Ouija Quotes

I realize that if I wait until I am no longer afraid to act, write, speak, be, I'll be sending messages on a Ouija board, cryptic complaints from the other side

People have told me 'Betty, Facebook is a great way to keep in touch with old friends...' .. At my age, if I wanted to keep in touch with old friends, I'd need a Ouija board

Wind warns November’s done with. The blown leaves make bat-shapes, Web-winged and furious.

That's how two vampires, a medium, and a dog came to sit around a Ouija board in the back room of a floral shop.

I'm a witch, not a Ouija board." --Rowan Gant (Perfect Trust: A Rowan Gant Investigation)

Don't wait for the muse. As I've said, he's a hardheaded guy who's not susceptible to a lot of creative fluttering. This isn't the Ouija board or the spirit-world we're talking about here, but just another job like laying pipe or driving long-haul trucks. Your job is to make sure the muse knows where you're going to be every day from nine 'til noon. or seven 'til three. If he does know, I assure you that sooner or later he'll start showing up.

They didn't have very far to fall--I knew just being a girl in the world handicapped your ability to believe yourself. Feelings seemed completely unreliable, like faulty gibberish scraped from a Ouija board. My childhood visits to the family doctor were stressful events for that reason. He'd ask me gentle questions: How was I feeling? How would I describe the pain? Was it more sharp or more spread out? I'd just look at him with desperation. I needed to be told, that was the whole point of going to the doctor. To take a test, be put through a machine that would comb my insides with radiated precision and tell me what the truth was.

No! I don’t want to Ouija, or do the pendulum thing, and I swear if I see one tarot card or rune stone I’ll yack cupcake all over you. (Grace)

Shakespeare wrote Moby-Dick, using Melville as a Ouija board.

From the depths of hell, So far I fell, A deal made with the devil, After all the dust had settled, There's an hourglass of time, Counting down all of our lives, And with every grain of sand, Time is slipping through my hands.

The New York Times editorial page is like a Ouija board that has only three answers, no matter what the question. The answers are: higher taxes, more restrictions on political speech and stricter gun control.

I feel the hate, Welling up inside, And it's to late, Nowhere to run and hide.

Ouija boards don’t work.' Dex rocked back on his heels, still grinning. 'That a fact?' 'I’m just saying, I don’t think that anything made by Milton Bradley is much good for contacting the dark side, that’s all.

Learning shamanism solely from a book is like running with a razor sharp Ouija board.

You shouldn't believe all the press about Ouija boards. They can't be used in an exorcism. Trivial Pursuit can, but that's another story.

Some people are doing Ouija boards at school but I'm not touching that shit. Knowing my luck, bloody Jack the Ripper would try to get in touch.

I'm just some fingers resting lightly on a cursor as it slides magically around a kind of Ouija board.

Give me priests. Give me men with feathers in their hair, or tall domed hats, female oracles in caves, servants of the python, smoking weed and reading palms. A gypsy fortuneteller with a foot-peddle ouija board and a gold fish bowl for a crystal ball knows more about the world than many of the great thinkers of the West. Mumbling priests swinging stink cans on their chains and even witch doctors conjuring up curses with a well-buried elephant tooth have a better sense of their places in the world. They know this universe is brimming with magic, with life and riddles and ironies. They know that the world might eat them, and no encyclopedia could stop it

Twelve years old. I was happy. My friend had a Ouija board, asked when we were going to get our periods, looked down, and I saw blood.

Colton cleared his throat. "I'm no expert on spirits and the occult, but this is Keelan we're talking about. If by some miracle his soul did find it's way back to the Alpha Estate, Voodoo Meryn with a Ouija board doing incantations would scare him back the way he came.

Belief in such things was widespread in America and Britain at the start of the twentieth century, when an Ouija board was a regular fixture in drawing rooms, to be brought out after dinner for impromptu séances.

The obvious differences apart, Karl Marx was no more a reliable prophet than was the Reverend Jim Jones. Karl Marx was a genius, an uncannily resourceful manipulator of world history who shoved everything he knew, thought, and devised into a Ouija board from whose movements he decocted universal laws. He had his following, during the late phases of the Industrial Revolution. But he was discredited by historical experience longer ago than the Wizard of Oz: and still, great grown people sit around, declare themselves to be Marxists, and make excuses for Gulag and Afghanistan.

I swear those damn things do more damage to girls than Ouija boards.” Molloy laughed. “How can you compare a weighing scale to a Ouija board?” “Easy.” I shrugged. “They both summon demons.

