Date: April 1, 2021

The author eventually known as Elijah is writing these words.

I’m a 35-year-old divorced bachelor with no children. Formerly taking only a passing interest in ghosts and demons, I became more interested in the supernatural while viewing reality TV. When social media posts from one known as White Buffalo piqued my curiosity, the following events occurred.

I drove up to White Buffalo’s house to discuss my writing of his memoir. His yard was cluttered with junk: old tractors, engines, transmissions, and things I didn’t recognize. A large dog barked somewhere. The back was surrounded by an older, tall wooden fence. Four tall Lombardy poplars adorned the west side of the house. A classic Ford pickup sat in the shade of the trees.

After weaving my way through the junk to the front door, I knocked on the front door. After a moment, a young woman answered my knock. I asked her if White Buffalo was home.

She turned and yelled, “Dad, someone is here to see you!” I felt a little silly asking for someone with the name “White Buffalo.”

“Just a minute,” she said, then walked away from the door. She’d left it part way open. So feeling a little nervous about this visit, I dared to take a peek inside. But all I could see was some old chairs and a beat up sectional.

A man came to the door and greeted me. I recognized White Buffalo’s round, cherubic face from pics I’d seen on his social media account. Standing somewhere between 5’3 and 5’5, he wasn’t tall by today’s standards.His clothing was modern but unpretentious. He wore baggy blue jeans, a Boise State University football t-shirt, and a baseball cap turned forward to shade his brown, soulful eyes that held just a hint of pain.

White Buffalo's youthful appearance belied the fact that he was forty years old. I wiped my sweaty palm on my pants and shook his hand. He explained that an unusual kind of drama had interrupted his quiet work and family life. This matched with his social media posts. It seemed that angels and archangels were his allies in a supernatural war in which demons, arch-demons and an assortment of evil people - Illuminati, demons, and someone named Sammy Housso - were constantly assailing him and his family.

The door opened into a living room plainly furnished with a sectional, a couple of old comfy chairs and a wall-mounted big screen TV. A picture window provided a southern view of the unkempt front yard full of cars on blocks and torn-down tractors. On the horizon was a collection of parched desert hills. To the southwest were the still snow-capped peaks of the Owyhee mountain range that extends from southeast Idaho into Oregon.

“Have a seat wherever you want,” said White Buffalo. “Would you like something to drink?”

“Sure. I’ll have some water. By the way," I asked, holding up my digital recorder, "do I have your permission to tape these interviews?”

“Yes, you have my permission,” he said on the way to the kitchen. I turned on my digital recorder and stated my name, the current date, and the purpose of the interview into the mic.

White Buffalo handed me a glass of water. I held it up and thanked him. He sat down in a shabby chair as if it was a throne. I waited. He held his hands with palms up and gave me an expectant look, so I began the interview.

“Let’s start. Can you explain who you are first?”

“I’m a member of the Arapaho Native American tribe,” he said. “I fight for Jesus and for those whose names were moved to the Book of Death. My mother taught me everything she knows about the Holy Spirit when I was a child. By night, I fought tooth and nail on the streets of Modesto, California even though I was too young to join the gangs. As an adult, I am fighting Manchurian death priests and plague rats. My father was murdered by Set’s sons."

It was challenging to keep up with White Buffalo because of the quantity of information he could dispense in one throw. And the speed at which he spoke bordered on mania. I found it a lot to unpack, so I mentally noted it and moved on.

“Why have you decided to put your adventures into book form?” I asked.

White Buffalo shifted a little bit in his chair, cleared his throat, and replied, “Well, I want people to know about me, to know that a person such as myself exists…that I am Enoch/MetaTron, brought down to Earth from my seat next to God’s throne.”

Puzzled by the sudden use of names that were unknown to me, I asked, “Pardon me, who is Enoch/MetaTron?”

White Buffalo leaned forward in his chair and replied, “I see you have very little knowledge of these things. But I’ll teach you. I understand you ask these questions because you haven't been to Hell itself. I have. You haven't seen the kind of things I’ve seen. I walked in Hell for nine hours, yet here I am now talking to you. I gave my life for an innocent man and was reborn. Now I am Enoch, the archangel MetaTron. Not my choice, God's choice. But I am also just a dumb old man. The time when the Holy Ghost made me scream, ‘I rebuke you, Turiel!,’ I didn't even know what ‘rebuke’ meant.”

