Adventures in Paranoia– The Mansion and the Altar

This vivid journal entry was shared by my friend, Eric Bergified, a professional travel writer from British Columbia. Eric and his dog, Holly, currently reside in the sparsely populated Gabrioloa Island just west of Vancouver across the Georgia Straight. More of Eric’s writing can be found on his blog.

photo 5

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Dec. 14th, 2013

Holly and I set out at 10 pm in December on the day after Friday the 13th to explore more of Gabriola Island, our new home as of the last three weeks. It’s nearly a full moon and the dirt road cutting through the forest glows silver. All we can hear over my boot steps and the ding of her collar is the occasional voice of the wind, the lights of the few houses tucked away in the trees now behind us. The forest rises up mightily around us: an ancient being, a living breathing entity, a whole unseparated from its parts. There is a sense of excitement, journeying deeper into the unknown with my dog in the dark, floating on a nice kush high.

There’s a concrete sign on the left, shaped like the peak of a house, with a bright light shining on the number 1113 and past the trees up on a ridge I lay eyes on this sprawling mansion. The living room lights are on behind a massive two-story window and I can see the giant chandelier from the road. I’m taken aback; it’s by far the biggest house I’ve seen on the island. I wonder who lives here. The house has to be worth at least three million. I wonder what field they work in, what secrets they carry, what esoteric knowledge they wield.

Another hundred yards across the road on the right we come to a wooden fence with NO TRESPASSING written on it and a “for sale – waterfront” sign to the side. The lane leads into the forest and hopefully to a view of the ocean awaiting my discovery. I remember my friend telling me about him and his girlfriend camping out on Salt Spring Island in an empty lot marked with a For Sale sign, and I think maybe nobody’s home. We easily sidestep the fence and carry down the gravel lane into a grass clearing. The moment I step into that moonlit space I feel a buzzing in my ears and I’m struck with the thought that we’ve tripped some sort of silent alarm. Some sort of motion sensor or the buried weight sensors like down on the Mexican border. I feel a prickling on the back of my neck and I can hear it crackling softly. That’s weird, I say and we continue down a fork to the left and wow, yes: the most spectacular vantage point I’ve seen here thus far.

My dog and I are standing at the edge of a hundred-foot cliff looking out across the ocean and the moon’s reflection and Nanaimo’s industrial area on the other side. Maybe five km directly across the strait the sawmill is working around the clock, big grey flumes of exhaust billowing above the lights, an empty freighter ship floating between us, awaiting a shipment of lumber for China, no doubt. I forget to breathe for a few moments, awestruck as I am at this unexpected vista.

Holly just stares out, too. After we take it all in I notice a lawn-chair off to the side just above the cliff; someone’s got the right idea. But does anyone even live here or do the signs at the gate indicate its vacancy? I turn around to leave and tell Holly we’ll come back and investigate further in the daytime and that’s when I bump into it: this dark flat boulder, about waist-high and eight-feet long by four-feet wide. It’s perched up here on high directly across from a tree-slaying factory and I immediately sense that it’s a sacrificial altar. Maybe ancient, left over from the Coast Salish witchdoctors or the secret societies of the Spanish conquistadors who invaded the island in the 1700s. Maybe it’s still in use.

I feel a subtle electricity charge up my forearm and a noticeable buzz in my palm. I’m hit with the impression of hooded figures in dark cloaks gathered around the stone, innocence and fear on the altar. Pentagrams and an ebony dagger.

I touch my palm to the surface of the smooth stone, little puddles from an earlier rain shining back moonlight. I feel a subtle electricity charge up my forearm and a noticeable buzz in my palm. I’m hit with the impression of hooded figures in dark cloaks gathered around the stone, innocence and fear on the altar. Pentagrams and an ebony dagger. Of course, lately I’ve been watching a lot of X-files and listening to a lot of Coast to Coast AM and also I’m a touch baked. So I’m either projecting these stories that I’ve heard onto this experience or I’ve opened up and tuned myself into this particular sort of frequency. Marijuana does make me more sensitive to energy. Either way, it feels raw. It seems real.