He held up his hands in surrender. “I’m not here to start trouble. I am just doing some research for my thesis.” “If you don’t get out of this bar, you are going to be writing your thesis via Ouija board.

They didn’t have very far to fall—I knew just being a girl in the world handicapped your ability to believe yourself. Feelings seemed completely unreliable, like faulty gibberish scraped from a Ouija board.

As for our Ouija-board Supreme Court, it would be nice if they would take time off from holding séances with the long-dead founders, whose original intent so puzzles them, and actually examine what the founders wrought, the Constitution itself and the Bill of Rights.

So,” Glee said. “If you want to communicate with Satan, you’d be better off brushing your teeth than doing ouija.

We think we have some kind of privileged access to our own motives and intentions. In fact we have no clear insight into what moves us to live as we do. The stories we tell ourselves are like the messages that appear on Ouija boards. If we are authors of our lives, it is only in retrospect.

I swear to Christ, I’ll reverse haunt your ass if you even think about dying on me. I’ll do séances and get out the Ouija board and call your spirit back to earth and harass you for the rest of eternity if you die. Got it?

She wasn’t religious. She didn’t believe in heaven or hell, only in ghosts, Ouija boards, tables which rapped and little inept voices speaking plaintively of flowers

I realize that if wait until I am no longer afraid to act, write, speak, be, I’ll be sending messages on a Ouija board, cryptic complaints from the other side.

It was hard but very strengthening to remember that I could silent my whole life long and then be dead, flat out, and never have said or done what I wanted to do, what I needed to do, because of fear of pain, fear…If I waited to be right before I spoke, I would be sending little cryptic messages on the Ouija board, complaints from the other side.

I realize that if I wait until I am no longer afraid to act, write, speak, be, I'll be sending messages on a ouija board, cryptic comments from the other side. When I dare to be powerful, to use my strength in the service of my vision, then it becomes less important whether or not I am unafraid.

Down in the kitchen, I open the refrigerator. There is nothing there but the prize steer of the county fair, rearranged in neat and mysterious packages. Daily, the cook pushes her hand into the cold. The result in uncertain. A gristly Ouija. It could be pot roast or brisket, eye of the round or sirloin tip. The steer has invaded their lives. He is everywhere. There is no room for the sisters' diet-cola or for their underwear on sizzling mornings. They have been eating him for weeks.

The postmodernist belief in the relativism of truth, coupled with the clicker culture of mass media, in which attention spans are measured in New York minutes, leaves us with a bewildering array of truth claims packaged in infotainment units. It must be true—I saw it on television, the movies, the Internet. The Twilight Zone, The Outer Limits, That’s Incredible!, The Sixth Sense, Poltergeist, Loose Change, Zeitgeist: The Movie. Mysteries, magic, myths, and monsters. The occult and the supernatural. Conspiracies and cabals. The face on Mars and aliens on Earth. Bigfoot and Loch Ness. ESP and psi. UFOs and ETIs. OBEs and NDEs. JFK, RFK, and MLK Jr.—alphabet conspiracies. Altered states and hypnotic regression. Remote viewing and astroprojection. Ouija boards and tarot cards. Astrology and palm reading. Acupuncture and chiropractic. Repressed memories and false memories. Talking to the dead and listening to your inner child. It’s all an obfuscating amalgam of theory and conjecture, reality and fantasy, nonfiction and science fiction. Cue dramatic music. Darken the backdrop. Cast a shaft of light across the host’s face. Trust no one. The truth is out there. I want to believe.

They didn't have very far to fall - I knew just being a girl in the world handicapped your ability to believe yourself. Feelings seemed completely unreliable, like faulty gibberish scraped from a Ouija board. My childhood visits to the family doctor were stressful events for that reason. He'd ask me gentle questions: How was I feeling? How would I describe the pain? Was it more sharp or more spread out? I'd just look at him with desperation. I needed to be told, that was the whole point of going to the doctor. To take a test, be put through a machine that could comb my insides with radiated precision and tell me what the truth was. Of course the girls didn't leave the ranch: there is a lot that can be borne. When I was nine, I'd broken my wrist falling from a swing. The shocking crack, the blackout pain. But even then, even with my wrist swelling with a cuff of trapped blood, I insisted I was fine, that it was nothing, and my parents believed me right up until the doctor showed them the X-ray, the bones snapped clean.

Today the prevailing fad is vitamins, yesterday it was appendicitis operations, Paderewski's minuet, or the ouija board.

Even President Woodrow Wilson was a devotee: when asked in 1914 whether he would be reelected, Wilson replied, “The Ouija board says yes.

