Our terrestrial God is fascinating, and the Judeo-Christian Bible is an invaluable index to the neurogenetic level of the period in which it was written. The genetic stage of gene pool can be identified by the personality characteristics of the Local God. God of Genesis is an Earth God. He generously created the Heaven and the stars and the World, but, much like the Mrs. Winchester, provides no technical details or replicable blueprints. His preoccupation, whims, anxieties, jealousies, rules and gender roles have come to represent the traditional society. God owns the Garden—which many think is where the idea of The American Dream and nuclear family came from—and allows Adam and Eve their tenancy there. He has the right to ban them from the garden for disobeying His laws. God puts his warrior guards on the periphery of His turf to scare off intruders. God exemplifies stage five demanding with the intelligence of a Lion. A post-terrestrial God would not be concerned with possession of territory. Such a DNA ecological-engineer God would understand that all creatures must evolve through the marine, territorial, artifact, and social technologies and that they must self-actualize at each evolution, passing the second stage infant fish-brained mentality, the fifth stage mammalian-brained demanding, the eight-stage detailed-brained pedantic juvenile and eleventh stage domesticated adult, as well as those advanced stages of self-divinity. #RandolphHarris 1 of 13

When their precious little baby says, “My…and mine” wise parents smile because it is the beginning of the definition of reality and self in terms of territory. When the like stage eight detailed-brained juvenile humanoid proudly presents a crayon drawing or some original symbolic creation, every wise parent smiles praise. When the children fool around with the Tree of Good and Evil—the socio-sex rituals of the local give-it is true that terrestrial parents get upset. However, this is no reason to throw the children out of the house and put a flaming torch at the front door to keep the poor errant youngster from contritely creeping back. The God has not reached the technological level of the civilized stage of parental cultural transmission. The fact that pleasures of the flesh is not a concern of the Genesis supports the suggestion that in this folk legend we are dealing with the reality of a seventh stage parrot-brained Paleolithic-herding tribe obsessed with territory-moving uneasily into an eight-stage inventive self-actualization brain. Thus, the Holy Bible is revealed to be the word of God. It is a collection of sacred books written by ancient prophets and historians. These authors recorded the relationship between God and His people for over 4.000 years. The inspired words are what we know today as the Holy Bible. #RandolphHarris 2 of 13

The power of the Christians who follow the Bible that emerged from the Old Testament tradition is rural, pre-urban. Fundamentalist Christianity appeals to pre-civilized, prudish tribal people who are not Worldly and not ready for urban feudal pleasures. The Bible becomes a valuable ethological document to help us locate the evolutionary stage which emerged in the Middle East at biblical times. The Principle of Correspondence keeps us from rejecting the Judeo-Christian Bible as erroneous. The same power which, when misgoverned, drags men down into materialism, also lifts them into spiritual awareness when directed upward. Where all a man’s acts are merely the reflex behaviour dictated by his sense-impressions, he has hardly any life higher than an animal one. It is the business of this quest to insert the influence of consciousness of the causes and results of his actions, reason, and will into such behaviour. There are certain indestructible truths which reveal themselves through the ages to every man who, for a time at least, sufficiently masters his animal self and sufficiently quietens his human self. Those which we most need to learn today are simple and ancient, yet completely relevant to the modern scene and completely adequate to the modern need. #RandolphHarris 3 of 13

It is everywhere the state today that most people are automatons, merely reacting to the outward World of the five senses in a mechanical manner. They do not really control what is happening to them but merely drift with the forces playing through the sense-stimuli. The consequence is that they do not actually possess or use the power of free will. They are puppets on Nature’s stage. When any emotion takes full possession and reaches an extreme stage, it becomes a passion. One does not easily discard the various passions. The decision to do so does not lead, or even contribute much, to their conquest. It merely announces the beginning of a long war. They return, in spite of one’s wishes, again and again for they belong to the animal body which, itself, cannot be discarded. However, in the end a man must claim his birthright to a higher kind of life, must fulfil his nobler possibilities, must set up reason and intuition as his most reliable guides. If your thoughts are energized by a noble passion and your deeds inspired by a lofty enthusiasm, they are the better for it. However, if your thoughts are distorted by a foolish passion and your deeds wasted by a misdirected enthusiasm, they are the worse for it. The same ambition which stretched his mind and capacity for money-making power-hunting can, when transformed into aspiration, stretch them for truth-seeking and character building. #RandolphHarris 4 of 13

