The Goodbyes and Hellos of Death Work

A couple of months ago, Lucifer and I were discussing my rejection at the hands of Persephone, which occurred a number of years ago when I was first starting my spiritual path. He laughed at the situation, elaborating, "She's picky with who she chooses as a follower."

"Well, I don't think I would have been much use for her anyway," I'd said. "After all, I don't work with the Dead."

"You will," he had replied, very seriously.

I was slightly surprised by this, but chalked it up to work I was already doing by conjuring demons. The assumption about grimoire spirits is that they're a mix of recharacterized Near Eastern deities, elementals, and some dead people (particularly relevant to the necromantic focus found in the Faustian tradition). Currently, I work underneath the cosmology—true it may be or not—that many of the demons throughout the grimoires are paying off some kind of karmic debt by assisting humanity when conjured.

But that's not all Lucifer meant, turns out...

It occurred to me very recently that I first learned a zazen-like meditation style in the same place where I interacted with my first ghost. The partially historically verified urban legends only tell of a single ghost, but the campus of Centenary University is somehow very, very haunted. My best guess is that there's a forgotten burial ground on site or a student was fucking around with portals because there are at least several ghosts and they can be quite hostile. I was temperamental with one and he retaliated by leaving a creepy photo of himself, before the word "selfie" was coined, on my pink Razr flip phone. Ahhh, that period truly was the height of cell phones because flip phones don't human frack us like smartphones do.

Anyway, I digress...

My experience with ghosts until very recently was consistently fearful. New Jersey was among the first of the colonies and so it is a very old, and very historically blood-covered state. Hackettstown is old as shit. The town I ended up living and working for three years in what was originally an 18th century blacksmith building—whose parking lot I later discovered was paved right on top of corpses moved from a nearby church—is old as shit. So I kept running into ghosts, most unfortunately previous residents of my homes. They were all seemingly masculine, consistently angry or confused, and possessive over the properties. I got into the occult to confirm my experiences via mediums as well as find magical ways to repel them.

Just two months ago, Laddie died and I had a very powerful experience with my ancestors during his veterinary euthanasia. The worlds of the Dead suddenly became more interesting. Connecting with the spirit of my dogson and making my transition more tolerable was also incredibly important. I deeply wanted his legacy to live on. What if, I thought, I could work with him to help other spirits?

It has not quite turned out like that. Instead, all of my ventures so far have only been with Lucifer, or just myself. Maybe Laddie already taught me all the healing he could pass onto me while in life. As the weeks went on since his death, I talked more to the little girl in my basement. I told her about my new cat and she told me how her job used to be to feed the animals. I did my laundry and she told me how she would watch her mom clean their clothes. "Where did my mom go?" she asked me once.

"She went to the other place," I answered. Lucifer had had me ask my friend Anna for book recommendations on death work and I had begun my homework. "I can take you there if you want to go."

She naturally understood the finality in that offer and refused it. So instead, we played catch with a phantom ball of hers as I waited for my clothes to dry.

I could tell even then that a seed had been planted.

The other day she came up to me as I was reclining in my apartment. "I want to go to my mom."

"Take my hand," I'd said, holding out my own. I felt cool air hit my palm.

Admittedly, I had taken a nice indica edible. So it was probably easier than it would have been otherwise to feel surrounded the way I did with another world. It was a forest and it shimmered. Myself and my small friend walked through it for some time. I asked her how she was doing. "I'm scared," she said.

"I would be too if I were you," I had replied, in a way I now wish I had phrased better. "But your mom was a good person, right? So she must be somewhere nice."

When we arrived at the destination, it was something like a village, but I couldn't see the rest of the village past this one house. A woman was there, sitting on the front step outside. The little girl let go of my hand and ran up to her. The woman told her that she had been waiting for her for a long, long time. Neither of them looked up at me. They went inside the house and I snapped back into full consciousness in mine.

Then the other night, I read about a famous musical artist who died early, but promising in his career. Controversies of his violence were as renown as his music. I learned that he was born with a hole in his heart. I learned that he had experienced and witnessed multiple situations of horrific violence as as child. I learned that he had an interest in the occult, believed in reincarnation, and claimed to meet the Devil in Miami. I learned that he was frustrated by how own bursts of anger—a struggle I know horribly too well—and was coming around to being a better person. I learned that he supported trans people. I learned how extremely young he was when he died.

"I'm truly sorry for judging you," I felt the message reverberate out of me.

Less than two hours later, I received a message from a father in Gaza begging for donations. His son needs surgery.

He was born with a hole in his heart.