I knew just being a girl in the world handicapped your ability to believe yourself. Feelings seemed completely unreliable, like faulty gibberish scraped from a Ouija board.

I love belief it can move the pallet on a Ouija board or put a man into space. The problem that we have is the wrong beliefs we can't erase.

You been playin’ with the Ouija board, Rags, honey?

Oh my God, you are such a dork,” she said, ran to the bedroom, and brought back his shirt. “Ah, thank

I’ve got a ouija board,” Margaret volunteered. “Y’all want to talk to Satan?

It's fun searching for the supernatural. If the supernatural comes looking for you, it's anything but fun. It's terrifying and disturbing. Keep it out of your life at all costs.

I wonder why the dead can't talk, look at all the crimes we'd solve if the damn dead would just Ouija board us our answers, or tell all those weird psychic people who killed 'em.

this is not reading the Bible as a book. It is using the Bible as a kind of Christian Ouija board.

The Constitution created a framework, not a Ouija board, precisely because the Framers understood that prospect of a nation ruled for centuries by dead prophets would be the very opposite of freedom.

We were teenage ghost hunters, Ouija enthusiasts, and would have shouted after any Bigfoot who dared to show itself. Better to die becoming another spooky story for cable shows than miss learning an occult truth.

Greek oracles were like living Ouija boards. They communicated with the gods rather than the dead. It’s funny the way people imagine making contact with the Devil via Ouija, but never with God. Will God not come if summoned?

Yes, perhaps,” Perrin answered. “Perhaps. It could all be suggestion. But in story after story that I’ve heard about séances, Ouija boards—all of that, Chris—they always seem to be pointing to the opening of a door of some sort.

It was clear from the start that they were not like other children, therefore Susanna felt she had no choice but to set down rules. No walking in the moonlight, no Ouija boards, no candles, no red shoes, no wearing black, no going shoeless, no amulets, no night-blooming flowers, no reading novels about magic, no cats, no crows, and no venturing below Fourteenth Street. Yet no matter how Susanna tried to enforce these rules, the children continued to thwart her.

In a certain mood, the earth itself can seem a ouija board, calling out its advice, discharging symbol after symbol, relentless and malevolent, though to ordinary eyes nothing more has happened than a single back and white bird winging down the sky.

No walking in the moonlight, no Ouija boards, no candles, no red shoes, no wearing black, no going shoeless, no amulets, no night-blooming flowers, no reading novels about magic, no cats, no crows, and no venturing below Fourteenth Street. Yet no matter

When other girls had tea parties on the playground, I brought out my secondhand Ouija board and attempted to raise the dead. While my classmates gave book reports on The Wind In The Willows or Charlotte’s Web, I did mine on tattered, paperback copies of Stephen King novels that I’d borrowed from my grandmother. Instead of Sweet Valley High, I read books about zombies and vampires. Eventually, my third grade teacher called my mother in to discuss her growing concerns over my behavior, and my mom nodded blithely, but failed to see what the problem was. When Mrs. Johnson handed her my recent book report on Pet Sematary,, my mom wrinkled her forehead with concern and disapproval. "Oh, I see,"she said disappointingly, as she turned to me. "You spelled ‘cemetery’ wrong.” Then I explained that Stephen King had spelled it that way on purpose, and she nodded, saying, “Ah. Well, good enough for me.

Okay, obviously I didn't die or I wouldn't be able to relate this tender little narrative. Unless, of course, I'm a ghost, writing these words through an Ouija board. That would be pretty cool, but also incredibly time consuming, and the human I was channeling through would probably try to steal all the credit.

So it's 21 to drink, 18 to smoke, 16 to drive, and 6 to summon demons.

I don’t see what kind of trouble you and John could possibly—” John shifted impatiently in his chair. “Come on, David. Who found the body? Who dug it up and then buried it again, after taking a piece of evidence the forensics people would no doubt consider vital? Who brought that piece of evidence halfway across the country so an eighth-grader could use it like a Ouija board?

It was Rogelio, Chutsky’s friend from the front desk, who was going to tell us when Weiss checked in. But it certainly didn’t look like he was going to tell us much of anything, unless we listened to him with a Ouija board. Because if appearances were any guide at all, judging by the belt so tightly wrapped around his neck and the way his tongue and eyes bulged out, Rogelio was extremely dead.

There was tactical significance: stop the railroads. An excellent maneuver, no doubt, but the technique was horrible. The planes started kicking high-explosives and incendiaries through their bomb-bays at the city limits, and for all the pattern their hits presented, they must have been briefed by a Ouija board. Tabulate the loss against the gain. Over one hundred thousand non-combatants and a magnificent city destroyed by bombs dropped wide of the stated objectives: the railroads were knocked out for roughly two days.

