"So you like gothic literature, uh?" my uncle asked.

I was sixteen, visiting my grandparents' place. I held my copy of Le Fleur du Mal, which I had just bought.

"Yes..." I replied timidly, clutching the poetry book.

"Wait", he replied, disappearing from my sight.

He was back moments later with a book in his hands.

"Here", he said, tossing the copy in my direction. "Read this". The book made a harsh sound against the table, like a door slamming.

I looked down at the text that had landed in front of me. It was titled The Body and Blood of Eymerich.

A golden mask grinned from above on the cover, encased in a stone wall. A thick red substance trickled down the stones, giving the illustration a sinister hue.

I turned the book to read the caption:

"Originally published in 1996, this is the second novel by Evangelisti, centred on the disturbing character of a Dominican friar modelled after a real 14th-century inquisitor. In this story, Eymerich is summoned to Castres in southern France to confront a sect of 'vampires' that terrorises the locals, leaving the countryside littered with blood-drained corpses. Surrounded by an atmosphere of unparalleled evil, Eymerich demonstrates his relentless cruelty, stopping at nothing—even the massacre of hundreds—to eradicate heresy. However, six centuries later, a group of modern "plague spreaders" appears determined to resurrect the deeds of those deranged zealots."

I was confused.

I could not see how the tales of a Dominican friar could qualify as gothic literature. Yet, heresies drew me in right away—there was something about them I liked. As I began to read, I was not disappointed. The author embraced every detail of heretical lore and philosophy, real or imagined, all draped in the eerie cloak of the supernatural.

I plunged into a world where heresies thrived and could achieve wondrous things—like finding the philosopher's stone, summoning ladders to the heavens or animating golems to do their bidding.

But sometimes, such esoteric experiments went wrong, drawing the Church's attention to men turning into animals, ancient goddesses reappearing, threatening the faith of good Christians, and chaos stirred, as our protagonist saw it, by one central force: Satan.

There was always something sinister about these prodigies, something darker and, at the same time, strangely attractive.

They left you with a sense of the uncanny, similar to witnessing an omen or waking from a vivid, unsettling dream.

The plot always centred on the ruthless, manipulative Inquisitor, summoned to crush defiance by any means necessary.

However, despite his best efforts, the spirit of heresy would always linger, flourishing elsewhere, further down the timeline in the distant future—never to be defeated.

In this universe, past, present, and future collapse into one another, creating disturbing visions that make you question your sense of reality.

In The Body and Blood of Eymerich, the friar investigates the heresy of Catharism, a belief that has fascinated me for many reasons.

Expulsion of the Cathars from Carcassone

For the Cathars, the world was not the creation of a benevolent god but the product of a dark force, a Demiurge, present in all things. Matter, being corrupt, held no significance for salvation. Worldly authority was a fraud, and any authority claiming divine sanction, like that of the Church, was pure hypocrisy. It fell to the individual to choose whether to abandon the material world for a life of self-denial. If they decided otherwise, they would continue returning to this world, reincarnated again and again.

The god the Cathars worshipped was a god of light, ruling over the invisible, the ethereal, and the spiritual realms. This god had no concern for whether one slept with someone before marriage, treated men and women equally, or defied the teachings of the medieval Church. Their dualism placed the struggle between good and evil within the heart of every human being, where a divine spark—a remnant of a former angelic state—awaited release from the endless cycle of reincarnation.

Because Catharism unsettled the Church by challenging its power, authority, and wealth, the Inquisition was determined to erase it.

Over time, people have viewed the Cathars as champions of socialism and defenders of women in a patriarchal world, but these are posterior interpretations. In truth, they never called themselves Cathars; they humbly saw themselves as good Christians. Recently, religious scholars have even grown sceptical that Catharism existed as an organised opposition to the Church.

