Four Nights With The Devil

by Peter Hockley

  Please answer me..?

  I sat in lonely silence, resigned to the fact that, despite “His” promise, “God” was gone.

  Suddenly, while gazing ahead at the far wall, I became frozen like a statue. My body refused to move and became as rigid as the wall my blank eyes stared at. Awareness of my surroundings diminished. My own thoughts departed, as if my entire mind was emptied of everything in it. Even though I was paralysed, while the seconds passed, I felt no fear whatsoever; just the opposite, in fact, I was filled with a serene calm. In my ears, the breath of my lungs sounded deep and echoey, like blasts of wind in a cavern.

  Without warning, my left hand, still holding the pen, seemed to drift across to the wall that my bed rested against. Time moved so slowly it became meaningless. My head turned with the movement of my arm and my eyes fixed, unblinking, upon the biro. The tip of the pen stuck to the wall like metal to a magnet and immediately scrawled spiralling letters across the surface. Through the distant gaze of a trancelike state, I watched four single words take shape before my eyes.

  Even before the pen came to a stop and my arm fell limp at my side, waves of tears—more than the previous night— streamed down my face.

  YES THEY ARE ALIVE

  For the longest time I sat in bed, crying. Through tear-stained eyes, I stared in wonder at the swirling words on my bedroom wall. My dearly missed relatives weren’t lost, but alive. They hadn’t ceased to exist, or become no more; somewhere on earth, at that very moment, they lived and breathed again. I gathered what composure I could but the sobs still came as I got the notepad and wrote:

  Can I ever see them again?

  The answer came back instantly and I watched my hand, under another power, scribbling quickly on the notepaper.

  You can never see them how you remember them. But your spirit can choose to make the memory of them part of Who You Really Are. That way you will remember them forever

  I was filled with happiness by the thought of Gran and Uncle Bill (at least the essence or spirit of them anyway) living somewhere in the world in a brand new body. After several minutes and with renewed encouragement I continued to write, this time about my own previous incarnations on the earth.

  So what about me? How many lives have I lived?

  Slowly, my hand dragged the pen and scratched “God’s” answer:

  7 3 4

  I was stunned. Seven hundred and thirty-four past lives, I could hardly believe it had been that many. I jotted my surprise down on paper:

  734! That's a lot! I didn’t think it would be so many. How come I can’t remember any of them?

  You have not chosen to remember

  I thought it was a bit strange that after 734 lifetimes on earth, no small number, there wasn’t one experience or memory, not a single moment of laughter, not one joyous encounter, nor the face of a loved one – not from any of those lives – that my spirit had chosen to remember as part of Who I Really Am. I resisted any impulse to question “God” further on the matter and surrendered to “His” superiority and wisdom. If “God” said it, it must be true.

  Looking at the clock, I saw it was late. Again. I knew I would have to sleep soon because I worked on Sunday mornings, too. As my second meeting with “God” wound down, I told “Him”:

  I still can’t believe all of this is really happening! I was thinking that I should tell someone about you.

  I thought of my mother and how she was an unbelieving atheist, with no religious convictions or spiritual instincts whatsoever. What would she make of all of this? As far as she was aware I was still as atheistic in thinking as she was. I had done a very good job at hiding my curiosity about God.

  How about my mum? I would really like to tell her what’s going on.

  A brief pause and then the biro moved by itself. Out of its tip flowed:

  Remember that you are free to do whatever you choose to. So if you want to, tell her. But I don’t think she is ready to listen yet

  I pondered that for a second and decided “He” was right. As excited as I was, I didn’t think Mum was ready to sit down and hear me talk about the incredible phenomena that was taking place in my bedroom.

  I put the notepad away and prepared to sleep. Before switching off the light I took one last, long look at the biro-pen words that were drawn across the wall - blue and spiralling.

  Yes They Are Alive

  I turned off the light, put my head on the pillow and closed my eyes, sensitive to the presence of “God” with me. I knew “He” was right there in my room - watching over me as I slept. I fell into my dreams, recalling pleasantly what “God” had told me earlier in the evening.

  I am always here

  I was glad “He” was, happier than I could ever remember being in my life. It was impossible to know that in two days time I would learn the real identity of my “God” and would be confronted with all the demonic malevolence of Evil personified.

  Chapter Eleven : The Voice

  My mind was never on the job throughout the whole Sunday shift. Time slowed to a standstill while I waited for the end of work. All I could think about was “God”. “His” words, both in the book and to me directly in the notepad, had changed my life. The people around me, my colleagues and friends, seemed insignificant next to “Him”. The kitchen clanged and crashed with the sounds of crockery, cutlery, pots and pans and the loud voices of chefs and waiting staff called out. Amid the noise, I looked down on my co-workers with derision. The whole lot of them were lost, I told myself. Ignorant of the truth, they were destined to live out their miserable lives never knowing the delight of an experience with “God” and “His” liberating doctrine of do-as-you-please. I pitied the miserable bunch, glad to have escaped that cage of ignorance myself.

