Necromancy:

Conjuring the Spirits of the Dead

by Neres Wane

— copyright 2015 —
 Introduction

The subject tonight is necromancy—a specific form thereof.

Of course, there are two types of necromancy: the first involves summoning a
departed spirit back into its former habitation, whereupon it gives answers
about the world beyond. That is not the form of necromancy we will discuss,
however, for it is quite illegal to perform such. Let the bodies of the dead
rest, I say, and I impugn and anyone who would seek to disturb a corpse for
any magical reason. Having said that, there is a licit way to summon a
departed spirit, and it is this second, licit way that this small book shall
describe. Bear in mind that though the instructions given here are relatively
brief, they are very effective in the right hands and have an ancient pedigree
behind them. This method is the primary manner in which the many sorcerers
of medieval Europe practiced their art, and if you devote yourself to this you
should expect success within three months time, being three lunar cycles or
84 days. Yet to ensure such, you ought to attempt this ritual every night—or
every other night—and never let too great a time transpire between workings.
Otherwise the spiritual muscle in your soul which has the capacity to
perceive the presence of spirits will become flabby and atrophied, of no use
to anyone.

The method given here is part of Reginald Scott's "Discovery of Witchcraft",

towards the end, published in 1584 A.D. Specifically the section titled "How
to raise a ghost of one that has hanged himself." As you can see, the ritual
itself specifically concerns a suicide—and one by hanging, at that. Does this
mean that other forms of suicide are ruled out by the ritual? I do not believe
so. At least, I believe the general principles of the ritual can be applied to any
form of departed soul. Even further, the ritual can be applied to souls not yet
incarnated in human form. The method finds its grounding and principles
which are common to all manner of spirit communication, evocation or
conjuration, though specifically necromantic in this case. I will give the ritual
as detailed as Reginald Scott gave it—or, rather, the unknown author who
appended this ritual to Reginald Scott's original work—as well as my
commentary. The work is freely available online if you wish to read it in the
original. I think, however, that without the commentary of an experienced
magician the text itself is nowhere near as useful as it could be. Like many
books written during this era, the work is informed by a great deal of
nonsense, and unless you are already skilled and proficient in the works of
magic you cannot be faulted for misunderstanding exactly how to perform the
ritual, or what the ritual truly intends. Therefore I will be giving a running
commentary in addition to the basic structure and outline. I hope you find it
useful or, if not useful, at least intriguing.
 The preparation:

The author states that this ritual must be performed while the dead body is
still hanging. This is not necessary—that should be obvious—if you are
simply wishing to conjure up a spirit that has departed, but the ritual in
question later makes use of the dead body, causing the departed soul to
reenter its former abode. This should not be attempted—it is not only
unnecessary, but also illegal in every country. Only a fool would try it. Often
these books of magical instruction include details which are purposely added
to keep undiscerning magicians from either trying the ritual or understanding
it. This was a necessary tactic in those days, considering the great power the
church authorities had and the illegal nature of magic at the time. Many were
killed for their practice of magic, and those who weren't killed were often
forced into exile if their practices were ever unfortunately disclosed. Thus the
books were often slightly ruined by over-complicated ritual requirements,
unnecessary details and downright misdirection. You cannot find a single
grimoire in any European language which does not have at least some degree
of flummery attached to it. And most contain such flummery in excess.

Because the corpse must be still swinging in the breeze—or, if the suicide
occurred in a house, swinging in the still, quiet hour—the magician (called an
exorcist) ought to procure a wand of perfectly straight and strong Hazel, upon
which he is to affix the head of an owl and a small bag of St. John's wort or
Millies perforatum. St. John's wort is classified under as Hypericum
perforatum, but I have not been able to find out exactly what Millies
perforatum is. It is likely another offshoot of the same type of plant.

