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Quote by Shaila Touchton

“You are blessed and favored, satisfied with God's favor and filled with His blessings. God's wisdom is more precious to you than silver, and its value is greater than gold. You trust in God's power to heal, and Jesus, the Divine Doctor, heals all sickness and disease in your life. You are taught by the Lord, established in holiness and righteousness, and protected by the blood of Jesus. No evil befalls you, and no plague or terror comes near your dwelling. You are surrounded by God's favor, shielded from harm, and brought into divine health, wholeness, and vitality. God's secrets are revealed to you, and you understand heavenly things. You walk in the revelation of God's truth, and His mysteries are no longer hidden from you. You are anointed with the blood of Jesus, blessed abundantly, and you bring glory to God and your family. No weapon formed against you shall prosper, and every evil arrow sent your way is returned to the sender. Every tongue that rises in judgment against you is condemned, and deceitful, gossiping, slanderous, and accusatory tongues are silenced. Every satanic opposition, dark power, and witchcraft agent coming against you and your children is destroyed at its roots by the fire of God and the blood of Jesus. You are redeemed from the curse of the law, and sickness, disease, pain, and poverty have no power over your life. You are set free from the law of sin and death, and you reign as a king in life through Christ. Your spiritual life is blessed, your health is perfect, your mind is renewed, and your finances are blessed. Success and prosperity follow you, and divine angelic protection is upon your life. You are covered with the blood of Jesus, and the enemy has no power or right over you.”

Quote by Shaila Touchton

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Shaila Touchton

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“Old Hubert must have had a premonition of his squalid demise. In October he said to me, ‘Forty-two years I’ve had this place. I’d really like to go back home, but I ain’t got the energy since my old girl died. And I can’t sell it the way it is now. But anyway before I hang my hat up I’d be curious to know what’s in that third cellar of mine.’ The third cellar has been walled up by order of the civil defence authorities after the floods of 1910. A double barrier of cemented bricks prevents the rising waters from invading the upper floors when flooding occurs. In the event of storms or blocked drains, the cellar acts as a regulatory overflow. The weather was fine: no risk of drowning or any sudden emergency. There were five of us: Hubert, Gerard the painter, two regulars and myself. Old Marteau, the local builder, was upstairs with his gear, ready to repair the damage. We made a hole. Our exploration took us sixty metres down a laboriously-faced vaulted corridor (it must have been an old thoroughfare). We were wading through a disgusting sludge. At the far end, an impassable barrier of iron bars. The corridor continued beyond it, plunging downwards. In short, it was a kind of drain-trap. That’s all. Nothing else. Disappointed, we retraced our steps. Old Hubert scanned the walls with his electric torch. Look! An opening. No, an alcove, with some wooden object that looks like a black statuette. I pick the thing up: it’s easily removable. I stick it under my arm. I told Hubert, ‘It’s of no interest. . .’ and kept this treasure for myself. I gazed at it for hours on end, in private. So my deductions, my hunches were not mistaken: the Bièvre-Seine confluence was once the site where sorcerers and satanists must surely have gathered. And this kind of primitive magic, which the blacks of Central Africa practise today, was known here several centuries ago. The statuette had miraculously survived the onslaught of time: the well-known virtues of the waters of the Bièvre, so rich in tannin, had protected the wood from rotting, actually hardened, almost fossilized it. The object answered a purpose that was anything but aesthetic. Crudely carved, probably from heart of oak. The legs were slightly set apart, the arms detached from the body. No indication of gender. Four nails set in a triangle were planted in its chest. Two of them, corroded with rust, broke off at the wood’s surface all on their own. There was a spike sunk in each eye. The skull, like a salt cellar, had twenty-four holes in which little tufts of brown hair had been planted, fixed in place with wax, of which there were still some vestiges. I’ve kept quiet about my find. I’m biding my time.”

ParisMagickSatanismOccultismBasementCellar
Book:Paris Noir: The Secret History of a City
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