Aleister Crowley link to British murders

code of silence crowley

The mysterious deaths gripped the nation back in the 1920s and 30s.

More than 20 people linked to the opening of Tutankhamun’s burial chamber in Luxor in 1923 died in bizarre circumstances, six of them in London.

A frenzied public blamed the ‘Curse of Tutankhamun’ and speculated on the supernatural powers of the ancient Egyptians.

But a historian now claims the deaths in Britain were the work of a notorious satanist, Aleister Crowley.

Mark Beynon has drawn on previously unpublished evidence to conclude the occultist – dubbed the wickedest man in the world –  masterminded a series of ritualistic killings in ‘revenge’ for the British archaeologist Howard Carter’s opening of the boy-king’s tomb.

After analysis of inquest reports, Crowley’s diaries, essays and books, he also argues Crowley was a Jack the Ripper-obsessed copycat murderer.

His ‘victims’ included Carter’s personal secretary Captain Richard Bethell, who was found smothered to death at an exclusive Mayfair club, and Bethell’s father Lord Westbury, who plunged seven floors to his death from a St James’s apartment where he reportedly kept tomb artefacts.

Other victims were said to be Sir Ernest Budge, a former keeper in the British Museum’s department of Egyptian and Assyrian antiquities – found dead in his bed in Bloomsbury – and Ali Kamel Fahmy Bey, a 23-year-old Egyptian prince shot dead by his wife, Marie-Marguerite, in the Savoy Hotel shortly after he was photographed visiting King Tut’s tomb.

 

read more at……

 

 

http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-2059084/Were-Curse-Tutankhamun-deaths-actually-murders-arch-satanist-Aleister-Crowley.html

Advertisements

Stories of Satanic ritual abuse

 

Ritual Rape of the Child

moon

reflections of Satanic ritual abuse victims

Rape is a devastating crime to the psyche; the body that God gave just to you is taken over by some one else without your permission. Your sense of self is violated; and you feel fear that your life maybe the next thing to go. Rape causes panic and when the memories began to surface in my case it caused panic attacks. These attacks were accompanied by a rhythm of loss of bodily control, where my bowls ran a liquid that covered and stained my legs brown, while I shook and hyperventilated.

The first California rape memory to surface was of my satanic wedding. As my past began to unfold, I found myself nude,  sitting on top of my father in intercourse. The candles that flickered around us were white and in individual cups, like those found in a Catholic church. They lined the pentagram mosaic on the floor. Around the perimeter of the circle, I felt the presence of a black robe wearing audience watching. The candlelight flickered and the image was gone. But I knew it was real, some moment from my past reincarnated in a vision. I wondered what it meant?  If I got pregnant, would the baby be taken from me and then murdered, just as I had almost been?

The location of my satanic wedding was known to me. I had recently visited it with a friend and her realtor. The realtor wanted to see the “witches house” while it was for sale, but nobody went there alone, so she asked us to join her. It was located in Redondo Beach near the ocean. We all met at the location, then went up the walk of an aging white rambling structure with symbols in brick dominating one corner, making it look like a fraternity house for witches. In front was a large fenced garden of unkempt roses and other dying plants.  At the time it looked and felt familiar to me, like a place from long ago. We knocked on the screen door and waited.  A small, aging, gray-haired lady greeted us. I thought she looked harmless enough, a little like my own mother. We entered the house through an enclosed front patio, which reminded me of the train station in “Alice Through the Looking Glass”; again my childhood worked its way into my mind.  We followed the lady into the main house. The air became heavy and the light dim. Dust and the smell of someone else’s lifestyle permeated the atmosphere. The walls were lined in a drab paneling which appeared old but not quite finished, giving rise to the possibility of moving a panel to expose a hidden room. The wood floors creaked as we walked around in circles, each area more dusty and drab than the last. I wondered where she had hidden the sunshine. She told us about the house as we walked. Her husband, who had founded a society and was a very important man, had built the house himself.  I believed her. He was no longer alive as he had died in a car accident many years before. We all continued to follow as our tour suddenly took a sharp turn into a narrow staircase. Up we went following the steps that rambled around like a maze. At the top we were dumped out on the roof. I breathed in the fresh air, which was in stark contrast to the funny odors of the house. To me the house smelled and felt much older than its actual age of about fifty years, judging by its architecture. Again we all turned and entered the stairwell. I was both fascinated to stay and anxious to leave as we all went through the kitchen and out the back door into the sunlight again. Houses were like living things to me; they came in a continuum of good to evil. This house was definitely at the evil end of the spectrum. We then followed the gray-haired lady to a separate house on the back of the property. She unlocked the door and we all filed into another world, a secret place of magic, illusion and superstition. I found myself standing on a floor made of tiny tiles arranged with a huge pentagram mosaic dominating the center. To the one side was a table covered by a cloth with white candles on it. At the other end of the room was a dressing area, the large visible display of make-up, wigs, and costumes giving it a theatrical appearance. Behind this was the sleeping area complete with bed. The gray-haired lady looked on proudly, as this space obviously reflected what she was really all about, her passion. Everyone else appeared subdued. The realtor soon turned to go.  She appeared nervous as she herded us all down the drive. She couldn’t get out of there fast enough……..

read more at

http://www.reflectionsinthenight.com/satanic_ritual.htm