It is not even that he has to give up all desires but that he has to purify them and put them all under the dominance of his one supreme desire for attainment—which may or may not mean their extinction. The Victorian periods was not only a haunted age, lending itself to every type of illusions, event at the level of bricks and mortar. One autumn evening in 1890, I found myself at the Observational Tower. It was dark, the Tower has a kind of airy vastness about it. That night, at the witching hour, the three doors to one of the rooms were firmly closed and the curtains drawn as I sat down in the company of my niece Daisy, and dog Zip. The room, its walls nearly nine feet deep, were the home to the most formidable ghosts. The fireplace projected far into the room, and an oil painting hung over it. Daisy set with her back to the fire, as I cried out “Good God—what is that?” Hanging above the oblong table was what I can only describe as a translucent cylinder about three inches in diameter, and within it a bluish and white colour commingled in constant flux. It moved behind Daisy, and she shrank away from it, exclaiming, Oh Christ!! It has seized me!” One of the servants swiftly jumped into action and hurled a chair towards it just as it crossed the upper end of the table and vanished into the recess of a window. He dashed out of the room and summoned more servants. Even now when writing I feel the fresh horror of the moment. #RandolphHarris 5 of 13

The Tower held spirits that were thought to have been dead and tortured for thousands of years. However, some of the Tower’s ghosts were more subtle—a baby crying; a hand on the shoulder while sitting in a bath; the smell of incense and horse sweat coming from nowhere—but the rest make up a tableau of blood. Screams are heard emanating from the Tower and servants often see a woman being pursued by a headsman, who eventually hacks her to the ground. Pools of blood that appear on the floor come from a fourteenth century nobleman who died of his wounds after battling the French incursions which made the Isle of Wight almost uninhabitable during that period. One particularly harrowing night, I woke to find myself not in my bed, but standing at the entrance to one of the basements. The heavy wooden door creaked open of its own accord, revealing a staircase that seemed to descend into infinite darkness. From below came the sounds of chains rattling and distant, agonized moans. As I stood there, paralyzed with fear, I felt an unseen force beginning to pull me down the stairs. It took every modicum of strength I had to resist, to turn and flee back to the safety of the upper floors. Daisy found herself drawn to the ancient mirror in her room, spending hours staring into its depths. She began to see things in its silvered surface—glimpses of the past, of the atrocities committed by the Winchester Rifle. #RandolphHarris 6 of 13

However, more terrifying were the glimpses of possible futures, each more horrific than the last. In one, she saw a creature of darkness, a vicious monster, stained with blood, stalking the halls alongside other spirits. In another, she witnessed the gruesome demise of my estate at the hands of a spectral baron. His eyes ranged over us; his mouth formed into a cruel smile. He laughed, deep and loud, and with a sudden careless gesture dropped my entire home to the ground. Not only did we all perish, but legions of the dead had just lost their home. The specter then wiped some blood from the corner of his mouth with his arm, and smiled again. It was as he smirked in triumph that he held out a small gold crucifix. Daisy ran to me in tears. “Aunt Sarah,” she said, “I understand nothing except horror and misery!” “Things will get better,” said I gently, “when we have done what we have to do.” Cautiously, I moved nearer to Daisy. Her eyes blazed with fury. With a grisly grin, she back away from me to the door-to-nowhere. Daisy delivered a horrible squeal. Her withering body seemed to fade into tiny specks, forming a floating shape which slipped under the narrow crack at the bottom of the door. Stepping up to the door, I stood blinking in astonishment. I stretched out my arms to her, but she did not return. Putting my head in my hand, I sobbed. #RandolphHarris 7 of 13

