Skip to main content

Glorian serves millions of people, but receives donations from only about 300 people a year. Donate now.



I was still a boy of twelve springs when I, as someone who was eagerly investigating the mysteries of beyond, diligently proposed to inquire, inspect, investigate, the disquieting field of Spiritualism.

Then, with the constancy of a clergyman in a cell, I studied innumerable metaphysical books. It is not irrelevant to cite that some of those authors included Luis Zea Uribe, Camille Flammarion, Kardec, Leon Denis, Caesar Lombroso, etc.

Certainly, the first book from a series by Kardek looked very interesting to me, but I had to read it three times with the indisputable longing of integrally understanding it.

Afterwards, when I really converted myself into a true bookworm, frankly and plainly speaking, I confess that I became impassioned with The Book of Spirits. I then continued with many other volumes of substantial content.

I enclosed myself within my house or in the public library for long hours with a mind impenetrable to anything that was not of these types of studies, and with the evident longing of searching for the secret path.

Now, without boasting of wisdom and without any vainglory, I wish to write in this chapter the knowledge of the results of my investigations in the field of Spiritualism.


Mediums are passive and receptive subjects who grant their matter, their body, to metaphysical phantoms from beyond the grave.

It is unquestionable that epilepsy is the karma of mediumism. Obviously, epileptic people were mediums in their past lives.



A certain lady (whose name I do not wish to mention) was constantly seeing the phantom of a dead woman. This phantom was revealing many things to her in her ear.

The lady fell into a trance during a solemn spiritist meeting. The obsessive phantom showed the alluded medium a specific place in the house in order to excavate, because there, said the phantom, she would find a great treasure.

The indications of the phantom were followed, but unfortunately the treasure was not found.

It is unquestionable that the so-called treasure was only a simple mental projection from the subjective psyche of the attendants. Obviously, these types of people are always greedy within their depths. 


Distantly, long ago, very far from this beloved Mexican land of mine, I had to go inland into Zulia, a state of Venezuela in South America.

As a guest in the campestral abode of my host, I must state that I was then an eyewitness to an unusual metaphysical event.

It is important to note for the good of my readers that my host was without a doubt and plainly speaking a very humble person and of the colored race. It is unquestionable that this good man, certainly very generous with the needy, acquired big costly meals with ease, grace, and satisfaction, at his own expense.

To abide in any hotel among cultivated people or to be resentful against someone for any reason was impossible for this man. Certainly, he preferred to resign himself to the fate of labor, in the hard misfortune of work.

It is not irrelevant to state in a great manner that such a mentioned gentleman seemed to have the power of ubiquity, since he was seen in all places, here, there, and everywhere.

One given night among others, this distinguished gentleman invited me with much secrecy to a meeting of Spiritism. I did not wish in any way to decline such a courteous invitation.

Three persons were reunited under the rural roof of his ranch. We sat down around a table with three legs.

Full of immense veneration, my host opened a small box that he never abandoned in his trips and took an indigenous skull from it.

Subsequently, he recited some beautiful prayers and cried out with a great voice, calling the phantom from that mysterious skull.

It was midnight; the sky was cloudy with large black clouds that were sinisterly shadowing that tropical space. Rain, thunder, and lightning shook the whole district.

Strange knocks were felt underneath the piece of furniture (the table). Then, definitively violating the law of gravity, like mocking the ancient texts of physics, the table arose from the floor.

Afterwards, the most sensational thing occurred: the invoked phantom appeared within the room and came close to me.

Finally, the table was inclined towards my side and the skull that was upon this piece of furniture came towards me to lay on my arms.

“That’s enough,” cried out my host. “The tempest is very strong and under these conditions these types of invocations become very dangerous.” At that very moment a frightful thunder made the face of the invoker turn pale.


One day, walking on one of those old streets of Mexico City, moved by a strange curiosity, I felt I had to enter with other people into an ancient, large house, where for good or for bad, a Spiritist or Spiritualist center was functioning.

There was an extra-superior, exquisite hall that had many small bells and many emotive and delicate people, great in their kind.

Very respectively, without pretending in any way to expose myself to any risk, I took a seat in front of the platform.

Certainly, my purpose for entering into such a place was not for saturating myself with the doctrine of the Spiritist mediums or to start arguing with evilness in friendly terms, with fake meekness and pious postures. I was only going to take note of all details with a flexible understanding and singular prudence.

To train oneself for a speech that one is going to recite in public, to prepare oneself with anticipation, is certainly something excluded at any time from the Spiritist mentality.

Patiently, the sacred confraternity of mystery was waiting with mystic longing for the voices and words that would come from beyond the grave.

A gentleman of a certain age, independent from the diagnostics of the others, suitable for something very ominous, fell into a trance. Convulsively, he shook himself as any epileptic; he rose up to the platform, occupied the tribune of eloquence and took the floor.

That unfortunate possessed man cried out with a great voice, “Here, among ye, Jesus of Nazareth, the Christ.” 

