A Witch Doctor and his Demon Dog: Conjuration and Black Magic with the Demon Sirchade by Kevin Wikse

 

Blood trickled profusely from her nose, cascading down, in, and over her busted lips, pooling at her feet, splattering on mine. Her left eye dangled from its socket, a gruesome pendulum. Tears and blood left a trail of misery on the floor of my double-wide. Her beautiful face, with its exotic features and dark caramel complexion, was beaten to a pulp. She was almost unrecognizable. It was hard to look at, harder still to maintain my calm. I teetered on the brink of going nuclear. But that’s not what she needed. She needed comfort and security. I would walk the warpath soon enough. She sobbed and wailed on my shoulder, and I held her tenderly until her sister arrived.

The three of us solemnly discussed what would happen next.

No cops. That was a given. The police would interfere with natural justice and add unnecessary complications. Her sister would drive her to a friend’s place outside Phoenix. Her ex-boyfriend wouldn’t think to look there. Her daughter would stay with her aunt and uncle in Yuma, then go rock-hounding in Quartzsite. They’d post misleading information about their whereabouts on social media.

That left me with the dirty work.

I started to prepare a floor wash to mop up the triage but thought better of it. Let the trauma mark the violence, an attractant for the earthbound dead and spirits of vengeance. No shortage of potential spiritual allies to barter with for support.

Her ex-boyfriend was going to be a challenging target. He knew me. We lived close to each other and already had a few minor run-ins. If I came screaming in on him like a tomahawk missile, I’d likely be named a suspect. He wasn’t worth the potential prison time or the effort to avoid it. He was also gang-affiliated, marked by an official MS-13 offshoot local to South Tucson. I had ties with La Sombra Negra, “The Black Shadow,” a death squad with MS-13 in their crosshairs. I protected La Sombra Negra’s regional informants and coordinated certain efforts. I was like the tongue living among the teeth here in South Tucson.

It would be a few more months before I could fulfill my obligations and leave Tucson. Paradoxically, there was a peculiar safety in being here. I was hiding from the devil where he’d least expect it—in hell itself. The less heat I took on in an already scorching country, the better. Openly attacking her ex-boyfriend would undoubtedly bring heat.

My attack needed to be surgical, best employed by spectral hands. If the right circumstances presented the opportunity to end her ex-boyfriend physically, make it look gang-related, or implicate another enemy of mine, I’d take it. But until then, I perused the fearsome intellects in the Grimorium Verum for my opening salvo.

MS-13 is heavily integrated with black magic traditions. Satanism with Aztec trappings, bootleg Palo Mayombe, and Brujeria with left-handed narco-saints were shared among all the factions. However, it was the reverence and worship of Santa Muerte in her black robe that stood above all else. South Tucson is home to a small Santa Muerte Temple; I knew he attended services. But how devoted he was to her veneration, I did not know. Intuitively, I suspected it was minimal. The more I sussed my intuition over it, his devotion felt lacking, as if he had promised something to her for help but had not delivered.

That night, I dressed my ritual table in pure crimson. I filled a large metal goblet with whiskey and an admixture of human and animal blood for a centerpiece before igniting the libation. To the leaping flames, I read invocations, exorcisms, and dedications to Saint Cyprian, the Three Kings, and Saint Christopher the Dog-Head. As the fire began to bend and wildly spiral in odd, unnatural angles, I enunciated the barbarous words of Lucifer’s, Astraroth’s, and Beelzebuth’s diabolical evocations.

“Who among your servitors possesses the skills I need to accomplish my vengeful task?” I asked the Infernal Hierarchy in a measured and serious tone. I sat back in my chair and readied myself, opening my psychic senses.

My clairaudience was struck with a crescendo of cackling, maniacal laughter, and guttural voices within a choir of screams, eerie discordant, cacophonous music. The room began to sway, and I let my mind wade into a stream of demonic consciousness and focused my clairvoyance on the tendrils of fire whirling inside the goblet. In the last burst of the dying flame was drawn a particular demon’s sigil, black as pitch—my answer had come.

The fire abruptly snuffed out, and I sat in the dark, ready for direct communication. Little by little, the sounds of snarling and hissing grew in equal measure with the horrendous stink of what I imagined to be filthy, shit-filled zoo cages containing rotting animals. A tell-tale sign that a demonic presence was stabilizing.

Sirachde, the Evil King of all that is Bestial, had come to wheel and deal. I can’t discuss the specifics of our blood pact or the aim of our ongoing work other than to say it aligns with my inherent wrathful tendencies. Sirachde promised to display a sign appropriate to his nature, signifying his acceptance of our agreement.

With Sirachde’s influence lingering within my psychic atmosphere, I fell asleep into a nightmare of slow-motion brutality and ridiculous cruelty. Nondescript humans visited endless horror and depraved cruelty upon whimpering, crying, defenseless animals. Humans screamed in anguish and vomited with fear as large chimera creatures devoured and raped them.

