Paedophilia, Paganism


UPDATE: I was sent a link this morning to a blog featuring this article, and it is now apparent to me where the majority of the angry comments from Asatru folk and Odinists are originating. This blog ( )    purposefully misrepresents the Valknut by stating: “The ‘Wiccan triple knot’ is a well-known paedophile call sign.”   I have written to the Editor of the site and requested a retraction, removal of the image, or at the least a removal of any reference to my site. Please, feel free to send your complaints over this travesty to the Editor of that website: . They do not allow comments on their website and request letters to the editor, instead. 

NOTICE: I regret that so many of my pagan brothers and sisters have been led to believe this post is for the purpose of attacking pagans. I’m disheartened that so many of you cannot read an article before being led as sheep to post ridiculous comments reflecting that lie. I will no longer approve argumentative comments to this thread, but you may read my answer to your questions and comment here:   Addressing The Concerns Of Pagans 

I recently posted a comment left by a supposed self-proclaimed pedophile, in which he suggests my pedophile symbol collection is outdated by listing variants he and his ilk often use to fool the public. After posting the comment, I was asked for more information on the symbols. I have gone throughall of the posts I’ve madepreviously to gather the symbols and online codes into this one post for easy reference. Please, feel free to copy and paste the following anywhere and everywhere you feel it will do some good. PEDOPHILE SYMBOLS WE ALL RECOGNIZE:  These images were discovered by undercover volunteers on a website created by online sexual predators, where they instruct young girls and children that sex with older men is natural and their parents are lying to them and cannot be trusted because they are possessive and don’t want their children to feel good. It has been speculated by some around the net in discussion about these symbols that these meanings and even existence of the symbols are untrue, but those statements have been made by pedophiles whose primary goal it is to corrupt exposed discoveries about them. These people have often used these symbols on their own websites, and the jewelry is no figment of the imagination!

  • A heart within a heart, or “GLogo” “GirlLover” is used by pedophiles attracted to girls. The heart in a heart, to them, represents a adult/ female child relationship.
  • A blue spiral-shaped triangle symbol, or “BLogo” “BoyLover”, symbolizes a boy (small triangle) surrounded by an older male (larger triangle)- and is meant to show adult/male child relationships.
  • The butterfly CLogo a.k.a. “ChildLover” (commonly looks like four touching hearts) in pink/blue represents non-preferential gender pedophiles (girl or boy attracted, often both).
  • The yin-yang looking circle is CGlogo, used in reference to the website, Common Ground, which was created as a place for both girl and boy attracted pedophiles to meet and sympathize with each other.
  • The pink/blue triangles is “AmaroSymbol” is a variation of the CGLogo.

Recently, I received a comment from a suspected pedophile bragging about the newest additions to their collections. These logos were not created by them but are already in place as innocent designs for unrelated issues. The purpose for using these common images is to fool society into not thinking twice when seeing someone wearing these items. In the words of the person who commented to me:  

We do not adhere strictly to the shapes you posted. We can modify them slightly and still recognize other girl and boy lovers. I am sure you have seen the new necklace designed by Jane Seymour. You probably have a pendant of your own. The ladies like them. So do little girls and little girl lovers. When asked about mine and why I wear a bit of woman’s jewelry, I say it is a reminder of my dead wife and child. Don’t you know, people don’t like talking to widowers because it is a sore subject. They would rather change the subject fast, and so I escape further prying into my necklace that signals other girl lovers that I am a GL. For my BL attraction, I don the wiccan triple knot. I know too of GLs who use the Roxy surfer girl heart logo and BLs who use the pagan vaulknot. These are both variations of the GL heart logo and the BL triangle logo but the public will never know the difference.

The items to which he is referring:

Jane Seymore’s Wiccan Triple knot Roxy Surfer Girl Valknot necklace Additionally, I recently posted remarks by pedos on a pedophile site in regards to the attire they wear to celebrate Alice Day and the lighting of pink candles: (clicking on the names will direct you to the exact quotes in their full spirit, including information about how they promote their deviances)

FreeThinkerGL I will be wearing my GLogo t-shirt with my GLogo pendent for all to see!!!. I guess I will be doing what I do everyday, just hangout with friends and maybe if it’s nice out, skateboard a bit etc. I don’t have a LGF so I won’t be spending anytime with little girls or boys but I will go to the park and LG watch. I also try to do a bit of CL activism on Alice Day or any day for that matter, in the sense that every time I see an opportunity I drop off a few pamphlets, flyers and cards that I always carry around in my backpack……My suggestion to you or to anybody who reads this post is to celebrate Alice Day by lighting a pink candle in you’re home or in public with a small note attached explaining what this holiday is about and what it means to be a girl lover. silentmist I will be spending the day at a local market filled with beautiful LG’s. Kinda boring, but I will at least be wearing a pink t-shirt. I doubt anyone will catch on, but you never know  lall I think the t-shirt thing is just to wear any kind of a pink shirt on Alice Day. That way if any asks if you’re a pedo, you can claim you have no idea what they’re talking about…and how dare they insinuate such a thing! lol.

Pedobear is said to have originally begun as a way for young members of chan sites (4chan, 7chan, 12chan…) to call attention to pedophiles in their midst pretending to be kids to get their information. The pedophiles have since adopted Pedobear as their symbol of pride on the chan sites, claiming that the invention of the bear is a “loving gesture” toward them.  There are also abbreviations you should be aware of. The intention is to classify their interests for other pedophiles within their ring:

  • AoA: Short for “age of attraction” meaning the age groups of children they are attracted to
  • MAA: Minor attracted adult (used in reverse of the word “pedophile”, though it is the same and places the child as responsible for the abuse)
  • AoC: Age of (legal) consent
  • CL: ChildLover/pedophile
  • GL: Girl Lover/Attracted to girls
  • BL: BoyLover/Attracted to boys
  • YF: Young Friend, used when speaking about a victim
  • CP: Child Porn (Which could mean anything from photos of naked or half-naked children to photos of actual child rape/torture)
  • LG: Little Girl
  • LB: Little Boy
  • GM: Girl Moment – which is time spent with a young girl (that can either be a passing second consisting of nothing more than a glance or a smile, or a lengthy visit with a girl);
  • BM: Boy Moment – same as Girl Moment

Then there are the chats, or message boards:

  • CG: known as Common Ground, a place for pedophiles of both preferences. Common ground, while being the one that touts of being for “all” pedophiles is less used than either of the other forums:
  • GC: GirlChat- for those that favor victimizing girls
  • BC: BoyChat- for those that favor victimizing boys

and Pedophile Organizations:

  • NAMBLA: North American Man/Boy Love Association
  • IBLD: International Boy Love Day – this is an actual Pedophile Holiday celebrated by them on June 23 of each year.
  • Newgon: Pedophile version of Wikipedia
  • CLOMA: Child Love Online Media Activism

If there is any further information I may have missed, I will add it as soon as possible. Keep an eye on the comments section in the event someone has something vital to add (and feel free if you have something I missed, please!). The main message of the commenter, and all pedophiles, was that no one cares about abused children because society refuses to speak of it or even acknowledge that. I believe it is damned time to change that, and I have something in mind to deal with it, which I will be posting about soon. Be prepared to stand with me. Never forget: In the fight against child sexual abuse, there are only two sides – For or Against. Those fighting “For” are pulling no punches. Can those “Against” say the same?


Paedophilia, Paganism

This is from 2008 but is definitely worth sharing again as the problem has not gone away and whistleblowers continue to be ostracised –


Posted on  by Rob Taylor

For a little over a month now I’ve been working with the Pagans Against Child Abuse (PACA) group on a project to monitor a popular pagan site for pedophile activity and help the online Pagan community to start to police themselves. The Ning hosted PaganSpace, is fast becoming a mainstay of the online Pagan community, (where even supposed Feminist Wiccan author Z Budapest has a profile) and as quickly it has become a virtual pedophiles’ playground where interaction between adults and teens is not only tolerated but encouraged.

For the past few months PACA has had a relationship with the PaganSpace administrative staff, specifically Admins “Starfire“, “Nyx Darksky” and “Cassandra,” that was acrimonious at best. The Ultimate Evil has a post about one online encounter which should give you a feel for what PaganSpace actually is and how these three “witches” run the site to the benefit of those seeking to abuse children. The first two of these parasitic enablers of child rape use their Ning hosted site to promote their Internet businesses like Alexandrian House where “Starfire” self publishes poorly written and largely useless metaphysical works and Wicca-Mart where Nyx Darksky milks the Wiccan sub-culture to continue her degenerate, shiftless lifestyle.

I point out their business interests in keeping PaganSpace as active as possible (and nothing keeps a social network active like having needy teen girls interact with adult men in forums called Sacred Sexuality or Polyamory) because the alternative reason for these women allowing and covering up adult men initiating sexual relationships with teens girls is that they simply don’t think it’s wrong, and indeed they have been taught to think it’s part of Wicca. In deference to my PACA colleagues and the many Wiccan friends I have I present this alternative explanation, although most people know where I stand on this issue.

In any case, it is disappointing, but not surprising, that a popular gathering place for Wiccans would become a place that welcomes child rapists and ended up banning every member of PACA who spoke out against the grooming of children by adults. What is surprising is how openly vicious the Wiccan members of PaganSpace were toward child advocates. Women who criticized men in their 40s, 50s and in one case 60s for sending sexually suggestive cartoons to girls as young as 14 or 15 were told they were acting “Christian” and PACA itself was said to be endangering children.

PACA collected ample evidence that men who were actively grooming underage girls were warned by administrators that they were being watched, and the actions of those same administrators when these issues were brought to their attention was to scrub the site of material in a ham fisted and ill-conceived effort to protect the offenders. At every turn PaganSpace protected the men who were trolling their site for teens as zealously as a mother protects her young.

The offenders themselves, still quite active on PaganSpace as of this writing, were allowed to threaten and harass PACA members, including women, after they were tipped off to the fact that many had been reported to the proper authorities. Here’s an excerpt of the kind of messages one degenerate pervert, Ken, left on the page I had kept there after learning in passing that it was my practice to report suspect behavior to law enforcement. It should be noted that I never mentioned him by name, but upon hearing that I did my civic duty he exploded:


Odd rape references aside, the person’s anger with me stemmed completely from his fear that I reported his unseemly messaging with teen girls to the cops, which I did admittedly. He wasn’t singled out in public by me however, but knew he was one of those reported. I guess he felt guilty.

The point is that the people who run PaganSpace, and at this time I would use the term people loosely, have actively taken the side of unstable degenerates who people, in good faith, have warned are using their service to attempt to meet with teen girls. How unstable are these degenerates, you ask?