Truth or Care by Stewart Stafford It's not every day you find out you're going to die, A sweaty doctor hit me right between the eyes, With my body's Judas kiss and then I was prey, Life had left me without any cards to play. Reading the shocked expression on my face, The doctor played his "it's treatable" ace, Treatable is good but curable is better, Survival hinges on the placement of letters. Turns out I never had a chance, sadly, The doctor lied to me and lied badly, Flop sweat had put truth to the sword, And I'm writing all this through a ouija board. © Stewart Stafford, 2022. All rights reserved.

They didn’t have very far to fall—I knew just being a girl in the world handicapped your ability to believe yourself. Feelings seemed completely unreliable, like faulty gibberish scraped from a Ouija board. My childhood visits to the family doctor were stressful events for that reason. He’d ask me gentle questions: How was I feeling? How would I describe the pain? Was it more sharp or more spread out? I’d just look at him with desperation. I needed to be told, that was the whole point of going to the doctor. To take a test, be put through a machine that could comb my insides with radiated precision and tell me what the truth was.

and he was talking on and on in a low voice about Schliemann’s Ilios, the fingertips of his big square hands poised on the table’s edge as if it were a Ouija board. When I’d lived with him over the winter, he would sometimes go on for hours in these didactic monologues, reeling off a pedantic and astonishingly accurate torrent of knowledge with the slow, transfixed calm of a subject under hypnosis. He was talking about the excavation of Hissarlik: “a terrible place, a cursed place,” he said dreamily—cities and cities buried beneath each other, cities torn down, cities burnt and their bricks melted to glass … a terrible place, he said absently, a cursed place, nests of tiny brown adders of the sort that the Greeks call antelion and thousands and thousands of little owl-headed death gods (goddesses, really, some hideous prototype of Athena) staring fanatical and rigid from the engraved illustrations.

Fawn Brodie observed that Westerners traditionally “demanded personality rather than diplomas from the men who called them to God.” Metaphysical teachers journeying from the east in the twentieth century found that they faced little scrutiny concerning educational credentials. Science of Mind’s Ernest Holmes was a playground instructor and purchasing agent for Venice, California. The scribe of the Masters of the Far East, Baird T. Spalding, was a gold prospector. William Dudley Pelley, who spent “seven minutes in eternity,” was a screenwriter. Psychiana’s Frank B. Robinson was a druggist. Levi Dowling, author of The Aquarian Gospel of Jesus the Christ, was a homeopathic healer. Spencer Lewis, founder of the Ancient and Mystical Order Rosae Crucis (AMORC), was a commercial illustrator. These were entirely self-made religious leaders. But this is not to say that they were less than able. The occult denizens of the twentieth century, particularly those who found audiences on the West Coast, were extremely capable and often displayed an admirable fluidity to shatter the bonds of social position that might have held back earlier generations. Occultists

Angels are active and involved in our lives on a regular basis and in amazing ways. They “work” directly for God as messengers, protectors, rescuers, and interceders. There are many types of angels, though none have ever lived on earth the way our guides have (more on them later). They’re Spirit, not physical beings, so they don’t have bodies like we do. I’m told they can take on the appearance of animals or people. There’s an order, or ranking, to the population of angels that include archangels, guardian angels, cherubim, seraphim, basic angels, and others (that’s not the ranking, that’s just a list of angels). I know there are high-ranking angels, or archangels, who have various jobs and missions, and they are above other angels that inspire and intercede for us as well. Pat has regular experiences with Archangels Michael, Gabriel, and Raphael. Michael, for example, is a protector and adept at performing acts of justice and power. She calls on him for assistance when she has difficult clients or people with something very dark attached to them, like when she worked with a young woman who played with a Ouija board. Pat also tells clients who are fearful to call on Michael when they’re nervous or anxious about something. Gabriel is connected to kindness. Raphael is in charge of healing, so Pat calls on him for her clients since she’s a healer. Spirit tells me that angels are powerful and seriously busy. They offer protection, guidance, deliver messages, encourage us, strengthen us, and help to answer our prayers.