Is this part necessary? No. Not even a wand is necessary. However, to

construct a wand of straight Hazel—upon which is affixed an owl's head—is
clearly a wonderful thing to do, and I hesitate to not recommend it to any
who might have the chance to do so. I have never come across an owl skull
and since I am generally against any form of harm against animals, I have
never thought to procure an owl's head independently of finding one wild,
already fallen. If you find an owl's head wild though, by all means make a
wand of it: there is no better use for an owl's head that I can fathom.
It is these strange rules which given in order to throw the would-be magician
off, as well as to convince any authorities who may read the work that the
author was writing fiction or was half crazed. It worked quite well,
considering, but we need not waste our time on such fluff. A wand is never
necessary for rituals such as this, though if you find one helps you, by all
means use it. Some require these props and, for them, the props are quite
necessary. If you repeat the ritual many times without success, see if a wand
helps, but until you are convinced of your failure, you have no need to make
use of such a wand—even a wand as aesthetically pleasing is one which bears
the head of an owl and a bag of St. John's wort.

According to our text, the magician is then to be informed of the area where
the suicide by hanging has occurred. Ideally it should be in a deserted area or
in the forest. It was rare for men to kill themselves anywhere else in those
days, apparently. This is not necessary either. The soul can be quite long
dead, but it must be dead. To attempt such a ritual on a living soul would be
the height of foolishness.

It is then said that the ritual must take place at midnight. While it is true that
this is one of the greatest times to perform a ritual—it being the first hour of
the day—this aspect is also not necessary, though I will say that I believe the
night-time is a necessary component. If you do the ritual sometime between
nightfall and the next shewing of the dawn, you will do quite well.
 The ritual:

With all these strictures in place, the magician extends the wand unto the four
cardinal directions—North, East, South and West— and then gives forth a
profound little prayer in the names of both Banal and Hecate, as well as the
Eastern powers. Though Hecate is quite prominent as the goddess of magic in
Greek mythology, I'm not as familiar with Banal. Is it, perhaps, a misspelling
of Baal? This would make more sense, considering that Baal and Hecate
would form a gnostic szygy in such case—a common form of representing
divine manifestation in the ancient world. Baal would serve as the masculine
energy and Hecate the feminine, and these two, replete with the Eastern
powers, would form a magical link to occult power—power which is
necessary for the ritual to proceed. I will say that this part is quite true, and
that you may use the name Banal or Baal as you see fit. You need not use the
prayer as given in the text, but do indeed call upon these forces as part of the
ritual. This is one of the more vital areas of magic, for both spirits—as well
as the notion of the Eastern powers—are a conduit to that energy which will
allow the ritual to manifest itself in experience. They are the powers by which
the presence of the departed will become manifest, and ought not be
abandoned just yet.

The prayer, rendered in modern English, is as follows:

By the mysteries of the abyss, by the fire of Banal, by the Eastern powers and
the night's silence, by the holiest rituals of Hecate, I evoke and summon you,
O troubled spirit, to present yourself before me and reveal to me your
misfortune: why you took violence upon your own life, where you now reside
and where you will be in the world to come.

Thus we have our series of questions: why the departed took his life, where
he is dwelling presently as a departed soul, and where he is headed in lieu of
a future life.

Are such questions truly required? Well, they may not be required but they
are obviously the perfect questions to ask a departed spirit—one which has
taken its own life, that is. If it is not immediately clear why the suicide
occurred, it stands to reason that this would be the first question to ask. Also,
every living creature that is aware of its own inevitable death is impossibly
curious about where it will reside after it dies. A departed soul, wandering the
earth, is clearly not in its final abode, though it is an abode of sorts—if, that
is, you believe in the traditional notions of heaven or hell. I personally find
the Buddhist and Hindu idea to be more correct: constant transmigration until
the achievement of final liberation. One of these potential transmigrations is,
sadly, in the form of a wandering and sorrowful spirit—a spirit which never
finds peace until some as yet un-attained goal has been acquired (a goal
which is often hidden from the spirit, as it so happens, or as the lore so tells
us). This implies, of course, that a departed soul is aware of its condition. It
knows not only why it ended its life but also its ultimate fate in the hereafter.
Does this mean that it knows whether it will go to heaven or hell?
Interestingly, Roman Catholic theology has always considered a suicide to be
automatically dammed. Much of Protestant theology of the time also agreed
with this. If that is the case, then who can deny the subversive element of this
book? It clearly denies the basic features of Christian theology and opts
instead for an ancient heathen understanding. Is this not appallingly clear?
The metaphysics of such a system have no connection to historical
Christendom: they are clearly heathen through and through. And this can
only mean that the author was quite a subversive man, seeking to reaffirm
heathen beliefs in the midst of hostilities. Again we see ancient occult
knowledge sustained in strange ways—the torch still burns, though handed
off to the dark.