Traditionalists affirm that Catharism flourished in the province of Languedoc, now the region of Occitanie in southern France. Its capital was Toulouse, and it was there, on the night of September 3rd, that I landed on a late flight. I remember when Tonelise, the owner of Magical Retreats, and Marco Visconti, my partner and author of The Aleister Crowley Manual, invited me to their first retreat in the south of France to explore the lore and magic of this land. Excitement filled me as I prepared, not as an inquisitor but as a friend, stepping from a distant timeline to meet what lingers of the old heresy.

If you have read my previous articles, The Regulus Serpent and Where Saturn Dwells, you know how the figure of the Demiurge and its ties to Babalon hold a special place in my heart.

Coloured version of the Whore of Babylon illustration

I soon learned that this region has long been haunted by a mysterious White Lady drifting through the towers of ancient châteaus. It is also famed for a Black Madonna with an unusual origin story. Most intriguing is the tale of the priest Bérenger Saunière, who uncovered a vast treasure with Asmodeus's aid—a Goetia spirit.

Road To Puilaurens

After meeting the rest of the group at Toulouse Airport, we hop into a van for a welcome session at a local winery. Heavy clouds loom overhead, threatening rain. After a long, dry summer, the area has endured flash floods, and we are catching the final traces of the storm. The forecast predicts clearer skies, but I do not mind its moody tone. It lends a charm to the lush green landscape, especially as we sit down with glasses of wine, listening to the peculiar tale of the Black Madonna from this region.

Legend speaks of a dog uncovering a statue of a Black Madonna hidden beneath the soil of a field. Three times, the dog carried the statue home to its owner, and three times, it vanished—always returning to the same spot where it had first emerged. The Madonna seemed tethered to the earth, unwilling to leave her resting place. As whispers of the strange events spread and a cult began to form, the Church stepped in, raising a basilica around the statue.

The cult of the Black Madonna grew, but not all viewed her presence as sacred. Some, driven by fear of the uncanny happenings surrounding her, called her influence satanic. In their zeal, they severed her head, which disappeared without a trace. A new head was fashioned and reattached. The basilica placed a golden grate around her to guard against further defilement and banned photography.

"Black Madonnas are spirits of the place, you know…" explained Marco and Tonelise.

I remembered my trip to Italy earlier that summer and my encounter with the Black Madonna, which was connected to where I grew up. I recalled her enigmatic yet serene smile.

It is dark now, and we are slightly tipsy as we head toward Puilaurens, a small village tucked away among the mountains.

"I know you can't see anything right now, but trust me, this place is incredible," says Marco from the front of the van. The winding road twists and turns, making us bounce in our seats. I glance outside, hoping for a glimpse of the landscape. All I can see are tall rocks fading into the night.

That night, I had a strange dream. I dreamt of stepping into a grand palace adorned with antiques and rich red drapery hanging from the walls. I entered the bedroom, where a woman stood by the window, dressed scantily in red. I knew she was my lover, my partner, and I had come home to her. I stepped toward her and wrapped my arms around her from behind. She turned to face me, her piercing blue eyes meeting mine as she smiled.

When I wake in the morning, I can finally see the mountains. They stretch in every direction, towering over the village.

The Château de Puilaurens crowned the tallest peak, where the White Lady's sightings have occurred.

The sky is blue, the air pungent yet pleasant.

The silence strikes me—and everyone else. The only sound is the river flowing down the mountains, cutting the village in two.

As we stroll through the streets, we cross paths with Monsieur Bernard, the local celebrity.

He strides briskly toward the boulangerie, eager to get his daily fresh breakfast.

"Bonjour!" he greets us, flashing a perfect row of white teeth.

"Bonjour!" we reply, nodding and smiling in return.

"That man is 107 years old," Tonelise casually mentions over breakfast.

"Wait, what?! What's in the water?" I ask, half-joking.

"Exactly—it's the water," Tonelise replies, dead serious. "It comes from the mountains and keeps them young and healthy. You know, this is one of Europe's blue zones. Researchers have discovered that people here live longer than most," she adds with a knowing smile.

"What's the oldest you could live to in London?" Marco asks with a teasing grin.

"No idea," a fellow Londoner replies, "probably 36…"

We all burst out laughing.

