There is an energetic signature that precedes the manifestation of white magic. It comes in a wave. It is a cresting pulsation of warmth that caresses the air and penetrates the body in an analogue of blessed assurance, massaging the soul. It feels like faeries and Christmas. It is akin to the sound of reindeer and sleigh bells in the snow. It is the purest essence of raindrops on roses, whiskers on kittens, and angels who have heard on high.
Bvrenda appreciated Santa in the purely Jungian and archetypal sense. He was seated in realm of beliefs, which are fragile, and do not hold up in the light of non-dualistic thinking as anything more than symbols pointing to greater things that are transcendental, and beyond comprehension to the human mind. To her, Santa was the essence of something ephemeral that could only be discovered from within. Only the pure of heart, such as virgins who know the inner thoughts and longings of the unicorns themselves, are able penetrate the vastness of the true meaning of Christmas beyond the myths and dogma that have become malignantly so ubiquitous in the modern age.
Yes, Bvrenda knew the feeling of white magic very well. To her, it felt like getting to eat all of the cinnamon rolls with maple flavored cream cheese frosting she wanted to without any of the calories, tummy ache, or guilt. She also knew the feeling and domain of black magic better than she wanted to admit, even to herself. It was also a wave that was signified by its own unique sensations. None of them were warm and fuzzy.
By now Bvrenda had maneuvered Hortence, with no small degree of difficulty, to the man-eating couch. Hortence had fallen into it like a deflated balloon and blacked out, as usual, into a molasses thick coma of inebriation and self-pity. Relieved, at least temporarily, from the responsibility of Hortence, Bvrenda stood up abruptly and surveyed the room. But just as she was getting her groove back, she felt an ice cold wave ripple through the air. Stopping short, she drew in a sharp breath that almost burned like frost bighting her lungs as it passed through her immortal soul. This rude awakening caused her body to shudder, as if she had been goosed by a frozen finger. And licked from head to toe by Satan’s forked tongue, after his icy touch had turned her into a human Popsicle.
Feeling disoriented, overwhelmed, nauseated and completely unnerved, Bvrenda struggled again with an overwhelming urge to flee the house and run into the night, screaming for help. But she had stepped through the looking glass and it was too late to turn back now. It was as if an unseen force was pulling her forward, and it didn’t matter whether it was the hand of destiny or a projection of her not so latent Messiah Complex. She simply had to keep pushing ahead, come what may.
Perhaps she was secretly in love. The thought had occurred to her more than once. She had kissed a girl once, and she liked it. And of course, that girl had been Mandy. It had happened one night after midnight on a Saturday in Junior High when they were having a sleepover at Bvrenda’s house. They had been talking about boys, and Bvrenda admitted that she had never been kissed. Which made Mandy laugh her ass off, until Bvrenda started crying. And so Mandy Pandy wiped up Bvrenda’s tears with kisses. Finding one long tear that had strayed down to Brenda’s pouting lips, Mandy planted her own upon Bvrenda’s gently. And then they had collapsed into each other’s arms giggling and tickling each other. Nothing came of it. After that, Bvrenda had been completely infatuated with Mandy all the way until their Junior year of high school. She had a girl crush, but it went nowhere, so she moved on. But she always had a soft spot for Mandy, even after she turned into the town bad girl.
Bvrenda was pulled out of her momentary lapse down memory lane, tugging her heart strings for the girl Mandy had been, but was no longer, when she noticed something out of the corners of her eyes that made her sober up and pay attention. The hands of the antique wooden clock over the mantle above the fireplace that had been frozen at 11:11 o’clock since Pandora Pinkerton's birth began to move. Bvrenda did another double take when she observed that the small pointy second hand on the clock appeared to be moving backwards, jerking counterclockwise in a rhythm that matched her steadily pounding heartbeat, which hastened exponentially in tandem with her mounting terror.
Brvenda bit her lip until it bled to try to keep herself from whimpering out loud. What she saw next caused her to stifle the world’s loudest silent scream ever not on record. Copious quantities of what appeared to be blood dripped from all of the corners of the room, trickling lugubriously down the walls from the ceiling to the floor! Bvrenda let out a tiny wail of disbelief that came out like a pathetic squeak when she felt something wet fall from the ceiling and land on her cheek. She wiped it away hurriedly. Looking at the fingers that had touched her forehead she discovered to her chagrin that they were covered with a thick substance that looked like blood, but had a darker, oilier smell and was sticky to the touch, like some kind of ink or viscous glue. Bvrenda recognized it instantly as a negative ectoplasm. She had read about it in books but never encountered it before in the field.
According to Bvrenda’s sources, which were varied and many, negative ectoplasm is a build up of a kind of “exhaust” that life force, or prana leaves behind. She liked to think of it simply as dead energy, or toxic goo. Freud’s wunderkind, Wilhelm Reich, called it negative orgone. If too much dead energy gets built up in a body or a space, it becomes cancerous. Clearly the Pinkerton home had been gathering up so much dead energy for so many years, it was finally erupting into the third dimension and overflowing through the walls, ceiling, and floorboards like puss exploding from an infection.
As the walls seemed to be closing in around her, Brvenda realized that somehow this was all the doing of her former secret boo. Feeling completely betrayed by the vindictive, hateful witch that Mandy had become, Bvrenda raged at what she refused to accept, and THEREFORE became determined that she must change. “MANDY PANDY, ENOUGH IS ENOUGH!” She screamed with self-righteous fury and the fuck all abandon of a Viking warrior preparing to storm the gates of hell. The adrenaline rush was intoxicating, propelling her instinctively to the kitchen, where she grabbed the biggest sharpest knife she could find. Holding the knife out before her, Brvenda saw a shimmer of moonlight shining through the kitchen window bounce off the blade. Uncle Rex always kept the knives sharp as razors and shiny bright like the stars in the heavens. It was almost bright enough to light her way.
Holding the knife in front of her face and moving forward with the stealth of an adder, Bvrenda resolved that she was willing to do whatever was necessary to stop Mandy from cavorting with the forces of darkness. It was her destiny. It was her karma and her dharma. This was her moment to merge completely with the forces of light! She clenched the knife in her fist and edged cautiously toward the basement door. She could hear bongo drums beating from below. In her subterranean world, Mandy was deeply entrenched in a ritual to raise the Nephillim by offering her body for possession by the demon goddess Lilith and summoning all of the forces of Ashtoreth.
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