After this questions, the magician must then hit the corpse (gently) nine times
and, in the name of Jesus, command the departed soul to answer these
questions. This part of the instruction is clearly based upon the medieval
notion—still alive in some circles—that Jesus somehow bestows upon the
magician supernatural power, in keeping with the Gospel promise. While it
may not be an entirely terrible idea to command the spirit to give answers, to
do so in the name of Jesus could not be less useful—especially considering
that the Bible sentences all magicians to death. It does not seem reasonable
that the author of the Bible who would have all magicians killed would, in
this circumstance, compel departed spirits to answer the criminal magician.
Still, if you feel it is appropriate, do it. It will not harm the ritual if you do.

After making these demands, the magician is to cut the rope, letting the
corpse fall to the ground. The magician then arranges it so that the head of
the corpse faces the East. At the right hand of the corpse, a small earthenware
vessel used for burning aromas (euphemistically called by the anonymous
author a "chafing-dish") is placed, filled with wine, mastic, gum aromatic and
sweet oil, as well as other ingredients to ensure that it will suitably burn. As
the fire is lit and spreads its fragrant smoke, the magician then threatens the
departed spirit, demanding that it give forth its answers lest it be condemned
to an even greater stay as a wandering soul upon the earth—seven full years,
to be exact. The conjuration prayer is repeated three times and, while this
occurs our anonymous author states that the soul will be repatriated to its
former body, rising up as if it were alive. It will then answer all questions in a
"faint and hollow" voice. In addition to answering the aforementioned
questions, it will also state what it nourishes itself upon as a disembodied
soul, how long it has until it finds rest and what the magician might do in
order to help it along its way. Perhaps as a payment for these requests—to
sweeten the deal, so to speak—it will also give its knowledge as to where
buried treasures lie, as well as the residents of various ghosts, stellar beings
and infernal spirits and how they may be communicated with. The answers
are then given, one after another, and it is the task of the magician to commit
these answers to memory. Then the spirit is to be spoken to in a reverential
way and the magician is to carry out a special burial that will ensure the spirit
soon finds rest. A grave is to be dug, filled with lime, salt and sulfur, and the
corpse is to be stripped naked, thrown in and burnt. If this occurs, the spirit is
believed to be put at rest—though why exactly this method cures the spirit of
its ghosthood is left unstated.

We are certainly in strange territory at this point. I think it should go without

saying that since you will not actually be attempting this with the corpse of a
recent suicide, instructions on how to burn such a corpse to put its spirit at
rest are rather unnecessary for your purposes.

The oddness does not cease here, however. The author then states that if the
corpse was not a suicide and, instead, was an ordinary death, having already
received its last rites, the corpse must then be exhumed at midnight. The
magician must also not be alone—he must have a trustworthy companion
present. If you have paid attention, you know that there is symbolism
involved here, and the author is speaking in code.
After the corpse is exhumed, the magician is to hold a torch in his left hand
and beat the corpse three times with the aforementioned wand. Then the
magician turns to the four directions and makes another bold command in the
name of Christ's resurrection for the spirit to come forth and be conjured,
answering all questions. If not, hell awaits. The magician then recites these
barbarous words—words which the Chaldean oracles make clear should
never be changed—: Berald (or Verald), Beroald (or Veroald), Balbin (or
Valvin) gab (or gab) gabor (or gavor) agaba (or agava). (In texts this old, the
B is often a V, as the pronunciation during those times did not well
distinguish between the two.) The departed spirit is then told to arise and
obey the commands of the magician. The author states that when all this is
completed, the departed spirit will indeed answer whatever questions the
magician might put to it, honestly and faithfully, compelled by the spirit of
the risen Christ.