Yes all those messages were to me, and there were dozens more too vile to post. At this point he is still posting to teen girls on the site and the PS community sees nothing wrong with that. After all why would anyone not want that guy to have contact with their children?

Wicca is largely an exercise in leftist astroturfing, a childish blend of cosplay, online role-playing and the feel good faux self-empowerment introduced into Occultism by StarhawkMargot Adler and Z Budapest. Those serious in their Paganism usually move on to some other religion, like Heathenry, and those interested in the practice of Witchcraft will find Wicca suffering from a dearth of actual Witches. Some of the most popular Wiccan blogs devote countless paragraphs to “progressivism” and some social cause or another while rarely mentioning Wicca in anything more than a cursory manner.

That’s because there isn’t enough meat on Wicca’s philosophical bones to merit more than a cursory mention at all and therein lies the problem.

Unlike an actual religion, Wicca is essentially amoral. Sure there are some convoluted theories about “Karma” and respect for nature, but essentially the only thing the erstwhile Wiccan need do to be in the good graces of other Wiccans is claim to be a Wiccan, sound satisfactorily “open minded” and not, under any circumstances, rock the boat.

The cavalier manner in which Jason Pietz-Waters takes up the cause of Margot Adler, who was called a liar very publicly by Newsbusters, when anyone who’s read her books will tell you she’s fond of stretching the truth, proves much of the Wicca dominated neo-Paganism of today is more about solidarity than what religion is supposed to be: a search for truth.

So it should shock no one that in this anything goes environment child raping perverts are accepted members of the community while those people within the neo-pagan community who try to shine a light on these problems are banished for daring to present Wiccans with what they fear most: a good look at themselves.

In short, parents don’t let your children grow up to be Wiccans unless you’re O.K. with them shacking up with a 55-year-old man they met on PaganSpace who’s decided to become their “craft father” (that’s a scam, by the way, kids, should anyone attempt to tell you otherwise) when she’s in middle school. And if your kids do become Wiccans, by all that’s holy keep them away from PaganSpace.

Update: Matthew C. Rohnkohl emailed to say I wasn’t sufficiently clear about “Starfire” and her relationship to Alexandrian House. Executive V.P. Matt claims “Starfire” isn’t the owner (though he’s coy about who is) in his email to me:

I am contacting you in regards to your slander of my imprint division,
Alexandrian House. My name is Matthew C. Rohnkohl and I am the Executive V.P.
of Alexandrian Archives Inc.

By posting this article of yours, you have slandered my company and I request
that you remove it. If you do not, I will have no choice but to take legal
action. Starrfire does not own the company, therefore I am contacting you
regarding your article.

Your accusations are unfounded and derived from activity on your part that did
not include notification of administration on Paganspace about violations of
our rules. We have upheld our rules, with no help or notification from you, so
therefore your accusations are simply false.

We have the documentation to prove our side and if need be, will submit them to
the proper legal channels. Your actions were legally questionable and also in
violation of our social network rules.

I would appreciate your removal and refrain of this slander ASAP. As I said
before, if you do not, you leave me no choice but to take legal action.

Matthew C. Rohnkohl, Executive V.P.
Alexandrian Archives Inc.

My answer to this: bring it on. This sort of nonsense doesn’t impress me. Here’s a hint Matt, if you want to pretend you’re a real business man ready to sue you should email people during business hours, not at 9:52pm

Update: Starfire’s MySpace lists her as Senior Vice-President at Alexandrian Archives.  Splitting hairs much Matt? “Starfire” is knee deep in your company.This entry was posted in BlacklistFilthy DegeneratesPagan and ProudUnspeakable Cults by Rob Taylor. Bookmark the permalink.

‘Evil’ paedophile who cited his ‘Pagan beliefs’ to justify crimes is jailed

Paedophilia, Paganism

Whether nonce muppets James Hind, Tony Rhodes, or their bleating sheep care to admit the obvious or not – abusers may be found in ANY religion, and will twist the beliefs of ANY religion to justify their crimes to themselves. There are many examples of Pagans / ‘alternative’ religions being twisted this way, just as there are of ANY religion. To pretend otherwise is dishonest and amount to GROOMING. The below example is an encouraging tale of a ‘Pagan’ predator caught before he had done any harm.. which makes a change!

DAILY ECHO, 11th June 2017

AN “evil” paedophile who cited his Pagan beliefs in arranging to sexually assault an 11-year-old girl has been jailed for more than four years.

Steven Lawrence Coatsworth, of High Street, was arrested when his car broke down during a sting by an undercover police officer who had posed as the grandfather of the child facilitating a meeting between Coatsworth and the girl.

Winchester Crown Court heard that following his detention, the 52-year-old cited his Pagan beliefs and told police he thinks “it’s not age but consent” that is important in sexual relationships.

Describing his offences as “evil” Recorder Nick Atkinson QC sentenced Coatsworth to four-and-a-half years in prison after he admitted to attempting to arrange and facilitate the commission of a child sexual offence and six counts of making indecent images.

James Kellam, prosecuting, told the court that Coatsworth frequented numerous internet chatrooms – one of which was dedicated to the subject of incest.

In one of those chatrooms he began talking to a user named Al, who was actually an undercover officer, after asking if anyone could arrange for him to have sex with a child.

Al told him he could arrange for Coatsworth to meet his 11-year-old granddaughter.

Mr Kellam said: “The conversation continued in a private chat and, after negotiations, they made arrangements for the defendant to travel from Andover to the north of England.

“They would meet at a service station and proceed from there to meet the 11-year-old girl, and possibly a 12-year-old boy, for the children to engage in sexual activity and in probability for Coatsworth to engage in sexual activity with the girl.

“He set off on January 8. His car broke down and he was arrested halfway there.”

The court heard that Coatsworth told police he was a Pagan and that this led him to believe in the primacy of consent above all else.

He added: “He maintained to police that it was his view that the important issue in sexual relationships is not age but consent. He does not suggest that his beliefs required him to perform sexual activity with children. The probation reports suggest that he misrepresents Paganism to justify his desire for sexual conduct with children.”

Mr Kellam further described how, in his messages to Al, Coatsworth made reference to encouraging the children to drink alcohol if they were not “compliant”.

No alcohol was recovered from Coatsworth’s car when he was arrested.

The prosecution made clear that no child was ever in danger and that Coatsworth’s crime was an “attempt at the impossible that did not get all the way up the motorway”.

Rina-Marie Hill, mitigating, said that her client had “not changed his views at all” regarding consent and that he denies having a sexual attraction to children. She said that, as he had already spent four months in custody, Coatsworth would benefit from a rehabilitation programme to “look at his views and to consider his behaviour”.


Mind Control, Paedophilia, Satanic Ritual Abuse, Satanism

Here’s one the ‘Satanic experts’ missed. Again, this is the inevitable consequence of Satanism failing to tidy up its own back yard. If Satanism continues to pretend there are no abusers in its ranks, when there so obviously are, then anyone who identifies as a Satanist is at risk. Only when Satanists prove they are willing to expel the paedophiles riddling its movement will they be able to prevent further accusations (false or otherwise).

People like SAFF and James Hind are directly responsible for the Fundie Xtian responses of people like Wilfred Wong. Until then, even the Catholics are being more honest. I expect young Catholic mothers are less keen to send their young boys to join the choir these days. The Catholic Church used to deflect claims of abuse with the aid of the False Memory Syndrome Foundation, now discredited and disbanded. The Satanists are still using the same discredited claims as the Catholics used to.

The Church of Satan has previously been implicated in human trafficking during the ‘Johnny Gosh’ case, while LaVey’s second in command was Michael Aquino. It is only very recently that legal authorities have even began to understand this problem.. along with the implications of CIA involvement.

Because we all know that Satanists and the CIA are honest people who would never be involved with illegal activities.. right?

I in now way at all condone vigilante justice when I say that more attacks like this will be inevitable in the future unless the occult community cleans up its act. Nobody outside the cliques is in any way fooled by them. The Sorcerer’s Apprentice have fire insurance, as many of us remember from when Chris Bray attempted to burn his own shop down to make a false insurance claim.

Rather than wasting their time trying to discredit me (thereby destroying nothing but their own credibility) perhaps Hind and SAFF would like to try disagreeing with the Metropolitan Police?



“This an intriguing tale of Satan worship, drug abuse, obsession and murder that had me whizzing through the book in no time at all. The prose is written at a break neck pace which never slows as we follow the strange and meandering tale of Nigel, a young boy whose obsession with serial killers is taken out of text books and into reality. The knowledge and research of the author is well done here, from the serial killers to satanic practices to drug abuse. I always like to be taught something in a book I read, and this offered some intriguing nuggets of wisdom throughout its pages, although I wouldn’t like ask where all this knowledge comes from. 🙂 Highly recommended. I loved it.” – J R PARKS, SINISTER HORROR COMPANY

“Have a taste for the extreme? You found it within the pages of this story of a hapless writer who becomes the unwitting instrument of a serial killer’s twisted desire to impart his knowledge of and experience with killing in the form of a “confession.” Nigel Skinner possesses a ghoulish mind and certainly ranks high on the list of the most sadistic characters to ever grace the pages of horror fiction. Author Mortlock’s plotting is superb; his ability to write scenes of blood and gore are grisly and engrossing, and the story moves at an almost frantic pace to its utterly terrifying end. From start to finish, I found this story gloriously repulsive and impossible to put down.
And what makes this story truly chilling? That nagging thought that stays in the back of your mind throughout that the events so aptly described could actually happen. And, long after you have finished the story, the equally troubling thought that many such events have happened countless times in the past, and will likely happen again in the future. A pair of truly frightening thoughts.But good horror fiction breeds those kinds of thoughts, and this is a perfect example of it in its purest and bloodiest form, and by a writer that knows all too well how to leave you shivering in dread and loathing. Nicely done, Mr. Mortlock, a genuine Five-Star effort. – RICHARD RAVEN

As a young teenager, still seeking an outlet for my baulked instincts, I discovered a passion for literature; Patrick Süskind’s Perfume, Gillian Flynn’s Sharp Objects, Tana French’s In the Woods, Jim Thompson’s The Killer Inside Me, Rex Miler’s Frenzy and Slob, Colin Wilson’s The Killer and The Collector, Thomas Harris’s Silence of the Lambs and the Hannibal Lector series, Debra Webb’s Faces of Evil, Dan Wells’s I Am Not a Serial Killer and the John Cleaver series, Ian Banks’s The Wasp Factory, Poppy Z. Brite’s Exquisite Corpse, Woony Lea’s Jack Knifed, Stephen King’s Full Dark, No Stars, Brett Easton Ellis’s American Psycho, and not forgetting the original Psycho by Robert Bloch, to name just a few outstanding titles in this fine narrative tradition.

