Crystal-Gazing & Spiritual Clairvoyance: Upated and Revised by one of the last living Masters of the Arte for the aspiring modern Adept by Kevin Wikse

 

In a world rife with chaos and deception, the ancient wisdom of crystal gazing and spiritual clairvoyance is more essential than ever. Over a century ago, Dr. L.W. de Laurence illuminated the path to developing intuition and clairvoyance. Today, this knowledge is crucial yet shrouded by a global elite determined to keep humanity blind and subjugated.

As a seasoned occultist and psychic warrior, Kevin Wikse has taken on the vital task of modernizing de Laurence's masterpiece. His mission is to arm spiritual seekers and psychic warriors with the tools to navigate our tumultuous times. The elites, intent on global control, fear the awakening of humanity, knowing that true sight can unravel their plots. This revised edition strips away archaic language and obsolete references, presenting the distilled essence of de Laurence's teachings. This is not just a guidebook; it's a call to arms for those ready to fight against the tide of darkness. Through steady focus and disciplined practice, you will learn to develop your intuition and clairvoyance. The crystal will become your ally, offering clarity and insight in a world clouded by illusion. In these pages, you will find the tools to awaken your dormant abilities, sharpen your intuitive skills, and harness the power of the crystal for spiritual empowerment. Become a psychic warrior, capable of seeing beyond the physical hindrances and labyrinthine conspiracies that ensnare the unwary. The battle for humanity's soul is raging. Embrace this ancient wisdom, modernized for today's seekers, and join the fight to expose the truth and thwart the dark plans of those who seek to control and destroy. Stand tall, see clearly, and let the light of truth guide you to victory.

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For more information, visit Kevin Wikse’s official website and join the community of enlightened seekers.

The Mystical Textbook of The Hindu Occult Chambers The Magic and Occultism of India Hindu and Egyptian Crystal Gazing The Hindu Magic Mirror: Updated and Revised by one of the last living Masters of the Arte for the aspiring modern Adept. By Kevin Wikse

Rediscovering the Mystical: 

Kevin Wikse Unveils the Essential Teachings of L.W. De Laurence

In a time when the true essence of occult knowledge is often obscured, Kevin Wikse’s groundbreaking new book stands as a beacon of enlightenment. Delve into the profound contributions of L.W. De Laurence, whose pioneering work in Psychism, Spirituality, and the Occult laid the foundation for human potential and spiritual evolution.

Unlocking Human Potential: Wikse meticulously revises and reinterprets De Laurence’s teachings, which are pivotal for awakening our dormant capabilities. The book emphasizes the importance of intuitive skills such as ESP, Lucid Dreaming, and Astral Projection. These practices are not just tools for personal growth but are essential steps towards achieving enlightenment and unity with the divine.

A Call to Spiritual Awakening: As modern occultism suffers from fragmented and corrupted transmissions, this book laments the loss of pure and authentic teachings. Wikse's work aims to strip away the divisive and misleading content that has tainted De Laurence’s legacy, offering a clear and accessible guide for contemporary seekers.

Resisting Global Tyranny: In an era threatened by global tyranny and dictatorship, Wikse presents a compelling case for the need to sharpen our spiritual and intuitive faculties. This spiritual awakening is portrayed as a crucial defense against the forces that seek to control and oppress.

Guidance from a Master: Kevin Wikse, a master occultist and psychoenergetics expert, dedicates himself to making De Laurence’s complex teachings understandable and inspiring for modern adepts. His comprehensive revision is designed to empower individuals, guiding them on a transformative journey towards spiritual empowerment and enlightenment.

Inspiring the Modern Seeker: This book is more than a reinterpretation; it’s an invitation to rediscover the profound wisdom that can elevate the human soul. Wikse’s eloquent prose and insightful commentary breathe new life into De Laurence’s work, ensuring that its timeless message resonates with today’s readers.

Join Kevin Wikse on this transformative journey. Rediscover the mystical teachings of L.W. De Laurence and unlock the full potential of your soul.

$10 on Lulu: LINK

For more information, visit Kevin Wikse’s official website and join the community of enlightened seekers.

Who or What killed Christopher Alan Whiteley by Kevin Wikse.

 

1/11/24 *I am the first to suggest a Jaguar as a potential killer of Christopher Alan Whiteley. I want to state this upfront as the typical internet podcaster or blogger tends to give little to no credit or explain where their ideas stem from. Popularity, "likes, and subscribes" are their only real motivation. My reasoning for a Jaguar will make sense, and I want to honor where my idea came from as it has genuine real-world implications. 