  When I finally left St Anne’s, I hurried to the city centre and back into BORDERS once again. There, still on the display table, was the book that had turned my world upside down. I was curious to know who else had bought it and, with a smile, wondered if they would dare to write their own letter to “God”. Maybe there were other people who were taking the same incredible journey that I was. It was entirely possible, I knew, but the pride in me—jealous for “God”—hoped I was the only one brave enough, or serious enough to put pen to paper. Without hesitation I went straight to the counter with the next two books in the series and paid for them.

  Proudly carrying books 2 and 3 with me, I stopped at a nearby internet cafe deciding, quite on the spur of the moment, to check out the author’s website. I discovered that his books were a something of a phenomenon, with a devoted following around the globe. On the website there were comments and letters of thanks from men and women whose lives had been transformed by the soul-freeing message of the divine spirit who communed with the author – and who now visited me. I could certainly testify to that. I was pleased to find no mention of anybody else writing a letter to “God”.

  As I poured through the content of the website, lost in the marvellous stories of people changed by this new spirituality, suddenly a familiar voice jerked my mind back into the room.

  It was my Christian friend, Debbie.

  She had come to the internet place with her sister, Becky and as they stood over me I squirmed uncomfortably in my seat. I didn’t want to see either of them, nor did I want them to know what I was doing. I wasn’t embarrassed by what was on the computer screen in front of me, rather I felt as though my privacy had been invaded by unwelcome intruders. A cloud of anger swiftly formed inside of me and as Debbie and her sister talked, with smiles, I wanted nothing but to get rid of them as quickly as possible.

  I didn’t hear a word either of the young women said and the longer they stood near me their closeness was stifling. Bitter curses against them burned as thoughts in my mind. I tried to find a way to cut the conversation short, although they continued talking all the more. Talking and smiling. I hated them.

  At last, they crossed the room to a couple of free terminals and sat down, leaving me t
o return to my computer. Sometime later, the sisters were finished online before me and, on their way out, they stopped to say goodbye. I grunted something in return and watched them leave, glad to see the back of them. All I wanted was to be alone with “God.”

  By day three of my relationship with the spirit, it felt like I had been engaged in supernatural letter-writing with “God” all of my life. And on Sunday another barrier in my amazing spiritual journey was broken.

  I began hearing the voice of “God”.

  As “His” answers to my questions poured onto paper, while the ink flowed, I could discern a clear, soft voice speaking into my thoughts. I was completely unafraid by this new development – instead I was filled with excitement as it could only mean that “God” and I were drawing closer to one another. The American author had described hearing the same voice himself, only he experienced it from the start of his encounter. The voice was calm and pleasant. It sounded male to me, but it wasn’t deep, and it echoed in my mind like sweet bells chiming, entirely separate and distinct from my own thoughts. It was more like taking dictation now as I channelled “God’s” words and wrote them down. I wondered if “God” would appear to me in some kind of visible way also, and stirred in anticipation of seeing “Him”. But when I asked about it, my companion explained that such a thing was impossible as there was no material form God could take that my mind would accept as truly being Him. I remembered “Him” saying a similar thing to the author during their conversation.

  Surrendering to this wonderful (and, sadly, still invisible) spirit was now effortless. “God’s” sentences came fast and furious and every word of response was clear and precise. While I still had no control over how the pen moved in my hand, the letters streaming from the biro looked more like conventional handwriting, rather than the untidy spirals of the first two nights, though it was still different from my own penmanship. Only the odd line here or there still appeared shaky and irregular. I knew that this greater efficiency was because “God” had made “Himself” at home inside of me for three days now and I was more comfortable yielding to “Him”. It was easier to enter that passive state whereby “God” took control of me. We were growing ever closer to one another and the thought of being so in tune with the spirit thrilled me.

  Many of “God’s” answers were more elaborate now, too, and stretched out sometimes over multiple pages of the notebook. I would hear “God” dictating everything, my hand scribbling hurriedly in unison with the gentle voice. Our conversation was rarely separated by gaps of silence or long pauses anymore. If there was a pause and nothing came, I would let the biro rest gently on the paper and wait. Soon enough, I would fall into the deep well of “God’s” presence again and the pen would move.

  Entire pages were filled in no time at all. My hand, under the spirit’s control, now moved with incredible speed. There were instances when my arm would be so sore by the time the biro stopped I would have to break the dialogue and rest. Other times I simply couldn’t go on because “God’s” constant voice caused my brain to feel like it was overloading or burning out. I hated the rest periods though, cursing my weak flesh, insufficient to keep pace with the divine spirit that coursed through it with such power.

  I couldn’t be still for long and fought violently against my own tiredness. The compulsion to write burned inside me like the hottest fire, as if writing was a matter of life and death. The addiction was so strong I felt I needed “God’s” words more than breath. My thirst for “Him” could not be satiated. “God” was overwhelming me, consuming me and with no power or will to resist “His” advance, I gladly let the rushing floodwaters carry me away.

