Order of Nine Angles Occult Fiction

Order of Nine Angles



O9A Occult Fiction

The pdf document contains three classic Order of Nine Angles texts concerned with the Occult fiction of the O9A and with the Sinister-Numinous Aesthetic which permeates that fiction. Part of that aesthetic is the pagan, ancestral, rural landscape as described in many fictional O9A stories.

As noted in the text Esoteric Aural Tradition In The Deofel Quartet, included in the compilation,

“In many ways, The Deofel Quartet and other O9A [Anton Long] written fiction (such as Hangster’s Gate), present much of the diverse aural traditions as AL received them: as stories about people, their interactions; their ‘satanic’ or esoteric views and beliefs; and about certain events that involved those people. In The Deofel Quartet he simply reworked the factual material – as writers of fiction are wont to do – in order to make an interesting story, in the process obscuring the identities of those involved and sometimes their place of residence or work; added some entertaining details (as in the ‘astral battles’ between goodies and baddies in Falcifer, of a kind now familiar – decades later – from the Harry Potter stories) and concatenated certain events in order to provide ‘action’ in a limited time-frame.

Thus, the fictional stories not only compliment other O9A material but provide a ‘different way into’ the complex O9A mythos; a way that many will find more interesting (and certainly more entertaining) than thousands of pages of sometimes polemical and sometimes ponderous O9A factual texts, and a way that especially places the O9A’s satanism into perspective, Aeonically and otherwise.”

129 yf
(March 2018 ev)



The Deofel Quartet

Eulalia: Dark Daughter Of Baphomet

O9A Sinister Vignettes
(External Link)


The Sinisterly-Numinous Aesthetic

Baphomet by Richard Moult

The Sinisterly-Numinous Aesthetic

We present here version 1.03 of a collection (in pdf format) of some extracts from articles which deal with the sinister-numinous aesthetic of the Order of Nine Angles. As the extracts reveal, significant manifestations of this aesthetic occur in the Occult fiction of the Order of Nine Angles, that still rather neglected aspect of ONA Occult culture.

For their Occult fiction not only reveals and explains the unique sinister-numinous aesthetic of the O9A, but also provides:

“a different way into the complex O9A mythos; a way that many will find more interesting (and certainly more entertaining) than thousands of pages of sometimes polemical and sometimes ponderous O9A factual texts, and a way that especially places the O9A’s satanism into perspective, Aeonically and otherwise.”

Other manifestations of the aesthetic are O9A specific archetypes, The Art Of The Insight Role, and Sinister Chant.



° A Note Regarding The Sinister-Numinous Aesthetic Of The Order Of Nine Angles
° The Occult Fiction Of The Order of Nine Angles
° O9A Aural Tradition And The Deofel Quartet
° Appendix: Missing The Sinister Angles, Again

House Of The O9A

House Of The O9A


She knew there was something wrong as soon as she entered the house. The dim light; the smell; the damp dilapidation born of decades of neglect. Once, a century or so ago, it must have been a warm, a welcoming, Edwardian family home, detached from its similar neighbours by its own gardens in that street of a seaside town, and built of stone quarried locally with stained leaded glass around the front door and fireplaces in every room and a wooden staircase winding its way to the two upper stories where perhaps several generations of children had slept, dreamed, and happily played.

But now: now, she shivered as he, that man of some thirty years and beginning to bald, led her toward and into a rear room whose large grimy window showed a small overgrown town garden and a Cherry tree whose dying leaves seemed reluctant to fall even though a cold November wind swayed them violently to and fro. And looking, seeing, feeling, how those leaves seemed to so tenaciously still cling to life she, then so young, sensed something that made her recoil from that window. For, although she did not yet know that every room in that house concealed a body – each in various stages of decomposition or mummification – she felt in that moment their torment (their death, decay) singing, reaching, out to her.

She should have been next, for her room – upstairs – was ready with sheets and shroud freshly starched; but she had in her listening to their soft lamenting voices turned that few seconds required to see him lunging toward her, a long hunting knife in his hand. Then, somehow, in some way, he was gasping; awed – as his face and eyes showed – by her sudden movement, with the blood of his life spraying out from his chest. For in her turning and in her life-affirming strength she had caught and deflected his arm sufficient for the blade to be pointed inward upon himself. She stood back, then, to watch his falling and the life draining from him. And when, not long after, he was dead with that now bloodied knife sticking out of his chest she felt she heard some ghostly chorus singing of their thanks.

She left him there, as seemed only fitting, quietly closing the front door as she walked slowly away out in the last fading sunlight of that November day knowing what it was that she must do and where she must now live.

A year later that same English seaside town found her, returned from her worldwide travels. Still young in appearance – although not in her eyes – she might have gone unnoticed as she athletically ran along the promenade that, for over a mile, skirted the bay then at that hour on that day home to a calmful sea of a late October high tide. Might have gone unnoticed, were it not for the fact that her pink running attire, her apparent effortless running style, her lithe body, and her dark hair (gathered by a band and swaying side to side from her slender neck as she ran), garnished a particular type of attention from some men, and from the occasional woman. She did not mind this attention – even enjoyed it, given her new persona – and she was nearing the end of that morning run, slowing down as passed through the nearby park that led to her house, when she saw the attack.

A young man, taking advantage of the deserted park, was grasping the handbag of an elderly woman who refused to let it go. He punched that elderly lady, then kicked her as she fell to the ground.

“I wouldn’t do that,” Ceridwyn said to him.

Startled – for he had not seen nor heard her approach – he stopped, then arrogantly smiled. But she calmly, softly, touched him on his shoulder, the merest touch, and he stooped as if tired, exhausted, before – with his his eyes downturned – he shambled awkwardly away while she, after helping the woman to her feet, continued up that slight slope through the trees that led past the wrought-iron Victorian park gate to her welcoming Edwardian-built home.

Soon the Cherry tree in that small tidy town garden – fructified last December by fresh, and old, compost – might once again be reluctant to give up its leaves, and she would sit, by the window and a warming fire, dreaming of, and planning, new sinister adventures. And she would that evening smile, in her O9A house, thinking of that mugger and the nightmares that would now haunt his dreams for years and years to come. Or maybe, just maybe, she would take him and soon for her third opfer.

121 yfayen

Source: Sinister Vignettes From The Order of Nine Angles (scheduled for publication Fall 2014 ev)