I've found an interesting parallel between a man named Christopher Alan Whiteley and a topic I posted an article on in 2017 or maybe 2018, and in doing so, I became a principal and often cited contributor to the narrative known as the "Dog Woman of Watts." I raised some eyebrows when I speculated that perhaps the Dog Woman of Watts was potentially an agent of retribution. I conducted a phone interview with a man named Clifton. He was an eyewitness to the Dog Woman and shared proximity to the rumors that circulated in the aftermath. Namely, that Dog Woman of Watts had interacted with a notorious local Pimp before his death. 

This Pimp was known for his violence and callousness. Clifton said the Pimp disfigured women's faces and body parts, carving and slicing his name or derogatory slurs into their skin. He'd mark these women as his "property," making them feel that no other man would want them. According to Clifton, rumor had it that the Dog Woman had spoken to that Pimp. What was said? I don't know, and neither did Clifton. The rumors Clifton heard state that the Dog Woman approached the Pimp on the street, words were exchanged between the two, and the Pimp ran. He was found dead a day or two later in his house. 

Dead from what? I don't know. "Found dead" is all I know. Other than this instance, my research has not found any other injuries or property damage surrounding the Dog Woman of Watts. 

As I stated in my investigative piece about the Dog Woman of Watts, I am an initiate of an Afro-Cuban spiritual tradition, Palo Mayombe, and the New World Afro-Caribbean religion of Voudo, all three threads of it, Haitian, Dominican, and Puerto-Rican. Acts or arts of Vampirism and Lycanthropy, also known as skin leaping, while not regularly spoken of, occupy a darker space on the outskirts of each tradition's framework.

Vampirism and Lycanthropy are focal points of what is often blanketly termed "Bizango," or spiritual regiments both criminal and extreme. Within Bizango societies, acts such as vampirism or shape shifting (Lycanthropy, Skin Leaping, or Skin Walking) into animals to attack or eat people are established practices. How does that work, or what does that look like exactly? I can't tell you.

However, from what I know, what I have been told, and pictures I have been shown of these practices and individuals believed to be victims of these types of attacks, what happened to Christopher Alan Whiteley looks and sounds similar to what supposedly happened in Watts and what is said to take place in Haiti and the Dominican Republic. 

I won't pretend to know Christopher Alan Whiteley. He certainly had the lion's share of legal troubles from what has been written about him. But, by all accounts, he was turning his life around. Christopher was finding success and going places. 

I need to make it crystal clear that I do not place Christopher Alan Whiteley in the same category as the Pimp in Watts. Both men committed wrongdoing and evil deeds. But I feel strongly that Christopher Alan Whiteley had not sunk into the level of depravity the Pimp from Watts had. From my narrowed speculative perception of who or what the Dog Woman of Watts was, the supernatural and paranormal elements suggest an entity of retribution or an entity attracted to individuals with troubled circumstances.

Texas is not Haiti. I don't propose a Bizango sect operates in or near Lipan, Texas. However, Texas is home to a vast tribal history, rich with its tradition of metaphysical practices, some of it on par with the darker "horror movie" aspects of the Bizango. From 2017 to 2023, I spent considerable time in Colorado, New Mexico, Texas, and Arizona, immersing myself in the Curanderismo, Diabolism, and Brujeria—all spiritual traditions deeply rooted in the local native cultures that took on obvious Spanish/European influences.

Skin-walker is now a well-known but vastly misunderstood phenomenon told from the lens of the Hopi, Navajo, and Zuni native cultural perspectives. In Cortez, Colorado, I met a medicine man who was a keeper of a Crystal Skull he claimed was cast by the ancient Inca. He enlisted the protection of another very different medicine man. This man stated that he was an actual Skin Walker. To join the Skin Walker Lodge, he told me he sacrificed his firstborn son, engaged in cannibalism with the other members, consumed his baby alongside them, and then tested out his powers by transforming into an "evil dog" and murdering his baby's mother. He also claimed to be a hitman for native "mafias" and tribal governments. 

I don't know if there was any truth to what he said or if he just meant to try and scare me. But I can say that he possessed a metaphysical understanding concerning skin-leaping or Lycanthropy, which translated to nearly the same barred secrets kept by Bizango sects. Secrets as such are in no book. They are not found through a Google search. He was just as surprised about my knowledge of Lycanthropy as I was about his. There was an air of legitimacy that surrounded him that much can be said. 