I was already aware from social media that White Buffalo was an expert on the supernatural. But he hadn’t discussed any of this online.

“Who is ‘Turiel’?”

“Turiel is a shadow lord from Tartarus. A fallen archangel. He made a mistake while attacking me in a desperation move, so I sent him back to Tartarus. One blow with my fist. Done!

"Hold on. I need to make a request of you before we continue.”

#

After fighting Boise's morning traffic, I returned about an hour later bearing White Buffalo's request.

“Thanks for the tequila!” White Buffalo said, “I appreciate you so much. I needed it. Flashbacks hurt me bad. You got me my favorite, too. I will savor it slowly.”

I didn't argue with him about his request. The tequila bribe wasn't very expensive, and I was willing to do what it takes, to an extent, to get more details out of White Buffalo. I find paranormal narratives to be quite intriguing.

If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

“You're welcome. But what flashbacks are you referring to?”

“They go back to the fall of 2017 when the occult first tried to capture me. I'd downloaded a ten gig file from someone who worked at the multicultural center at BSU." This is the college in Boise from which White Buffalo earned his degree in geology. "He had dragon statues on his Satanic altar. He didn't know that my mother was a black magic witch and that she raised me with complete information on ancient occult knowledge, languages and religions.

“I came into my power when I accepted Christ into my heart. He alone has given me a life worth living. So when the occult made a bold move against me while I was out of town, I gave them a taste of their own medicine just to teach them a lesson.”

I’m pretty sure that the multicultural center he referred to was the Center for Multicultural and Educational Opportunities at Boise State University. Not that I believed his narrative. It is highly unlikely that the Center for Multicultural and Educational Opportunities was, or ever will be, a hotbed for devil worship. Still, I was there as a freelance reporter and biographer of events, not as a judge of their validity.

"What did you do then?" I asked.

“I told my wife of their attempt on me,” he continued. “But she was skeptical until the occultist went to my house and told my wife that I showed him my privates and that I wanted him sexually. My wife told him to leave and never come back ‘or else.’ "

"'Or else' what? Were you supposed to go after him?"

"She’s a black belt. He said he wanted me to delete the data I’d downloaded. That data is a life's compilation of all false religions and occult practices."

"But what's so important about this data that it needs to be deleted?"

"It ties the New Age religion to Eastern dragon worship and the Aleister Crowley teachings for the ‘synagogue’ of Satan. It ties the Illuminati cult with the temple of Set with the church of Satan to the New Age cult and to the Juggalo gang. They all work together as one religious teaching intending to bring demonic war to every inch of the globe and on Christians everywhere.”

“That’s very interesting.” I’m not a conspiracy theorist, so I was just trying to be nice at this point. “White Buffalo, I first learned about you when I came across some of your Facebook posts. You know the ones I'm referring to. But they disappeared soon after you posted them. Why did you take them down?”

“I didn't take them down. I told you, it was the Illuminati who deleted my posts. The cowards stalk me online and in the real world. They threaten me and my family.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” I said. “Can you tell me more about the events behind those posts?”

“I can tell you, but it might be best to show you if you have the guts to come along.” He stared into the distance for a few seconds, then said, “A very talented psychic friend of mine named Roy told me about a spirit portal located above the South Yuba River campgrounds in California. It’s near the ghost mining town of Lake City. Demon worshippers from the Temple of Set meet there. He told me they hold demonic rituals around one of the abandoned mines. The activity lasts from April to June. Roy asked me to go up to the mountains and investigate. He said he heard about it from Amy."

I omitted Amy's last name for privacy. "Who is Amy?"

"She's a very talented psychic that he works with. She told him it would take an army of priests to exorcise all the demons at this location."

“Why did he choose you for this? Why didn’t he go instead?”

“Boise isn’t as far from Yuba. Roy lives two thousand miles from there.”

“Well, okay,” I said. “I'll see if I can set aside some time to ride along with you.”

“Nice! I sensed that you might have potential when I first saw you.”

“Potential for what, may I ask?” I asked.

