.
My blood will have to do.
Fingers crossed.
I’ve brought my Leatherman with me into the circle, with all of its handy implements. This requires a knife, so I tug the
blade up from the cross-section of tools, snap it in place.
I’m sitting cross-legged in the center of chalk. Palm open, I glance at my hand. Just take in the skin for a moment. My scars.
I can barely remember all of them at this point. The strips of tissue, pale and slim, trailing across my wrist, clustering
at my knuckles. So many.
What’s one more scar? At least this one will have a story behind it . . .
Hey, kids, guess how I manifested your mother?
I take a big swig of the scotch, liquid courage, then one last deep breath before raking the blade directly across my palm.
The sting is instantaneous, drawing blood.
I hiss as I squeeze my hand, tight, letting the blood drip over the floorboards.
The pattern it manifests, red freckles against the wood, a Jackson Pollock pentagram.
I go back for the scotch and polish it off in two gulps, feeling the fire work its way down my throat, and now I’m not feeling
much of anything anymore. No pain.
The things we do for love.
I glance over my shoulder one last time, just to make sure I’m alone. No one else here but me and my inner demons.
“I summon them,” I recite, “I call upon them, I bind them to me.”
The ritual calls to repeat this recitation three times.
“I summon them, I call upon them, I bind them to me.”
Once was enough to feel like a complete idiot. The second time around only reaffirms the first. Second verse, same as the first. But by the third, my God, let me tell you.
“I summon them, I call upon them, I bind—”
The room pitches a bit. Maybe I’m just drunk, but it tilts. Something shifts behind me. The room. Something is in the room.
With me.
I can feel it. Know it. In my bones. I turn. Strain my ears to hear.
Silence.
“Hello?”
Nothing.
“Lilith?”
Absolute quiet. A pin-drop stillness settles over the space.
What do I do now? Wait, apparently.
“Lilith, are you here? Can you hear me?”
I let the minutes tick by, anticipating some sort of response.
“Lilith, I’m . . . I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to push you away.”
Didn’t mean to exorcise you.
“I want you back.”
Back inside.
“Please?”
When nothing comes, not even a peep, I start to grow anxious. Anxiousness ebbs into impatience. Impatience curdles into pissed-off-ness.
Pissed-off-ness leads to losing it.
I’m done.
I pick myself up from the floor, knees popping. The second I step out of the circle . . .
There’s a chill.
The temperature drops in the room. Fucking plummets so fast, I gasp. Wait—not the whole room. Just outside the circle. On
the other side of the ring of salt.
I glance at the floor. I’ve broken the circle. My foot must’ve scuffed the Morton’s on my way out. The ring of salt is broken.
Fuck. Fuck. What the hell was I thinking?
Did I really expect this to work? That I could call Lilith and bring her back? Reach out, alright. The only thing I summoned was my own ass, serving it up on a fucking platter.
So much for being a shaman. Don’t quit your day job.
“Fuck!” I punt the empty bottle of scotch. It hits the walls and shatters, sending shards of glass scattering across the floor.
There it is again, this brimming sense of bile, this volcano of rage that I can’t quite contain, rising up my throat. I want
to break something.
Bones. Buildings. Anything.
The first thing I find is my vinyl. All that shellac. Years of digging through yard sales and record bins. All that music.
Songs that summon her. What’s the point of having all that music if I can’t listen to it with her? Music without someone to
share it with is just noise.
I grab a random record—Charlie Parker—and unsheathe the vinyl before flinging it against the wall. The record shatters with a satisfying crunch, the brittle break of something solid, something tangible, getting destroyed. I want to do it again. Hear that shatter again.
This time it’s Neil Diamond. Next is Black Flag.
Coltrane. Beck. AC/DC.
Etta James.
Metallica.
All my music, all my songs, mean nothing to me without her. These songs are empty. Dead. This is the only music that matters
to me now. The sounds of bones breaking. Of destruction.
I can’t get this song out of my head . . .