Deliver Us from Evil

by Ralph Sarchie

  Keith promised to follow these rules, so we arranged to meet the couple at their Brooklyn condo the following Thursday. As I drove there, I thought about a conversation I’d had with my kids a few days earlier. Knowing that I had a new case and my wife had a new job, nine-year-old Christina announced that she had career plans too. “I want to help people—and punish demons, just like you, Daddy!”

  Four-year-old Daniella was quick to agree. “Your work is scary, Daddy, but I want to do it when I grow up. I’m brave: I like to watch scary movies on TV, except when it’s dark. I can do it, I know I can do it. You just have to be brave, right?”

  As a father, it troubles me to hear my little girls say they’d like to grow up to be demonologists—and to think about how much they’ve already been frightened in their young lives. One night, while I was holding my class in the basement, Christina and Jen were folding laundry in the bedroom when they had a horrible fright. A dreadful black shape hovered over the end table by the bed, moved across the room, and then went right through the wall! One of my students happened to look out into the basement hallway directly below that wall—and guess what? She saw the same swirling shape my wife and daughter had seen! It was incredibly eerie.

  Even little Daniella has had a few encounters with the demonic. She’s heard strange knocking on her bedroom walls and was extremely frightened one night, while I was working on this book, when a picture suddenly fell off the living room wall with a loud crash. Writing about the demonic—or even thinking about them—gives evil spirits recognition, which can provoke phenomena. Having a picture flung around is low-level harassment that no longer bothers me, except when it upsets my kids. Daniella was so alarmed that she jumped into bed with Christina, scaring the wits out of my older daughter, who was sound asleep. There was such an uproar that night that Jen had to sleep in the children’s room, to calm them.

  Most troubling of all were a series of supernatural incidents connected with a case I was involved in a few years ago. The first was quite minor. One night I received a call from a woman whose daughter was dabbling in the occult—as a member of a Santeria cult—and who feared the girl had become possessed. Santeria is an Afro-Caribbean religion that arose during the era of slavery. Since the slave owners didn’t approve of what they considered pagan practices, they forced their slaves to convert to Christianity. In order to preserve their own religion, these men and women connected their deities—the seven African powers—to seven Catholic saints. Santeria is mainly used for “white magic,” but it also can have a dark side. If it’s used to influence someone to go against the free will God gave us, then it becomes “black magic,” since that violates the divine plan.

  Through patrolling public housing projects where Caribbean immigrants live and my reading on the occult, I’ve become very familiar with Santeria. Its priests, or santeros, are well versed in herbal lore, which they draw on in conjuring up spells to cure illness and misfortune, create good luck talismans, or curse one’s enemies. Should practitioners of this religion become victims of bilongos, as curses are called, they can go to their own santero to have the curse lifted with an ebbo, or ritual cleansing. What it all comes down to is a battle of santeros, as the curses and counter-curses are hurled back and forth until the most powerful Santeria priest wins.

  I remember once responding to a 911 call for a domestic dispute. When I got to the location, I noticed an “altar,” with a statue of St. Barbara, the Catholic saint that represents the Orisha “Chango,” one of the seven African powers. I’ve seen these shrines in many tenement apartments: They’re typically surrounded by objects like railroad spikes, coins, or bread, all of which are offered to appease the gods. I said to the woman who answered the door, “Santeria?” She spoke very little English but shook her head violently and said, “No, no Santeria!” with a heavy Spanish accent. I told my partner not to touch the things on the altar while we got the argument under control. After everyone had cooled off, the woman walked us to the hall. Just as she was about to close her door, she gave me a mischievous grin and said, “You know Santeria?” I smiled back and nodded. She looked surprised and must have been asking herself, “What could an Italian cop know about Santeria?”

  Well, this Italian cop knew enough to suspect that the daughter of the woman who called me wasn’t practicing Santeria at all but something much more sinister. From what this woman described, it sounded like the girl was actually involved with Palo Mayombe. I felt frightened for the woman’s daughter, who was only about twenty, but had already fallen under the sway of the black arts. Since her mother lived in the area where I patrol, I arranged to stop by and do a formal interview the following week.