After breakfast, we gather in the elegantly decorated living room, adorned with Art Deco details and soft, luxurious carpets, for our first lesson and magical practice with Marco. The scent of incense soon fills the air, curling around us, while on the altar, a statue of Babalon gazes down at us.

The Priest and The Demon: The Enigma o Rennes-Le-Château

Tonelise bursts into the room, announcing it is time to get ready. Our driver is waiting to take us to Rennes-Le-Chateau.

We drive up a steep mountain, the trees below shrinking with every road twist. We exit the van and begin walking upwards, welcomed by the village surrounding the castle and the church. The houses stand silent, their windows tightly shut. Some display strange artefacts that immediately catch my eye—charms, a tree root, and a claw among the oddities. A few shops are open, all run by the same family.

The story of Rennes-le-Château and the man whose fate is forever entwined with this land is one of the most peculiar I have ever heard.

With its breathtaking viewpoints, natural defences, and abundant resources, this ancient site has always drawn human habitation.

In 1880, the discovery of Neolithic graveyards confirmed that this site had been inhabited for over 3,000 years. Scattered piles of bones and skulls found near the village further suggest human settlement long before the Roman occupation of Gaul. Archaeologists uncovered a prehistoric stone carved with cruciform symbols at the plateau's base, interpreted as anthropomorphic figures. Several dinosaur eggs were unearthed here in 1984, attracting much scientific interest.

The name Rennes-le-Château is thought to derive from the Gallic word reda, meaning "four-wheeled chariot." From the 10th century onward, Rennes-le-Château began its steady decline. Caught in endless struggles for territorial dominance, it shifted hands between the Counts of Carcassonne and the Counts of Barcelona. After the County of Razès was established, the first Lords of Rhedae, Guillaume de Gellone and his sons, constructed a castle and a chapel. Later, the prominent Hautpoul family, part of the upper nobility of Languedoc, took control of Rennes. In 1732, François d'Hautpoul married Marie de Nègre, a name deeply entwined with the village's history and treasure legends. When Marie died in 1781, Father Antoine Bigou buried her in the village cemetery. Her upright tombstone, now lost, is known to us through a sketch made by a local historian. The epitaph displayed several peculiar anomalies: the opening phrase CT GIT ("Here lies") used CT instead of the correct CI; a lowercase "e" appeared amidst otherwise capitalised text; and smaller letters seemed to stand out intentionally. Words such as M-ARIE and SOIX-ANTE were oddly divided, while the name ABLES had been altered to ARLES. These irregularities were startling for a noblewoman's tombstone and have led many to suspect the epitaph conceals a coded message.

On June 1st, 1885, Father Bérenger Saunière assumed the parish of Rennes-le-Château. At the time, the church and presbytery were in a state of decay and urgently required repairs. Determined to restore the site, Saunière funded the initial building work, perhaps through a modest gift from a friend or a small inheritance from a predecessor.

During these renovations, Saunière made remarkable discoveries, marking the beginning of the treasure legend. In 1887, some workers removed the old altar and uncovered mysterious documents that later vanished. Around the same time, the bell ringer discovered a phial hidden within the carved capital of an ancient wooden pilaster, which contained parchments. Additional finds included a jar brimming with gold coins, religious artefacts, and the so-called Knights' Stone, a Carolingian relic dating back to the 8th or 9th century. In his diary entry dated September 21st, 1891, Saunière also noted a cryptic phrase: découverte d'un tombeau—the discovery of a tomb (Marie de Nègre's perhaps?).

After these revelations, Saunière's fortunes transformed dramatically. His once-limited finances appeared boundless, enabling the extensive restoration of the church and an opulent lifestyle. He frequently travelled to Paris, where whispers circulated about his involvement in a secret society. The priest continued to live lavishly until his mysterious death in 1917.

But the story does not end there. While alive, the Abbé's behaviour stirred unease among the local villagers. His nocturnal activities raised eyebrows— People often spotted him overturning tombs in the cemetery, digging and refilling holes, and rearranging crosses and stones under the cover of darkness.