A particular favourite was Simin Wolfe’s Satan’s Apprentice. It is, in my humble opinion, an undervalued classic, even if some critics do say it goes too far. Easily identifying with the main character, an outsider to society like myself, I was carried away by the lyrical prose of mutilation and murder. This book, more than any other, was a huge inspiration to me. I would not be who I am today if I had never read it.

All the best serial killer fiction is inspired by real crimes; not just books, but also films. Psycho and Texas Chainsaw Massacre were both based on Ed Gein. As was Buffalo Bill in Silence of the Lambs, with other details being lifted from the crimes of Bundy, who faked injury to get close to his victims, Gary ‘Green River’ Ridgeway, who violated his victims with foreign objects and dumped them in the woods, and Jerry Brudos, who dressed in his victim’s clothes. Harris has also written a whole series around Hannibal Lector, who was based on Dr. Alfredo Balli Trevino, a physician who murdered and mutilated his lover and his best friends, and probably many others. Plus the movie of Silence of the Lambs came out at the same time as Dahmer’s arrest, with the press tying his legend to the movie.

Serial killers have generated huge incomes for the entertainment industry. Scorpio, the killer in the first Dirty Harry movie, is clearly based on the Zodiac Killer. The Scream killer, with his ghost faced mask, is based on Danny Rolling, ‘The Gainsville Ripper’, who like Bundy and Stu in the movie killed with the intention of getting famous. More recently, the killings of Dennis Rader inspired the TV series The Fall. There are countless other examples.

My appetite for bloodthirsty literature gew fiercer still. I sought out books on real murders; ‘True Crime’, countless ghoulish biographies, and wherever possible the actual testimonies, confessions, diaries, and anything else said or written by serial killers themselves. I was surprised to learn just how many real life killers are, like me, keen readers of fiction. Wherever they mentioned books they enjoyed I made sure to seek out copies.

John Fowle’s The Collector is particularly popular, with Christopher Wilder ‘The Kansas City Butcher’ actually being found with a copy on his body after he shot himself. Leonard Lake and Charles Ng also confessed to being inspired by it.

Another favourite with a number of killers is J. D. Sallinger’s The Catcher in the Rye. Mark Chapman, the man who shot John Lennon, infamously quoted from the book during his trial. John Hinkley Jr. had a copy among his belongings when he was arrested for the attempted assassination of Ronald Reagan. Robert Bardo, who murdered the actress Rebecca Schaeffer back in 1989, also had a copy among his possessions when he was arrested.

Jeff Lindsay’s Dexter series, which has been made into a TV show, inspired 17 year old Andrew Conley to strangle his 10 year old brother. Canadian man Mark Twitchell, who lured two men to his ‘movie studio’ to play parts in what they had been told was a fictional movie about a serial killer, was also a fan. He was arrested after one of his victims escaped and continues to watch the series in prison. Here in England Mark Howe, who used a still of Dexter’s blood splattered face for his profile picture on FaceBook, slashed his own mother 53 times with a 12″ knife before leaving her to bleed to death on the bedroom floor. Another 17 year old Steven Miles has been jailed for 25 years after stabbing his girlfriend to death and dismembering her body. During his sentencing the court heard that Miles had a fascination with horror films and wanted to emulate Lindsay’s fictional serial killer.

Another is Stephen King’s Rage, originally published under the name Richard Bachman, which was taken out of publication after no less than three school shootings and hostage takings were linked to the book.

I soon became fascinated by the strange paradox between the killers of fiction and the killers of reality. I resolved to seek out copies of every books mentioned in the confessions, testimonies, trials and interviews with the real life serial killers, spree killers, and mass murderers I found myself researching. I spent long hours pondering on the implications of these fiction inspired crimes. Was violent and bloodthirsty fiction really responsible for the atrocities they apparently inspired? Is ‘life imitating art’ a legitimate argument for instigating violent crime, or are there more deeply rooted issues involved?

By 16 years old my library included many strange and unusual texts. I found myself reading not just fiction but philosophy too. Serial killers are often surprisingly deep thinkers. Each has their own unique approach to the eternal questions; the meaning of life and the purpose of death.

Many, such as the UK’s own Ian Brady, cite Nietzsche as an influence. Of particular interest are Twilight of the Idols and The Antichrist, which discuss such essential matters as the nature of guilt, the conscience, empathy for the weak and infirm, and why such defunct Christian ideals only serve to poison modern society like standing water. Brady’s own book Gates of Janus is also a must read for anyone thinking of taking up the hobby.

Richard Ramirez, Bobby Beausoleil, The Son of Sam, and a number of others are known to have been inspired by Anton LaVey’s The Satanic Bible, with its inversion of the 10 Commandments, advocating freedom from society’s false restrictions and the indulgence of our darker instincts. There are also some interesting notes on ‘victim psychology’, observing how some people seem to actively seek out situations where they will be bullied, abused, or even murdered. So what is wrong with giving people a little of what they want?

Continuing with my research I found a surprising number of slayers, from The Zodiac Killer to the more recent Pazuzu, had been influenced by occultism of one kind or another. Not just serial killers but spree killers too.

According to the FBI commissioned report, The Official Causes of the Columbine Massacre, the ‘Trench Coat Brigade’ had been passing a number of books beween them during the months before they shot up their school. Besides LaVey’s works they were also reading up about secrete societies such as The Bavarian Illuminati, with fnord references throughout their diaries and in messages passed between them in class. Of particular interest among their library was Peter J. Carroll’s Liber Null & Psychonaut, the training manual for the black magic order he founded to herald in the Age of Chaos. Much to my surprise the file also mentions that the author is a resident of Bristol.

I constructed a shrine in my bedroom to the famous and not so famous serial killers and mass murderers of history. Most teenagers have pictures of pop stars on their walls, or their favourite football team. I had Bundy, Gein, Manson, Ramirez.. Dedicating the shrine, and myself, to the powers of Darkness I burned black candles, performed simple rituals, and gave prayers to that part of myself I identify with Satan; the source of my Telos or ‘True Will’.

Much to my delight I also found an online supplier catering to the ever expanding market of modern Satanism – for truly we are many – The Luciferian Apothecary. Borrowing my father’s credit card I purchased a red handled ritual dagger, its 9″ double edged blade inscribed with infernal sigils. With this knife I sacrificed on my shrine the family cat. Everybody has to start somewhere.

This is the story of how, from these simple beginnings, I came to be the serial killer I am today. Just as I was inspired by the books I read, be they fiction, confession, or philosophy, I hope my own humble offering will inspire others. May these pages be stained with blood and the hands that turn them choke a million necks.


From EVERYBODY NEEDS A HOBBY, a novella by Nathaniel J Harris, published as Nathan Mortlock, 2015

Available from Amazon UK USA



“Right up my street.” – Pat Mills, creator of 2000AD

THE BODY-BAG is brought into the mortuary and the corpse of William Burroughs placed on the slab beneath glaring strip lights. The room is decrepit and less than sterile. The tiled walls are cracked and there is the stinging aroma of toxic chemicals and human decay. The air conditioning is no equal to the sweltering Interzone weather and every surface is crawling with fat blue flies.

Voices are muffled, not so much out of respect for the dead author’s work as from a strange dread. The mortuary is like one vast memento mori and what is about to happen to William Burroughs reminds us all that the body is a temple. Like any temple it can be looted, its precious treasures scattered, its secrets and mysteries exposed.

Dr. Benway enters the room wearing surgical gloves, a white pathologist’s gown and the ceremonial mask of Anubis. He addresses the paying audience.

“Ladies, gentlemen, critics.”

It is an indication that he is about to begin.

A microphone hangs within a few feet of the slab. Benway turns to the technician.

“Is this thing on, Kiki?”

Kiki gives a grinning thumbs up. He is a gleeful boy with copper bright red hair, familiar enough with Dr. Benway to have prepared everything for the arrival of the deceased.

Photographers snap away, recording for posterity each stage of the process. Having stripped the corpse naked Benway points to a few areas meriting particular close-ups.

“Bruises consistent with heroin use, veins collapsed. No surprises there. Our subject was a self confessed addict and boy lover, not just a homosexual – take note – but a paedophile with a taste for Arab boys as young as 9 or 10. His one attempt at a heteronormative relationship ended with him shooting his wife in the head. All this suggests his addiction may have masked deep self loathing and was perhaps an attempt to control, if not completely deaden, his socially unacceptable sexual desires and attendant guilt.”

Benway removes a small sheet concealing what little remains of Burrough’s modesty. The penis has all but rotted away whilst his inflated testicles stretch their purple and black sack as tight and as large as party balloons.

Gasps from the audience. Someone throws up into their sick-bag, provided at the door upon entry.

“His balls weren’t that big when he was alive, in case you were wondering. That’s what we call dropsie, decaying fluids pooling beneath the skin. You see here where he’s been going into the groin, turning the whole area black. Onset of gangrene. Had probably been impotent for decades but that doesn’t mean he was wasn’t sexually active. Or passive, for that matter. I’m now rolling over the body.”

William Burrough’s lifeless buttocks hang like dirty grey dishcloths, their cold blue tinged skin striped with taut white scars.

“Clear signs of flagellation, possibly self administered. We shall now examine the anus.”

Benway parts the cheeks to reveal an orifice big enough to put your foot in, if it is a large foot and you really want to put it there. Just as you think his descriptive monologue could not get any worse, it does. You try to concentrate on what he is saying but it is not easy. Something about friction wounds, relentless dispassionate penetration and reverse engineered alien technology.

Someone in the audience faints.

Dr. Benway produces a crumpled Camel cigarette. He pokes it through the mouth hole of his mask and lights it with an army issue zipper

Measurements, a physical description – six feet one inch tall, grey hair, face like a turtle, that kind of thing. Fingernail scrapings and clippings are disposed of in polythene bags. The body is washed from head to foot in a concoction with a heady smell like spiced wine, after which Dr. Benway gives the body another cursory examination. Finding nothing new he gets down to the serious business we all bought tickets for.

A deep incision is made down the front of the torso. Ash from Benway’s cigarette topples into the gaping wound. Blood samples are taken and handed to Seth, who places them neatly beside a row of empty glass jars. More samples are taken; urine, faeces, stomach contents, liver, body hair (including eyebrows, eyelashes, pubic) and tissue.

Benway makes an aside to the audience.

“What we can see, the external evidence, is often not as important as what we can’t see. The tiny secrets revealed only by a microscope or chemical test.”

