THE PALE DUKE MURMUR, another of the notable necromantic spirits… I’ve heard this spirit described as a
hospice spirit, a gentle angel of death. Indeed, there is something very soothing about this spirit’s
presence. This spirit is a fallen angel, an excommunicate, from the order of virtues. Murmur’s name is
also spelt as Murmus, or Murmux, but in my experience they prefer the standard Murmur just fine. I
find this name beautiful, and poetic… it evokes the notion of whispers, of heart murmurs, of T.S.
Elliot’s line, “This is the way the world ends, not with a bang but a whimper”. Their sigil bears a
lot of resemblance to Decarabia’s, another fallen angel, who seems to be a complementary spirit to
Murmur.
Over the course of the winter of 2022/23, I had been battling a prolonged and unusual illness. It
would come in waves, around the time of the full moon each time-- and with it came a delirious fever
that would leave me bedridden. It was during the second bout of this illness that I first made contact
with Bifrons, where he had shown me some shallow realms of the dead. Like clockwork, I became sick a
month later and met Duke Murmur. In this feverish state Murmur visited to show me more fantastical
glimpses of the afterlife. Duke Murmur struck me as a busy, but very agreeable fellow– He works
tangentially to Bifrons and Gamigin, supervising above them in an 'office' of sorts. Though he did
say he works under one of the goetic kings, he said that he was left to these duties without any major
supervision. Within their office of necromancy, Bifrons worked to guide dead souls so they would not
get lost, while Gamigin took care of the clerical duties, such as writing down and weighing the sins of
those passed, so they could be taken to their proper place. Duke Murmur works as a psychopomp for the
‘so-called virtuous pagans’ in his own words, taking people with strong spirits away to more personally
tailored afterlives. It seems there was a time Murmur served as something of an angel of death, before
being essentially ‘laid off’ when the kingdom of heaven went under its change of management. He still
holds many of the ethics and virtues that angels are known for, but seems to have a cynical resentment
for the angelic order as it operates today.
Murmur has a very soft, airy, floaty feel to him. His presence feels like cotton fabric fresh out of
the dryer, or like a very fine veil over the room. He comes with a lightly floral tinge, like
lavender mints. I have never seen him appear with his mount, or in armor-- I’ve only seen him as a
skeletal figure or a black veiled angel. He is vocal, but not extremely, and spoke to me with a
strained, creaky voice– almost as if Skeletor had a bad case of strep throat. I detected the tiniest
bit of impatience from him at times, and his presence seems to pop in and out, where as soon as you
turn your attention away from him he dips out of the room as if tending to another errand. Still,
a very agreeable spirit, and has a kindness to him that is only somewhat flavored by cynicism… perhaps
‘jaded’ is a better word. For incense he requested myrrh, saying it reminded him of “the good old days”,
and though it’s a scent I find too strong for my preference, I felt it right to oblige for the duke.
On the first night of my feverish illness, Murmur came in with the night. I had been contemplating
the famed Joan of Arc earlier in the day-- and had felt a presence watching me from beyond
the veil. When Murmur arrived, he seemed aware of this, and took me to meet her. I saw Joan of Arc
as she was in life, with her humanity and vulnerabilities, and then I saw her death. It was a bizzare
scene, as she stood tied to that burning cross-- her skin bubbling and her eyes melting, and in this
moment she pleaded that I accept Christ. Even in my fever this scenario struck me as absurd, and as I
looked at the crowd of zealots who had her condemned, and the horrific spectacle of live immolation,
I was not convinced by her pleas. I even found myself arguing with this deceased Joan of Arc, as her
beauty became something charred and unrecognizable. Yet she remained insistent in her faith-- after all
this was a faith that had kept her spirit tied to this stake and burning for over 600 years in a display
of masochistic martyrdom. Similarly, I would not be so easily swayed as to renounce my practice and the
practice of my parents before me, just to suck up to the same god that double-crossed dear Joan. As
our theological differences clashed and her attempts to evangelize me only got me more heated, Murmur
sat on the sidelines with a shifty look, quietly chattering his teeth and trying not to get involved.