So Holly and I get the heck outta there, again with the buzzing and crackling when we cross the clearing, only it’s subtler this time. I’m imagining snipers in the woods seeing me through infrared, which I guess is the feeling of being watched – perhaps of being hunted. I remind myself to try and not get too paranoid. We sidestep the fence and hit the dirt road and head left back towards home. The mansion’s lights are now off, except for an upstairs window that I keep looking at as we walk past. I’m expecting something to appear, something that will really spook me good; and maybe it’s just that I brought it on myself, but I experience these intense chills running down my spine. The hair on my neck is standing on end as we stride past the darkened mansion, and Holly is tugging on the rope, eager to hurry up. I’m nervous but I try and walk calm and assertive to show Holly it’s OK, and to comfort myself and assuage that nagging feeling of being watched.

Twenty minutes later we step onto my long driveway and I’m instantly floored with this warm sense of comfort and safety. Like I’ve stepped into a blessed bubble where evil spirits cannot enter. Holly seems to feel it too, and she turns back to watch something on the road. Again I’m hit with an impression – and maybe it’s just my imagination – but I feel like we’ve been followed home by something invisible. It actually feels more like two or three things, for some reason. But whatever it is, Holly seems to watch it leave. And I’ve just stumbled upon a mystery to explore. Time to get my Fox Mulder on, baby.

Analysis: 

My working theory is that there is a curse/blight on this land brought about by the gods of industry and in order to appease the spirit, blood sacrifices are demanded. Perhaps there really is truth to the incredible power of a sacrificial ritual, and is needed in order to balance the forces that are destroying much of the planet. Perhaps the Earth herself demands blood sacrifice of the humans who exploit her natural resources. Perhaps the sentient planet manifests its consciousness as gods, angels and demons, ghosts and fairies, UFOs. Perhaps that’s the concept of Luciferianism, as ultimately a manifestation of the earth’s energy and that interpretation of planetary life force is what’s been channeled and harnessed for millennia. And in exchange for sacrifice, she spares us further destruction – while sending out other more benevolent manifestations of Herself to positively influence the outcome of the future.

So some powerful occult elite live in that mansion and own the property across the way, where the sacrifices happen. It’s ancient land and the island is located on an energy vortex, on a powerful convergence of leylines, thus my ghost experience from the other summer and all the petroglyphs. Maybe there was just a ritual there last night, Friday the 13th, and maybe another one on the full moon. The property is either electronically monitored with surveillance equipment that feeds back to the house, on a bank of screens down in one of the basement levels – or — the land is protected by spirits – or – it’s not protected at all and due to all the constant wear on the veil it’s created a type of portal where spirits slip through into this dimension. Maybe something from another dimension had been lingering around the area and magnetized onto our energy and followed us home. Maybe it was innocence like a dog following us home, or maybe it was the shadow people I’d just heard about on the radio that night – explained as possible spirit helpers, although experienced as malevolent to others. The craziest theory is that this invisible entity was tracking us in conjunction with the occultists at the mansion, that they were somehow controlling it, sensing through it, like through a crystal ball. It was reporting back to some sort of overlord. Maybe I’m now on their radar. Maybe this is just the beginning.

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More from Eric Bergified can be found on his blog here. He’s also remarkably entertaining on twitter, @bergified.

About Bryan Basamanowicz

I'm a Marijuana Paranoia Management Coach or Inner-Space Exploration Consultant-- I help my clients gain (or regain) enjoyment or medicinal benefit from legal, moderate marijuana consumption. Read my book, follow me on twitter; I'm sad on the inside and need your attention.

Posted on January 13, 2014, in Adventures In Paranoia, Paranoia, Travel and tagged . Bookmark the permalink. 2 Comments.

  1. In silence.. the spirits get pretty darn loud- on cannabis with low tolerances they shout..or hit you with a five foot high boulder.

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