It is somewhat common knowledge the CIA funded fringe and paranormal research projects. The more base and dim-witted Americans would believe that the CIA discontinued their study and didn't simply rename specific projects and hire outside private research groups (owned by and staffed with CIA operatives). I encountered representatives of a few of these research groups who, for unspecified reasons but in my educated opinion, I'd guess for military applications, sought to enlist me for consultation purposes. Skin Walkers were of particular interest to them. 

The location of Skin-Walker Ranch, I would suggest, is little more than a black-budget research facility, and any tourism or reality TV shows associated with the area are cleverly scripted PR smokescreens with the benefit of financial gain. 

Why bring any of this up in relation to the murder of Christopher Alan Whiteley? I wanted to lay a framework for my more "fringe" speculations. 

But first, from a more empirical standpoint, Christopher Alan Whiteley likely could have been killed by a large cat—a cougar or mountain lion. The problem is that the wounds left by the assailant are too large to be from a cougar, the attack came from the front, and not the back, mountain lion tracks are absent, and there are zero reported sights of cougars in Hood County, Texas. 

I suggest another potential feline culprit. 

2017, I was recruited to observe the El Paso, TX /Juarez, Mexico border. I have seen with my own eyes the legions of migrants who have come through the TX, NM, and AZ border crossings, and that was before the Biden Administration ended Title 42. A fair number of migrants had trekked thousands of miles north, up through South. America. They would tell me about the Hungry Ghosts that stalked them through the swaths of jungles and forests. Hungry Ghosts gaining a taste for human flesh. 

The Jaguar. 

Jaguars have larger and more powerful jaws and are significantly bigger and stronger than the North American cougar. They do not tend to leave as many signs of predation behind as they can kill bigger prey quicker than the cougar. Christopher Alan Whiteley's body was dragged or potentially (accidentally) dropped from above into a dense thicket (Jaguars can haul big kills up into trees like Leopards) for later feeding. 

I believe it is possible a Jaguar who hunted humans as they migrated North from South America, now with a taste for human flesh, crossed into Lipan, Texas, and killed Christopher Alan Whiteley.

Texas and Arizona seem to have a politically motivated interest in downplaying reports, sightings, and documented evidence of Jaguars and Panthers. This vested interest might be why the Tarrant County Medical Examiners. were so eager to wash Christopher Alan Whiteley's body, eliminating the chances of using DNA to identify Christopher Alan Whiteley's killer. 

Circling back to my more "fringe" hypothesis, I find some, albeit slightly stretched, parallels between Christopher Alan Whiteley and the Pimp from Watts. If there were injuries on the Pimp's body, I don't know about them or what they were. I was told he was found dead and "soon" after his encounter where he and the Dog Woman exchanged words. Christopher Alan Whiteley was the target of a frontal assault. It is speculated Christopher Alan Whiteley was aware that he was about to be in a fight because his shirt was removed before the attack. He might have even known his attacker, but that is pure speculation. 

No animal tracks were found anywhere near his body or where it is believed the initial conflict took place. There were shoe prints, though. There are no animal tracks, but his injuries are well within the realm of animalistic—claw marks on his upper body and his throat/ jugular, ripped, bitten open, and crushed between the jaws of a sharp, large-toothed creature. This rules out Sasquatch or Dogmen, as they are always in animal/beast form and would leave animal tracks. 

I am reminded of the self-professed Skin Walker I met in Cortez, Colorado, who also claimed to be a hitman for native criminal syndicates and Tribal Governments. 

Christopher Alan Whiteley had been in and out of correctional facilities for a significant portion of his life. In addition, he was reported to have been abusive toward women. Did he draw the ire of a native gang or the parents of a girl he abused? Did someone pay an individual like the self-professed Skin Walker in Cortez, Colorado, to kill Christopher Alan Whiteley? 

In the same vein, if the rumors about the Pimp in Watts are true, and the Dog Woman of Watts was some avenging entity or Skin Walker equivalent who, for whatever reason, made a public display of its hybrid form, why? Was it to send a message? She didn't physically attack the Pimp, as something physically attacked Christopher Alan Whiteley. Did the Pimp die of fright? Poisoned? Other supernatural means?

Might Christopher Alan Whiteley have been an opportunity-killing? An initiate Skin Walker looking to test their new power, just as the above-mentioned Skin Walker claims he did by transforming into an "evil dog" and killing the mother of his sacrificed son?

If the research of the CIA or some other Defense Contractor group, be it DARPA or Lockheed, etc, finally yielded fruit and unlocked the power of Lycanthropy, it's no stretch of the imagination to suggest field testing its military capabilities in real-world situations against, in their view, disposable people, having a supply of scared, confused and desperate migrants to hunt would be an ideal situation. 