When I was a child, my father forbade me to read science fiction or fantasy. Trash of the highest order, he said. He didn't want me muddying up my young, impressionable mind with crap. If it wasn't worthy of being reviewed in the Times, it did not make it onto our bookshelves. So while my classmates gleefully dove into The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe, A Wrinkle in Time, and The Borrowers, I was stuck reading Old Yeller. My saving grace- I was the most popular girl in my class. That's not saying much; it was easy to be popular at that age. All you had to do was wear your hair in French braids, tell your friends your parents let you drink grape soda every night at dinner, and take any dare. I stood in a bucket of hot water for five minutes without having to pee. I ate four New York System wieners (with onions) in one sitting. I cut my own bangs and- bam!- I was queen of the class. As a result I was invited on sleepovers practically every weekend, and it was there that I cheated. I skipped the séances and the Ouija board. I crept into my sleeping bag with a flashlight, zipped it up tight, and pored through those contraband books. I fell into Narnia. I tessered with Meg and Charles Wallace; I lived under the floorboards with Arrietty and Pod. I think it was precisely because those books were forbidden that they lived on in me long past the time that they should have. For whatever reason, I didn't outgrow them. I was constantly on the lookout for the secret portal, the unmarked door that would lead me to another world. I never thought I would actually find it.

 “You like me, though. You want to go on a date with me.” It wasn’t a question. “Cocky much?” “Confident. Don’t be mistaken.” “Why do you want to take me out so badly?” “Fishing for more compliments, are we?” He’d caught me, but went on anyway. “Obviously you’re beautiful. You have nice, you know, legs and . . . stuff.” “You’re laughing. I don’t think I’m really your type. I think you’re messing with me. I’m not at all like Charlize Theron.” We pulled up to my car but he let Charlize idle before getting out. “You are so my type. Charlize—at least the actress—is not. I mean, she’s gorgeous, in a blond, Amazonian, I-might-kill-and-eat-my-own-young kind of way, but I like your look better.” “Oh yeah? What’s my look?” “There’s something dark about you . . . and interesting. Your creamy skin, your black hair. The way you move. Your mouth.” He reached out to touch my cheek but I jerked away, breaking the seriousness of the moment. “What do you mean I’m dark?” He smiled and shrugged. “I don’t know. Like I want to get naked with you and a Ouija board.” I burst out laughing. “And your laugh . . . it’s like the sound of someone squeezing the life out of a miniature trumpet. It’s really cute.” “That is not a compliment. I have a nice laugh. And by the way, your voice is nasally when you’re not trying to impress people.” He held his hand to his chest like he was offended, except he was still smiling. “I’m crushed. Penny, whatever your last name is—” “Piper.” “Ha! Penny Piper? You’ve got to be kidding! That’s either a children’s book character or a porn star’s name. Penny Piper picked a peck of pickled pep—” “Stop! I know, trust me. I have to live with this name. My poor sister’s name is Kiki Piper. Like we’re fucking hobbits or something.” “Penny Piper is worse than Kiki Piper, hands down.” I cocked my head to the side. “Thanks.” “Just sayin’. What’s your middle name?” “Isabelle.” “I’m gonna call you PIP Squeak.” “Thank you. I can’t wait.” “And by the way, I happen to have a deviated septum. That’s why my voice sounds like this sometimes, you asshole. Now get out and help me with your car.” As we stepped out, he pointed to my Honda and said, “Try and start it when I tell you.” I stopped and turned to him. “What’s your middle and last name?” “Gavin Augusta Berninger.” “Regal,” I said with a wink. “I know, right?” He shrugged one arm like he was royalty or something. “Is that French?” “Yeah, my dad’s family is French . . . sort of. Like, his great-great-grandfather came from France. No one in our family even speaks French.” “Hmm, not so regal anymore,” I said. “Whatever, Penny Piper.

Fruit of the Poisonous Tree, The True Story of Murder in a Small Town, begins on a steamy August night with two teenagers, brother and sister, on an evil mission deep in a rural Michigan forest. For one desperate moment headlights appear on the lonely access road. Will they be found out? Thus the story of one of state’s strangest criminal cases unfolds. Girl breaks up with boyfriend. He turns violent. She disappears without a trace. Then state police investigators set out on what at first looks like a fool’s journey. The story is colored by a bizarre Ouija board death prophesy and the roles of two psychics, a former practicing witch and a handsome young artist who is suspected of Satanism. The canny and elusive suspect taunts police and seems always to be one step ahead of them. When a key witness is daunted by uncharacteristic injuries, a mysterious medium tells him he is the victim of black magic practiced by the suspect’s grandmother. And when, after eight years, the suspect finally is brought to trial, he is represented by a Roman Catholic priest.

Dogs are ever so much easier to get along with than people as a rule. You can't fool a dog with such idiocies as séances and tarot cards or Ouija boards. Dogs know a good person when they meet one, and they can smell a rotter a mile away.