To this day, the church's unusual décor captivates visitors. The layout forms an inverted cross—a curious choice for a sacred space. At the entrance, four archangels—Raphael, Michael, Uriel, and Gabriel—stand, each clad in colours matching their Qabalistic correspondences. To those familiar with the Lesser Banishing Ritual of the Pentagram, their gestures echo the movements of the Qabalistic Cross. Beneath them, an inscription reads, Par ce signe tu le vaincras— In this sign, thou shalt conquer.

The holy water stoup is supported by a grimacing statue of Asmodeus, one of the demon kings of the Ars Goetia, famously known as the guardian of hidden treasures. According to Gérard de Sède, the priest embedded hidden clues within the decorations, crafting a symbolic language decipherable only by those well-versed in the history of Rennes and the toponymy of its surrounding area.

Inside and out, the sacred space radiates devotion to a feminine force. Statues of Mary Magdalene dominate the space. Father Saunière even constructed a tower dedicated to Magdalene, which he fashioned into his library and study.

The priest's life intertwined deeply with that of another woman - Marie Dénarnaud, known to the townspeople as "La Madone." Once a humble hatmaker, Marie became Saunière's maid and moved into the newly renovated presbytery to live by his side. Thanks to his treasure, her life transformed. She abandoned modesty for opulence, adorning herself in the latest Parisian fashions.

When Saunière purchased the land he would construct his Grand Domaine, he placed it all under Marie's name, granting her legal ownership of the future estate. He made her his sole heir, cementing her role as the guardian of his legacy.

"The people here walk on gold without knowing." Marie often remarked.

The tale of Saunière's treasure spread far and wide, fueling endless speculation about the source of his sudden fortune. From 1633 onward, historians spoke of gold and silver mines scattered throughout the region, perhaps planting the seeds for the many legends of hidden riches. Among these, the most infamous is the story of the Devil's Gold, a vast hoard fiercely guarded by the Devil —or perhaps by our old friend, Asmodeus. This mythical trove is said to lie buried deep within the heart of Blanchefort Mountain, not far from Rennes-le-Château.

Others claimed that during the 1244 siege of Montségur, one of the last strongholds of the Cathars, four heretics managed to escape, carrying a treasure of immense importance to their faith. The nature of this treasure remains a mystery, but many authors suggest it was hidden near Rennes.

This fueled the hypothesis that Saunière uncovered documents linked to Catharism. This theory suggests the Cathars possessed ancient gospels containing significant revelations about Jesus—most notably, that he united with Mary Magdalene, who bore his children.

The truth lies buried with Saunière, leaving behind only speculation. What is certain, however, is that this story has captivated many writers, most famously Dan Brown, who directly drew inspiration from it for The Da Vinci Code. Over time, these tales evolved into conspiracy theories, blurring the line between legend and belief for many.

We spend the afternoon delving into the church and its adjoining presbytery, marvelling at the intricate craftsmanship.

We stay for dinner, gathering around tables beneath a towering nut tree.

The food takes its time, but we don't mind.

When our dishes arrive, they are delicious yet cold, and the waitstaff seems frazzled. As we prepare to leave, the reason for the delay dawns on us—a table of twenty elderly women from the Netherlands, all dressed in white and red, claiming to be reincarnations of Mary Magdalene.

We hear whispers from the staff about how the Mary Magdalenes tested everyone's patience, sending dish after dish back to the kitchen and complaining incessantly. When they finally leave, the women glance at us with an air of superiority.

We chuckle at the absurdity of it all.

Labouiche: Descent Into The Underworld

It is a bright day as we head to Labouiche, Europe's longest navigable underground river. Although the air is warm, our guide suggests packing extra layers since the temperature in the depths can drop to 13°C. We arrive at the reception and check-in for our guided tour. To enter the cave, we descend through a tunnel leading 60 meters underground.