The process is long, drawn out. There is impatient muttering among the audience.

“Not boring you, am I?”

He reaches his hands into the corpse’s chest and forces open the ribs with an audible crack.

You close your eyes but the room swirls all the same. It is not so much the sight of the examination as the accompanying sounds. Tearing of flesh, like a butcher yanking meat from a flank. Bubbling liquids. The soft rasping of the cutting tools. Not just the sounds but the smell, too. The unmistakable aroma of raw meat, clinging to the nostrils, filling the lungs, catching at the back of the throat and clinging there, the tang in the mouth you can actually taste.

The abdominal organs – stomach, liver, intestines – are all removed and taken to a clean slab. Kiki washes them down with more spiced wine before transporting them to their waiting jars. As he washes down the cadaver’s hollowed out insides Dr. Benway presents the subject’s heart to the audience, waving it aloft in one hand whilst prodding it with the tip of his scalpel. It is around the size of a clenched fist, tubes flapping like pieces of rubber.

“The average human heart weighs in at around 11ozs, although of course it may feel subjectively heavier or lighter depending on our emotions. We see here significant hardening of external tissues, whilst these valves here, dealing with the flow of empathy and love for other human beings, have completely sealed over. Burroughs himself insisted that nobody ever loved him during his life apart from his cats.”

Benway returns the heart to its original place within the hollowed out cavity of Burrough’s chest.

Electric buzzing and the scraping of metal against bone as Benway’s circular saw cuts around Burrough’s skull. The job is soon done, but not before several more of the audience have fainted.

He takes hold of the top of the head with both hands and pulls. The whole room holds its breath.

There is a sickening shclupping sound.

The cranium in Benway’s hands looks like a bad toupee of thin grey hair. He places it upside down on the slab and stubs out his Camel in the empty bone bowl. He next turns his attention to the open head, digging his fingers into either side. There is a faint popping as he removes the brain. He holds it triumphantly aloft before the audience. It looks like a giant walnut made of grey and white jelly.

“Ladies, gentlemen. The moment you’ve all been waiting for. William Burrough’s soft machine.”

Gasps, vomiting, more fainting.

“Same size overall as any normal brain, weighing in at around 3lbs, despite having been pickled with every drug known to mankind. The hippocampus here at the back is shrivelled to almost nothing. It is often enlarged in sexual deviants but he put a lot of stress on himself, mentally and physically. The hippocampus also plays a role in immune system function. When its efficiency is compromised, so too is the immune system.”

He flips the brain into the air, spinning it like a basketball before catching it again.

“Also significant reduction in this area of the frontal cortex dealing with ethics, responsibility and conscience. Proportional increase in these right brain areas dealing with creativity, imagination and hustling. We can also see a huge capacity for delusion and self deceit. Again, no surprise considering his obsessions with magick and his well documented involvement with kooky secret societies like the Illuminates of Thanateros.”

Seth proffers a large lidless jar of clear fluid. Benway dumps the brain with asplosh.

The cranium is returned to its rightful place and the whole body covered with natron salt. After that it is stuffed with linen, giving it a fuller look, and wrapped in bandages.

Dr. Benway concludes with a sonorous recitation from the Egyptian Book of the Dead. Something about the scales of Maat, whatever that is, and the weighing of hearts against a feather. It is long, boring and ludicrously pretentious. Everyone is glad when it is over.

The room is left in silent introspection. Each of us present is made of the same stuff as William Burroughs and now we stand, momentarily stripped of our individual personalities. We are all bodies, animals, collections of viscera. The only real difference between any of us and Burroughs is that our hearts still pump blood. But one day soon all of our hearts will have stopped and that will be the end of it, save for a visit to the mortuary and, if our hearts are not too heavy, our journey to the Western Lands.


From KHAOS AT TRINITY ROAD & OTHER STORIES by Nathaniel J Harris, published as Nathan Motlock, 2019

Available from Amazon UK USA



“For a story that couldn’t be more removed from the safe fixations of Mr WHSmith himself, Nick Hornby, there’s something undeniably Hornby-esque about Harris’s urbanely direct style and his deployment of comedy to best communicate the emotional roller-coaster of growing up.  Because for all the fire, ire and portents of stranger things to come, this is really about a boy.” STARBURST

Chapter 14

MY HAIR soon grew back, my double crown making natural spikes that I couldn’t comb flat if I wanted to. I let the boots get scuffed and tatty, as much through laziness as any kind of statement. The Crombie acquired a distressed and dishevelled aesthetic, which was a statement, as it wound the skinheads up something rotten. Although ensuring I couldn’t be mistaken for a fascist I continued to hang out in the graveyard whenever I was in town.

At school I was called out of class to speak to the headmistress. My Great Aunt Clarice had written a letter concerned about the company she had seen me keeping in town. The headmistress showed it to me and said, “Your Aunt Clarice sounds like a right meddling old so-and-so. I’m glad to hear you’ve been making new friends. They might dress unusually but they seem like nice enough lads to me.”

Greg started ranting about punks and skins being wasters, tarring them all as violent thugs. It was clear he was intimidated, “Don’t you dare point me out to them.”

He became less inclined to bully me, although I was also spending longer periods away from home, not coming back from school on Friday and not being seen again until Monday evening, if then.

I found a copy of Nietzsche’s The Antichrist, which wasn’t in the library but was available in an affordable Penguin classics edition, doubled with Twilight of the Idols. Its central premise, as far as I could tell, was that Christian mercy had lead to the genetic, mental and spiritual degeneration of the Germanic peoples. God was dead and it was down to humanity to redeem itself, which it can only do by embracing all that has previously been deemed inhumane. The implications were chilling, especially considering who had recommended the book to me; illiterate skinhead thugs were dangerous enough, but skinheads reading philosophy took things to a new level.

What interested me the most was the revelation that there were punks and skinheads who were interested in reading. An idea began to form, which I discussed with Olly and Ambrose, who we knew would also be interested. I borrowed my parent’s typewriter and got permission to make use of the Ecology Party‘s old printer. Within just a few days we had the first and only issue of our 12 page mini- publication, its spiky lettered logo with an anarchy sign ‘A’ and an eight rayed star, familiar to any Advanced Dungeons & Dragons player, in place of the ‘O’; issue 1 of KAOS, featuring ‘The Adventures of Victor Vomit’. It was nowhere near as successful as we anticipated. We sold perhaps three copies. The others were disheartened.

“It doesn’t have enough pictures. We should try again with different content,” I said.

They weren’t up for it, but Mum was. We got to work, this time ditching the typewriter and illustrating the pages with biro pressed hard into carbon stencils. I drew a cartoon of Margaret Thatcher, various parts of her anatomy labelled with jibes about her evil policies and holding her responsible for mass unemployment, wrote a recipe for Punk Rock Cakes, and Mum wrote the script for a comic strip about a hard-core punk bear in tartan bondage trousers, all written in rhyme. His name was ‘Gluepot the Bear’;

Walking down the underpass, Kick the Mods up the arse. Walking through the streets at night, Gluepot’s looking for a fight. Blue rinsed granny stops to stare, “Why you starin’ at my hair? “My hair’s green and yours is blue, “Dying hair ain’t nothing new. “Do you call that thing a hat? “You wouldn’t catch me wearing that!” Blue rinsed granny screams dismay, He grabs the hat and runs away. How to stop this naughty fella? She lands him one with her umbrella!

The Anti-Social Comment, issue 1, was a run of around 40 copies, and shifted faster than you could say ‘Revenge of the Thenkels’. I sold them in the school playground and to a handful of teachers. Mr. Mortlock was its biggest fan, secretly helping me print up more copies on the school’s photocopier, which I then sold to the punks in the graveyard. Olly took a handful to sell at his own school. Out of the 20p cover price I made 5p profit on every sale, 20p each on a bundle of 5 to sell on yourself, which back then meant a lot of cigarettes and cider.

It was too much work for one person on their own. It took me a month to finish each issue, if I dedicated all my free time. Olly and Ambrose were back in, and we worked as a team providing content and editing input from whoever had responded to our inter-school call-out. For some reason they didn’t like my title Anti-Social Comment, and it seemed like going backwards to start again with KAOS so we came up with a new magazine.

It took us about a month to finish all the layout with scissors and glue. Gluepot the Bear was back, along with a pastiche of Dennis the Menace as a spiky haired weed smoking teenager, and a 2000 AD inspired strip about a gang of mutant punks in post nuclear Britain called ‘The Rad Crew’ (‘rad’ was, in common parlance at the time, short for ‘radical’, although in this sense it also meant ‘radioactive’). Issue one of The Lucrative Income Express, or The L.I.E. for short, brought to you by Petrolbomb Productions, was printed in ‘hit-and-run’ chunks on a number of photocopiers in various schools. At a cover price of 25p, almost all of which was profit, it sold perhaps 200 copies across Colchester. Selling to strangers meant turning many of them into new friends, some of whom were happy to buy a bundle of L.I.E.s to sell on.


John Smith, Simon Key and Owain Ashworth all went to St. Helena’s and were already a ‘gang’ before they invited me in as the ‘brains’.

Owain’s father was a criminal lawyer, and most of the time any hassle from the police dissolved as soon as he gave his name. John’s parents had bought a flat for him to live in, alone, while they were out of the country, had hired a cleaner and carer to look out for him, and had given him his own black MasterCard, although it was for emergencies only and he always insisted he had no more money than the rest of us. His pad became our usual club house. Simon’s parents (his mum was called Anna Key!) were of a more ‘civilian’ social standing, although none of us were thinking in such terms, and were all exceptionally large. I never saw him hurt anyone but he looked like he definitely could, although when we had a play fights he said I was too rough and looked like me might cry.

We all wore studded leather jackets with the collars turned up, DM boots, bondage trousers, and dark sunglasses. By then I had reached a compromise with school and had a rudimentary mohican with short hair at the sides, shaved only during holidays and during prolonged periods of suspension.

Owain lived not far from the middle of town in a house. He shared his bedroom with his younger brother and about twenty hamsters. He bred them, and sold them on at his school for extra pocket money. It stank in there. We would meet up on Friday after school and I would stay over until Monday morning. Simon Key lived just around the corner so we would all three of us meet there and do our hair, which involved enough hairspray to single handedly destroy the ozone layer, and a pot of gel which had been left open for a week to dehydrate, making it thick and gloopy. During the holidays we dyed our hair with ‘Crazy Colours’; I had a red mohican so tall I needed help making it stand up. We all worked together to back-comb in the hair-gel and spray, then used the tube of the electric hoover to suck it into gigantic spikes.