Are you nuts? Why’re you not in there already? The old Ford would’ve run in there with a Ouija board and a handful of batteries like he was handing out Halloween candy.” “That giant clawed handprint on your side makes this one a little different.

Mother gave a flick of a glance at the fork in Tori's hand. "Children without manners are a wound in a mother's side.

English-speaking practitioners generally use the four following terms to refer to the influence of evil spirits: Oppression – demonic influence which seems to come from outside a person, causing heaviness, weariness or discouragement. Oppressive spirits may be acquired through exposure to a heavy presence of evil: e.g. by participating in deliverance ministry (defined below), by being in a place where occult activities are taking place, by being placed under a curse, by coming into contact with items of witchcraft. Oppressive spirits may be dispelled by a simple command to leave in the name of Jesus. Obsession – demonic influence which seems to reside inside a person, usually afflicting a certain area of a person’s life in the form of strong habitual temptations. A person may open oneself to such influence by deliberately seeking the presence or power of evil spirits through witchcraft, Satanism, or fortune-telling (ouija, tarot etc.); demonic obsession may also occur through other grave sins which are not explicitly associated with the occult, e.g. sexual activity by consecrated or ordained persons pledged to celibacy. The obsessing spirit usually needs to be identified by name and cast out (i.e. commanded to leave) or bound (i.e. forbidden from exerting any further influence). Possession is very rare, and only occurs when human beings wilfully hand over complete control of their life to Satan, by expressly doing so or by embracing grave sin. Formal exorcism, sanctioned by the diocesan bishop, is always required in such cases.Infestation is used to refer to the influence of evil spirits over objects, animals, houses or places.

Okay, boys, you’ve done worn me out, I’m gonna get going,” I said. “Yeah, okay, cool,” Paul said, “We’re having a party here on Wednesday, why don’t you come back? And give me your number, too, for sure.” No one had ever asked me for my number before. I gave it to him and every guy in the room and then I left, excited and liberated

This was where Caitlin had been killed.

Tracy’s eyes were deeply sorrowful, and his face expressed a sort of awed wonder, that made many who were present, think that after all there might be something in these occult beliefs. But not so the coroner. He refused to consider the Ouija message with any serious interest, and continued to ply his witnesses with questions both pertinent and wide of the mark. Elijah Stebbins was put through a grilling inquiry

It’s not just the Spirit World that Ouija can reach. It can explore a realm every bit as strange, that of the unconscious mind, the mind of which we know nothing, precisely because it’s unconscious. Yet it’s an aspect of our own mind. Isn’t it bizarre that our own “hidden” mind is the biggest, and closest, mystery in our life!

The Ouija board brought necromancy to the ordinary people. It democratized necromancy. It’s a portal to the dead, to the afterlife, to the Spirit World. But it’s a somewhat basic technology, a poor man’s version of the phone. What would you do if you had a special smartphone that allowed you direct communication with the dead – a Necrophone? Would you use it all the time? Would it be the most popular gadget of all time? Or would people be scared to use it? Would it make people too sad? Would it provoke a suicide epidemic?

All Nature unfolds within a Cosmic Mind, a Soul World – an immaterial Singularity outside space and time. Just as a dream – a simulation of spacetime – takes places inside the dreamer’s mind and never at any time leaves it, so the spacetime world produced at the Big Bang in fact occurs entirely within the Cosmic Mind (the Dreamer) that generated it. There is no “expansion” of space. All of spacetime reality unfolds within the Singularity, the Mind, just as all apparent spacetime dreams never once extend beyond the mind.

One of the greatest powers in the human world is the power of suggestion, including counter-suggestion. If you put people in a clinical, scientific environment, this acts as a massive counter-suggestion and prevents psychic phenomena from manifesting. You need to recreate the kinds of environments where paranormal events typically occur in order to provide the power of suggestion that will allow the mind to access, channel and manifest such phenomena. You cannot allow materialists and skeptics anywhere near paranormal research since they will generate an enormous field of counter-suggestion that will disrupt, sabotage and thwart the desired phenomena. If you tell people it can’t be done, it won’t be. If you tell people they can achieve the impossible, they will.

The real purpose of Christianity – Ouija Christianity, shall we say – was to show everyone that they have a divine nature as well as a human nature and the divine can be accessed and used to perform wonders and make this world a paradise. Unfortunately, the message got lost and the powers-that-be made Christianity into a message about an external God rather than an internal God, a God that had to be worshipped, and needed a Church and a power hierarchy for this purpose. Christendom required people to express individual faith in their “Lord and Savior”. The real Christian message wasn’t that you should worship God but that you should become God – by accessing your inner divine nature, just as Jesus had accessed his. He was the example for all of us, not a unique person different from all of us. Why do you think Jesus said, “For indeed, the kingdom of God is within you.