This debate ended in a huff, and I roused from my feverish vision feeling agitated.
Despite the unpleasant evangelizing, I found this experience historically enriching, and I gained a
respect for Joan of Arc. I found it impressive that despite the pain of her torment in the afterlife
she carried no resentment in her heart-- not for the officials of her faith who betrayed her, nor for
the angels who orchestrated this poetic end. Indeed, she seemed to take pride in her fate. She truly
loved the country she fought for, and became a legendary historical figure because of her tragic
execution. I suspect she even foresaw her own grisly death in one of her angelic visions, and marched
forward regardless. She carries no regrets for how she died, but seemed regretful watching Guilles de
Rais commit the sins that he did in his misguided loyalty to her, and how it turned out for him. Still,
her punishment continues, as a self-inflicted masochistic martyr complex that has burned for over 600
years– like one of the twinkling stars in the night sky of our annals of history. I am thankful to
Duke Murmur for arranging this thought-provoking and memorable encounter.
After this first night of feverish visions Duke Murmur had come back, this time with Decarabia-- and
they encircled me in a strange cocoon as they spun around me creating framey afterimages of seagulls
carrying starfish, among other fantastical scenes. Through this I was whisked away to a different
locale, no longer in my bedroom. I saw the house of a friend of mine, who lives in a different
continent. I saw vivid details of his house and surrounding neighborhood, to which I discussed with
him after the fact-- many of these details were consistent with his home, which I have never seen.
On the final night of feverish illness, I had another vision of Murmur. The majority of these spirits
predate the old testament, and predate Christ. The wisdom they have access to is ancient, antediluvian.
On this night Murmur showed me Yeshua of Nazareth's death, the crucifixion, and what I saw was very
different from the Christian gospel's interpretation. Indeed, I saw a soul that had been utterly
transformed over the course of 2000 years, a name that has been elevated to a non-human level of worship
and idolatry-- A person whose name is no longer pronounced the same as it was in life, and whose visage
has been transformed into a multiracial rainbow, tailored and personalized to each of his worshippers.
His death and his spirit was very different from Joan of Arcs in how I saw it... where Joan of Arc died
a blazing death and ultimately forgave her prosecutors, the man named Yeshua had a drawn-out crucixion
and he left the world filled with a bitter resentment. This Yeshua was just a man, and I could feel
these strong negative emotions emanating from him as he lamented his betrayal and painful execution. It
was a death so full of anguish that his spirit became a shade for many days after his passing, warped
into something grotesque from such a strong attatchment. Of course, this vision that I was shown
challenges the image of Jesus, and is therefore the highest blasphemy in the eyes of Christianity, but
nevertheless, it deeply moved me. I slept that night haunted by the intensity of hatred I felt from
this supposed messianic figure, and I kept what I had seen a secret until now.
An acrylic painting of Murmur as he later appeared to me.
Several months later, when my monthly bout of illness came back following a rainy weekend, I received
another visit from Murmur. This time, his appearance was more embodied, he appeared as an angel with
a bluish, semi-translucent skin, and his skeleton was visible beneath. I felt at this time that I
was ready to grapple with some difficult and deeply personal necromantic workings-- I wanted to visit
the spirit of my dead brother. He had taken his own life in a grisly way when I was young, and I had
spent a long time feeling very detatched from him. As if Murmur knew that it was time, he visited much
like he had previously, only this time he personally gave me his blessing. With a cold touch he etched a
shape of some sort into my forehead, and watched over the bed as I entered a vision in another bout of
feverish delirium.