Hell, you don't know where over 85,000 missing migrant children are here in the US, so what are a couple hundred or so dead migrants in the jungles, forests, or deserts of Mexico? Maybe one of their militarized Skin Walkers moved up on Christopher Alan Whiteley. 

Since we are already down this peculiar rabbit hole of high strangeness, it occurs to me that Christopher Alan Whiteley's death could have come from a source similar to the Anyoto or Leopard-Men Society of the Congolese. The Anyoto made up a brotherhood, a witch-doctor warrior elite who dressed in the skins of Leopard, were believed to transform into Leopards, and had their secret system of martial arts, employing weapons made from or to greatly resemble Leopard claws. 

In this postulation, not only do we have the potential for yet another Skin Walker situation, with a maybe a Jaguar Man who came up through the border from Mexico and South America. The Aztecs had their order of Jaguar Knights. A secret cult or society of Jaguar Knights or warriors, legitimately connected or at least claiming lineage to the original Jaguar Knights, fits nicely with most other modern-day secret societies. There wouldn't even need to be a supernatural element here, but a human who attacked and killed Christopher Alan Whiteley using weapons made from Jaguar teeth and claws, or so resemble them, that telling the difference is very difficult as in the case with the Leopard Men of Congolese. 

I have difficulty believing that someone did not take a DNA sample from Christopher Alan Whiteley's injuries. However, I have no problems thinking that the results of that DNA test came back as Jaguar or human or there was no DNA because Christopher Alan Whiteley was attacked with a weapon. All three findings would be highly problematic for Law Enforcement, as they all serve to highlight the border crisis eventually. It would be much easier to rule his death as "accidental due to injuries sustained by an animal attack." 

There does seem to be a bizarre set of circumstances surrounding Christopher Alan Whiteley's murder, as well as a noticeable rush to a "mostly plausible" conclusion and pushing this case as deep down the memory hole as fast as possible. I am obviously of the opinion that there remains much to unpack regarding Christopher Alan Whiteley's death. I am open to further speculation, and should something more arise or be uncovered, I'll likely be covering it. 

-Kevin Wikse

Foul Catch by Kevin Wikse

I began dreaming of an experience I had more than thirty years ago. I never forgot what happened, but when I recall memories, they were ephemeral, like grasping smoke, and I would quickly forget again. However, since the dreams began, my memories of the experience are becoming more concrete. I want to further solidify the experience for myself and see, on the off-hand chance, if anyone else has information that could assist me in resolving these events.

This occurred at Big Bear Lake in Big Bear, California, in the summer of 1986. My family had access to a vacation cabin there. We stayed a week. But none of that really matters concerning the experience...as far as I remember. 

I was swimming in Big Bear Lake. I remember the lake was busy. Tiny islands, rocky outcroppings, and hidden coves dot Big Bear Lake. I liked adventuring and swimming alone, so I headed to the out-of-way outcroppings. In 1986, I was hyper-fixated on dinosaurs. I regularly imagined slipping back into time through a portal made by an advanced prehistoric culture to see them or trekking down a hidden cave and discovering a secret location in the present day where a dinosaur or dinosaurs still lived. With wild rock formations jutting out of its pristine water and craggy cavern mazes, Big Bear Lake provided a spectacular backdrop for 10-year-old me to project his fantasies on. 

I soon found a place far away from the masses, tucked behind boulders and pine trees. I believed I was alone and began searching for evidence of a Plesiosaur or Brontosaurus, which might serve as the basis for a lake monster waiting to be uncovered. But I was not alone, and as far as monsters, the monsters lurking in Big Bear Lake that day were decidedly of the modern world. 

While I was exploring, I came across an odd sight. A man and woman, both adults, with a boy about my age, standing in the water. They were not playing. They were not relaxing or reveling but standing. Standing still, almost too still. The atmosphere around them was eerie. I was brought up in the LDS or Mormon Church, and I had been and seen others be baptized. For a moment, I thought I stumbled onto this boy's baptism. However, the circumstance suggested the existence of elements I was not accustomed to. 

Like me, the boy was Caucasian. The man and woman were oriental. The woman stands out the most. I remember her as uncomfortably flawless. In a sinister way, maybe even perfect. Long inky black hair, a thin, sleek body of glowing alabaster skin, clad in a skimpy crimson bikini. Her beauty was dangerous, unnatural, and otherworldly. A sweet but poisonous miasma persists around her in my memory. Thinking of her just now, I conjured the image of an onyx black widow spider with an hourglass made from ruby. I then experienced a sudden sharp pain behind my forehead, followed by a ferocious burning sensation. 