Then comes a threat against the magician: our illustrious author ends the
account by saying that should the magician have an unfortunate horoscope—
unfortunate for magicians, that is—then the ritual described could easily
result in sudden death, and the other then concludes the ritual account. I do
not know the exact astrological configuration the author is speaking of, but I
do know that this is more claptrap designed to frighten away the idiotic and
cowardly. It assumes that Western astrology is the correct depiction of our
cosmos and we now know that while it is true there are certain astrological
influences that can be observed, it is nowhere near as precise a science as it is
portrayed in medieval texts. Like most of humanity, the medieval
cosmologists, astrologers, occultists, philosophers, etc. were addicted to a
having a precise and comprehensive view of the cosmos in all its workings.
They could not stand to confront the truly unknown, nor were they willing to
admit the imprecision of their methods and ideas. As such, they thought far
too highly of nearly everything—especially astrology.
 Discussion:

There are principles present within the above account which form the basic
key to successful conjuring—whether it is the conjuring of a departed soul, a
spirit which has never had a human form or something else altogether. Most
magical texts of the medieval period have at least some degree of grounding
in truth—nonsense and superfluities aside. Pick up any old European
grimoire or quasi-grimoire and the basic mechanics of genuine conjuring will
be present, along with much else that is useful. It only takes a discerning eye
and a practical mind—also, a talent for conjuring, if you should have it. The
mechanics always involve the following basics, and therefore we can be
reasonably certain that this is all that is necessary, for the most part:

The presence of the magician.

A material link to the spirit.

A purifying of the area, entreating the sublime to enter.

An address to the spirit.

A sending away of the spirit (license to depart).

This is true not only of European forms of magic, but all forms, regardless of
culture. Wherever you find the practice of conjuration you will find these
essential elements, though everything else may differ. I have just listed the
secret of all conjuration, actually, and if you put into practice these elements,
you will become a conjurer. This is all it takes, truthfully—no more, no less.
(Though I again state you should have a talent for it, if you are going to be
successful.)

The first part—the presence of the magician—needs no special comment,

assuming you are a magician. If you're not yet a magician, you will be soon.

The second part is more difficult. In the case of the instructions given above,
it is clear that the corpse itself is the link. However, if you are not using a
corpse—and you shouldn't be—you are going to have to find another means
of material connection to the departed soul. And I'm assuming that your goal
in reading this book is to learn about how to conjure departed souls, insofar
as that is what this book is about. I have written elsewhere on spirits. A photo
may be enough. If not a photo, you can use the departed soul's name as the
link. Write the name on paper, draw a circle around it, etc. So long as you
give it some degree of reverence, allowing it to inhabit a solemn space in
your consciousness, you should be able to slip into the necessary state of
mind for conjuring. So long as there is some form of material basis, there is a
potential for success. The actuality of success, of course, depends on other
factors but at the very least you will not be prohibited from success due to a
lack of a material medium. Now, some do believe that a material medium
itself is not necessary, but I steadfastly disagree with them. You need not take
either of our words for it, though, for you are certainly free to try conjuring
with material medium and without a material medium, then seeing which
works best for you. I'm confident that you'll find a material medium to be
quite necessary, but perhaps you have a special talent that does not warrant
such. If so, congratulations! You are a rare individual.

As for purifying the area, this is commonly known as a "banishing ritual". It

is designed to send all unwholesome spirits or unconscious elements away for
the duration of the ritual, assuming that they would interfere with a ritual
were they not banished beforehand. That is one theory of banishing, that is.
The theory is that it serves as a suitable and effective means of centering the
magician's mind on the task at hand, establishing a sublime and quiet
solemnity—a mood without which the ritual would certainly fail.