Authentic black magic is not for the weak-minded or faint of heart.

The true Adeptus must possess a steely will and unbreakable resolve. They must not succumb to the grotesque and macabre images projected at them by sinister and malevolent forces. The Magician strengthens themselves against both the adversary and the adversity. Such dreams are meant to crack and unravel the exorcist’s psyche, allowing the entity to exercise its will over the Magician.

The internet is rife with demonically puppeted occultists. Other than praying for their deliverance, ignore them as they serve masters beyond their understanding.

No, such dreams serve to sweeten my feelings toward animals, increase my compassion, and reinforce my resolve to heal humanity’s collective mental and spiritual illness.

A day later, I discovered a rattlesnake torn to shreds by a coyote or hawk, maybe a javelina, on my doorstep. I knew this was a message from Sirachde. He accepted our pact. I took the mangled rattlesnake and squeezed its blood onto the parchment that bore our pact’s terms. With the work ready, I allowed my intention to maim or kill the ex-boyfriend to become laser-focused.

My dream the following night had me face-to-face with a German Shepherd, one of the dogs the ex-boyfriend and his MS-13 amigos kept on their property. It felt like I was looking into a mirror, as if we shared an ancestor less distant than God. Upon awakening, I recalled a story my Godfather once told me. Using one of Voudu’s highest mysteries, he projected his consciousness into an enemy’s pet Rottweiler. Taking possession of the dog, he attacked his enemy while he slept, permanently maiming and nearly killing him. Was Sirachde prescribing a similar course of action?

It was barely 2:00 am. Rather than go back to sleep, I struck while the iron was hot and re-dressed my table in pure crimson. I would consult Sirachde during an hour when his influence was peaking. The pungent odor of burning hair and rotten meat quickly wafted into my ritual space. Sirachde’s presence was nicely anchored into our pact, and he was readily available for my Red Table session.

Sirachde detailed a “witch’s brew” of sorts. A philter of human and dog bones, liquors, and assorted plant material. These were to be simmered together and rendered into a decoction under his auspices. Then a steak was soaked and boiled in the broth until the outside was slightly cooked, but the inside left plenty raw. I was to give one half to the German Shepherd. I was to eat the other half as I watched the dog eat his and recite a simple but harsh and unpleasant incantation.

As a priest or Palero of Palo Mayombe, I regularly collect and purchase bones of various sorts, dog and human included. Some of the plant materials I had to source at a local botanica. Finally, I procured a steak from a nearby carnicería. I was prepared. As night fell, I tore the still-hot steak from the “witch’s brew” in two. I armed myself with my Hellcat 9mm and Cold Steel Karambit and crept down the alleyway to the back fence of the ex-boyfriend’s house. The German Shepherd and two other dogs lazily patrolled the backyard. I waited until the German Shepherd separated from the other dogs and lobbed the steak through the fence.

The thud of the steak hitting the ground alerted the other two dogs, but the German Shepherd quickly snatched it up and ran to the opposite corner of the fence. As I ate the other piece, I watched him devour the meat and spoke the incantation between bites. The task completed, I returned and occupied myself till midnight.

At midnight, I dressed my ritual table in pure crimson and invoked Sirchade. What followed was genuinely bizarre. Allowing my mind to sink into a stream of demonic consciousness, I was pulled deeper into an assisted trance. My psychic perception saw me floating down a river of blood, images of modern-day dogs and humans moving backward in time to when wolves, tempted by the scent of meat cooking over open fires, dared enter into man's primitive encampments. Becoming both friend and slave.

Suddenly, my sight refocused on a filthy kitchen floor. Loose pellets of dog food and stains littered the linoleum. Cockroaches darted and scurried between morsels and shelters. I was looking through the German Shepherd's eyes! Shocked, I was nearly locked into a state of semi-disbelief. Is this possible, even as I was actualizing it? My Godfather had not been fabricating, I marveled.

Sirchade growled, redirecting my attention to the task. Attempting to navigate the dog was like driving a truck with a confusing plethora of clutches and gears, getting more complicated by the second. I realized that the German Shepherd was still in here with us. Sirchade attempted to scare out his waking consciousness and allow me access to his motor control. As miraculous as this experience was, Sirchade and I could feel substantial interference. Frightened and distressed, the German Shepherd was coming back in and pushing up out.

The link was severed.

The tension in my ritual space was hot and heavy. Sirchade was furious, raving about a powerful force, a tall skinny woman in a black dress, nullifying his dominion. This experience was highly disorienting to me. It was almost 3 a.m., and I was scheduled to work in a couple of hours. Protesting loudly, Sirchade did not go quietly as I dismissed him back to the astral plane.

The thought persisted on the edge of sleep, "A tall skinny woman in a black dress?" Who could Sirchade be talking about? Who could be strong enough to hinder the force of the Grimorium Verum? The realization hit me like a freight train!

Santa Muerte, in the black robe.