The real hard problem of consciousness is that consciousness does not intrinsically belong to you. It is something added to the individual by the group. No one is born conscious. Consciousness is learned, acquired, taught. Consciousness depends entirely on socialization. It has nothing to do with the individual and individualism. Humanity has never faced up to the implications of this. Consciousness is a cultural addition to biology. It’s about memes (culture) added to genes (biology).

What sort of danger is facing Ellie Green?” Crystal asked the board. The planchette began to move again. Slowly this time, tracing the letters determinedly, it spelled another single word: MURDER.

It was clear from the start that they were not like other children, therefore Susanna felt she had no choice but to set down rules. No walking in the moonlight, no Ouija boards, no candles, no red shoes, no wearing black, no going shoeless, no amulets, no night-blooming flowers, no reading novels about magic, no cats, no crows, and no venturing below Fourteenth Street. Yet no matter how Susanna tried to enforce these rules, the children continued to thwart her. They insisted upon being unusual. Eldest

I feel like I’m two drinks away from a ouija board.

are those who make ridiculous ‘super-hero’ style biopics about him that serve only to mock his real achievements. There are others who meticulously catalogue his shopping lists — or postcards that say no more than, ‘See you next weekend, George’ — as if they’re loaded with hidden gems. And where naïve fans used to sit around a Ouija board trying to contact Bruce, the Indian branch of ‘The Master Lee Fan Club’ now deifies him as a fully-fledged messiah — so fulfilling Bruce’s own prophecy that his art would one day become dogmatized and suffer the same fate as fundamentalist religions. Styles are parts dissected from the whole, divisive by nature, and keep men apart. When Bruce Lee said that styles keep men apart, he wasn’t only referring to various systems of martial art. If you apply it to everything in life, it’s equally relevant. ‘Style’ can just as easily apply to a lifestyle. Just as it can apply to any way of fighting, so it applies to

Sister Marie Romaine told us in the fifth grade that Catholics aren’t allowed to do divination—we weren’t to touch Ouija boards or Tarot cards or crystal balls, because things like that are seductions of the D-E-V-I-L—she always spelled it out like that, she’d never say the word. I’m not sure where the Devil came into it, but somehow I couldn’t bring myself to let Deb do readings for me. She was, last night, though, in my dream. I used to watch her do it for other people; the Tarot cards fascinated me—maybe just because they seemed forbidden. But the names were so cool—the Major Arcana, the Minor Arcana; Knight of Pentacles, Page of Cups, Queen of Wands, King of Swords. The Empress, the Magician. And the Hanged Man. Well, what else would I dream about? I mean, this was not a subtle dream, no doubt about it. There it was, right in the middle of the spread of cards, and Deb was telling me about it. “A man is suspended by one foot from a pole laid across two trees. His arms, folded behind his back, together with his head, form a triangle with the point downward; his legs form a cross. To an extent, the Hanged Man is still earthbound, for his foot is attached to the pole.” I could see the man on the card, suspended permanently halfway between heaven and earth. That card always looked odd to me—the man didn’t seem to be at all concerned, in spite of being upside-down and blind-folded. Deb kept scooping up the cards and laying them out again, and that one kept coming up in every spread. “The Hanged Man represents the necessary process of surrender and sacrifice,” she said. “This card has profound significance,” she said, and she looked at me and tapped her finger on it. “But much of it is veiled; you have to figure out the meaning for yourself. Self-surrender leads to transformation of the personality, but the person has to accomplish his own regeneration.” Transformation of the personality. That’s what I’m afraid of, all right. I liked Roger’s personality just fine the way it was! Well … rats. I don’t know how much the D-E-V-I-L has to do with it, but I am sure that trying to look too far into the future is a mistake. At least right now.

This is hard. I have to choose between Father John, a Ouija board, and true love.

Proof? You got it! Did the devil himself pay a visit to Brooks and her sister to reinforce a message? In 1979 my sister, me, and two friends played with the Ouija. We were children and it was just another board game to play. We asked it if the Devil was real. At that point the doorbell rang so we all went to the door. Through the door chain we could see a very well-dressed man. The only thing he said was, “Is this proof enough?” He then left. After that my sister and me have never touched one since. A demon named Sebaliel

Okay. We need to be touching, right?” I reached over to Archer, then held my hand out for Elizabeth. Her skin was cool and so soft I wondered if she’d ever done anything rougher than hold a pen with that hand. Ringo completed the circle and I stifled a smirk. There should have been a Ouija board on the table in front of us.

