Ghostbuster Denver (Living with a Ghost Wife)

Science fiction fans like to talk about how Star Wars changed their lives. 

For me, it was Ghostbusters.

The Original. It was my first year of freedom away from evil Mother Lilith, and explained my entire world . . . including the fact that my dead dad was my roommate. 

Problem was in my movie, my Ghostbusters, it was Denver that got nuked.

And I was the Containment Unit that went critical.

You see, by 1984, I already hosted a murder victim, my own aunt. As well as several other ghosts. And then there is Wolfgang--what the fuck is he? Let's just call him, a Demon.

Moving on, today, I live with a Ghost Wife.

Walnut Hill Alchemy might be owned by ghosts.

Long story short: For the newer readers, and the More Beloved Sister who once asked "What happened to my sweet innocent Brother?" Here is maybe an answer, or not.

My Theosophic Confederate Nazi spirit medium grandparents, one summer, in that "abandoned tree garden," exposed me to a Demon. Nice people, the Ramses. 

I felt such a rage when I learned (saw with my own two eyes) that Lilith sold that land without telling me. I had nothing of that land; therefore, no way to undo it. Bitch. 

I spent the first sixty years of my life, up to last year, riding shotgun to that Demon. 

Last year, I got free of him. Not necessarily on purpose. But sometimes Goddesses cheat. 

What Cassandra, my Ghost Wife, and those parts of my self that both the Egyptians and the Hermetic Golden Dawners paid so much attention to, as well as Norse shamans, I have not a clue . . . beyond there are forty-two angry boxes of luggage in my head.

Oh, Cassandra, my better half, and a gun-toting nun drove a bus through a neon Dead Vegas Cross. Just another day in Hell. A French Knight is screaming to send more Huns for him to kill. And I being conned by a tattooed woman, and a girl of far too young to be exposed to occult radiation like me. Then I might have kissed Jesus, before being Horus. 

It was complicated. The end of a not on all my meds, Khari would be better off with the other man, who can't handle her being poly, year and a day migraine knighthood passage. Don't end up on the insurance of a school teacher. In a district cutting costs. I paid. I did. 

But to say that I am not aware of where Cassandra (or whoever/whatever) is with one hundred percent knowledge . . . if only because I don't care what she does behind her closed door. For the sake of sanity, as a spirit medium who realized that he housed the ghosts (spirits/entities/angels/etins) one was working with; in my head, I allowed them to have the Japanese concept of space behind "symbolic illusions of respect."

Cassandra, whoever she is, seems to be my new primary. The events of 2024, whether the results of extended migraines, or black magick, or an overdue initiation, or combination thereof; has affected me. Whether that effect is forever or not, I do not know. 

In real life, Cassandra Ravenspell was a member of the Open Full Moon garden party community in 1998 when I met Khari. In fact, it's her event that me and Khari met at.

The only reason that I flirt with Khari is that Cassandra had made it a condition of the "romance--attract lover" spell; I am not sure why Cassandra had Gold-Ticketed me to the event. Today, after the death of Cassandra, I wonder how firm her commitment to being one-girl/one-boy to her husband had been that night. There had been talk of the school. 

Yeah, this ghost, in death, this relationship, it's complicated. 

We pretending that we met in college. Me, going much younger in time, in my 20s.

Day job, we imagine telling our friends that we work at MacDonalds; but secretly, it's erotica. The horrible kind. The money filth. Because we need the money, us sluts. 

Night job, classy science fiction. We admit to this--and income we earn . . . zilch. 

Hence, we have to explain the income. And throw up in mouth trash is not acceptable, so we blame the dirty, filthy money that I am adding to my social security fund on Burger King, or Seven Eleven. Otherwise, event guests might ask for my pennames. We scream.

How many pennames have we planned on using? We made several lists. Blame my family. Seriously, at least one of them still believes that I have to get the legal permission of each of every member of my bloodline to use a Ramalia, or Eckstein penname, because I am not the strongest witch in the family, or failed some damn holy purity test. Hence, I planned on publishing under a billizzion pennames. Smile, I am a Jewish Catholic author.

We are a Jewish Catholic Wicca author. We. We are. 

I have, at least, one ghost in my head. 

She likes to claim to be Cassandra Ravenspell. 

And she might be.

I keep odd hours. Therefore, when my Wiccan mentor died on the East Coast, I was awake when I was gifted with my "Jewish inheritance." Let me explain . . . 

There is a Jewish concept that the great holy men and women, upon their death, release their spiritual energies, to bless the world. I extended it to pagans that I loved. 

I started to notice this new muse during the Holiday Family Zine series. 