The stairs grow slippery; the light fades with each step. Silence settles around us. Descending into the earth's bowels feels like crossing into another world. Stalagmites rise from the rocks underfoot, and stalactites hang from the ceiling above, jutting out like otherworldly trees.

We arrive at the river, where a small metal boat awaits us. We squeeze in tightly, pressing against each other to find space. I clutch Marco's arm as I take in my surroundings, utterly speechless. Ahead lies 1,500 meters of galleries to navigate. The guide tugs on cables running along the tunnel walls to propel the boat forward. Occasionally, it scrapes against the rocks, producing a loud sound that echoes through the cavern.

The guide explains that explorers discovered Labouiche in 1908, which later became the site of numerous expeditions. Some of these early journeys ended in mishaps, as the strong currents proved too challenging for explorers navigating in wooden boats. The cave also presented prehistoric artefacts, including flint weapons and reindeer antlers.

I could take photos, but I hold back.

The experience feels like crossing the Styx, one of the mythical rivers of the Greek underworld. The Styx, also personified as a female deity, marked the boundary between the living and the dead. When someone died, their spirit crossed the river on a boat ferried by Charon to reach the afterlife.

The guide's voice has now started to fade.

The sound of water crashing down overwhelms it.

A spectacular waterfall comes into view a few meters ahead, its roar echoing through the tunnels.

We head back until we reach a walkable section of the tunnel. We step out of the metal boat and walk toward a second one.

I notice an unusual stalagmite formation on my left, dimly lit by a nearby light. It is short and resembles a face. It seems to be staring directly at me.

"These are living things!" I exclaim, turning to Marco.

"Shhh!!!" I hear.

The sound, which appears to have come from the walls, startles me.

"Did you just shush me?!" I ask Marco.

"I haven't whispered a thing, Jessica," he replies as he grabs the handrail.

I turn back to look at the strange formation.

"Didn't you hear that?" I ask.

"No, I didn't hear anything. Why?"

"That rock just shushed me," I say.

"They don't want to be outed!" Marco chuckles.

We reach the second boat and sail through the final stretch of the galleries. I close my eyes, trying to connect with the place, this time quietly in my mind. I may have been too eager earlier and disturbed something deep within. Spirits have a way of reminding you of your place very quickly. A light appears ahead, growing brighter and signalling the end of our journey.

We leave the boat and walk through a black gate leading to a park. I squint as the sunlight stings my eyes. The green grass and blue sky feel surreal, as if I have been reborn from the cave.

The White Lady

The Saint-Antoine de Galamus troglodyte hermitage, carved into the rock face of the gorge in the 7th century, began as a single cave containing natural pools of water. In 1782, following the Suette Miracle, a chapel was added. During the outbreak of the "épidémie de Suette" (a gangrenous illness causing severe sweating) in St. Paul-de-Fenouillet, Saint-Antoine's intercession reportedly healed the afflicted.

We navigate the dusty, narrow passages leading to the main pool of water, our balance wavering as the sheer height of the cliffs distracts us. A short climb up uneven steps brings us to the first cave, where a few wooden statues of women stand quietly. Joining other pilgrims, we sit for meditation. There is something profound about coming together to connect with a place—almost magically, the other visitors fade away, and no one else enters the small, secluded space.

I feel an irresistible urge to offer something of mine to the pool of water before me. Glancing at my fingers, I decide on one of my rings. Taking a deep breath, I remove it and toss it into the pool. The ring sinks instantly to the bottom, catching the light as it disappears. As I turn to leave, my foot lands on an uneven patch of ground, and I twist my ankle sharply.

I glance back at the silent statues and the still pool of water. I sit down, wincing from the pain. Perhaps this place demanded a greater sacrifice from me. Limping, I make my way to the second cave, where an altar stands—and, most intriguingly, a Sator square etched into the stone.

The Sator square is an ancient Latin word puzzle or cryptogram and one of the most famous examples of a lettered magic square. It consists of 25 letters arranged in a five-by-five grid of acrostic Latin palindromes. The words in the square are SATOR ("sower" or "planter"), AREPO (a mysterious term, possibly a name), TENET ("to hold"), OPERA ("work" or "effort"), and ROTAS ("wheels").

