George Webb Diary Entry:

15 July 2025 – Mars Rises. Libido Ascends.

Awoke covered in wax. Unsure if from last night’s ritual or the candles I hallucinated.

Note: The secret of the 7th door of the Sephiroth is not a door, but a mirror. 

The wax has been encased in a fine carapace of amber lacquer, glinting faintly in the morning haze like a pharaoh’s forgotten heirloom. Most distressing to the bedsheets. Upon closer inspection, it would seem that the cause lay in either ritual or rendezvous — though the boundary between the two is becoming harder to discern these days.

The evening had commenced with an attempt to perform a devotional working in the style of the pre-Roman moon cults — nothing excessive, just some sacred geometry chalked on the floor, seven beeswax tapers, and a respectful silence pierced only by an old vinyl of Ligeti. Somewhere between the second and third oration, I experienced a deep swoon and awoke, hours later, varnished.

Alternatively — and this is no less plausible — Candle may have returned.

She is not, as one might assume, an inanimate object, but a woman of great theatrical ambition and a fondness for sensory abstraction. We met some months ago during a panel discussion on Saint Teresa’s ecstasies. Last night, I believe she arrived unannounced (though the door was left 'ajar' in every sense). There may have been murmurs of Latin. She may have "read my palm" — in the continental sense. One can never be certain with Candle. She leaves no calling card but the scent of bergamot and an indecent number of tea lights.

My sketchbook has been lightly reinterpreted. Some of the pages now bear fluid spirals in what appears to be lipstick. I shall take this as a sign of approval. 

5pm I sat to contemplate for a while, only to be betrayed by a nap. I’ve begun referring to these abrupt mid-afternoon surfacings as Second Births. One never quite emerges refreshed, but rather shifted. I was disturbed by a vision of a woman's hand — gloved in viridian latex — A gentle pressure on my sternum — as if she were giving a stern prod to Baphomet's underbelly — quieting the beast before it remembered her name. No voice accompanied it, and I awoke with the unshakable certainty that someone in Boise — someone I'm yet to meet — has buried an important artefact, something not meant for daylight, in their crawlspace.

I’ve long suspected that beneath this particular quadrant of Boise — beneath the smooth concrete driveways and politely xeriscaped yards — there breathes a darker chamber. The sub-chambers here are not merely for plumbing and insulation; no, some of them open wider than they should. The one in question, I believe, is toad-infested. Not garden toads, but the bulbous, tar-skinned familiars that gather uninvited when certain names are whispered through the floorboards. I’ve heard them at night — the rhythmic thumping of their wet bellies against wood, a syncopated summons. And deep within, there is something else. Not visible, not named. But I felt it during my walk today — like a low pressure behind my eyes, or a smell just beyond smell. Perhaps I will plan to catch a toad for hallucinatory experiments. 

I have no anxiety. Only proprietary concern. Whatever it is, it clearly relates to me. The Auric Phlegmatode (Bufo aureolux)

Appearance: Gleams like polished brass; skin glistens with a viscous golden secretion that smells faintly of saffron and battery acid. Its eyes appear to weep molten amber, though this may be a visual side effect.

Habitat: Only found in damp root cellars where religious icons have been stored and forgotten — particularly those with flaking gold leaf and unspeakable provenance.

Effect: When touched (not licked — its skin sings when disturbed), induces a fugue state in which the disciple becomes convinced they are a minor deity of forgotten light. This state is euphoric, operatic, and delusional.

The local news is dismal, of course; Lost pets, petty fraud, the occasional soft-focus feature on artisanal sourdough. I’ve long believed that the true stories — the active narratives — are buried beneath the permissible ones. Boise, as a city, wears khakis and drinks kombucha but was built on rituals, explosions, and blood-soaked land deeds. I enquired with the librarian, I'm now quite certain there is a portal in the library basement. A sequestered one. The kind that sighs rather than shrieks. So many guilt-mazes, ancestral oubliettes, whole networks of regret spiralling beneath the very surface of every idle thought. Coincidental or an extension of my gold mine investigations?

I spent the late afternoon walking the grid between 8th and Grove, watching for signs. A dog blinked at me twice — once for “yes,” once for “be careful.” I recorded the exchange. A man in a U-Haul coughed as I passed. It was just that sort of cough — a dry Morse, a warning from those who monitor the Gate.

Nothing concrete yet. But I’ve left my physical ghost calling card above ground.

I shall dine lightly tonight and sleep with the blinds ajar. If they come, I want their shadows to fall across the room like last rites. I’ve applied a poultice of gin-soaked figs and Saint John’s Wort to the rash. And a late night tonic for Shesmu. He did not answer, the pain curdled.