On 28 August 2021, one of my bloodline sisters foolishly sent a legal threat to jail me, not privately to me, but to Khari. Given that I had just used a Garden Party event to grieve for the passing of my Safe Sister, Hope, who was dying of Covid, during the first reign of Donald Judas Trump. My response, no longer held back by my mother Lilith, or by my ministry master, Maggie Moonstone, I proceeded to use the planned weapon system.

You see, my bloodline had threatened me so many times. And in 1997, one of my brothers actually got extra time, thanks to the actions of my mother. My other siblings did nothing.

Given their threats, plus their lack of knowledge about actual life (my adventures), me and Maggie, along with Amber John, cobbled together a zine series idea in 1997. MAD.

Mutual Assured Destruction. 

Taking me to court was exactly that because unlike the rest of them, I had actually committed a "real crime" with my mom. Not minimum drug sentence for having some. 

Buried and erased from family history, to be replaced with me and my father being bastards, was a divorce that never happened because it benefited Mom for the paperwork to disappear. I was let in on the Secret, so I would "trust" her with the others. 

I shouldn't have. 

By the time that I became aware of my mistake, it was too late. Mom had sold the Family Inheritance, the Survival Property. The person who should have sided with me, decided that she would rather place me in jail, or an asylum, and deny me an education; later, complaining that I never turned my father, who she never was exposed to, in for his abuse. The only reason that I might be free is that one rational sister refused to sign.

Of course, by the time that I was building my defense in 1997, I had already been in that new environment, Open Full Moons, for whole year. As a student, as a journalist in the small press, as a 'thorn" ("I got paid $25 for an erotica short story at age 20; what do you mean that you never been paid?!?), as Maggie Moonstone's and other's apprentice.

Looking back, I realize that several people saw my future ambition to be a Shop Owner, and encouraged the damn beast. Sold me courses. Taught me how to display herbs and books. How to structure a series of classes to force students to buy stuff. I learned evil. 

I have from Amber John: Wicca 101. Norse Wicca 101, Norse Hearthenry 101, Runes 101.

It's more, or less, the same course. The first two. The third is sort of different. And runes, well, I had a scoop of that course here, here, and here. Laughs. But I love the vibrations. 

Seriously, my social life as a pagan, Wiccan, young geek without a purpose in 1996 was whatever classes was being held at my local occult shop that had been announced at the most recent Open Full Moon. I paid minimum wage plus time to have people around me. 

Don't judge me. I didn't have the internet. Or good cable. Or friends with guns. 

Just access to an occult shop with dodgy classes. 

Kind like a crack house for soft brained when you think about it, right? No?

Sorry. Genius level IQ. Occasionally, I worry about believing in this crap. 

It's one thing to sell it. But I actually believe in some of this stuff. Like the Ghost Wife. 

Anyway, over the years, like North Korea, once I had decided what horrible Doomsday stories I would tell my family on the day that they were foolish enough to send me to the prison, I would periodically update it. After all, I am a super-villain. Thief of Magick. 

I fired off a warning shot. It was ignored. I turned the second key. Rockets to go off. 

One eight page letter every Wiccan holiday. 

I am not sure what Wiccan that my Gardnerian aunt used to set my mother off on. But even after Victoria's death, once a year, my mother would rant and rave about getting holiday cards on Wiccan holidays. Why not revisit a family tradition? Let's count to eight.

I have no idea how many issues I actually did. I lost track. Became burnt out at one point.

That's when I noticed that Cassandra, the muse, was overlapping in both the science fiction (Circuit Maiden--Mother--Crone) and my autobiography. A muse that had been absent during earlier history drafts addressed to former Church and business partners. 

It should be noted that this muse only appeared after Cassandra's death. 

There is a point in the Family Holiday Zine series that I can tell that Cassandra is present. The tone softens. I start to be less angry, more forgiving. My demon fights this. Not everything written gets mailed; publishers have the option to pull something in defense.

And it's stuff like that which makes me pause about my future because I know that my Ghost Wife, whatever she actually is, will only get stronger in the future. That every success that we have together will cement our relationship with one another. 

Likewise a bloody mistake we made together, allowed fraud to happen, tore us. Made it hard to trust each other. Yet bear in mind that confidence trick got me to think about a future (Golden Dawn Event Center) which lead to the Roof Replacement which saved my life. Me and Khari would have never got there on our own; my Honored Dead needed Grandmother Loki cooking in the kitchen to save my life; can the Council complete dish?

I find it lucky that I have the dodge of being a First Minister (Chief Adept) to keep me out of the dating pool. Imagine trying to explain to a Neophyte, or a Seeker, "I have a Ghost."

Can cats and young children see ghost wives?