People whisper tales behind quivering hands and murmur beyond doors closed against prying ears.  These tales bespeak of an age-old darkness that creeps into the fiber of a person's soul and uses them to lie, steal, rape, and murder.  Ancient woes of entire civilizations disappearing and people turning on their own in an unexplained rampage are laid at the feet of this darkness that no one understands.

      Gaining strength and a need for more—more hate, more lust, more death—this darkness appeared most recently in a small village called Salem, Massachusetts in the year 1692.  After a brief but horrifying reign of fear and death, it was defeated—but not completely.  With an innate sense of survival, it burrowed into a soul weak with greed and there bides its time until circumstances allow a reappearance and a chance to feed upon man's fear.

      For any who read this entry be warned, do not let judgments and narrow-mindedness rule.  Only one's commitment to goodness and pure love-energy can defeat, possibly even destroy, this phantom of hell. 

Excerpt from the journal "Faerie Enchantments and Sorcerer Magick"

Chapter One

      A sliver of moon cut through the night sky like a scythe.  Its rays cast a low glow across the land, barely enough light to illume the frantic scampering of a rodent intent on escaping the needle sharp claws of a rapacious owl.  But nightfall lent cover to more than just nature's cycle of life.  The light of day ebbing to the dark of night gave other creatures freedom to act on their baser instincts.  Or, as in the case of the person in a darkened cellar, the freedom to act on a soulless promise given centuries before.

      Hidden from the moon's rays, locked from even the most intent of night crawlers, the tiny room thrummed with feverish expectancy.  Hot wax sizzled from the array of strategically placed candles, while flickering flames danced shadows on roughly-hewn walls.  Purple silk cloth lay across the dirt floor like a mantle and a crudely carved stone altar provided the only furnishing in the room.  Upon the altar rested an oval shaped silver bowl beside an ornate knife of Celtic design.

      And a terrified young woman.

      Rustling cloth signaled movement of someone from the darkest shadow into the dim glow of candlelight.  Shrouded in a black, hooded robe, the figure moved toward the altar.  Eyes bulging in terror, the woman kicked her bound feet in a feeble movement of defense, but only managed to twist her body half off the altar stone.  None too gently, her captor hunched over and swung her back into place.  Keeping a tight grip on her arm, the robed figure knelt before the altar and reached for the knife.  Low chanting began and with great care and precision, the perpetrator of the ritual thrust the knife into the woman and sliced her from throat to belly.  The pain-filled scream, hardly able to be credited to a human, lasted only a second and the struggling ceased.  Blood ran everywhere as the killer's incessant chanting continued.

      Finally, the chanting ceased and silence fell.

      Intently filling the altar bowl with blood, no thought was spared for the corpse that had been a living, breathing person until a moment ago.  Grasping fingers plunged into the bowl and smeared blood on the wall; an action repeated until each wall bore the symbol of a pentagram.  Except the person had drawn the symbol upside down in an insulting manner directed against the benign beliefs of Wicca.  With each point to signify a different meaning—fire, earth, water, air, and spirit—the figure thrilled at twisting the pentagram's position to oppose the very roots of the symbol's meaning.

      The room was prepared.  The time was here. A verse memorized so long ago—a lifetime ago, was recited with focused intent.  The vengeful voice pulsed through the room and the words spoken brought forth ancestral power and forces of darkness.

      Upon this eve, I bid you here

      A pact long ago spoken

      Now shall be woken

      My life exchanged for a knife

      The essence of many souls given

      For mine own soul's eternal power

     With each word, the figure seemed to grow and pulsate.  Uneven breathing rasped within the breeze that suddenly twisted through the room.  With certainty lighting empty eyes, the speaker folded to the floor in exhaustion and choked out two words before succumbing to a faint.

      "She comes."