No Tortured Meat!

“In ancient times, when the first cities made of sun-dried brick rose in fertile lands that today are little more than deserts, the Ba’al rose to power. They were powerful sorcerers, the first among the early shamans to carve their knowledge in stone tablets, the better to preserve it. But their incantations, which helped bring rain over much-needed crops and healed the sick, were not enough for them. They grew hungry for more power, as is often the way of man. Their craving for knowledge led them to perdition.

Chief among the Ba’al was a sorcerer-king called Molek. At first, he was a wise and learned man under whom a city unlike any other grew. Great towers were raised in his name, and thousands lived under his rule. But the desire for power also festered in Molek. He used new magicks (some say they were in reality, not new at all, but older spells that existed before Man walked the Earth), and called upon alien powers from other worlds. And his call was answered, and Molek walked the Earth no more. In his stead rose Moloch, something far greater, and far baser, than any human that ever lived. For Moloch needed the life of others to live and to feed his power.

Moloch was but the first. His acolytes, servants and lovers became beings like himself, and they ruled their cities mercilessly. In the name of Moloch and the Ba’al, families had to give up their firstborn. The young victims were cast alive into the flames, so their dying agonies could feed Moloch and his kind. And everywhere, humans wailed and gnashed their teeth, seeing their children used thus. A man’s life years came and went, and still the Ba’al ruled and slew as they saw fit. Their cities multiplied and new peoples were brought under their sway.

But other Powers were arrayed against the Ba’al, and a great war broke out among the cities of the Ba’al and those who would not give up their firstborn to be cast alive into the flames. Savage was the war, fought with bronze spears and magic, with winged chariots that soared flaming into the sky, and mighty spells that laid waste to whole cities. Mighty heroes came to grips with monstrous horrors summoned from the Netherworld by the Ba’al. The first Guardians, came down from the sky, and brought skyfire down upon the city of Moloch. And the slaughter was great.

The Ba’al and their kind were brought low by the Powers arrayed against them. Their hosts were slain, their monsters banished. And, facing destruction, the Ba’al escaped through the Mirrorwall, unto the Nightlands. And safe in the darkness, they wailed and gnashed their teeth, to see their mighty cities torn asunder, their armies hewed down, their power lost.

In the Nightlands dwelt the Formless Ones, who had never found a shape of their own. And the Ba’al came upon them, and used their magicks to enslave and slay them. And some Formless Ones were fashioned into warrior monsters, and others forced to take the form of men on Earth, to better serve as slaves, and still others were slain or cast out. And the Ba’al became the Ba’alze- Neckt, the Lords of Night.”

—Excerpt from The Wanderer Diaries

“Although I myself have only minuscule psychic abilities, what might be considered a latent psychic (very latent), I had never been able to achieve astral projection. However, lord, high priest Vish-taal assured me that he could help me achieve the reputed state and lead me into the astral plane. So I bravely began my excursion into the ethereal realm that coexists with our own. After nine days of fasting, consuming only herb broth prepared by Vish-taal once per day, I was ready at last. We meditated together for three hours then, before I realized it, I was looking down at my own body. The sensation must be akin to floating in the weightlessness of space. The room seemed somewhat out of scale and distorted, like looking through a fisheye lens. Suddenly I realized Vish-taal was floating next to me. He assured me that all was well and that after a few more out of body experiences I could see the material world as clear as normal. But today our goal was the astral plane. He took hold of my shoulder and beckoned me to come. With that, we both rose upward through the ceilings of the next three floors, the roof and skyward. I must confess that my 23 years as an investigator of the paranormal had not prepared me for this experience. All my professional cool had fled me the moment I left my body. I was so enthralled with the events and images that without the guidance of Vish-taal I would have bobbed about the room like a dumfounded child seeing Disneyland for the first time. Everything seemed to sweep by me, stealing my full attention for that moment, giving away to the next sensation and the next. As I sped skyward at a speed I can not begin to guess, the sparkling body of my astral guide caught my attention. For the first time, I noticed that our astral bodies were aglow with a bright, translucent, blue-white light with countless tiny flashes of white, yellow, and blue light, like a thousand microscopic strobe lights set for a slow pulse. A thread of translucent silver unreeled itself as we rocketed ahead. Vish-taalyanked my attention with the words the gateway’. Before us was a glittering wall of light which we plunged through at great speed, without pause. Suddenly we were plunged into a world of swirling white, broken only by wisps of white clouds. There was no longer any sense of up or down. Direction had no meaning. Without my astral guide to calm me I would have become lost in the vastness of the white infinity. Vish-taal assured me that with training one could sense the material world and use it like an invisible compass. I must admit that after what seemed to be about a half hour, I was able to discern shapes and patterns in the endless white clouds and mists. A strange calm seemed to take hold of me and made the whiteness seem far less alien. Then, after a long while, appearing through a fog-like mist stood a forest. Shades of green and brown and grey leaped out of the whiteness. A blue sky broken by cumulus clouds radiated around the green. Without realizing it, I had automatically gravitated toward the oasis of color. Suddenly, a sensation of evil shot through me like a hundred burning needles. Never in my experience as a minor psychic sensitive had I ever felt such hatred, such loathing. To my left a billow of grey and black storm clouds began to roll out from the green trees. The blue sky darkened and the clouds shot toward me with an anger I can not describe. Vish-taal’s voice echoed in my ears: Go now we must, Victor. We should not try battle with this one. Now Victor, away from the dark. Flee with me and look not back.’ We sped through the white and I did not look back. Obviously, I survived to tell this tale. When we returned to our physical bodies, I was still shaking. Vish-taal smiled knowingly and said, Victor, you see much adventure this day. I will send food while you much relax.’ With a wink, the old yogi left me with my own thoughts.

“The experience seemed to last several hours. I would hazard to guess eight or nine. Yet the wall clock confirmed with my wristwatch that less than six minutes had actually elapsed. Did I experience astral travel? Or was it sensory deprivation? The wily old priest could have easily drugged my broth or even hypnotized me. I had seen him expertly use hypnosis on others on countless occasions. But the old man and I had been friends for years and I honestly don’t think my mentor would deceive me. So this then was the astral plane. I wish I could relate the details with greater clarity, but as I said, my objectivity and skills as an investigative reporter deserted me. One thing that did strike me was how much my astral plane experience seemed to mimic the transmissions ofLt. Taylorfrom Flight 19, which disappeared in 1945 over the Bermuda Triangle. In that celebrated and much disputed case, five Air Force Avenger Torpedo Bombers disappeared during a routine flight near Ft. Lauderdale, Florida. The leader’s (Lt. Taylor) radio transmissions were bizarre. He reported that both compasses were out, and on a fairly clear winter afternoon, could not find Ft. Lauderdale. Other transmissions speak of vast whiteness and swirling clouds. Of not being able to find the sun or ascertain any sense of direction. Not even up or down. The transmissions faded in and out until they stopped. The final transmission: “We’ll fly west until we hit the beach or run out of gas.” Flight 19 disappeared without a
trace. The most logical explanation is that the five aircraft perished in a sudden squall; not that any storms were known to have arisen that afternoon. Is it possible that some mysterious force opened a portal into the astral plane? A portal that the five bombers, and a sixth search aircraft and its crew of thirteen, inadvertently flew into? It is a possibility I must investigate further.”

Excerpted from Victor Lazlo’s WORLDS WITHIN WORLDS, 1977.