In those frightful instants, the altar of the Baalim, the platform adorned with candles and flowers, horrifyingly vibrated and all the prostrated devotees fell to the ground.

Without wanting to disturb anyone in their performance, I serenely dedicated myself to study the medium with my sixth sense.

Pierced with anguish, I could certainly verify the crude reality of that unusual metaphysical case. Obviously, the medium was possessed by a sinister, leftist impostor, who was exploiting the credulity of others by posing as Jesus Christ.

With my clairvoyant sense, I observed a black magician dressed in a blood red tunic.

The gloomy phantom (inserted within the physical body of the medium, while imparting advice to the consulters) was trying to speak with a Jesus Christ tone, with the goal of not being uncovered by those fanatical people.

When that horrifying meeting concluded, I withdrew from that precinct with the ardent desire of not returning to that place ever again.


To live with one’s heart content, with one’s family in good will, at peace, in order to work by dint of magic upon the Earth is certainly something very romantic.

Nonetheless, to rush impetuously towards all risks seems to be indispensable sometimes, when one tries to obtain all the good possible for others.

Flanked by intellectual walls, I wanted to flourish with wisdom. So, without weakening my forces, I traveled throughout many places of the world while still very young.

Long ago, within the remote distance of a South American district popularly known with the name of Quindio, I, being very flexible with understanding, became acquainted with a Spiritist medium who was working as a blacksmith.

Without ever jumbling himself in any argument, that laborer was quietly working in his reddish forge.

He was a strange, Spiritist blacksmith, a mystic man with a bronzed figure and an athletic coenobite personality.

Bless my soul, oh God and hail Mary! I saw this man in a sinister, leftist, mediumistic trance being possessed by Beelzebub, prince of demons.

I still remember those tenebrous words with which the power of darkness closed the assembly:

“Bel tengo mental la petra y que a el le andube sedra, vao genizar le des.” (Then, the signature, Beelzebub).

What a paradoxical anchorite blacksmith! I found him repented the next day, after that leftist, Spiritist, Witches’ Sabbath session. Then he solemnly swore in the name of the eternal living God not to lend his physical body to the horror of darkness anymore.

Sometimes, I found him in his forge, very sincerely consulting the Spiritist prayer book of Kardec.

Afterwards, the alluded gentleman, full of mystical enthusiasm, invited me to other exhaustive mediumistic sessions, where with infinite eagerness he evoked “Juan Hurtado el Mayor.”

Without any exaggeration, and for the good of my beloved readers, I must now opportunely affirm that the mentioned phantom who was talking through the tongue of the medium in trance boasted of having the power of manifesting himself through one hundred and fifty mediums simultaneously.

To conclude a speech to people with cunning, with rhyming words, is certainly very normal. Nonetheless, to pluralize himself into one hundred and fifty simultaneous and different discourses seemed to be something astonishing to me at that time.

It is unquestionable that in that epoch of my life, I still had not analyzed this theme about the plurality of the “I,” of the “myself.”

The Ego

Obviously, the alluded ego lacks of any self-ennobling and dignifying divine aspect.

Allow us the liberty of disagreeing with those people who presuppose the existence of two “I’s,” one of a superior type and another of an inferior type.

Certainly, and in the name of the truth, we certify without any discord the tremendous well-informed reality of the fact that in each person there exists only the terribly perverse pluralized “I.”

This deep conviction is made firm with the vivid experience of the author of this present esoteric treatise. In no way do we need to exteriorize immature ideas. We will never commit the nonsense of affirming preposterous utopias. Our assertion has very abundant documentation in all of the sacred books of ancient times.

As a living example of our assertion, it is good to remember the bloody battles of Arjuna against his beloved relatives (the “I’s”) found in The Bhagavad Gita (“The Song of the Lord”). Clearly, these subjective psychic aggregates evidently personify the complete conjunction of psychological defects that each one of us carries within.

In rigorous experimental psychology, the bottling up of the consciousness within such subjective “I’s” is evident. Then what continues beyond the sepulcher is the ego, a bunch of devil-“I’s,” the psychic aggregates.

The affiliation of such psychic aggregates with the Spiritist or Spiritualist centers is obvious and manifest. It is well-known and evident that such devil-“I’s,” because of their multiplicity, can enter into many mediumistic bodies in order to manifest themselves, as was the case of Juan Hurtado el Mayor.

Any master of samadhi can clearly verify when in the state of ecstasy the following: that which is manifested through the mediums of Spiritism are not the souls or the spirits of the dead, but the devil-“I’s” of the dead, which are the psychic aggregates that continue beyond the burial chamber.

It has been said to us with much emphasis that during the postmortem (after death) states the mediums continue to convert themselves into beings who are possessed by a demon or demons. It is unquestionable that after a certain time the mediums conclude by divorcing themselves from their own divine Being. Then they enter into the submerged devolution of the infernal worlds.