Just like that, there she was. I was standing before her. The ex-boyfriend was there too. He looked in a daze, cowering behind her. She was shielding him with her scythe! I trembled. Not out of fear so much as the power she radiated. She was not so much a Saint but a Goddess who had undergone a syncretic transformation to reconnect with the descendants of her devotees. She deliberately pointed to the ground at the trail of blood and tears with her bony, bleach-white finger. Santa Muerte disapproved of the violence he committed against the mother of his child. Next, she outstretched her upturned hand, reaching out to me with her open palm.

I jolted awake and back into my body. The psychic projection from earlier still had my consciousness floating around on a loose tether. I remembered clearly falling asleep and slipping down a dark, silky oblivion.

Despite the fantastic experiences, my workday was typical. On my way home, I noticed I passed the small temple to Santa Muerte. Feeling powerfully compelled to go in, I made a U-turn and parked. Upon entering the establishment, I was greeted by three large statues of Santa Muerte. One in white, one in red, and finally black. All on the same table with offerings of candles, flowers, tequila, bread, cigarettes, and blunts. No one was at the front desk. I waited a couple of minutes for someone to come out from a back room, but no one did.

I tightly rolled up a few $20 bills and placed them in the left hand of Santa Muerte in the black robe as best I could. I asked her to protect the woman and her daughter from further violence and intrusions of evil men and to please allow me to complete my work. A tangible sense of peace descended over me with strong vibes that everything was about to be resolved.

Tonight, I would reestablish the psychic link with the German Shepherd and hope Santa Muerte would remove her protection and let me serve natural justice by supernatural means, or, if not, try my best to get around her. I was not overly optimistic about my chances in that particular scenario.

The evening brought with it an anxiety I had never felt before. Sharp pangs of panic. I was jittery and paced back and forth. At one point, all I wanted to do was hide. But where and from what? I did not know. These feelings started to spike, and I surmised I might be having a panic attack, even though I had never had one. A first time for everything, right? At about that time, my mouth was saturated with the taste of something like butter melted in an iron skillet. I was unnerved and becoming legitimately concerned. I was Googling my symptoms when gunshots pierced the night. Gunshots in South Tucson are not uncommon, but these were very close by. Gunshots rang out again, followed by screaming. More gunshots and more screams.

I holstered my Hellcat 9 mm and Cold Steel Karambit and tactically slipped out my backdoor. The screams were coming from the alleyway behind me. I tentatively followed the commotion, keeping low, tight to the wall, and in the shadows. I peeked around the corner and saw a small crowd assembling. A few more people poured out the back gate where the ex-boyfriend lived.

It was apparent something had happened.

I watched and waited. Distant police sirens grew louder, and soon after, a line of cop cars rolled up. South Tucson PD came in force. EMS and ambulances were next. I stuck around until the police helicopter with its spotlight appeared overhead. I decided then was a good time to ghost the scene and go home.

The neighborhood watch list on my Nextdoor app popped off and began blowing up my phone. Accounts of what happened poured in over the next couple of hours. They differed slightly, but most shared a consistent thread. A woman I know who frequented that house for drugs posted her account of the evening, claiming she witnessed it. It fit the others and had specific details that made it credible.

There had been an uptick in methamphetamine use at the house, and today tensions flared over a large sum of money that had gone missing. A fight broke out between two men. One of the names she posted was the ex-boyfriend. The other man involved in the altercation with him, a housemate, was the owner of the dogs. When he was attacked, one or possibly more dogs attacked the ex-boyfriend, ripping his leg open. Guns were pulled, and shots were fired. The ex-boyfriend caught a few of those bullets. The next day I heard from the same source that he was hospitalized and in critical condition.

I am convinced my anxiety was the German Shepherd's as tensions escalated. The taste in my mouth was the ex-boyfriend's blood from when the dog bit into him. Santa Muerte had lifted her protection of him, and my psychic link was no longer suppressed. However, it seemed she had a different fate in store for him. I accomplished my task in a roundabout way. I may not have achieved the feat of my Godfather, at least not yet. Still, I was able to experience it and establish a new baseline in my ongoing development regarding the mysteries and domain of Sirchade.

I have learned through the mother of his child, now many months after the fact, he has become a longtime ward of the Arizona Department of Corrections and is having a difficult time. Santa Muerte, la negra, wanted him under her restrictive, saturnine thumb. Whatever happened to the dog, I don't know. The house was emptied with realtor locks placed on the doors. It remained that way for the rest of my time in Tucson.

I walk exclusively with Santa Muerte in her white robe. In honor of the experience, I dedicated a dog's bone to her. I ask her to help me ensure that all the work I do with the Demon Sirchade, all the skin-leaping and lycanthropic mysteries I practice, be purified, sanctified, and made holy so that I am always on the side of righteousness. My Godfather once told me, “Few things cleanse the soul like Hellfire; you must never forget the line between clean and charred is exceptionally thin.”

-Kevin Wikse

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