How Fear Shaped Spiritual History—and How We Reclaim Discernment Today
My personal journey through Rome, centuries of spiritual persecution, and the changing ways humanity understands the unseen.
An Unexpected Discovery in Rome
This story began with an unexpected moment of quiet guidance during a visit to Rome, Italy. I was walking through the historic Sant’Eustachio district, known as Rione VIII, when I found myself approaching the Church of Sant’Eustachio. Rome is a city where history and spirituality seem to exist together at every turn. Ancient buildings, centuries-old churches, and narrow passageways hold stories that have survived generations.
But on this particular day, something unusual happened. As I approached the church, I discovered that it was closed but the library connected to it was open, I felt a gentle yet persistent pull to go in. It wasn’t a voice, and it wasn’t anything I could logically explain. It was simply that familiar intuitive feeling that I needed to pay attention to something.
The door was wide open, something that struck me as unusual. I had no particular reason to enter, no appointment, and no knowledge of what I might discover inside. Yet something told me to go in. I followed that quiet inner nudge and stepped away from the busy streets of Rome into the stillness of a historic library. My experience became associated with the Biblioteca Angelica, one of Europe’s oldest public libraries, founded in the early seventeenth century.
Inside, I noticed a glass-covered display containing a collection of old books. Among them, two volumes immediately captured my attention. There was something about them that I couldn’t ignore. Their aged pages, elaborate lettering, and centuries-old appearance suggested that they carried stories far beyond their physical presence.
I couldn’t read their original languages. I didn’t understand their significance. And I certainly didn’t know that these two books represented dramatically different chapters in the history of humanity’s relationship with the unseen. Nevertheless, I felt compelled to photograph them. I remember thinking that I would research them someday. At the time, I had no idea where that research would lead.
Looking back, I find myself wondering whether this was simply a fascinating historical discovery or another example of how intuition sometimes guides us toward experiences whose significance becomes apparent only later. As a psychic medium and someone who has spent years exploring spiritual experiences and paranormal phenomena, I have learned to pay attention to those moments without automatically assuming I understand their meaning. Sometimes the significance of an experience reveals itself gradually. This was one of those occasions.
The two books were Malleus Maleficarum, commonly translated as The Hammer of Witches, first published in 1487, and Histoire de la magie, or The History of Magic, published in 1860 by the French occult philosopher Éliphas Lévi. Separated by nearly four centuries, they offered profoundly different ways of thinking about magic, spiritual experiences, and humanity’s relationship with forces it could not readily explain.
One emerged from a world in which fear of witchcraft could lead to accusation, torture, and death. The other emerged during a period when thinkers were increasingly revisiting the history of magic through philosophy, symbolism, and esoteric traditions. And together, they raised a question that continues to interest me today.
What happens when humanity encounters something it doesn’t understand? Do we respond with fear, or do we seek understanding?
The Hammer of Witches: When Fear Became Authority
To understand the first book, we must return to Europe in the late fifteenth century. This was a world shaped by religious authority, political instability, disease, and widespread beliefs about supernatural forces. People frequently interpreted unexplained events through religious and supernatural frameworks. A sudden illness, an unexpected death, a failed harvest, or a series of unusual occurrences might be attributed to divine punishment, demonic interference, or witchcraft.
Into this environment came the Malleus Maleficarum. Written primarily by the Dominican inquisitor Heinrich Kramer and first published in 1487, the book attempted to establish that witchcraft was real, that witches collaborated with demons, and that authorities were justified in identifying and prosecuting them. Although Jacob Sprenger was historically credited as a coauthor, modern scholarship questions the extent of his involvement.
The book was organized around three central concerns. First, it argued for the existence of witchcraft and its relationship to demonic activity. Second, it described the supposed practices and harmful powers of witches. Third, it presented procedures for investigating and prosecuting those accused.
What makes this book so disturbing today is not merely its belief in supernatural evil. It is the way those beliefs were used to justify the treatment of other human beings. The authors portrayed women as particularly susceptible to witchcraft, drawing on deeply misogynistic assumptions about female sexuality, morality, and intellectual capacity.
One of the book’s most notorious statements, rendered in a widely circulated English translation, declares: “All witchcraft comes from carnal lust, which is in women insatiable.”
