The voice is no longer confined to my dreams. I and my unseen blood kin are in constant communion. For the most part, I feel safe and powerful, but I have one angst, one thing that puts a cold chill down my spine, one thing that instills fear in me: every time I pass near to, or even regard an oven, I shudder and my knees turn to jelly.
I think back to one of the earliest messages I received, “Hot ovens are being prepared. Come. Help us.” There must be a connection. But what? I am at a loss to understand it.
As I walk through places of business, and along the streets, I feel my power growing. I hold my head up and smile and look people in the eye as they pass, and they sense my magick and lower their gaze. They know, but they do not comprehend. They do not see what I see all around me; they do not hear what I hear.