“For spiritual empowerment. For experiencing a truth so profound that it’ll literally change your life.”

***

Date: April 17, 2021

I arrived at White Buffalo's house in preparation for the camping trip to South Yuba River Park located in the northern Sierra Nevada mountain range of California. He was stowing his camping gear into the bed of an older model Ford F-100. I saw a tent, sleeping bag, camp stove, and other amenities such as bottled beer and the tequila I bought him during our initial interview. After we shook hands, he thanked me again for the tequila and stated with an air of sincerity that his truck had “EMP shielding” to protect its occupants from “electromagnetic pulses.”

White Buffalo gestured toward a stranger standing next to an old junked tractor.

“This is my daughter’s boyfriend, Seth,” said White Buffalo. “He decided to come along with us on this trip. Seth, this is the writer who is going to put my life down on paper.”

“Pleased to meet you,” I said, shaking his hand. Seth looked to be somewhere in his twenties; he had a tall, slender build. His demeanor was stoic and reserved, but he seemed pleasant enough. He gave me a slight nod in greeting when we shook hands. He had a small but polite smile. The entire time that I knew Seth, he never seemed to lose that smile.

White Buffalo said that Seth had heard about Roy's reports of occult occurrences and was coming along with us out of curiosity. “Isn’t that right, Seth?”

“It’s true,” replied Seth, interlacing his fingers on his chest. They formed a shape that reminded me of the Illuminati triangle. Over time, I found Seth to be yet another unusual character. He could be seen walking around with a thoughtful, enigmatic air as if permanently intrigued. His black-and-white striped hoodie reminded me of a look common to the priesthood of ancient Egypt. Along with a soul patch under his bottom lip, small goatee, and slim, oval sunglasses, he made for an intriguing figure. I wondered what his story was.

White Buffalo invited Seth and I inside his house to see his handmade sword collection and his forging equipment. He gently took down a sword from its wall mount and hefted it.

"I trapped their god with this sword I forged from pure Damascus steel," he said, holding one side of the sword towards me. "The temple of Set is now really the temple of the former Set," he said with a gleeful chuckle.

"Where did you trap him?" I asked.

"He's imprisoned in the steel hilt. I am a master demon binder. I can’t kill them, so I trap them in iron blades or flat iron surfaces. You can see their faces when they discover I've bound them. Look closely at the hilt and see the spirit mist with the entity's face looking back. There are a few other demons trapped with him. They have owl and baboon faces. People who lack in spirit sight can't see them."

I stared closely at the sword but saw only tiny flaws and imperfections in the steel and hilt. "Okay, I see them," I lied, squinting carefully at the sword.

"Very good!" White Buffalo said proudly. "You're starting to see beyond the veil." He pointed at one of the marks in the sword. "This is my prisoner, Set. Capture #16. The former Egyptian god of the Underworld!" he gushed. "My favorite capture. The principality himself. The god of the Illuminati and temple of Set," he chuckled. “This is my second sword. The first one is a fully-stuffed prison.” In other words, his original sword was too full to hold any more demons.

I inspected it again and thought I saw a baboon face staring at me.

"Is he looking at us?" I asked.

"Yes. Sometimes they come to the surface of the sword to look around," he explained. “He’s pissed off, see?"

"Yeah, it sure looks like it," I agreed. Seth only nodded, still smiling mysteriously with his fingers interlaced in a contemplative pose.

Seth and White Buffalo said their goodbyes to Allison, White Buffalo's daughter, while I waited in the pickup. White Buffalo was driving. Seth sat by the window while I rode the stick shift. When Seth spoke, it was usually in a quiet tone. So I surmised that White Buffalo would be the big talker. But if he’d bothered to tell me what might happen, I probably wouldn’t have gone along. By the same token, if White Buffalo had known what might happen next, I suppose he would’ve left me behind. However, I had no serious qualms, at the time, about accompanying them. I did feel a bit uncomfortable with the idea that I was dependent on someone else’s vehicle while in the mountains. And the fact that I was relying on strangers to do the right things didn’t fail to occur to me, either.

While I was busy pondering the simple idea of opening the truck door and walking away, White Buffalo backed out of the driveway and gunned it.