The real question, however, is not whether such a ritual is necessary to all but
rather whether it is necessary to some. If it is necessary to some, any magical
author worth his salt would fail to include it. Otherwise, a portion of his
readers, believing it to be unnecessary, would fail—the portion, that is, for
whom such a ritual is necessary. There are some aspects of ritual which are
not necessary for anyone, but it is not my belief that banishing is such an
aspect.

Once the magician has received whatever was sought in the conjuration, it is
only fitting that the spirit be told to depart. There is no benefit in it remaining
—no benefit to the magician, nor to the spirit. Some grimoires make it clear
that if a spirit is conjured up and contact is maintained for too long—usually
over the space of an hour—then the spirit becomes "addicted" to the magician
and troubles ensue. While I cannot speak to the veracity of such an account, I
have never felt the need to maintain contact with the spirit for over an hour. If
the spirit does not let itself be conjured within a half hour, the ritual should be
abandoned anyway. Truthfully, if a magician is interested in diving deeper
into strange states of consciousness, meditation is a safer bet than conjuring.
And the various deities upon which one may meditate are custom-tailored to
long and profound encounters. Unlike the spirits of grimoires—or the spirits
of the departed, for that matter—they often symbolize a far deeper reality and
bestow far greater gifts than what may be found through simple conjuring
exercises. Even so, not all the warnings given in grimoires are given simply
to fool the churched and gullible. In your case, tell the spirit to leave once
you are done with it. If it does not wish to leave, insist upon it. Eventually it
will do so.

But there is another question which must also be addressed: can departed
souls indeed be conjured up and, if so, why is such possible? Also, is it the
case that all departed souls may be conjured up, or only some? If only some,
what distinguishes them from the others?

Firstly, we need not conjure the entirety of the departed soul if a remnant of it
is accessible. I would say that it is only the remnant which can be conjured, in
fact—the "remnant" being a repetitive and self-perpetuating energy system
which serves as a sort of continuous echo of the original life-time, doomed to
a shadowy existence within some deep level of the mind. This is the only
definition and theory of ghostly apparitions which has satisfied me thus far,
and the experiences which arise via conjuring up a departed soul seems to
confirm that such a model is reasonably correct. Every death leaves a trace
upon the universe. Or perhaps it is not the universe so much as it is a mind or
consciousness which underlies the universe. You can call it God if you want
—I do not. Whatever it is, it appears to house all information that ever
occurs, and if that information happens to have a reasonably sentient
existence at some point, its "trace" within this cosmic mind also bears a
somewhat sentient aspect to itself. Though it is not sentient in the sense of
having the same degree of freedom as a living sentient being or as the greater
part of a sentient being, it can be interacted with in much the same manner
that a sentient being can be interacted with and, therefore, it is liable to be
conjured up. According to this model, the "departed soul" being conjured is
merely the echo of a being which once existed. This is why it only knows
where it is, from whence it came, and whither it goes, and not much else. It
should not be able to tell you anything definitive about the present world, for
it is now unaware of the world save for the brief fragments it comes into
contact with. It is not even "aware" in the normal definition of the term:
though it interacts, it does not appear to be in control of its interaction, and
information arises from it on command. In this respect the departed soul,
when conjured, is quite a different experience than that of a spirit which is
never inhabited a body—or, that is, which has not recently inhabited a body.

