A Witchcraft Ritual in the Cemetery: What the Romani Woman Saw Beyond the Veil. Excerpt from the book “Magicum”
The chapters of this book are based on real regression records that were conducted over four years. What people saw in the states between lives turned out to be connected to their current fate. The author reworked this data into a fictional form, preserving the main thing — every action has consequences, and for every attempt to change fate one must pay.
Section 1. Chapter 3
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Lyalya! Come to your mother! – Tena shouted at the top of her lungs.
A slim, slender young Romani woman ran into the room. From her mother’s voice she understood that today a good client had “come along.” But when she saw that her mother was singing a song and walking in a circle while dancing, it became clear that the client was not just good, but, as they were used to calling such people — “shukar.”
The mother glanced at Lyalya, gathered her fingers into a cluster, kissed them and raised them up.
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Barvalo! Shukar! Ay, nane, ay, nane-nane… Tell grandpa that he will have another horse. Ah, what a wife I am! Ay nane.
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Which one is that? A young guy?
The mother shook her head and kept dancing.
Her husband came into the room. It was him that Tena called grandpa.
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What is this? What’s all the noise? Who here has a good wife?
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You do, Milo. I’m the good wife. Didn’t I say that before the cold weather you’d have another horse? Didn’t I?
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Yes, you said so. Quiet down, you women, you’ve gone wild. Where’s my supper?
The old Gypsy sat down at the table. He looked at his wife and thought that his wife really was a good one. “Shukar.” But he knew that even without her; he just did not say it out loud much. You have to spoil the old woman less.
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You’ll have your supper. Lyalya, set the table.
The daughter flung open the doors into the next room, and a couple of minutes later the table was set.
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And you, grandpa, eat, lie down for a bit, and then take me to Zara.
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Again at nightfall?
Milo lowered his eyes and became upset, but did not let it show. “She should have told me this after supper. She ruined everything. Now a bite won’t go down my throat.”
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That’s exactly when it’s done, at night, – Tena continued, setting a full plate of potatoes with meat in front of herself. She had a good appetite.
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All right, – Milo muttered.
Not another sound was heard from the old Gypsy.
It was only the beginning of September, but the evenings and nights were already cold and chilly. It seemed as if the air was wet and icy. This cold pierced to the very bones, it became eerie, and a trembling appeared inside.
Tena and her husband clambered onto the cart and rode out of the yard. Lyalya closed the gate behind them. Ahead was the familiar road. To the end of the street, then to the right and the next street to the end, then along the edge of the settlement. On one side were cottages, on the other a grove, then a field, and beyond the field a couple of cottages and the cemetery. That was exactly what the Gypsy woman needed. Since her youth she had been used to going to the cemetery when it got dark.
The cemetery was a local one, everyone in the village knew each other, and she did not want to explain what this strange thing she was doing was. It was grandfather who never could get used to it, and every time he would remain sitting on the cart. He pretended to be dozing, but he was feeling under his shirt for the little icon, the cross, and praying, praying.
It had grown completely dark, and through the clouds racing madly across the sky, the moon, appearing like a lantern, kept peeking out and from time to time lighting up the surroundings. Very rarely, beyond the fence, yellow little windows of village huts would flare up through the stakes, but only briefly, tossing out a couple of warm sparks with their tiny hands and immediately dying down, and in their place this terrible freezing air quickly, quickly came flooding in, settling in. And when it, there inside, touched his stomach with its dark paw, the gypsy would huddle up and finger the cross with his old hands.
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We’re here, Milo. Wait for me here.
Tena climbed down from the cart and slipped through a hole in the fence. Who and when had so conveniently broken out the bars of the iron fence at exactly the place where the grave of Zara — Tena’s grandmother — was, was unknown. But it was very convenient. Walking at night in the darkness through the whole cemetery from the gate to that grave was a path not for the faint of heart. But this way — very convenient.
Milo, as always, huddled up and did not even look toward the graves. It was clear that he could not see how the gypsy woman took out of her bag a photograph of a beautiful smiling girl, pierced the photograph with a huge “gypsy” needle at the place where the heart should have been, wrapped it all in a packet and buried it in the ground above the grave. Tena bent down and read something for a long, long time.
Now she raised her hands upward, as if addressing someone in the sky, now she switched to a barely audible whisper, placing her palms on the ground. In the end, she took a wooden homemade cross out of her pocket and, turning it upside down, stuck it into the ground at the place where the photograph was buried.
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It is done. That is all for today, – muttered the gypsy woman and set off.
But when she began to look around, she did not see the hole in the fence through which she had come. At first she thought that in the darkness she had turned the wrong way. But the cart stood directly in front of her, and she did not know how to get to it. There was no hole. A chill ran down her spine.
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Milo! Milo!
Tena called her husband, but he remained sitting just as he had been. He did not even move an ear.
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Milo!
Tena clutched the bars of the fence and realized that she would never squeeze through them. And she could not climb over the fence from above! It was taller than she was. But the most important thing was that her husband did not hear her. And he was no more than ten meters away from her!
Of all her nighttime trips to the cemetery, this was the most terrible. Even in her youth, when she was being taught rituals, and she was at the cemetery at night for the first time, it had not been so frightening.
Suddenly she felt the ground begin to moan around her, and groans began to come through. Tena froze and began to listen. Everything was wrong. Not as usual. Not as it should be. And then she heard a hissing, low, barely distinguishable sound of a voice. The words merged together, and it was impossible to understand what they wanted to say to her.
Not daring to turn around, Tena asked over her shoulder:
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What do you want?
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To talk.
Out of fear, the gypsy woman didn’t even think about what was being said to her. She said whatever came into her head:
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I don’t have time, another time, – Tena whispered quietly, with apprehension, still without turning around.
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I know you’re in a hurry, but have I ever wasted time without need?
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No. But not now.
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Don’t do this.
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Who are you? What do you want? I have to go, I’m in a hurry.
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Said and done, it’s your choice, don’t blame me later, – and the gypsy woman heard a loud sound, as if an old broken shutter slammed shut with such a crash that a ringing echoed.
Tena’s heart was pounding, her temples were throbbing. Her husband was standing in front of her, shaking her by the sleeve:
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How long can I wait for you? Did you fall asleep in there?
Tena was holding onto the metal bars of the fence, between which was that very hole-a crawl space.
To be continued…
You can find the continuation of the book in the section “Hypnotherapist’s Archive”.
About the book and the project
This book is based on genuine materials from an archive of hypnosis sessions. Their author was a self-taught hypnotist who worked in the seventies of the last century. His notes, which are now more than twenty-five years old, accidentally fell into the hands of a certified therapist specializing in progressive hypnosis. Interestingly, the archive covered a period of eight years, whereas in our country such practices of past-life regression began to be used much later.
The archive ended up with the therapist thanks to a young woman who found it in an apartment she had inherited. Along with the notes, a note was discovered stating that whoever received the archive was to continue the work that had been started. Over four years, more than seventy sessions were conducted, during which people were immersed in their past lives and in the period between lives.
The results of these sessions proved astonishing. With the permission of the heiress, all the records were handed over to the author. It turned out that a person’s life is governed by far deeper laws than is commonly believed. Every step, every decision has already been recorded, and everything that happens to us is merely one of the possible variations of reality.
The author reworked the archival records into a work of fiction, supplementing them with fictional characters and storylines. At the same time, the meaning of the original events described in the archive was fully preserved.
“Crossroads of Worlds” became the first book that launched the growth of the project. Today the project is an analytical platform operating on the basis of thousands of dreams, their realizations, and the identified connections between symbols and events in real life.