Dressing like this and hanging out on the streets of Colchester meant attracting a lot of attention from tourists. Back then, punk was so ‘British’ they were on postcards; indeed we had the phrase ‘postcard punk’, meaning someone who had managed to make a modelling career out of their style. If we looked outrageous enough, all we had to do was sit around near the war memorial outside the Castle Park and tourists would give us money to take our photographs. Owain would often bring a hamster with him, and he got extra money for posing like he was about to bite its head off. If they failed to give us enough money we would take their camera and ransom it back to them.

Despite looking like we ate people’s pets we were well behaved kids. When we weren’t hanging around town ‘being punks’ we gathered around one of the boy’s houses to play role playing games. Once again I found myself running games of Tunnels & Trolls, although this gave way to another more ‘grown up’ game based on the occult horror stories of H. P. Lovecraft; Call of Cthulhu. This also introduced me to the existence of grimoires – the traditional books of magical rituals employed by sorcerers, magicians and witches. We were also fans of the original fiction upon which the game was based, which were at that time available in affordable omnibus editions, which we bought between us and passed around.

Another game was Dragon Quest, which had a ‘magic system’ divided into six ‘schools’; four were after the elements (earth, air, fire and water), the fifth was necromancy, while the sixth was the school of summoning. It was also based on a real grimoire, perhaps the most infamous of them all; The Goetia, called also The Lesser Key of Solomon.

I decided I would gain myself a copy of this grimoire as soon as possible.

We did our best to avoid violence, and to give the impression we specialized in it. We developed a kind of improvised theatre; if the gang was threatened we all went quiet, everyone standing around me in formation as John removed my sunglasses. I stared down our potential challenger, fixing my gaze directly between their eyebrows with unwavering discipline. If this wasn’t enough to psychologically unsettle them I clicked my fingers and Owain produced the gang’s only packet of cigarettes, placing one delicately between my lips, my gaze still fixed. When I clicked a second time Simon produced a zipper and lit it. If this failed, we all ran. I was always easiest to catch, and the only one who got beaten up, but it was great fun giving it a go. Plus, it impressed the girls.

We were taken the piss out off by the hard core punks, but soon found better company. On the other side of The Museum of Agriculture the graveyard continued opposite a pub called The Three Cups. It had started to attract a lot of alternative types; Hells Angels with Coggeshal Bastards patches, punks of every kind from working class hard-core to ‘society’ punks in gem studded dog collars, art and music students, a small but ominous cloud of what would come to be known as ‘goths’, and a variety of others who eschewed definition but were definitely not ‘normal’. They wouldn’t let us in as we were too young, but on sunny days everyone sat outside on the wall or among the gravestones. It was a good place to hang out with a bottle of Merrydown, pretending to be grown-ups.

There was another pub called The Lodge, also a regular haunt for punks and bikers, where they had installed the first Video-Jukebox any of us had seen. Since only shit MTV bands got videos made there wasn’t a lot of choice, so it played ‘Shock Treatment’ by The Ramones on almost constant repeat. People came all the way from London to party there at weekends. Any time I tried to get in I got picked up under my arms and thrown out the door, which was great fun in itself. The venue didn’t last long, however. After a night where the landlord put up a sign on the bar offering ‘Free Pints!’, even honouring those who asked for a pint of vodka, there was a terrible fire after closing time. Nobody was harmed, and ‘luckily’ both brewery and landlord were covered by insurance.

Other occasional venues included The Hole in the Wall, a pub on the Roman wall which was OK but never played music, The Oliver Twist, which had a circular ‘whiskey bar’, attracted a lot of bikers, and had a stage for bands to play, and The Dickens Hotel, which was run by the same landlord. Although none of them would serve us, they provided a circuit of different pubs to hang around outside as we drank from our litre plastic bottles, weather permitting.

One weekend, as I was wandering through town on my way to the graveyard, I spotted Sonia from school, hanging around outside British Homestores.

“Sonia, how you doing?” I said.

“Erm.. you need to get out of here..”

I thought for a moment she might be with a boyfriend or something, forgetting she wasn’t allowed any.

Then I heard a voice from behind me cry out, “Exorcise him!”

The next thing I knew Sonia was grabbing hold of me and crying out, “Yes, exorcize him!”

They were all around me, laying their hands all over me and praying in that contrived gobbledegook that passes for ‘talking in tongues’.

Well rehearsed in escaping large groups of people, from bullies at school to gang warfare, I knew exactly what to do; I hit the ground and ran between their legs on all fours, too small to catch as I freed myself from the circle, then leaped up and ran for it. I might have stuck around but I was worried their exorcism might work – and what then?

I could tell that Sonia liked me, even if she was reluctant to admit it, but there was no way I was going to persuade her to have any fun, not with no fun demented parents.


I didn’t see it happen myself, although I heard about it from both sides and the stories more or less matched. Greg had been in town, and had paused by the shops opposite the graveyard to roll himself a cigarette. One of the skinheads, possibly Granny, approached him.

According to what I heard in the graveyard, the words spoken were, “Do you have a light?”

According to Greg they were, “Do you want a fight?”

Greg took out the first skinhead with a single foot-sword, karate style, to the throat.

As the gang backed away Greg picked up a dustbin and landed it over one’s head. The rest ran into Mother Care, throwing clothing rails and pushchairs behind them as Greg chased them through the aisles. It was legendary, with many people claiming to have witnessed it who couldn’t possibly have been there.

After that, Greg wasn’t scared of the skinheads any more – it was the other way around – so there didn’t seem like much point in hanging out with them any more.


Cross country was a lot less dangerous after the show of the M16. I also made friends with the fat kid that was always coming in just ahead of me. One day I was sure I had overtaken him, but when I puffed and panted my way through the school gates he was already there, beating me by a minute. When I asked him how he did it he admitted his house’s garden backed on to the wasteland. He had gone inside and sat down, waited for everyone to make their way past the front door, then followed along behind. From then on that is what I did too. There was just about enough time to finish a cigarette.


Silas was born sometime in 1984. I can’t remember what month it was. He looked like a miniature Greg, but with curly blonde hair. I now had two half brothers, which might have added up to one full brother, but didn’t. I had little to do with the house dwellers by then and felt an outsider to this new family.

Now there was the baby there was need of extra money. Greg decided to rent out the caravan. For a while, at least, I was allowed to move back into the house. Although I had heard my parents arguing from the end of the garden I didn’t realise until this time how far things had escalated.

One day, when Owain had come to visit and had been staying with me in the attic, Greg kicked off. He began by taking a sledge-hammer to some kitchen units that had been gifted to us by Uncle Dennis and Aunty Alice, which for some reason were still in the back garden where they had been since being delivered. Then there was screaming from downstairs in the kitchen. Owain stayed put, his face turned grey. The screaming stopped and the back door slammed. I heard Greg get in the car and drive away, then went downstairs. As I walked past Jasper’s room I saw him huddled up under his blankets, trying to block it all out.

In the kitchen, Silas was still in his high chair, crying. Mum lay on the kitchen floor, blood pouring from her head where Greg had hit her with a plate, smashing it.

I think the neighbours must have taken her to hospital. It’s hard to remember. I think she needed stitches.

A little while later the new lodger moved into the caravan. I think the lodger’s name might have been Mark, but I’m not sure. He was a Christian, having converted after his split from a hereditary witchcraft coven. The priesthood had been passed to his older brother, Tony Skinner, who had allegedly attempted to murder him with an athame (ritual dagger) for betraying his Oath. He feared for his life and the fact he was staying with us was a secret. Mum did his shopping so nobody would see him.

I had seen Tony Skinner swanning round Colchester with his long red hair and coven of young ladies, their flapping cloaks giving glimpses of stocking tops and thigh high leather boots. His priestess, Mandy, was the lead singer in the rock band Cat Genetica, while Tony was the guitarist. Wild rumours were spreading about sex magic orgies, all lipstick lesbians apart from their Magister. There were also rumours about the blood sacrifices, which didn’t sound as attractive, but he definitely had something working for him and it looked a lot more fun than Christianity. I kept my opinions to myself and didn’t ask too many questions.

Mark kept to himself, out of sight, as is sensible when a black magic cult is hunting you. It wasn’t long before he found a Christian flower-child girlfriend and was gone. I hardly even spoke to him.


There was a report in the newspaper about how they had brought in a curfew in Paris that only applied to punks, making it law that they weren’t allowed out in the streets after 10.00pm. A small gang had been stopped by the police, roughed up a bit and searched. A girl punk among them had had a pet rat, which had bitten an officer and turned out to have rabies.

Reading this at the breakfast table I asked my parents, “Can I have a pet rat, please?”

“Absolutely not. They’re filthy creatures,” said Greg.

I was crestfallen.

When he wasn’t around Mum said, “Maybe you could keep a pet rat, so long as it was a secret from Greg. We could put the cage in the bottom of your wardrobe and he’d never know.”

She even gave me some money to buy the cage and the rat with. I called her Lucretia. She was white, with brown and black spots. She seemed quite happy hidden in the bottom of my wardrobe, and chewed the hem of my Crombie all along the bottom. When I went to Colchester she came with me, hidden in my inside pocket, which I lined with tissue paper. When she wanted to come out she crawled down my sleeve, nudging me with her nose. I would hold open my hand and she would appear, as if by a conjuring trick. If I went to visit people she would run around freely, then come back when I called her and climb back in my pocket. Rats are as smart as dogs, by my reckoning, or at least Lucretia was. She was my constant companion for much of the early summer.

I was at school when Greg found the cage and threw it down the stairs. Mum said he squealed like a girl, and seemed quite smug about it. Nevertheless, I was told I had to get rid of her. I was devastated.

Owain said I could bring the cage round to his, and he would look after her. That way I could still have my rat at weekends. Sadly, however, she got out of her cage while he was at school. She tempted hamsters to the bars of their cages by dropping bits of food, then killed them and ate whatever she could reach. When he got home there was carnage, half eaten hamsters with their guts torn out all over the place. He caught Lucretia and punished her by not giving her any more food. By the time I saw him again she was dead, and we had a major falling out.

Teenagers can be very dramatic, and I had a lot on my plate besides a dead rat. I had also drunk a whole bottle of Merrydown to myself. Nevertheless, Owain and Simon were confounded – hard core punks aren’t supposed to burst into tears. They are especially not supposed to take themselves to an overpass and attempt to throw themselves into passing traffic.

Simon dragged me off the railings and sat on me until I calmed down and promised I wasn’t going to commit suicide over a pet rat.