Besides being present and of Asian descent, I cannot register the man's features. Outshined by the woman, he might forever be relegated to her shadow. He remains faceless. However, as my dreams of this have started recently, I can get a vague sense of the boy's face. His eyes have a vacancy, as if in a trance or stupor. 

With a dragonfly's grace and predatory trajectory, her gaze floated above the water to meet mine. Her presence was overwhelming, and I was instantly, irrevocably captivated by her. 

"Lucky for you, little horse, today we need a dragon," she told me. The man tossed coins onto a metal tray or plate. I remember liking the sound it made. The man and the woman looked intently at the tray and discussed between themselves before she beckoned me closer. 

"You were marked with difficult beginnings at your birth. Your fruit is still not ripe. I, too, was born marked with bad fortune, but I have learned to correct it," the woman said, placing her hand on my cheek. Looking at the boy, the woman told me, "He was born with great fortune. Money will rain down on him his whole life. For him, luxury will be commonplace." I heard the sound of coins dropping on the mental tray again. 

"It is auspicious and a favorable sign that you are here, little horse. You should stay and share with us." The man next produced what I know now is a Bagua or Feng Shui compass. He consulted it before motioning to a specific spot. Taking me by the hand, she guided me to where I would stand. "Remain still, but be happy, for today, we again improve our fortunes," she tells me. 

I see her feeding the boy different colored paper money. As he chews, the man and woman begin sticking paper notes with red and black calligraphy on his body. His forehead, upper and lower back, chest, and stomach. Next, a bright red blanket or large cloth was draped over his head and body, floating in the water around his waist level. She and the man began speaking incantations as they made fast hand signs and traced symbols around and over the boy with their fingers, making abrupt thrusting gestures toward him. 

The woman wraps her arms around his body like a belt and secures her hands. The man places his hands on the boy's covered head, and together they submerge him underwater. It is complicated to say how I felt about watching this. I realized that they intended to drown him. Still, her charm was so disarming and reassuring that my concerns, even for myself, were nearly instantly tranquilized. 

A struggle and splashing occur. I can see the man and woman bear down a little more to keep the boy underwater, and very quickly, the water becomes calm again. I am standing on the shore of the small nearby island. I have no memory of getting out of the water. "He is still drowning, little horse," the woman tells me. She is holding the red cloth, wringing it closed with both hands. "First, it was the water because he needed air, but now it's the air because he needs the water." I can see that something is undulating within the makeshift sack she is clutching. 

She gestures to me, come and see. As if still in a hazy dream, I step forward. Peeking inside, I see a large golden carp struggling to breathe. "The first time we caught a dragon, he was able to swim away. But never again," she smiled. Looking deep into my eyes, she says. "I will let you have a taste." The man brings the tip of a fillet knife to the gill of the gold carp and sharply inserts it. 

The world goes black. 

I awoke on the beach with a start. I am alone. Blood and footprints are in the sand, leading back into the water. I don't remember how long I lay there on the shore. There was no indication I had been gone very long. Upon rejoining my family, neither my mom nor dad ever said a word. However, my mom noticed something wasn't right. Throughout the rest of our trip, she repeatedly asked if I was okay until I uncharacteristically threatened her to stop. Snapping and lunging at her. I scared my mom, causing her to cry. It was one of the first times I consciously realized that I wasn't "me" in how I reacted. It was...something else. 

My mom wasn't wrong to be concerned. The dread and uncertainty that clung to me took the sparkle out of Big Bear Lake, and honestly, it never came back. I wonder if I were to return to Big Bear Lake, now, no longer a "little horse," if I would be so easily corralled by exotic beauty. I would be curious to learn how particular fortunes have fared over the past three decades. 

-Kevin Wikse

Dead Dog's Tale

An Excerpt from "Strange Strangers: Tales of Childhood Alien Abduction" by Kevin Wikse.

 

Surprised, I opened my eyes to find myself standing. My gaze was fixed on a vast crystal blue sky. A soft, icy breeze coiling around the hilltop conveyed the morning cold. I began shivering and asking myself how I got here when a glint of silver caught my attention. I looked over my shoulder to see a bright metal disc with a mirror polish, gigantic in proportion, hanging silently above me. Upon my realization, I was suddenly seized with a terrific force. Some invisible vice locked itself around my whole body; the air crushed from my lungs as it gripped me ever tighter against my consent. A loud metallic click resounded as I strained against what bound me and reverberated inside my brain. The disk and I began to interface. A deluge of images flooded my mental processes. I was a human particulate futtering between states of consciousness and dissolving in equal parts terror and astonishment. 