  I discussed a great deal with “God” on Sunday night. Again our conversation went beyond midnight. Since “God” told me I could live however I wished, my old intrigue with Islam was resurfacing. Thoughts of conversion to Islam once more danced in my mind.

  Perhaps I would become Khalid Abdul-Hakeem after all.

  “God” repeated what “He” had already said in the book: By itself, no single religion was the correct way to reach God; neither was any one religion the perfect or complete truth. “He” emphasized that anyone who claimed a monopoly on God and worship of Him was in error. My companion stated that I was free to follow any religion I wanted, in any form I desired, or indeed have no religion at all. The perfect truth, “God” explained, was to understand man’s freedom to choose whatever he desired; and there would be no punishment for any choice.

  Thinking on these things, I asked “God” if Muhammad was a true prophet and messenger of God. The Muslims said he was; the Christians said he wasn’t. I expected a simple yes or no answer and was stunned when the immediate reply flowed back.

  You cannot ask that question about another until you have first asked it about yourself

  My mouth hung open, speechless.

  It took a while but I finally put pen to paper and responded.

  Wait – so even I could be a prophet?

  Yes

  No way, God! I’m not Buddha, or Jesus.

  These were the great spiritual teachers whom “God” had mentioned by name to the American author. In the book, “He” called them, “Masters”.

  Weren’t they men, like you?

  Yeah, but come on – there’s no way I’ll ever be in the same league as them!

  Why not? Isn’t a prophet one who hears from God and reveals His message to others?

  Yes.

  Aren’t you hearing Me right now?

  I was dizzy with such thinking. Unimaginable doors of opportunity were appearing before me, leading to a future unlike any I could have dreamt of before.

  “God” repeated that I was able to create my future in any way I wished, simply by the decisions I made. I could have anything that I desired if it was truly what my mind, body and spirit, harmoniously, chose to construct as part of Who I Really Am.

  Explaining further about Muhammad, “God” said that he was indeed a messenger of God, although his own personal ideas and beliefs often permeated his teaching, leading Islam to present itself as the only way to God. The spirit insisted that Islam was only one of an unlimited number of ways to know God. Contemplating this, I asked “God” what the best way to worship “Him” was.

  This is what “He” told me:

  The best way to worship Me is to not “worship” Me at all. I do not require, nor do I have need of, your worship. I desire only to see you live the life you have - however you choose to. You are not here to worship Me because you are Me. We are One and the Same. Your purpose here on earth is to Re-Member Who You Are: Part of Me. Only worship Me if it is what you choose in your journey to become Who You Really Are

  I then asked about the differences between Christianity and Islam. I asked how Muhammad’s understanding of God could be so opposite to that of the Christian apostle, Paul. What little I knew about Paul I had learned during my year studying Islam, though it was from a biased viewpoint. In one of the Islamic books I owned, a Muslim scholar said that Jesus originally preached Islam, but His message was subsequently corrupted, becoming what we know today as Christianity. The individual most responsible for this heinous perversion of Jesus’ teaching, the scholar said, was Saul of Tarsus, whom the Christians called the Apostle Paul. I never bothered to counter this argument with any investigation of the matter from Christianity’s perspective. I just accepted what the Muslim scholar said.

  When I asked “God” for “His” explanation, what happened was extraordinary and quite unexpected. My wrist muscles tightened fiercely and I watched the biro forcefully scratch a blunt answer, denouncing Paul as a false prophet and charlatan. For the first time, “God” was something other than friendly. The air closed around me and I felt uncomfortable. My companion seemed almost incensed, declaring that Paul was a misguided schemer and faker who had no relationship or encounter with God whatsoever. A chilly apprehension drew upon me at this darker, harsher tone, condemning one of the chief apostles of Ch
ristianity.

  It never dawned on me how strange it was to call Paul wrong if there was—by “God’s” own definition a minute earlier—no such thing as right and wrong, only the choices each of us made.

  Much later, I would learn that the Apostle Paul had in fact been a mighty man of God—one of the most faithful who ever lived. He did indeed have an encounter with God; one that turned his life around completely and saw him suffering horrendous persecution for his faith. On this night, however, I blindly accepted what “God” told me.

  Why on earth would I question these words if they were from God?

  My wrist loosened its grip on the biro. “God’s” pleasant demeanour swiftly returned and “He” encouraged me to always trust “Him” and believe in “His” message. Even as the pen scribbled kind words of reassurance, a sweet, calm voice sang in my mind.

  I love you

  Fear gave way to peace and I found myself wondering about Debbie. She lived her life and made her choices based on the teachings of the Bible. I remembered how Debbie didn’t swear or curse like everyone else I knew and recalled how she had never been drunk once. By this time I had not touched alcohol for four months and I was happier for it, although when it came to my language my mouth remained an open sewer. On the other hand, I imagined that Debbie lived by a rigid code of “do this” and “don’t do that”, a regime of strict religion that stole all possible liberty and joy. I felt sadness for her.