Secondly, it appears that not all departed souls can be conjured up. Though it
is may be true that the magician is merely conjuring an echoing remnant of a
departed soul, this is not to say that all such remnants have an equal degree of
presence—at least not now. Some are able to be conjured up with relative
ease and others are not. Some are impossible and some are merely difficult—
but, certainly, they are not all the same. Wherever they are, they do not all
possess an equal degree of presence and, as such, there are great variations in
regards to the intensity of the conjuring, as well as the answers that they may
provide. Some are barely existent, giving the most unformed and incoherent
of answers and making little to no impact upon the psyche of the magician.
Others, however, have a quite deep and comprehensive impact even to the
present day, and though they may not be quite as intense as the conjurings
that occur with some spirits, the experience of them remains quite vivid and
their answers are stunningly coherent and apt. Why this is the case is
something I have not yet discovered. It does not appear to be the age of the
departed soul nor does it appear to have anything to do with the "mark" they
made upon the world. You will find that an ancient, famous and deeply
influential Sage may presently have a very thin and uninspiring presence,
whereas a relative unknown who died an equally long time ago may have
quite an intense presence. Why is this? I will not even attempt to guess, but it
is part of the encounter. Perhaps someday I will learn of it, or perhaps
someone else will discover it first and tell me, but until that day comes I can
only wonder. With that being said, I believe that nothing is entirely lost to
cosmic memory. Things might become quite tenuous, but something of them
is always remembered. But I say this only because I have never encountered
something which seemed entirely nonexistent. If that day comes, my mind
may change.

Something else which I have not yet addressed: why should anyone want to
do this? What benefit is there in conjuring up a departed soul to seek answers
from it? True, you may have some personal reason for doing so—especially
if the departed soul is an ancestor—but, on the whole, what is the merit of
such practice?

To this I can only say that the merit which comes from many magical
practices is not anything tangible, but rather the merit that comes from having
any new experience. It is often said that the mountain climber climbs the
mountain merely because it is there, and not because there is anything useful
at the top of the mountain. I believe that the same applies to magic: the true
magician works magic because it is there to be worked. Though he may find
uses for it in a practical sense, the ultimate intent is not to make life more
comfortable or easy. The ultimate intent is to see. If we can see more than we
previously saw, we are on our way to the marvelous, and, as the Surrealists
are in the habit of saying, only the marvelous is truly beautiful. We may not
know the exact location of our destination, but we know we must travel. This
traveling is the only purpose for life, in fact. Do you think we are here to eat,
excrete and breed? No. This can be accomplished through single-celled
organisms—and in a much tidier fashion, at that. We exist for something else
and what that thing is may be unknown to us at present—and I confess that in
my case this is true—but we can be absolutely certain that whatever the
purpose of our existence is, it must involve the powers that are latent within
our own mind. And, as such, we must exercise and experience those powers
if we desire our life to be all that it can be. If we do not, we are nothing more
than an amoeba—or, at least, our existence has no more relevance than that
of an amoeba. If we can extend our strength and widen our view, then we
have done something substantial and inherently valuable with our time here.
And though I am not a religious man, I find that the spiritual sages of the East
were in common agreement that if the mind is powerful, it can determine its
future destination. There is no savior who decides where we travel upon
death: wedecide, and our decision is on the basis of our mind's own strength
and inclinations. If that is true, then the magician is in a quite good spot to be
in: he knows how to enter into the deeper states of the mind and he knows
something of the wider universe that surrounds him. Perhaps he has his own
pitfalls—pitfalls that must necessarily come in the path of magic—but his
strength is greater and his mind is sharper than that of the common herd. He
has seen more and is able to do more. I know at the end of my life I want to
be able to say truthfully that I evolved as much as could be expected of me.
In this regard, to conjure a departed spirit or soul has merit in the sense that
any conjuring has merit. Thus I present this book as new experiment—or,
rather, a clarification of an ancient experiment. It is for magicians to read and
decide if they wish to perform it. Practically, however, unless you have a
specific need of information that only a departed soul can give, it is one of
the least practical of magical experiments, for a departed soul has hardly any
ability to affect change in the natural world. You do not conjure up a departed
soul to perform a spell—that is the business of spirits. A departed soul only
gives information. Yet if your question has something to do with the nature
of the afterlife, a departed soul can give you a small glimpse of it—or, rather,
a small glimpse of what possibilities may await us. The answer may not
always be to our liking, but life itself is not always to our liking. Nonetheless,
I would rather know then be ignorant. But I think I have said enough already
and it is time to end this book. May your experiments be fruitful or, if not
fruitful, then interesting.