Amidst the churning ocean of digital chatter I was drowning in, a single directive emerged, stronger and louder than any other. It rose above the crashing waves of analog noise and onto a crystal pedestal of clarity. "I was a builder." I was born to construct and fashion walls, towers, houses, bridges, ramparts, and roads in literal and ideological mediums. To create communities and weave together networks. People would be my primary material, igniting their purpose and unifying their goals. However, I was just as capable, maybe more so, of rendering instruments of destruction, of crafting poisons for the body, mind, and soul. I COULD DECONSTRUCT what I or another built, either piece by piece or in wide murderous swaths.

Having delivered its message, the disc released me. Oxygen came rushing back into my lungs along with spacial awareness into my brain. The disc shot upward with the speed of a bullet but with none of the force. Quickly, the sky grew dark, and the stars were again shown. I stood open to the elements. I was stripped down to nearly nothing, exposed physically and emotionally. The dying campfire's dim radiance illuminated my friends, cocooned in their sleeping bags and blissfully unaware of what had transpired. Dangerously chilled, I trudged back to them with frozen footfalls along a trail of my clothes. 

A terrible wave of nausea welled inside me, and I began to dry heave. Over and over till I was dripping with sweat and finally vomited. Exhausted and mentally zeroed out, I collapsed on the hard ground and enjoyed the pre-dawn frigidity. The resulting walking pneumonia clung to me for almost three months, until the New Year of 1994, my sophomore year of High School. 

The act of intentional and repeated separation from the group wasn't lost on me. Memories of being called out of class or pulled out of school assemblies to visit persons who disclosed neither their purpose nor identity bubbled up to the forefront of my mind. Institutionalized ostracization and alienation via institutional intrusion by The State of California's Educational Board's ties to black projects and genuine alien forces? For the vast majority, such a supposition need never cross their minds. Lucky them. 

Taken.

Abducted. 

Removed.

The feeling of division between self and other, fading since my family relocated from California to Idaho, was starkly reaffirmed. I had again been set apart. I was anointed not by sacred or holy oil as in my adult life's numerous religious and spiritual initiations but by otherworldly light and sound. I knew of the distance in close proximity and the feeling of separation, even in a crowd. Understanding these paradoxes would always and inevitably cause cracks in the foundation of all my relationships. However, through these fissures, I could access the liminal spaces between the worlds and experience interdimensionality. 

If there was a solace to be taken, I would take it as this: I could at least be an architect of creation and traveler of realities. In exchange for eliminating my sense of societal normalcy or being relegated to the base act of mindless consuming, in contrast to so many others, I was granted that. I was long beyond the false sense of permanence. I suppose I couldn't miss the feeling of authentic security if I'd never known it. Still, I could fantasize about it and be jealous of others who had it. 

Maybe I was like the cat who would bolt for the open door and the wild and uncertain, no matter how warm and cozy it was inside. Freedom to me had that irresistible siren's call. I suspected the dark figure that ceaselessly followed me resulted from wandering down shadowed corridors during my frequent early childhood astral and real-time projections. How frighteningly accurate that hypothesis was would soon be realized. 

-Kevin Wikse, Strange Strangers: Tales of Childhood of Alien Abduction.

A Dead Dog's Tale 

Kevin WIkse vs. "El Cerdo"

Keeping a low profile at the Dream Catcher RV in Deming, NM, I hunkered down inside a battered 90s C-class RV, letting my travel companion handle the driving and logistics. Like a nocturnal predator, I only emerged under the cover of darkness, moving through the night like a wraith cloaked in shadow.

The I-10 E was a blood-soaked artery, a highway of horror for the abducted, trafficked souls funneled between Mexico and the dark underbellies of Phoenix, AZ, and Las Vegas, NV. In 2018, it was a red-market conveyor belt of human misery. I had been summoned to sever a particular link in that grim supply chain.

It had become alarmingly routine for human traffickers on the I-10 E to pad their cargo with natives from the surrounding reservations, primarily infants and toddlers. In response, a clandestine group of private financiers, unsanctioned by official Tribal Governments, began hiring sympathetic and morally aligned outsiders to act as ghostly avengers against their people's enemies.

"El Cerdo"—The Pig—a monstrous brute with a reputation as vile as his deeds, was my target. This beast was a known pedophile, rapist, and murderer, rumored to dabble in necrophilia and cannibalism. A former member of a defunct 1%er motorcycle gang in Arizona, El Cerdo had woven a sinister network of drug and arms dealers, expanding into human trafficking in the early 2000s.