  After talking to this woman on the phone for about an hour, I went to my office to write up my notes about her case before my midnight shift. After I was done, I went into the living room and found my wife and Christina very shaken up. They both told me they’d heard a male voice—not mine—calling Jen’s name. I told them it might be connected to this case, but didn’t sound too serious. I hated to leave them in this agitated state, so I used blessed salt and ordered the spirit to leave, in the name of Jesus Christ. I left Jen with a bottle of holy water by her side and told her to call me at work if there was any further trouble. I didn’t realize it at the time, but this was just the opening move of this particular demon.

  The following Wednesday, after stopping off for the two crucial nutrients cops need for a long night on patrol—coffee and doughnuts—my police partner and I went to the woman’s home, in uniform, so I could do a quick interview. She lived in a typical ghetto apartment, dark, dirty, and extremely cluttered. It looked like the perfect dwelling place for evil, but when I checked for signs of Santeria or Palo Mayombe worship, I found none. Despite her forbidding residence, the woman was very pleasant and sincere.

  In a low, pained voice, she told us that her daughter had been committed to Bellevue the previous day. As a cop, I’ve been at that well-known New York hospital hundreds of times with suspects who need psychiatric evaluation or medical treatment. I was there with a deranged perp the night Hedda Nussbaum was brought in and got the fright of my life when I saw her face so horribly beaten up and scarred. It was around Halloween and I couldn’t imagine a worse mask than the one she was already wearing. Two female cops told me that Hedda and her boyfriend had beaten their adopted six-year-old daughter, Lisa, to death, an atrocity that made headlines all over the country the next morning. At Central Booking, where I dropped my suspect off, I saw the child’s father and killer, Joel Steinberg, sitting on the floor of his cell. I told him I hoped he rotted in Hell, because if there was ever someone who truly deserved the most hideous torments of the damned, it was he. I don’t like to pass judgment on people, but it was a good thing Steinberg was behind bars, because I wanted to choke the life out of that depraved monster.

  With a touch of embarrassment, as if she felt I’d be disappointed, the woman then explained that she’d decided to take her daughter to a Catholic priest after the girl was released from the psych ward. She apologized profusely for having taken up my time and for having decided to go to the priest. I assured her I wasn’t the least bit upset and wished her the best. I was glad a priest wanted to get involved—that was his job. I’ve always felt that if more priests were open to this work and were staunchly against the Devil, instead of taking the wishy-washy tone some of them do on the pulpit these days, there would be no need for me to do this Work. It’s not that I don’t want to do it, but I’d much rather have the Church and clergy handle these matters. Feeling that this woman was in good hands, I left.

  Although I thought this was the end of this case, it wasn’t. A few months later, rather late in the evening, the phone rang. My wife was pregnant with Daniella and was having some problems with bleeding. The doctor had done all sorts of tests but couldn’t find the cause. Jen was lying on the sofa resting, terrified that she might miscarry. To protect her and the fragile, unbaptized child in her womb, I’d decide
d to take a break from the Work. Thinking the call might be about a case, I let the machine answer it.

  It was the same woman who had called before: The priest hadn’t resolved the problem, and her daughter was still possessed. I stood there, listening to her say that she wanted me to investigate, but didn’t pick up the receiver. I was in a quandary: I knew I must protect Jen and our unborn child, but as the night wore on, I kept thinking about it. The woman’s pleading voice was tugging at my heart, but I also felt I should go with my gut and leave the case alone. I went into the bathroom to shave and get ready for work, thinking maybe I should give the bishop a call and drop the whole thing in his lap.

  Just as I finished this thought, I heard something hit my dog, Max, out in the living room. He started barking and growling like crazy. I ran into the room and saw Jen staring at the dog. Every hair on his back was standing up as he stared into the dining room, growling louder than he’d ever growled before.

  “What the hell happened?” I asked.

  “I don’t know,” Jen said. “He was walking into the dining room and it looked like he suddenly ran into a brick wall. I could see his whole body knocked to the side, and then he started that awful growling.” I calmed the dog and checked him all over, but he wasn’t hurt, just shaken up. That was the answer to my question—I should stay far away from this case. It was one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do: I’m not one to run from helping people, but if I can’t give it 100 percent, I won’t take a case. I never heard from that woman again, but I pray she got the help she needed.

  Max was never quite the same after that. He wasn’t the best-behaved dog to begin with, but after being terrorized and knocked around by a diabolical force, he grew wilder and wilder. He became increasingly destructive and once leapt through our sunroom window in a berserk frenzy. There was blood and glass everywhere, that’s how wild and uncontrollable he’d become. Despite all the trouble he caused, I loved that dog, and immediately took him to the vet to be stitched up.