The trapdoor in the floor now opened of its own accord, the darkness below calling to me with promises of release from the terror—if only I would descend those winding stairs. I went down into the darkness, and at the very bottom, lighting a candle. The room became a prison. The walls seemed to close in on me, the ancient bricks whispering secrets that threatened to drive me mad. I tried everything I could think of to bring Daisy back and rid myself of this evil presence. I brought in priests to perform exorcisms, but the holy water turned to blood as soon as it touched the floors of Llanada Villa. Crucifixes twisted themselves into pentagrams. Mediums fled as flames from the fireplace took on a life of their own, forming themselves into fiery apparitions that chased them through the halls and sent them screaming from the property, speaking in malevolent tongue. As the sanity of the servants began to fray, they would find themselves slipping into fugue states, coming to awareness hours later with no memory of what had transpired. I squeezed Mr. Hansen’s arm as we traversed the miles and miles of hallways and rooms looking for my dear Daisey. Mr. Hansen gasped when we opened on of the doors. There was Daisey. In the quiet of one of the beds, resting from the horrible impulses which made her stalk the night. She was beautiful. Her eyes were closed, her expression serene. #RandolphHarris 8 of 13

“Is she dead?” Mr. Hansen breathed. “No,” I replied. “She is not dead. But my home will never be at peace until we release Llanada from this evil cruse. My family and I will die, and new victims and multiplying evils will be unleashed on this World. Souls are in torment. Mr. Hansen, I need you to perform an act of great love and great courage. For although my home is the size of many mansions, if we do not continue to build, we will all be killed!” Mr. Hansen stepped forward. “I’m ready,” he said. Mr. Hansen took a small book from his pocket and began to recite a prayer. The ancient words of worship echoed around the labyrinth. A hideous, blood curdling screech came from Daisy’s open lips. The house shook and twisted wildly; it bones groaning in agony. Mr. Hansen picked up a hammer, retrieved my notes from the bureau and called the carpenters back to work. The foul things that had taken over Daisey’s body had gone, and in its place lay the real Daisy. Her face was very beautiful, but she was ravaged with pain and suffering. “So we did the right thing,” one of the carpenter said. “Did you doubt it?” asked Mr. Hansen. The evocative language of cutting and shaping wood produced a distinct rustling sound. High-pitched whines evoked an urgency and intensity. The crisp slicing of the saw, the rhythmic thumping of the hammering and nailing which reverberated through the air, and as well as the creaking chorus of grating and groaning wood produced a symphony that was very soothing and invigorating. #RandolphHarris 9 of 13

A week later, in the downstairs study, Mr. Hansen was sitting at the desk frowning in concentration. He had called the carpenters all together for an important meeting. “One part of our work is over,” he said. “But a greater task remains. It is imperative that the haunting groan of timber, the ominous creek of stained wood, the hypnotic beat of the hammer, continues to carry its emotional weight, never ceasing. That is the only way we can stop the author of all our sorrow. And…”He paused, looking slowly at the expectant faces in front of him. “And keep Mrs. Winchester and her family alive,” Mr. Hansen said vehemently, to murmurs of agreement. Now that the battle was finally out in the open, I regained all my strength and spirit. I no longer felt like I was alone in the World, battling this curse on my own. I now had a team. “We all know what happened to poor Annie and Mr. Winchester,” Mr. Hansen said gravely, “and those of you who weren’t already familiar with Sarah Winchester’s journal have now read it. Very few people,” he said with admiration, “have faced what she has faced and lived to tell the tale. Her journal provides an invaluable insight into the powers and habits these ghosts and demons on humanity.” Mr. Hansen began to pace up and down the length of the study, stroking his chin thoughtfully. “I have made it my task to learn as much as possible about the many dangers we face in The Winchester Mansion. #RandolphHarris 10 of 13