Consider the implications of that statement. A person’s gender, behavior, reputation, or perceived differences could become grounds for suspicion. Rumors could develop into accusations. Accusations could lead to interrogation. And interrogation, including torture, could produce confessions that authorities treated as evidence. The accused were often placed in circumstances where defending themselves became extraordinarily difficult.
It is important to understand that the Malleus Maleficarum was not universally accepted by religious or legal authorities. Some contemporaries rejected its arguments or procedures, and witch trials varied considerably across European jurisdictions. Nevertheless, the book became an influential text in the history of European witch-hunting. It helped reinforce a worldview in which fear of the supernatural could be transformed into institutional authority.
And that is what I find especially troubling. The danger was not simply that people believed in unseen forces. The danger was that they believed their interpretation of those forces justified harming others.
The Human Cost of Fear
When we look back at the European witch trials, it is tempting to imagine that everyone accused of witchcraft was practicing some form of spiritual tradition. But history is considerably more complicated. Many accused individuals were ordinary people. Some were caught in personal disputes, family conflicts, or neighborhood tensions. Others became targets because of their reputations, social vulnerability, or unfortunate circumstances.
Women constituted the majority of those executed in European witch trials, although men were also accused and prosecuted. Modern historians estimate that approximately 40,000 to 60,000 people were executed for witchcraft across Europe during the principal centuries of persecution.
These events did not arise from a single book or a single institution. They developed through a complicated interaction of religious beliefs, judicial systems, political authority, local disputes, and social anxieties. Still, the Malleus Maleficarumprovides a particularly revealing example of how certainty can replace inquiry.
Imagine living in a community where an unexplained illness might lead neighbors to suspect that someone had placed a curse upon them. Imagine knowing that an accusation could threaten your livelihood, your family, or your life. Imagine trying to defend yourself when the people judging you already believed that supernatural evil was working through you.
What strikes me most is how easily fear can become self-reinforcing. Once people are convinced that an invisible threat exists, almost anything can be interpreted as confirmation. And when that conviction is supported by authority, the consequences can be devastating. That is a lesson extending far beyond the history of witchcraft. It speaks to the dangers of prejudice, scapegoating, and the human tendency to mistake conviction for evidence.
Éliphas Lévi: A Different Way of Understanding Magic
Nearly four centuries after the Malleus Maleficarum appeared, another book offered a strikingly different perspective. In 1860, French occult writer Éliphas Lévi published Histoire de la magie, or The History of Magic.
Lévi lived in a world transformed by the Enlightenment, scientific developments, political revolutions, and changing relationships between religious authority and intellectual inquiry. His approach to magic differed significantly from the demonological assumptions of the earlier witch-hunting manual.
Rather than treating every magical tradition as evidence of a conspiracy with evil, Lévi examined magic through the history of religion, philosophy, symbolism, and esoteric thought. For Lévi, magic was connected to what he believed were hidden principles of nature and the human will. He explored ancient traditions, religious symbols, ritual practices, and the philosophical systems that had developed around them. His writings helped shape the revival of Western occultism during the nineteenth century.
However, Lévi was not a modern psychologist, nor did he reject every supernatural claim. He held his own esoteric convictions, and his historical interpretations were often speculative. That distinction matters. His contribution was not that he scientifically explained away the supernatural. It was that he offered a different framework through which people could interpret magical traditions.
Where the Malleus Maleficarum approached witchcraft primarily as a dangerous alliance with demons, Lévi approached the history of magic as a complex body of beliefs, symbols, philosophical ideas, and purported hidden knowledge. One book sought to identify and suppress a perceived threat. The other sought to explore and interpret an esoteric tradition. They were not simply opposites, but their differences reveal how profoundly attitudes toward magic could change over time.
And this is where the two books I encountered in Rome began to take on a deeper meaning for me.
When Symbols Become Threats
One of the most fascinating aspects of spiritual history is the role of symbolism. Across cultures, people have used symbols to represent experiences and ideas that are difficult to express through ordinary language. Light and darkness. Heaven and earth. Angels and demons. Life and death. Transformation and rebirth. These images can carry religious, philosophical, psychological, and spiritual meanings.
But what happens when a symbol is interpreted in only one way? What happens when the interpretation becomes absolute? The history of witch-hunting demonstrates how dangerous that process can become. A strange dream might be interpreted as evidence of demonic influence. An unusual experience might be viewed as a sign of supernatural corruption. An unexplained event might become proof that someone had committed an invisible crime.
