On Sunday he comes to your door with a dead bat and marigolds in an old violin case. You groan inwardly (hasn’t he found a place to haunt yet?), but you can’t just leave him on the steps, can you?
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The Tulpa
I spent 1917 in a series of anonymous seaside cottages, bunking with proper socialites so that I might press their gowns and wash their teacups. The daughters of London lords taught me to summon Baphomet, and I taught them to …