Shortly before Mark (the Christian in the caravan) left I was displaced into the shed sorry studio, which was vacated for my accommodation. I had to make my own bed; nailing short planks of wood across a door-less old wardrobe, laid on its back. This provided support for the mattress with storage space beneath. I wasn’t the best carpenter and every now and then a slat would break, the mattress tipping into the cupboard at one end or the other, but it was comfortable most of the time.

The shed sorry studio was annexed on one side with the greenhouse. Hey, free weed, so long as I wasn’t too greedy. The opposite wall was next to the fencing for Mr. & Mrs. Balls’s chickens and what had been sold to them as an ornamental goat, which I suspected was some kind of shoat or geep, if such cross-breeding is possible. It was black, with sharp little horns, and bounced on its stumpy hind-legs like springs, rearing up to pin you with its yellow slitted eyes before nutting you like a Barmy Army skinhead from Glasgow. Sunrise was accompanied by the crowing cockerel and the possessed geep head-butting the fence.

A friend of Mum’s was, or had been, going out with a drummer from the punk band C.R.A.S.S., or something. Apparently they lived not far from Colchester on a communal farm, but they were never seen around the graveyard or by any of us in town. A selection from their catalogue was passed on to me; ‘Penis Envy’, the ‘Big A Little A’ single, the infamous ‘Person’s Unknown’, with the album ‘Hex’ by Poison Girls having a witchy theme. Strangely, Mum didn’t appreciate the music when I played it to her, showing her the lyrics on the album cover for the anti-feminist classic ‘Jump Mother Jump’.

“Why would I want to listen to something like that?” she said.

I suppose the lyrics were a bit too close to home for her.

Rarely mentioned in modern histories of punk music. most of which try to write the movement off as a flash in the pan, is the political divide that was happening at street level. They didn’t call it ‘The Punk Wars’ for nothing. Not that Greg could tell the difference, accusing all punks of being fascists and me along with them; which was pretty rich considering his fantasies of ‘Green Shirts’ forcibly installing composter toilets and raising Greg as the UK’s ecologically sound dictator. I did suggest he tried at least reading some of the lyrics on the record covers, printed in concession to the vocals being incomprehensible, which might have been why Greg found it hard to distinguish between the movements, but as usual there was no arguing with him. All this seems ironic when you consider that his friend Cat, who stayed on his land in France, was the manager of the punk band Special Duties, who made the alternative charts in N.M.E. and Melody Maker with their single ‘Colchester Council Full of Shit’. Their singer called himself Steve Arrogant, in parody of Steve Ignorant, the singer of C.R.A.S.S., which, might be why we never them in town; people were jealous and had a shitty attitude.

I considered myself an anarchist, although inspired more by the individualism of Stirner than the mutualism of Proudhon, the collectivism of Bakunin, or the communism of Kropotkin; I didn’t like doing what I was told by anyone, be that government or society, but that is teenagers for you. My attraction to anarchism should come as no surprise; its origins, as far back as it can be traced, lie with the Free Spirit movements of the eleventh century, which was largely spread by hedge-priests, heretics, and witches; in an age where church and state were one, politics and spirituality become inseparable at every layer of society. I covered the plaster-board walls of the shed with album covers and fold out poster art of white on black stencil declaring ‘Jesus died for his own sins – not mine.’

The next lodgers to move into the caravan were far more interesting. They too seemed to be hiding, although were nowhere as paranoid as Mark had been. They had been banished from Findhorn, a New Age commune in Scotland, for ‘upsetting the fairies’. Their names were Leroy and Natasha.

I don’t know much about Leroy’s background, except that he was a paid up member of Sinn Feinn, despised the I.R.A. (who I at the time had naïve and somewhat misplaced sympathies for) and played acoustic guitar. I thought he was alright for a hippy, even if I could never agree with his opinion that The Doors had any influence on punk (which he may in fact have been right about).

I think perhaps Natasha had known my mother from when they were at school, although I had not met her before. She was the daughter of Sir Donald Swann, the composer of ‘Mud, Mud, Glorious Mud’, from which he gained considerable royalties any time Playschool or some other TV show assumed the song was ‘traditional’. He was also the best friend of Tolkien, for whom he had set to music all the songs from Lord of the Rings. Donald came to visit our house, making no effort to conceal his staunchly conservative disapproval of all our lifestyles, although I wasn’t in at the time. Mum described him as, “The kind of person who thinks, if someone has no money, they should get down on their knees and scrub the doorsteps of those who do.”

Leroy and Natasha spent a lot of time socialising with Mum and Greg, smoking copious amounts of weed and sitting round playing records, particularly The Incredible String Band‘s ‘The Hangman’s Beautiful Daughter’, the lyrics of which provoked considerable discussion; was the answer to the riddle about the five elements in a basket as obvious as it seemed? Did ‘Just Like John’ imply the band had turned Christian? Were there hidden meanings in ‘If I Were a Witch’s Hat’? (The album grew on me in later years, perhaps out of nostalgia, but at the time I hated it).

Both Mum and Natasha would sing as Leroy played guitar, mostly traditional folk songs about fairies and witches. They both had stunning voices, my mother’s like the ringing of bells and Natasha’s with a husky whisky and cigarettes sexiness.

Mum had written several books of poetry, all in the most intricate cursive script as with a feather. Leroy and Natasha persuaded her to turn some of them into songs. The results, never performed to an audience, were enchanting;

“No breath breaks silence, nor dry twig moves, / The stones unstirred by weightless hooves. / The trees bear witness, mute as I, / Grunhild’s host prepares to fly. / They said, “You have not seen them, You could not see them, no, / “These shades the pentagram of man eclipsed so long ago.” / Should I not then have set my foot Upon this Old Straight Way? / A greater magic moves this world Than Arte of ours can sway..”

Each evening as the lodgers prepared to go to bed I heard Natasha sweeping the floor of the caravan with a broom, from the back to the door, then out the door, calling aloud, “Out! Out! And stay out!”

I thought at first she might have been kicking out Rosie dog, who was always on the blag if she thought there might be food. It wasn’t Leroy. I worked out that it must have been some kind of banishing ritual. Perhaps they had a problem with offended fairies that had followed them from Findhorn. They believed in some pretty nutty stuff.

One evening when I was hanging out with them in the caravan Natasha said to me, “We’ve seen you flying around at night.”

“Astral projection. You have what they call a ‘wild talent’,” said Leroy, passing me a neat weed spliff (on agreement I didn’t tell my parents).

I coughed, exhaling a cloud of grey and blue smoke. “You what?” “Do you ever go places, just with your mind?” said Natasha. “Sure, but nowhere real.”

“What’s real, anyway?” said Leroy.

“I don’t know. A punch in the face always seems pretty real, to me.”

“Not everybody travels like you do,” said Natasha.

I was beginning to catch on, “You mean when I’m meditating?”

“If that’s what you’re doing. Meditating, dissociating, leaving your body, astrally projecting, whatever you want to call it. Like in a dream, but not. I’ve seen you doing it. Flying around.”

“But astral projection? Leaving my body? Isn’t that all about travelling in the real world, finding missing people and spying on military bases? I haven’t been doing anything like that.”

“That’s remote viewing. It’s close what what you do, but not quite. Have you ever tried it?”

“It’s not possible, is it?”

“There are secret government projects where they train people to do that kind of thing. They wouldn’t invest all that time and money if they didn’t get results,” said Leroy.

“Where you go is more like a dream, right? Like a fairy world?” said Natasha.

I knew she wasn’t referring to the kind of fairies in Victorian children’s books, but all the same it sounded a bit silly. I had yet to understand that the ‘language’ of magic is all about consciousness, and how it’s experienced within trance, dream, or other altered states.

“The shaman call it the spirit world. Ceremonial magicians call it the astral dimension,” said Leroy.

“A magic world, with mountains and forests, but also other places,” I admitted. “It’s just imagination though.”

“Then how come we’ve both seen you?” said Natasha.

I was stumped. I had never told anybody about my meditations. I knew it was an eccentricity, since nobody else I knew seemed to do it, but it had never occurred to me that it might be any kind of ‘psychic skill’.

Over the next few weeks we talked about yoga, and I had my first proper meditation lessons, writing down my results in a diary and attempting to prolong periods of mental quiet. I also began a study of magical symbolism and how it’s applied. It was explained to me that the elemental forces were like the elements in chemistry but related instead to consciousness. Earth is the body, with all its needs, air is the intellect and the ability to create or understand models and theories, fire is the power of will and the life force moving through all nature, water is the emotions and powers of intuition. They also taught me about the Tattvas of yogic meditation, and how they could be used as doorways into specific astral realms.

We practised a technique where I stood on my head for around three minutes, was lowered slowly with my head still to the floor, rising over half a minute into a kneeling posture. I then focused on the elemental symbol I desired to explore. The Tattvas themselves were presented to me as bold shapes in complimentary colours on a background of black. For example, if I desired to move into the elemental realm of fire, the symbol for which is an upward pointing red triangle, I would be shown a green triangle (cut from a piece of coloured paper) on a black card. At the very centre was a white spot, which I focused upon without allowing my vision to waver. This resulted, through a natural effect of the brain, in the triangle apparently turning black and momentarily disappearing, at which point I would close my eyes and see the ‘ghost image’ left behind; a red triangle requiring no effort to visualise. This image was maintained for as long as possible then ‘moved through’ as an astral doorway. After this came free-form visions inspired by the idea of being in the ‘realm of elemental fire’ and everything this symbolised to me.

Apparently, all this would all be a lot safer than just travelling around willy nilly with no idea where I was going. Both Leroy and Natasha insisted there were astral vampires and other spirit entities which, even if I had yet to meet one, were out there waiting for the unwary traveller. They made constant reference to Israel Regardie’s The Complete Golden Dawn System of Magick, which they let me borrow so I could read more of the exercises. I suspect they had also been reading Kenneth Grant’s Typhonian Trilogy. They made regular mail-order purchases from The Sorcerer’s Apprentice in Leeds, and whenever they did so they allowed me to choose something that interested me.

“So long as you don’t tell your parents. Greg gets totally freaked by this kind of thing,” said Leroy, with a wink.

I supplemented my studies with regular visits to Colchester library, where there was a well stocked occult section. It was a shame they didn’t teach witchcraft at school, or I might have spent more time there. Like many people studying magick in the modern day I read whatever I could find by Crowley. Although I had a good chuckle at his poem Leah Sublime, which I had in chapbook form, his works seemed obtuse and belaboured with gratuitously obscurantist verbiage. It was a long time before I could understand any of it, and even then it was with reservations – he was a vile character and not someone to be admired. (Many years later I learned that Crowley had made efforts to gain initiation into the Essex Craft and had been turned down for being a sex pest, so I congratulate myself on my good taste, even if nobody else does.)