“Arkie will testify to the days and night I have spent in this room, in that chair, reading Mrs. Winchester’s diagrams and interpreting her architectural notes, reading books and papers untouched for centuries. My purpose in calling this meeting is to shape my knowledge—my knowledge of the ghosts killed by Yellow Boy.” Abruptly he stopped pacing up and down, stood behind his chair and thumped the table. “There are such beings as demons, ghouls, and ghosts. Spring Heeled Jack is the greatest and most evil demon there has ever been. He is as strong as twenty men and has the cunning that comes from living over a thousand years. He has claws, eyes as red as fireballs, and wings.” I suddenly interrupted. “Correct. He can rip anyone to shreds with his bare hands. And he has other tricks. He can cause fogs, he can fade into the walls. All he was wants to do is harm the living. So, please, keep building nonstop.” A chilling wind whipped around us, carrying with it the echoes of tormented souls. Spectral hands clawed at the carpenters from the shadows, leaving icy trails across their faces. “Be careful,” Mr. Hasen warned, his grip on his hammer tightening. “Try not to get too impatient or angry.” They all fell silent. With steadfast purpose they walked in a single file from one room to another, gathering tools to continue construction. #RandolphHarris 11 of 13

After the men returned to work, I buried my noise in my old books. I wanted to keep myself busy so I would not worry about the curse. I needed to know as much as possible about the enemy. The men were systematically working. The book frightened me. I snaped it shut and decided to go to bed. What I needed was a good night’s sleep. In the process of working on the west wing, the men had become too confident. “Saw a ghost just then,” Emrys observed, as he nailed wood to the wall. “A ghost over there,” Silas said. “Masses of them here,” Ambrose said a little lighter, just as he was opening his toolbox. Of the fifteen men that were on duty, only four remained. The men glanced up from their work and looked around the room. Ghosts were appearing from nowhere, floating and hovering across the mansion’s floor, horribly flying over their heads. Mr. Hansen heard their screams and came running into the room. “We must continue building!” he shouted, looking at the horror of the ghosts around them. “Now prepare for blood to flow,” an incarnate voice said. “Shut up!” Arkie shouted, desperately running from the room. “Hurry!” Mr. Hansen called from the door. The other three men had already run out of the room. Arkie made a last, frantic lunge, and just managed to get safely into the hallway. #RandolphHarris 12 of 13

Immediately ghost converged into the hallway, and in less than a second, they were smothered in complete darkness. They felt as if they were being frozen to death. The ghosts were clawing at their faces, whispering in their ears. They tried to fight their way out of it. The men thought this was the end. At that moment, the lights came on and the ghosts vanished. While I was sleeping, the chambermaid witnessed a white mist. It came creeping under the door, low like a snake, and pressed itself against the walls and windows. Then it seeped into the new room through the wall. She looked down at me and was pleased that I was sleeping so soundly. However, in the morning, as the chambermaid was telling me about the night’s events, Mr. Hansen noticed I did not look very well. “Mrs. Winchester, are you coming down with something?” he asked. I admitted, “I feel so tired and weak.” “Although I am very thankful to be employed in your service, I was going to ask you if I could take leave?” “For how long, Mr. Hasen?” “Permanently.” “Good architects are the very devil to find these days, Mr. Hansen,” I said, “and there can be no one else like you. Do stay on, there’s a good chap. I would be lost without you.” By all rights, Mr. Hansen should have long ago retied, spent his savings on a country cottage and devoted the rest of his life to his own garden. However, I had been insistent that he should stay on. So many employees had disappeared. His place being taken over by someone else sounded strange, unfathomable. I could not have him absent from the house. Mr. Hansen was a good-heated old soul, and his job was secure for as long as he wished it to be. #RandolphHarris 13 of 13

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