Yule Stocking of Occult Stalkers: Revenge of the Esoteric Comedy Show

By Morgan Drake Eckstein

In this novelette length (15k) book, long time blogger and Cult Watchdog Morgan Drake Eckstein discusses the numerous legal threats that he has received as a writer, including a promise by his youngest sister to get him charged with Gross Negligence for not reporting the child abuse that he had experienced as a kid. Mad Uncle Morgan has failed your favorite Purity Test, proving that he was never part of your esoteric tradition; now, if you could only find a lawyer on the cheap who agreed with you that Morgan can be burned alive.

Table of Contents
Part One: Some important context
Living life in an esoteric fishbowl
Born a Cult Watchdog
Why Morgana Draconis was born
Enter Morgana Draconis
If Mister Free Land Shark . . .
Tales from the Witchy Underground (1984-1996)
My first stalker—dear ol’ Mom
Part Two: Esoteric Comedy Show
Three Witches on a Hill
The state of Denver witchcraft 1996
Historical Warning—Maggie was a real bitch of a witch
Alia Denny and Gypsy—Mother of Witches
The Framing Statement that no witch should be using
The problems with Bait and Switch
Every Secret Society nightmare
The Wet Dream of every Apex Monopoly seeker
Defcon Red-One: Vengeance weapons of the Tyrant Morgan Drake
Emotional and business damage I owe Sis
Part Three: Arming the nuclear weapon
That damn blog
Community service or supervillain liar?
Estimate of how much money I cost my family
Did Morgan really create dubious erotica?
My other stalkers
Did my critics really say such nonsense?
Why do I admit the child abuse?
Is Denver Wicca dying to censorship?
Supreme Court, here we come
Fishbowl number thirteen
Pet peeve number one—Lack of accountability
Pet peeve number two—Esoteric anti-science
Pet peeve three: Can’t be more successful than Fearless Leader
Pet peeve four: Must believe same politics as guru
Pet peeve five: Only One Tradition is legitimate—all others are corrupt
Future plans for everyone’s favorite Mad Uncle

• Language: English
• Publisher: Morgan Drake Eckstein
• Release date: Oct 3, 2022
• ISBN: 9781005394615

Morgan Drake Eckstein

Morgan Drake Eckstein is a ceremonial witch and magician living in Denver. I would tell you more; but everyone's lawyer insists that the events that Morgan said happened never did. In other words, someone is willing to spend a lot of money and time in court to prove that Morgan has never lived In Denver, or been a pagan ever--just so that they can continue to abuse their organizations in the name of that sweet Apex Monopoly over all things magical and mystical. Obey your Witch Queen by boycotting this author and all of his events. Don't you love She Who Must Rule all witches in the whole wide world?!?

Book preview

Sometimes, while I am writing a blog post, I like to think about what my stalkers will think of my post.

And I can hear you—there is absolutely no good reason that I should have stalkers of any kind or sort.

Outside of local law enforcement . . . the FBI . . . CIA . . . David Icke.

I mean outside of those people. Oh we can joke about it now. Can’t say more without revealing a source. One can only hope that you got your money worth for that gig, am I right? Journalism. Cult.

For those of you who did not know me before you brought your show ticket, I am a lifestyle journalist.

And have been for the last forty-two years.

In my head.

Because thanks to a series of mentally ill stalkers, I must hide the worst parts of my life in the closet.

The Broom Closet.

Not that any of my regular readers, bar fans, close friends, secret lovers, or former Hierophants would believe that I was even remotely successful doing so. Because I live in a self-imposed esoteric fishbowl.

Blogger. Or is that Past Blogger? Checks for pulse. Blogger.

I am laughing because I know what comes next. Hope that you found that lawyer you claimed agreed with your possibly mentally ill legal theory in the allotted year and a day I felt obligated to give you.

And in the case of some of my stalkers, you have had forty-two years to prove that you are special.

For the one person who has not heard me banging my head against the wall during the recent dramas, over the last few years, three different spiritual communities declared their actions non-reportable.

"Not even a legitimate journalist can report our decisions . . . "

Basically, the leaders of these communities—all more or less self-appointed—say that their communities—which the Great Gherkin owns lock, stock, and barrel—do not need to know details.

"I am banning you to protect my community . . . "

In the meantime, you in the fits of righteous inheritance have decided to completely reformat it. Without a single discussion made by the congregation that you claim to serve. Oh, it is not elevating yourselves over others because I fail your Purity Tests that you proven with a fake story about me. Let’s start with that idea, shall we? That crimes against you equal exile. Let’s talk about your crimes first. Ma!

Born a Cult Watchdog

I feel that it was only natural for me to become a Cult Watchdog. After all, I was raised in a cult. Serious.

Where to begin? The maternal grandfather who worked the hardware store because he was feeding gossip that he overheard to his wife, the Village Psychic. Well, before the illness took out the family.

Turns out that the village will quit believing in your superpowers if you allow a fever to retard your kid.

As my grandmother’s (seems to be genetic) fear stopped them from taking their daughter to a hospital.

A brilliant bright daughter became a mental vegetable. I know—language. But Laurel Lee Ramalia was trully retarded. All she was capable of doing was rocking back and forth (always fidgeting), leafing though mail order catalogs. Could not feed herself, bathe, or anything else. She scared me as a child.

One of my mother’s stories about me—one of the few from before the mandatory discrediting—was me asking why Laurel Lee never talked to me. Later, the experience ballooned under the constant watering by my mentally ill mother into a full phobia. Between this and multiple family members trying to get me committed to an insane asylum for my religious beliefs and career choices, I fear that someday . . .

When both my wife, Khari Seshent, and my High Priestess, Maggie Moonstone, realized that I was slowly losing my mind to a combination of migraine pain (undiagnosed) and bipolar mania-oriented with occasional depressions, it took the two of them years to convince me that if I went to the emergency room that I would still have a place in the pagan community as a public representative of Wicca (clergy).

Sadly, they were both wrong. Every spiritual community that I ever been a member of, hopped on the band wagon, declaring that my mental illness (finally diagnosed at age fifty because I tried to suicide) to be proof that I should never been a member of their chosen esoteric tradition, all things magical. USA!

Speaking of USA!—we now come to Victoria Josephine and Alexandra Lilith Ramalia. One of these women was my Gardnerian aunt (Wicca in Small Town America in the 1960s and 1970s); the