The Ouija Board has been evil since 1973.  Why 1973?  That's the year The Exorcist was released into theatres, raising the horror genre to a new level and forever demonizing this once effective communication device.

Once he accidentally singed his pubic hair while prancing about in a gold lamé g-string during a fire ritual. 

Kelly O. realized she had a problem with her Ouija board when an aggressive entity turned the planchette into a sex toy and sent it slithering up her thigh.

Maybe those campers were into something strange,” Maria mused. “Did you see any Ouija boards or salt circles? Any summoning Cthulhu with a pop-up gate to hell? I hear the Dark Lord loves toasted marshmallows.

sleep paralysis” when the conscious mind wakes up before this restraining function does. The result is a feeling of immobility and

Why not throw in an amnesia victim, a crazy parrot, and a Ouija board to keep it interesting?

5. Although Sanders and especially Pinnock often speak of the importance of faith, they rarely listen to what the New Testament has to say about the content of faith, about the object of faith. Consider, for example, the following statements: “people can receive the gift of salvation without knowing the giver or the precise nature of the gift.”77 Inclusivism “denies that Jesus must be the object of saving faith.”78 “‘Saving faith’…does not necessitate knowledge of Christ in this life. God’s gracious activity is wider than the arena of special revelation. God will accept into his kingdom those who repent and trust him even if they know nothing of Jesus.”79 “Faith in God is what saves, not possessing certain minimum information.”80 “A person is saved by faith, even if the content of faith is deficient (and whose is not?). The Bible does not teach that one must confess the name of Jesus to be saved.”81 “The issue that God cares about is the direction of the heart, not the content of theology.”82 Some of this argument is slanted by the form of the proferred antitheses. For example: “Faith in God is what saves, not possessing certain minimum information.” At one level that is surely correct: merely possessing information, minimal or otherwise, does not save. Christians are not gnostics. On the other hand, the form of the antithesis may allow the unwary to overlook the fact that faith has content, or an object. Does faith in, say, a ouija board save? How about sincere faith in astrology? Pinnock says it is “faith in God” that saves. But which God? The Buddhist impersonal God? And even if we assume we are dealing with the true God, does all faith in this God save, when we are told that even the devils believe? Again: “The issue that God cares about is the direction of the heart, not the content of theology.” At one level, I would strenuously agree. Yet at the same time, I would want to add that if the direction of the heart is truly right, one of the things it will be concerned about is the content of theology. Does Paul sound as if he does not care about the content of theology in Galatians 1:8-9? Does John, in 1 John 4:1-6? Far from resorting to antitheses, John purposely links sound doctrine, transparent obedience, and love for the brothers and sisters in Christ, as being joint marks of the true believer (and thus of true faith!).

You rock. Marie said you might have a poltergeist from the Ouija board. Like Paranormal Activity and shit.” She

Tell us the truth, O. What happened?” She turned away from the mirror and shook her head. “I don’t know. I kept hearing those plastic beotches saying shit about me—like I moved the Ouija marker on purpose or that I was a crackhead. Then they said I was cutting myself and Abbey told everyone." "Sluts. That Ripley is a whore. She let the French teacher—" "—Okay, gross. Dude, come on." Naoms

Did you see any Ouija boards or salt circles? Any summoning Cthulhu with a pop-up gate to hell? I hear the Dark Lord loves toasted marshmallows.

By noon, we had run almost every test we could do in our own small lab, and found one or two useless things. First, the basic broth was made from one of the commercially popular high-octane energy drinks. Human blood had been added in and, although it was difficult to be absolutely certain using the small and badly degraded sample, I was reasonably sure it had come from several sources. But the last ingredient, the organic something, remained elusive. “Okay,” I said at last. “Let’s go at this a different way.” “What,” Vince said, “with a Ouija board?” “Almost,” I said. “How about we try inductive logic?” “Okay, Sherlock,” he said. “More fun than gas chromatography any day.” “Eating your fellow humans is not natural,” I said, trying to put myself into the mind of someone at the party, but Vince interrupted my slow-forming trance. “What,” he said, “are you kidding? Didn’t you read any history at all? Cannibalism is the most natural thing in the world.” “Not in twenty-first-century Miami,” I said. “No matter what they say in the Enquirer.” “Still,” he said, “it’s just a cultural thing.” “Exactly,” I said. “We have a huge cultural taboo against it that you would have to overcome somehow.” “Well, you got ’em drinking blood, so the next step isn’t that big.

Dihil is the Apache word for Dark. Cameron and