I had already been somewhat aware of my brother's state in the afterlife, I knew at least that it wasn't
pretty given the nature of his suicide. It was partly because of this dread I felt that I waited so long
to venture into the necromantic arts to reach him. I wasn't ready until this point, and I felt that I
couldn't do anything to help him. However, my sister had urged it out of me previously, as she knew as
well as I did that he was not in a good place in the afterlife-- and he had rejected all of her attempts
to help as well. My other dead family I have felt a warmth from, a comfort and peace, but my brother was
in a very dark pit of misery that he refused to crawl out of. On this night, I felt I should face him,
and see for myself how bad it was-- And so I saw him there, in that pit of sludge, inert and in the fetal
position, not wanting to get out. I saw the self-inflicted injury he left this world with, his face was
completely unrecognizable as he stayed in the pit. He gurgled to me to let him suffer, that he didn't
want to get out. The emotions I felt were intense, and complicated. I hate to admit, but I felt this
pitted sense of disgust when I saw him like that. He was an ugly thing in death, and choosing to stay
like this rejecting all help. He was my older brother by quite a few years, so I never remembered much
from him in life other than the sort of things older brothers do to tease and torment their younger
siblings-- so I felt very conflicted about him, especially seeing him like this. I have lived to grow
older than he was when he passed, and he seemed to stay the same mental age as he died. It was this
reversal of roles, where I was the older brother now. Murmur said nothing during this, just floating
and observing silently. I knew that I had to do something, and a part of me wanted to acknowledge his
decision to keep suffering since he kept saying he didn't want help, but the larger part of me felt like
I had to put a stop to this.
A digital painting I made the day after this vision of my brother. It is a difficult painting for me to look at.
And so I jumped into the pit of tar. I felt over a decade's worth of muck and spiritual sepsis cling to
me. It was a disgusting feeling, and yet I waded onwards to where he laid, curled up in a ball. Through
my feelings of disgust, disdain, and pity, I scooped him up out of the tar and held him. I did the only
thing I could, I squeezed him tightly and let these emotions burn. I felt angry that I had to do this
for him, because he was not willing to help himself or accept me or my sister's attempts to reach out to
him. I felt angry that he chose to take his life and wallow in this misery. This anger burned so hot
that I could feel my fever rising as I laid in bed. It felt like I was on fire, and my eyes were burning
up underneath my eyelids as I saw everything burn. The tar evaporated, his body began to char and
vaporize, and I kept burning hotter and brighter until there was nothing left in that pit. I felt as I
had disintegrated his soul into nothing but loose anima, and I felt no trace of him as his ashes floated
away on the wind. It felt like I had exorcised him, like I had killed him a second time. I felt miserable
and unclean. Even as he burned, Murmur said nothing-- as if this was all going accordingly, and he didn't
feel a need to intervene. The next day, I found that my fever had broken, and I still felt this really
nasty feeling inside over what had transpired. I lamented over what I'd done, wondering if it was really
the right thing to do or if I should have left him as he was. I took a shower and I still felt filthy.
I did the digital painting of the scene, and I was unhappy with how it came out. The rest of the week I
felt this heavy feeling, and experienced a number of bizzare synchronicities affirming these sensations.
I also painted the acrylic rendition of Murmur later in the week, after the rain cleared up.
The sensations of uncleanliness gradually passed, and my health improved. a month later, I had another
dream of my brother. His spirit apperated and we had a night on the town, he looked as he had when he
was alive, head intact. We celebrated until dawn, when the spell apperating him was coming to an end,
and as we exchanged our final goodbyes my folks came by, and they got to see him briefly before he
dissipated. In that moment, I knew that it was really him. He looked happy, peaceful, thankful. It is
because of this dream that I can feel like what I did was the right thing after all, and now I trust he
has found his way to a more comfortable afterlife through whatever psychopomps may have guided him.
Rest easy brother, love you.
A rather macabre synchronicity I had later experienced with the Murmur painting, when I by chance held it up to the light-- his translucent skeleton appearing strikingly similarly to how I remember it in vision.
In my experience Duke Murmur works subtly, gently, and slips away into thin air when you aren't looking
directly at him. Despite this, he has let me know through repeated synchronicity that he is always around
and readily watching, and even still I feel a kind acknowledgement over my shoulder as I write this. This
Duke has been a source of comfort in the face of these difficult tribulations, and has readily provided
me with some very unique experiences and artwork. His painting continues to haunt me, as that pale visage
watches over this room where I write my words and make my art. I give my thanks to Duke Murmur once again.