When the five words of a Sator square are read in any direction—horizontally, vertically, forward, backwards, from top to bottom, or bottom to top—they form the same sentence: Sator Arepo Tenet Opera Rotas. This cryptic phrase has been interpreted in various ways, with the most widely accepted translation being, "The sower, Arepo, works (or holds) the wheels with care."

The oldest complete example of this cryptogram is a rotas square discovered in 1936 among the ruins of Pompeii. It was carved into a column in Pompeii's Palestra Grande and dates back to 62 CE, before the earthquake that destroyed the structure. An earlier, fragmentary rotas square was also unearthed in Pompeii in 1925. Similar rotas squares have been found throughout the Roman world, spanning locations from Manchester, England, to the ancient border city of Dura-Europos, now in Syria.

The Sator square's origins as a Latin puzzle gradually became less significant as it acquired magical properties in European folklore. By the 12th century, it appeared in medical texts, often recommended as a cure for rabies and fever. Sufferers were advised to carve the square's words into the crusts of bread before eating it. The Sator Square was also used as a charm for good fortune during medieval times. In later centuries, it became a protective symbol against fires, commonly inscribed on the walls of German buildings to prevent destruction by flames.

I rest inside the cave, sitting down to tend to my ankle. There is a certain stillness, broken only by the sound of other visitors' footsteps echoing off the walls. Later that night, one of the group helped me bandage my ankle to prevent it from swelling. I need to be fit enough for the next day when we are scheduled to climb up to the Château de Puilaurens.

I have a restless night. Finding a comfortable position proves challenging with a sore ankle.

The alarm goes off at 7 a.m., and I glance at the open window with half-closed eyes.

Heavy clouds loom over the castle.

We drive up the mountain and hike the final stretch of the wooded path, pausing occasionally to admire the majestic mountains surrounding us. When we reach the summit, we are awestruck by the ruins nestled within a green tapestry of trees.

It looks like a painting brought to life.

Some in the group venture bravely along the ridge, but I hold back, cautious of the strong wind and my aching ankle. Together, we make our way to the castle's tower, the site of sightings of a mysterious white lady. It is a modest space, the only structure with an intact vaulted ceiling. The floor is dusty, but I welcome the break from the wind.

We begin a pathworking, our breaths growing slower.

Local lore claims that the White Lady is the wandering spirit of Blanche of Bourbon, the niece of King Philippe VI of France. In 1353, she stopped at Puilaurens while travelling to Spain to marry her fiancé, King Pierre I of Castile. Tragically, her husband later imprisoned her in 1361, when she was just 22 years old. Since then, legend has it that her ghost has haunted the ruins of Puilaurens.

I open my eyes, returning from the pathworking, and hear the deep roar of thunder. Outside, rain pounds heavily on the ruins. A quick weather forecast check confirms it won't stop anytime soon.

We realise we must head back—and do so in the downpour.

Descending the mountain in heavy rain quickly becomes a challenge. My ankle throbs with pain, and we are all getting drenched as rainwater rushes down the path, forming a small river that flows faster than we can walk.

"This White Lady must be quite the trickster," I say when we finally return to our place.

"Or maybe it's just the trials you face before any initiation," Marco suggests with a knowing look.

Conclusions

The experiences shared here are just a selection of those we had during the retreat in southern France. Much more could be written, but certain events of an initiatory nature must remain secret. Occitanie is a genuinely enchanting region. As one visitor's guide aptly puts it, "One does not end up here by pure chance; one is drawn here, like a magnet, because this is a magical place."

Here's to the next adventure.

Shadows of the Pyrenees: The Priest, The Demon, and Other Legends

Road To Puilaurens

The Priest and The Demon: The Enigma o Rennes-Le-Château

Labouiche: Descent Into The Underworld

The White Lady

Conclusions

Where Saturn Dwells: The Witch, The Serpent, The Black Madonna and the Sacred Sulfur Springs