I was much more interested in runes, and the relationship between ancient magick and modern writing. There remains a strong resemblance between the runes and the letters spelling these words as I rite for you to rede. Books of spells were called ‘grammars’, from where we get the word ‘grimoire’.

I was soon expanding my knowledge of the grimoires, particularly The Lesser Key of Solomon, which I was already familiar with through role playing games. In 1986 it was much harder to get your hands on original manuscripts, as there was no internet, so I had to make do with books by people who could, such as Richard Cavendish’s Black Magic and Idris Shah’s The Secret Lore of Magic.

Grimoires are, in my opinion, a much overlooked literary tradition, far more interesting than just ritual instruction or long lists of demons, with many reading more like stories or confessionals. Like any good book, they act like astral doorways, transporting the reader to another world.


Excerpt from Accidental Antichrist, a novel by Nathaniel J Harris, available from Amazon UK USA



“This is horror for the 21st century: intelligent, literate, and disturbing. Quite why it works so well, I don’t want to think too hard about.. I want to sleep tonight!” – Pat Mills, creator of 2000 AD, Crisis, Serial Killer, and SpaceWarp.

SIMON WOLFE sat at his bookstall for an hour without selling anything. The organisers had shuffled him into the hall, apologising that ‘indie authors’ were over represented this year. Not that any of the others were faring much better, Bristol Horror Con was well attended with cos-playing fans, but nobody seemed interested in new home grown talent. Instead they were spending their cash on plastic figurines, movie discs, computer games, and other mind numbing rubbish. Did nobody read anymore?

Rearranging his titles on the fold-out table, he sat Teenage Ripper next to Blood Orgy, with Unrepentant Necrophile to the other side. When this made no difference he repositioned his promotional sign higher on the wall behind him; Warning – Extreme Horror – Adults Only.

He shifted uncomfortably in his chair, his bowels punishing him for last night’s curry. Smiling whenever anybody looked in his direction, he clenched his cheeks and hoped someone would come by he could ask to watch over the stall.

A girl wearing a pseudo-medieval crushed velvet dress and dripping in cheep pewter jewellery paused at the stall. She picked up a copy of Blood Orgy, black fingernails flipping through the pages. Her painted eyebrows arched, then frowned as she put it down again. When she looked directly at him, Simon noticed her reptilian contact lenses were on the skew. Her tone was condescending as if his work were beneath her. “Do you have any vampire erotica?”

He smiled and politely told her to “Fuck off.”

She did, nose in the air. Simon chuckled. He was finally starting to have some fun.

The next to come by was a zit faced boy, perhaps thirteen years old. Simon had not expected the event to admit under eighteens. All his books warned clearly of adult content and this kid was clearly not an adult. Nevertheless, he wanted a copy of Teenage Ripper, which had some of the goriest scenes Simon had ever written. Looking around furtively he signed the book ‘To Derek – don’t tell your parents.’

Derek grinned like a fox chewing carrion. It was moments like this, thought Simon, that made the effort worthwhile. All the same, he still needed the toilet.

He looked up from counting the cash and there was a nerd at the stall, staring at him while hopping excitedly from foot to foot. He looked perhaps nineteen years old, wore an anorak with the hood up despite being indoors, and steel framed glasses. He held before him a tattered first edition of Simon’s first book, Satan’s Apprentice.

“I’ve been following you for a while,” he said.

Simon could not help but be flattered. “If I was famous that’d be a collector’s item. Want me to sign it for you?”

“Would you?”

Simon produced his pen with a flourish, “That’s what I’m here for. What’s your name?”

“Nigel C. Skinner,” said the nerd.

“Do me a favour, Nigel. Keep an eye on things while I take a shit?”

“”Er.. yeah,” he replied, faintly amused. “Anything for my favourite author.”

“If anybody want me tell them I’ll be back in a minute.”

With that, Simon rushed off past Chucky, three Scream killers, Michael Myers, Jason Vorhees, Freddy Kruger, Leatherface, several vampires, an old school werewolf, a horde of shopping dead, countless blood splattered generic victims, and an out of place Darth Vader. Just in time. It felt like he was already touching cloth.

Nigel gave back his chair and sat on the ground. With the unkempt brown curls sticking out from under his hood, and the wideness of his eyes beneath the glasses, there was something of the feral child about him. Simon felt a strange paternal warmth towards his young fan and fought the urge to pat his head. To make small talk he asked, “How come you’re not in costume like everybody else?”

Nigel cocked his head, eyebrows raised above the steel rimmed glasses, “I’ve come as a serial killer.”

Simon groaned, “They look just like everybody else. An oldie, but still a good one. Here’s one for you.. How dd the unrepentant necrophile get caught?”

Nigel sniggered. “Go on, tell me.”

“Some rotten cunt split on him.”

Nigel proved good conversation and hung around the stall for the rest of the event. He asked a lot of questions about Simon’ work, showering him with appreciation.

“What stories do you like the best?” Simon asked.

Nigel’s eyebrows bobbed above his glasses, “My favourite is Satan’s Apprentice. I just love stories about serial killers. Its a fine narrative tradition.”

“Narrative tradition, eh?” said Simon. “I’d never thought of it like that. I only wrote the book because it was so much fun describing all the violence and gore.”

Nigel’s eyebrows vanished again, “Doesn’t it worry you, the responsibility of writing stuff like that?”

Simon chuckled. The idea of writing being a responsibility seemed a little overblown. “What do you mean?”

“Some say books like yours can fuel the fantasies of genuine psychopaths. They contribute to real life violence the way porn supposedly inspires rapists.”

Simon scoffed. As a regular visitor to a number of smutty websites he had never been inspired to become a predator. “Porn doesn’t inspire rapists. If anything it probably decreases the chances. Most blokes are more likely to stay at home and shuffle one off than to go to all that bother. Its no surprise that rapists enjoy porn, any more than real killers enjoying books about serial murder, but it doesn’t make them the way they are.”

Nigel chewed on his bottom lip for a moment, “That’s not what Ted Bundy says. He says porn was entirely responsible for what he became. That it desensitised him to sexual violence.”

Simon smiled uncertainly, “I like to think my books provide a safe outlet, making for a healthier psychology.”

“Perhaps we’re both right. I’ve read your works and I’m well adjusted to modern life. At the same time, it has definitely inspired me in resolving my instincts. Where do you get you amazing ideas?”

“All kinds of places. Unrepentant Necrophile is based on a real case back in the seventies. I relocated it from New Orleans to Basildon and made the antagonist an embalmer. Its a comment on the death care industry and how we all get ripped off in the end.”

Nigel laughed, “I love the cynicism. What about Teenage Ripper?”

“That’s pure fantasy but also kind of based on Bruno Lüdke, who killed girls he was attracted to because he couldn’t lose his virginity. I guess you could say its a coming of age story.”

“So, is Blood Orgy inspired by real crimes?”

“Its mostly based on Fred and Rose West but I made them swingers. I really let my imagination go with that one.”

Nigel held up his signed first edition, “And what about Satan’s Apprentice?”

“That was inspired by the diaries of Gregory Davis, a home grown serial killer from Milton Keynes. Like my character he was inspired by reading books about famous killers and wanted to be just like them. He was pathetic in real life, killing only three people, even if he did gut one in a kid’s playground. I upped the body count to make the story more entertaining.”

Nigel nodded enthusiastically, “Fact inspires fiction, and fiction inspires fact. The true crimes of serial killers become the myths of our modern age and are never forgotten. Of course, all the big names are American. They like to pretend they invented the whole serial killer idea just because they have more of them. There are 2,6025 known cases in the USA, compared to 142 in the UK.”

“I didn’t know that,” said Simon. “Considering our relative populations we still have a much higher chance of meeting one here in the UK. That’s a bit worrying when you think about it.”

“Plus we have Jack the Ripper,” said Nigel. “Which was way back in eighteen eighty-something, so we were definitely first. Serial killing is a British phenomenon but as usual the yanks nicked our idea and sold it back to us. Its a lot harder for your small, independent UK killer to get the attention they deserve.”

Simon laughed, “You might have a point there.”

Another customer came by the stall. They were dressed as either Pennywise the clown or Sam Wayne Gacy, it was hard to tell. He guessed the former, signing Blood Orgy in his confident scrawl, adding the message, ‘Stephen King is a creepy old sleazebag.’

Simon was happy to have met a fan and spend so much time talking about some of his favourite subjects. The event had been a big success despite his early misgivings. He was glad to have made the long journey from Basingstoke. All too soon it was 9.30, time to count his profits and pack up the stall.

“You don’t mind helping me load this back in my car, do you? The bar’s still open. I’ll buy you a beer. There’s some kind of after party, apparently.”

Nigel bowed as if addressing royalty, “Its an honour.”

Arms full of boxes they headed out to the car park.

“Mine’s the Ford with the personalised plate, “said Simon proudly – he had bought the number secondhand, keen to give the appearance of success, “80 Wolfe X.”

“I see it,” said Nigel. “Parked right next to the BMW.”

Simon came round to find himself in a car boot, his limbs manacled and his mouth uncomfortably stuffed with a large rubber ball gag. The stink of exhaust made it difficult to breath and his head throbbed like he had been hit from behind with something heavy. He could hear the car stereo speakers in the back blaring Talking Heads, David Byrne’s clear voice over the roar of the engine posed the question, “Psycho killer qu’est-ce que c’est?”

For the second time that day Simon feared he might be about to shit himself.


Excerpt from Everybody Needs a Hobby, a novella by Nathaniel J. Harris, published pseudonymously as Nathan Mortlock, 2015. Available from Amazon UK USA


Chaos Magic, Illuminates of Thanateros

(Originally posted 12.00 06/07/21, last updated 14.58, 07/07/21)

The WikkiPedia page for ‘The Illuminates of Thanateros’ reads as follows;

The Illuminates of Thanateros (/ɪˈljuːmɪˌnɪts ɒvˌθænəˈtɛroʊs/) is an international magical organization that focuses on practical group work in chaos magic. The idea was first announced in 1978, while the order proper was formed in 1987. This fraternal magical society has been an important influence on some forms of modern occultism.

The name “Thanateros” is a combination of the names “Thanatos” and “Eros”— the Greek gods of death and sex, respectively. The idea is that sex and death represent the positive and negative methods of attaining “magical consciousness”. The word “Illuminates” is used in accordance with the claimed tradition of calling such societies — in which those who have mastered the secrets of magic help bring others to mastership — “the Illuminati”. Its formal name is The Magical Pact of the Illuminates of Thanateros, which is usually shortened to “the Pact”.