The shadowy financiers who enlisted my services had marked El Cerdo as a high-priority target. My companion was a fierce-looking Apache woman, her features sharp and thorny yet delicate and beautiful like a cactus flower. At 15, her baby had been snatched from her in the hospital right after birth. The doctor claimed she tested positive for methamphetamine, and CPS whisked the baby away. She was advised to forget about it, but the wound festered.

Our stars and morals aligned perfectly.

The RV's weathered exterior hid an immaculate interior. The warmth of her body next to mine, slightly offset by the efficient AC unit, spread her floral perfume throughout the dimly lit rear cabin. Her soft, dusky eyes held my attention until we drifted off in each other's embrace.

An earthen vessel buried near Shiprock Peak, a towering 7,000-foot rock formation, contained the bones, hairs, feathers, skins, teeth, claws, leaves, thorns, and seeds of my animal and plant allies, intermingled with parts of myself. Legend spoke of a great and terrible bird that once nested atop Shiprock Peak. This Teratornis, with a wingspan over twenty feet, would pluck sheep, deer, and even people from the ground, smashing them into the cliff face before feasting.

The myth of this bird struck a chord in me, invading my dreams for months. My initiator, who handed me the obsidian knife, told me of her—a sky queen and chieftess of the four winds, rival to Eagle and a cautious friend to Raven. She would be my mother, and in my second life, I would hatch from her egg, a thunderbird's egg. I buried a potent artifact of Curanderismo in Shiprock, irrevocably binding myself to her, the place, and its ghosts.

From this towering pinnacle, I soared over the astral and shadow realms, hunting my quarry under the auspices of a grand feathered predator. Laying beside my companion, I found an ease in shifting between liminal spaces, achieving spiritual flight across various non-physical realms. Gliding over Deming's shadow side, I saw angry earthbound souls and shadow people gathering below me, heralding his arrival. The Pig was coming.

At night, we stalked the streets. I scoped out bars and strip clubs El Cerdo frequented, while she posed as a junkie and sex worker, giving her number out and claiming she was a friend of The Pig's, wanting to know if he was around. On the fifth morning, her phone rang.

The voice on the other end was deep and gravelly, muffled and wet, cutting through phlegm. The speaker rambled incessantly. She looked at me, perplexed. "Ask who it is," I mouthed silently. She nodded, "Piggy, baby, is that you?" she asked sweetly. An awkward silence followed. We waited. "Yeah, it's me. I got a big load I need to dump. You come and fuck me," he slurred. "Sounds good, baby, where you at right now?" she responded, nodding at me. "Uh, I am at the Deluxe, room 19. Get your slut ass over here." His voice grew in strength and clarity. She looked at me and shrugged. I shook my head "no" and mouthed, "Tell him you will call back."

"Ok, babe, I'll call you back soon," she ended the call without waiting for his reply.

We didn't know if it was really El Cerdo or if he was alone. No rash moves. I needed eyes on him. Throughout the morning, she toyed with him over text. She picked a girl from backpage ads in Tucson and catfished him with her face and nudes. We got a dick pic in return, but not what we wanted. An hour of troubling sexting later, he gave up the face pic. It was him. No mistaking it. The face of a nasty, ugly Pig.

But we could have been catfished too. It wouldn’t be the first time I faced betrayal. Someone had made contact, claiming to be El Cerdo, providing evidence. The face pic was him, but when and where it was taken was unknown. The danger was real.

With limited resources, we ran his number. A burner phone from an El Super in Albuquerque. Back to square one. She agreed to meet him at the Deluxe around midnight. El Cerdo assured her it was going to be quite the party. We settled in bed together. Her scent—a blend of tilled soil with a warm breeze over sunflowers—stirred something deep inside me. I closed my eyes and let myself go.

I realized I was dreaming as I rounded a hallway corner to my old childhood home. A ranch-style house with a large fruit orchard, shadowed by the penitentiary. The house was gutted, the roof gone, walls crumbling. I heard screaming—visceral, guttural, the expelling of vomit. Now lucid, I drew my obsidian knife and skulked down a hallway to find the source.

Peeking into a room I didn’t remember, I saw a dark-skinned woman chained to a wall, naked, beaten, sobbing. Smoke wafted from her head. She turned to me, half her face charred like red hot embers. El Cerdo brandished a welding torch, running the flame over her face and breasts. She writhed in agony as he roared with laughter. Time slowed. She locked eyes with me. "Avenging Angel...do your worst, and God will see it as your best," she said.

Time resumed.