The problem was not necessarily the existence of symbolic language or supernatural belief. It was the failure to distinguish belief, interpretation, and demonstrable evidence. Lévi’s writings encourage us to consider another possibility: that symbols and magical traditions can be studied as expressions of humanity’s efforts to understand existence.
That does not mean every symbolic interpretation is correct. Nor does it mean every unusual experience must have a spiritual explanation. It means we can approach such experiences with curiosity rather than immediately assigning them a frightening meaning. And for me, that is where this history connects directly with modern intuitive and mediumistic practice.
Understanding the Unseen: Mediumship, Intuition, and Discernment
Throughout my work as a psychic medium, educator, and paranormal investigator, I have encountered people who describe experiences they struggle to understand. Some speak of sensing the presence of a deceased loved one. Others describe vivid dreams, unexplained impressions, intuitive insights, or experiences they believe may involve communication from the spirit world.
For some, these experiences are comforting. For others, they can be confusing or even frightening. What interests me is not simply what someone experienced, but how that experience is interpreted. And perhaps even more importantly, how the interpretation affects the person having it.
Consider someone who senses a presence in a room. Centuries ago, depending on the surrounding religious and cultural beliefs, that experience might have been interpreted as evidence of demonic activity. In a modern spiritual setting, someone might interpret the same experience as a possible spirit communication. A psychologist might explore perception, memory, emotional circumstances, sleep-related phenomena, or other natural explanations.
These interpretations are not interchangeable, and none should automatically be accepted without consideration. But they demonstrate something important. The experience and the explanation we assign to it are not necessarily the same thing.
This distinction is central to responsible spiritual practice. As a medium, I recognize that people may understand their experiences through a spiritual framework. At the same time, I believe we must remain willing to question our assumptions and acknowledge what we cannot establish with certainty.
Not every unusual experience is paranormal. Not every coincidence is a message. And not every unexplained event requires a supernatural explanation. Our responsibility is to approach these experiences thoughtfully, compassionately, and without creating unnecessary fear. That is especially important when working with people who are grieving, emotionally vulnerable, or searching for answers.
Spiritual exploration should never become an excuse to frighten, manipulate, or control another person. For me, genuine discernment requires both openness and restraint. It means being willing to consider possibilities while remaining grounded in what we actually know.
The Psychology of Fear and the Unexplained
Modern psychology offers another valuable perspective on the history of witchcraft accusations. Human beings naturally search for explanations when something unexpected occurs. Our minds attempt to identify patterns, recognize threats, and create meaning from incomplete information. This ability is essential to survival. But it can also lead us toward mistaken conclusions.
When people are frightened, uncertain, or experiencing significant stress, they may become more likely to interpret ambiguous events as threatening. Psychologists study processes such as confirmation bias, suggestion, social influence, and the ways expectations can shape perception and memory. These processes help explain how unusual experiences can become embedded within larger systems of belief.
Imagine a community already convinced that witches are responsible for unexplained misfortunes. A sudden illness occurs. Someone remembers a disagreement with a neighbor. A rumor begins. Other people recall unrelated incidents that now seem suspicious. Before long, a series of ordinary or unexplained events becomes a story about supernatural wrongdoing.
Once that story takes hold, contradictory evidence may be dismissed, while anything that appears to support the accusation is emphasized. This is one way collective fear can develop into moral panic. Historical witch trials involved many additional social, legal, and religious factors, but these psychological processes help us understand how fear can influence judgment.
And I believe there is a lesson here for modern spiritual communities as well. We should be especially cautious when someone claims absolute certainty about invisible forces, spiritual attachments, curses, or harmful entities. Such claims can have a powerful emotional effect on the person receiving them. Suggesting that someone is surrounded by evil, spiritually contaminated, or under attack can create fear where none previously existed.
That is not responsible spiritual guidance. It is an example of why discernment matters. The purpose of spiritual exploration should be to increase understanding, not to replace one form of fear with another.
From Persecution to Personal Understanding
As I continued researching the two books I had photographed in Rome, I found myself thinking about the people whose lives were shaped by the beliefs contained in the Malleus Maleficarum. I wondered how many ordinary individuals suffered because someone else was convinced they possessed supernatural powers or had entered into an alliance with evil. I thought about the fear that must have surrounded unusual experiences during those centuries. And I considered how dramatically our opportunities for understanding such experiences have changed.