A ‘Chaos sphere’: The symbol of The Illuminates of Thanateros

I was a member of the Illuminates of Thanateros during a period of youthful ‘spiritual searching’ around 1993, at the age of 22/23, gaining a certain level of pseudo-fame, but resigned in disappointment and disgust on May 1st 2001, at the age of 30. Since it is not uncommon for people to become confused about the reality behind groups such as the Illuminates of Thanateros I here make statement as to my personal experience of them.

The Illuminates of Thanateros are in no way connected to the historical secret society real or otherwise at the centre of so many conspiracy theories. Nevertheless, their membership is largely secret, with the identification of other members punished by expulsion, as is the case with activities at their meetings. The reason for this is supposedly because magic itself requires secrecy, and to protect participants from public misunderstandings, but these same oaths of secrecy are open for exploitation by a criminal leadership.

The pseudo-philosophy of The Illuminates of Thanateros is encapsulated in the couplet “Nothing is true and everything is permitted”, supposedly expressing both existential and ‘edgy’ moral relativism. The leadership of the Illuminates of Thanateros at the time of my own membership were not to my knowledge of a criminal nature, but during my membership I witnessed new ‘initiates’ of increasingly criminal character. Whether criminal or not, few people I met during my involvement were of positive influence, while many were narcissistic and cruel.

During my involvement they were little more than an extremely pretentious amateur drama club. ‘Group work in chaos magic’ largely consisted of meetings held in rented dance and rehearsal studios where members dressed in black robes and pranced in a circle while taking turns standing in the middle and pretending to be ‘possessed’. I resigned when a suspected paedophile and known drug dealer was being promoting to ‘rank’ within the group, along with the more or less automatic admission of any ranking member of the equally dubious Church of Satan, and they had all started prancing around in a black leather ‘Baphomet’ (ie ‘Satan’) costume with crooked wings and an oversized ‘Heaven threatening’ phallus.

.. a worry I also informed the police of in 2005 after hearing rumours this drug dealer and suspected paedophile had reconnected to an old friend from Peckham; well known on ‘the scene’ (and through what this individual had told me) to be a paedophile that controlled under-age rent boys with drugs – possibly none other than the convicted paedophile cult leader Colin Batley. The individual I identified to the police had already been tipped off by the time I made my phone call. If this had no been so they might easily have been caught with incriminating evidence. As it was, they managed to persuade the police that I was an ex-lover with a vendetta – nothing could have been further from the truth.

We were at this time being stalked by an individual we later recognised in the newspapers as Batley. We had received death threats from Jasmine DeVille’s ex partner Peter Pracownick, now known to be friends with leading figures in The Illuminates of Thanateros. Although we did not know the identity of our stalker we reported this to the police.

I also met that year with Peter J Carroll, the Illuminates of Thanateros‘ founder, who failed to heed my warning. we now have reason to believe Carroll may have been implicated or compromised, since his responses have been inconsistent and deliberately oblique. He has also published defamation about me on his own website ‘Specularium’, largely following what has been dictated to him by The Illuminates of Thanateros, although he knows it is defamation. When I met with him he boasted of having received fan mail from category A offenders and said of The Illuminates of Thanateros, “If you want to enjoy a sausage it is best not to think about how it is made.”.

In 2009. shortly after I had released KHAOS PUNK, with an introduction by Peter J Carroll, I got talking with an initiate of The Illuminates of Thanateros in a ‘Chaos Magic’ group on MySpace. They happened to pass a comment regarding “Colin Batley’s working group in Wales.” The name meant nothing at the time, but I remember laughing with Jasmine at the idea of a Magus called Colin batley, and that the IOT now had a Temple in Wales, joking that the order must be ‘seriously going up in the world’.

Jasmine and I both recognised the name when Colin Batley was in the newspapers in 2011, sentenced to 11 years (possibly life) for his involvement in a paedophile sex cult. We also realised he was the person who had been stalking us.

In 2012 I was present at the first disclosures of a learning disabled teenager who identified to me several members of The Illuminates of Thanateros, along with Colin Batley, as having been abusing them from around the age of six. This too was taken to the police, who failed to undertake a thorough investigation. Note that this has been a common theme regarding police and Colin Batley’s cult, the majority of whom – although having been shown to exist – remain at large. Batley himself was sentenced to extra years for refusing to identify them. It is clearly reported in the newspapers that the cult was large, and had strong connections in Wales, Bristol, and London.. just like The Illuminates of Thanateros.

While researching what had been going on with the Illuminates of Thanateros in my absence I came across the website of their German section, with a link to the website It is apparently sourced from an American ‘Satanic’ group but has many other clear links to the Illuminates of Thanateros in the Uk. Written in the language of Typhonian Thelema meets Chaos Magic, the site deals with (what are allegedly, although this is not stated anywhere on the site) fantasies of mind control, the sexual exploitation of adults and children, and human sacrifice (including a description of ritualistic infanticide allegedly performed by ‘Temple Dahmer’). At this time already nearly a decade old, the site also contained what appeared to be overt adverts and links for what was described as ‘kiddy porn’ (child abuse images and films) but has since been heavily edited and censored.

In 2014, the Book Devil on the Doorstep by Annabelle Forest was published. It author is one of the girls whose testimony was accepted in Crown Court in the prosecution and sentencing of Colin Batley. For the first time in any publication, it was confirmed there was indeed a learning disabled male exploited by the cult from the ages of 6 to 16. Her book also confirms a number of other details concerning the disclosures brought to police in 2012. Although Batley was identified to police in the disclosures of 2012 the IOPC have failed to deal with our complaints regarding previous failures to heed to disclosures regarding this paedophile ring and investigate appropriately. This would also mean admitting to previous very serious oversights and mishandlng of what should have been – but was not – an extremely serious investigation into those identified..

Also around 2014, a single mother and ‘Novice’ of the German section of the Illuminates of Thanateros posted a blog entry – which has since been deleted – regarding her concerns when she brought up the subject of Colin batley with her ‘Mentor’. The reply she received was not that Colin Batley has not been a member of the IOT, or that the UK section were innocent of involvement in his crimes, but simply that “Not everyone saw it as a problem.” She said she was leaving the cult, which I hope to be true for her child’s sake.

In the years since there has been steadily growing evidence that The Illuminates of Thanateros have been funding themselves through the distribution of drugs, and the creation and distribution of filmed sadistic child abuse, some but not all of which is ‘Satanic’ in its props and themes. Having become confounded with conspiracy theory, this has made it even harder for their victims to get justice – but just as one can ‘search’ on PornHub for ‘Satanic Ritual’, so have these criminals used their props and numbers to create films of apparent ‘Satanic Ritual’ child abuse. It is no more mysterious than this – child abuse so-called ‘pornography’ crimes are more lucrative, and harder to get caught for, than selling drugs, and the ‘SRA’ theme makes it even more profitable and harder to get caught for.

Around 2017 I received an email from Ray Sherwin, co-founder of The Illuminates of Thanateros, asking for further information as he had allegedly received many communications from people with grievances against the IOT. He has since written a book OUROBOROS distancing himself from both Peter J. Carroll and the Illuminates of Thanateros, making reference to a ‘ranking’ member’s previous criminal history; I have had verified from other sources that they caused a number of deaths by creating and distributing amphetamines dyed with pink nail varnish.

The Illuminate of Thanateros has since been disowned and discredited by both its founders; Peter J. Carroll, who we believe to have been more closely linked to their crimes than he might ever see prosecution for, and Ray Sherwin, who has disclosed of having received many complaints as to the IOT’s abusive activities online and in his book OUROBOROS – with Carroll’s refusal to take responsible action against the Illuminates of Thanateros being a large part of their having fallen out.

I have since been bullied off of social media by anonymous accounts clearly linked to The Illuminates of Thanateros:

Soon to turn 51, I am embarrassed at my naivety in expected to meet nice people by joining a black magic cult, and my hubris at ever believing I had found ‘real magic’, but at least I grew out of it. I finally concluded that what the Illuminates of Thanateros call ‘Chaos magic’ is nothing more than a system of wilful self delusion, and a pseudo-philosophical excuse for ‘moral relativity’. It is my sincere and honest opinion that the current leadership of The Illuminates of Thanateros present a clear and present danger to the public.

An Interview with Alison Miller (Healing the Unimaginable)

Satanic Ritual Abuse, Trauma Based Mind Control

ISSTD News, May 23rd 2021 – Complete interview available here

Alison Miller, author of HEALING THE UNIMAGINABLE

KATE: When did you realise you were seeing cases of Organized abuse?

ALISON: Once I know I had a client with DID, I organized a training on dissociative disorders… these people from California came up for it. They talked about DID, but also about organized abuse, which they then called ritual abuse. They talked about organized personality systems, systems being deliberately structured. I thought ‘Oh thank goodness I don’t have anyone like that…’

And then I went back to work and mentioned this to Teresa, saying ‘I don’t have anyone like that’, and she said ‘Oh, don’t be so sure of that’…

Not much later I was on the intake phones for the organization I worked for. This young man, Tony, called in. I remember he said he was a Christian and a survivor of ritual abuse and he’d had a flashback. I asked what his flashback was about. And it was about his stepfather trying to drown him in the sink in the basement and I was thinking… why does he call this ritual abuse? There’s no ritual involved. But of course, that was not his only memory.

Anyway, Tony wanted to come and see me. He had been diagnosed with paranoid schizophrenia and was on strong medications, but he was spewing out all kinds of memories and was clearly DID. Even though seeing single adults was not my mandate, I took him on. It turned out that his parents were regional managers for the local cult… these were my first clients…then I got Jennifer, a teenager, who had DID, and Teresa’s friend Lorraine. These first DID clients were all members of the local Satanic cult.

KATE: I guess some mental health professionals, hearing stories of extreme abuse, may be tempted to think it is all made up or delusional, but you didn’t get a chance to disbelieve, as your situation was a little unique.

ALISON: Yes. I had these four clients, all abused by the same cult. They unknowingly corroborated each other – they had information about events and abuse… and it was still going on, these were current events … I was followed by these abusers…. I had all kinds of corroboration and evidence. I tried to work with the police, but it didn’t work out the way it should have.

Healing the Unimaginable: Treating Ritual Abuse and Mind Control is a practical, task-oriented, instructional manual designed to help therapists provide effective treatment for survivors of these most extreme forms of child abuse and mental manipulation.


A reminder to all those still claiming ‘that old chestnut’ Satanic Ritual Abuse is something that has been proven a myth, and that we should thus dismiss any disclosures as fantasy – THE METROPOLITAN POLICE know better than you.

From their own website: CHILD ABUSE / FAITH BASED ABUSE