A woman now stood beside her, her face a soft glow of golden pink. She placed a hand on the tortured woman's shoulder, and a deep peace washed over her face. Her body went limp. Flames engulfed her. El Cerdo laughed louder. "Time to put this bitch out!" he yelled, exposing himself and urinating on her corpse. The glowing woman ignored him, her gaze fixed on me.

Nearly a year earlier, in Mesilla, NM, I got lost and stumbled into a small shrine tended by an older Mexican woman. She said, "You are here because she brought you here, the Mystic Rose," pointing to a statue of Mother Mary. "She is the rose among the thorns." This woman initiated me into sacred mysteries.

Now, the Mystic Rose watched me amid the horror, testing if I would be the thorn I promised. For what El Cerdo had done, there would be blood. I stepped into the room, meeting El Cerdo's gaze. Seeing my obsidian knife, he ignited his torch. We collided with the force of two heavyweights. Using my left arm as a shield, I plunged my knife into his chest, driving it deeper until he stumbled back. I followed, twisting the blade.

I pulled the knife free, showing the bloodied blade to the Mystic Rose, but she was gone. A pile of rose petals remained. El Cerdo’s body now appeared mannequin-like. I cut him open, finding strange red gelatin instead of blood. Digging into it, I pulled out a hunk of meat where his heart should be—three rotten ribeye steaks bound with barbed wire, zip-ties, and duct tape.

Untangling the barbed wire, I found jagged writing on the steaks and a crumpled paper bag with "for the devil" written in a child's hand. I poured the bag's contents into my hand—a tiny baby bird, barely hatched, injured, and languishing. Intuitively, I knew it was El Cerdo's soul. Out of pity, I placed the bird on the ground and crushed it under my heel. At least the Devil couldn’t collect it; if anyone could fix it, God could. An explosion of scratching sounds began—the tabulation of Heaven weighing my actions.

Overcome with sadness, I awoke crying. My companion watched me, touching her forehead to mine and wiping away the tears. "I need to kill that fucking monster," I whispered. She nodded in agreement

To be Continued...

-Kevin Wikse

Thank you for visiting my page. I am the only medium, remote viewer, and occultist who, with frightening and stunning accuracy, foresaw the COVID-19 pandemic/hoax and its sinister connections to China. Masks, weaponized and experimental vaccines, mandatory compliance, medical tracking on smartphones, the debacle of the 2020 election, the border crisis, the ILLEGAL migrant and CCP invasion, the specter of World War III, and the looming Magnetic Pole Reversal Global Cataclysm—I predicted it all. VAIDS (Vaccine Acquired Immunological Deficiency Syndrome) and even Dr. Fauci himself, all in my sights as early as 2014. Don’t believe it? See the complete, time-stamped, and documented evidence HERE. 

Additionally, I accurately predicted BOTH President Trump’s assassination attempt and that Joe Biden would not run again in 2024 for re-election in my “Merry Crisis and a Happy New Fear” 2024 post on 1/1/24. HERE

And that’s not all. My occult and remote influencing work played a pivotal role in the downfall of Jeffrey Epstein, the billionaire pedophile and human trafficker. This too is time-stamped and documented. Witness a true and authentic act of Solomonic conjuration from the Lesser Key, Ars Goetia. HERE. 

Please visit my Official Site HERE.

Order of the Dead Dog by Kevin Wikse.

 

A Fictionalizer Work of Non-Fiction, American Horror, and High Strangeness.

I first heard about him while I was in Las Cruces. An old Apache knife fighter and Brujo, still honing his edge and blooding his hands in the desert. Based on a rumor, I spent a week trekking up and down the Rio Grande searching for him but learned from his friend in Mesilla I'd missed by a few months. It was in Lordsburg I caught up with him, a short and round man with eight or nine rattlesnake heads circling his hat band. 

He flatly denied he was who I was looking for. I wasn't buying it, so I lunged at him after a couple more protests that I should go away. He had a knife as fast as a rattlesnake's strike, the tip pressing firmly into the skin under my chin. I smiled as he rolled his eyes. He'd blown his cover. 

That evening, we shared a pack of Pall Malls and a 12-pack of Modelo in the alley behind his house while candles to Jesus Malverde and Saint Jude flickered in the darkening shadows. We told stories about hunting down our common enemy when he stopped abruptly.

"I will call you Gila Monster because you are tenacious and like to fight, but mostly because you are ugly," he said, staring off into the night sky. "I will show you how to walk the path of the Dead Dog, always on the warpath, always hunting. It will be up to you to keep up with the pack." 

He took out his knife, and we sealed our pact with blood. 

-Kevin Wikse

Remote Viewing