Today, we can examine unusual phenomena through multiple perspectives. We can study historical records. We can explore psychological explanations. We can investigate environmental conditions. We can consider cultural and religious influences. And we can listen respectfully to people who interpret their experiences spiritually.
None of these approaches requires us to abandon critical thinking. In fact, I would argue that critical thinking is essential to meaningful spiritual inquiry. Throughout my own investigations, I have found that the most productive question is rarely, “How can I prove that this is paranormal?” A better question is, “What is actually happening, and what evidence do we have?”
That question allows us to remain open without surrendering our judgment. It also protects us from the very certainty that made historical witch persecutions so dangerous. There is a profound difference between believing something may be possible and insisting that it must be true. And that difference can determine whether our response to the unknown becomes constructive or harmful.
What These Two Books Ultimately Taught Me
When I think back to that unexpected doorway in Rome, I realize that what initially seemed like a small moment of curiosity became something much more meaningful. I had entered a library without knowing why I felt drawn there. I had discovered two books whose languages I could not read. I had photographed them, intending to research them at some point in the future. And eventually, I found myself examining nearly four centuries of changing attitudes toward magic, spiritual experiences, and the unseen.
The Malleus Maleficarum reminded me of what can happen when fear is given authority over human lives. Éliphas Lévi’s Histoire de la magie introduced another way of approaching magical traditions: through symbolism, philosophy, historical inquiry, and esoteric interpretation. Neither book provides a complete understanding of spiritual experience. Both must be read within the historical circumstances and beliefs of their authors.
But together, they reveal something important about humanity. Our understanding of the unknown is never separate from the culture, fears, expectations, and beliefs through which we interpret it. And that understanding continues to evolve.
As someone who works with intuition, mediumship, and paranormal investigation, I find that especially meaningful. I do not believe that approaching the unseen requires us to abandon reason. Nor do I believe that reason requires us to dismiss every experience that challenges our current understanding.
There is room for curiosity. There is room for personal spiritual belief. There is room for investigation. And there must always be room for uncertainty. Perhaps that is the greatest lesson these two books offer. Wisdom does not necessarily come from having all the answers. Sometimes it comes from recognizing how much we still have to learn.
A Final Reflection: The Doorway That Started It All
I often think about that day in Rome. The ancient streets. The church I had intended to enter. The unexpected doorway. The quiet atmosphere of the library. And those two remarkable books resting behind glass.
At the time, I had no understanding of the historical journey they would eventually inspire. I simply felt drawn toward them. Some might call that coincidence. Others might describe it as intuition or synchronicity. I cannot prove why I felt compelled to enter that doorway, and I don’t need to.
What matters to me is what followed. That seemingly insignificant moment led me to explore a troubling chapter of human history and reflect more deeply on the responsibility that comes with interpreting unusual experiences. It reminded me that spiritual understanding is not simply about what we believe. It is also about how we treat one another because of those beliefs.
Centuries ago, fear of the unseen contributed to the persecution of thousands of people. Today, we have opportunities to respond differently. We can ask questions rather than make accusations. We can investigate rather than assume. We can respect spiritual experiences without insisting that every interpretation is correct. And we can approach the mysteries of human consciousness with curiosity, humility, and compassion.
Perhaps that is what I was meant to take away from those two books. Or perhaps it is simply the meaning I discovered through researching them. Either way, the lesson remains the same.
The danger was never intuition itself. The danger was fear mistaken for truth.
And perhaps genuine wisdom begins when we learn the difference.
References and Further Reading
The following works provide historical and philosophical background for this narrative.
1. Kramer, Heinrich. Malleus Maleficarum (1487). A major historical source for late-medieval witchcraft beliefs and prosecution practices. Jacob Sprenger’s traditional attribution as coauthor remains disputed.
2. Lévi, Éliphas. Histoire de la magie (1860). A nineteenth-century interpretation of the history of magic, esotericism, and religious symbolism.
3. Levack, Brian P. The Witch-Hunt in Early Modern Europe, 4th edition (2016). Routledge. A major scholarly study of the European witch trials and their historical causes.
4. Federici, Silvia. Caliban and the Witch: Women, the Body and Primitive Accumulation (2004). Autonomedia. An influential interpretation of witch-hunting in relation to gender, labor, and social power.
5. Jung, Carl Gustav. The Archetypes and the Collective Unconscious (1969). Princeton University Press. A psychological framework for considering symbolism, archetypes, and human meaning-making.