  His barking became almost incessant—except for one peculiar occasion where, like the dog in the Sherlock Holmes mystery, Max did nothing in the night. It was around three o’clock in the morning, and I’d long since kissed my wife and daughter good-bye as they slept, as I always did before going to work, never knowing if I would ever see them again. Jen woke up to the sound of the kitchen door rattling, as if someone were trying to break in. Thinking it might be the dog, scratching to go out and do his business, she got up and saw Max asleep on Christina’s bed.

  The noise got louder, and she peeked into the kitchen to see what was the matter. Fear poured through her when she saw the door shaking violently. As fast as a heavily pregnant woman can run, she ran to the cordless phone. Just then the kitchen light dimmed—and she realized that whatever was battering on the door wasn’t a human. Holding the phone receiver like a talisman, she ran back to the bedroom and was about to call me when the pounding abruptly stopped. What struck me about this story was Max’s behavior—this animal usually barked like mad if so much as a leaf dropped in the yard, and suddenly he can’t summon the energy to get up and give even one woof? He must have remembered what happened the last time he was visited by the demonic!

  * * *

  When I reached Frank and JoAnn’s building, I saw Keith approaching it with a confident cop swagger. I knew he was a brave man, but had I really done enough to prepare him for dealing with beings so evil that they think nothing of beating up your dog or terrorizing your pregnant wife, just to get even with you? I hoped he’d followed my instructions about getting into a state of grace.

  The condo was on the twentieth floor of a beautiful building that looked out at the Verrazano Narrows Bridge. The view was spectacular on this clear winter night, with the lights on the bridge sparkling in the distance. I was struck by the contrast between this lovely setting and the dark, purposeful evil that had brought us here. I told Keith we were about to meet a man who in his lucid moments hated Catholics and while under the sway of the demonic hated humanity.

  “Remember that we could be dealing with a very powerful spirit that doesn’t want anyone around who give its victim hope,” I said. “Hope is a very dangerous thing to the demonic.”

  “Will we know if Frank is possessed?” Keith wondered.

  “At this point, consider him a suspect,” I explained. “Although it’s hard to tell at first if you’re speaking to the person or the demon, eventually the true nature of the beast will show through, if he’s possessed.”

  We rode the elevator up to the condo. As JoAnn had warned me, it was a mess. Although the rooms were generously sized, this was clearly a couple who never threw anything out. The living room was extremely cluttered: Piles of books, old newspapers, and papers were everywhere. Judging by the number of take-out cartons and dirty plates lying around, Frank and JoAnn lived mainly on Chinese food and didn’t spend much time doing the dishes. Seeing the poor state of hygiene in this home—and several cockroaches—we both declined JoAnn’s offer of coffee.

  Among the vast array of objects that filled the living room were numerous photographs of Frank. Even though he wasn’t a particularly handsome man, variations of his toothy grin could be seen on just about every wall, with an occasional shot of JoAnn, a thin blonde of about thirty, with bags under her eyes, rumpled clothing, and a sloppy ponytail. Her husband was rather overweight but very elegantly dressed in a cashmere sports jacket and navy blue pants that probably cost ten times as much as my entire outfit. As he shook my hand, I noticed his fingernails were not only neatly manicured but had a coat of clear polish on them.

  The dapper dry cleaner, who was a bit too dapper for the tastes of working-class cops like Keith and me, was in his midthirties and had no kids. Soon after high school he’d joined the Jehovah’s Witnesses, a group that puts an enormous emphasis on Bible study. Soon he could recite biblical passages all night long. The trouble started about eight years ago, when Frank was reading one of the numerous publications this group puts out and distributes door-to-door in the hope of finding converts. “All of a sudden,” he said, “I heard a voice inside my head saying that I was ‘a chosen one.’”

  I could see his delight at being so honored. In a slightly patronizing tone, he explained that one of his religion’s beliefs is that certain people are selected by God to become leaders and teachers. Frank was convinced that this message came from God and offered a biblical passage to prove it. “As the Good Book says in John 16:13, ‘When he comes, however, being the spirit of truth he will guide you to all truth. He will not speak on his own, but will speak what he hears, and will announce to you the things to come.’”

  I, however, felt this voice was anything but holy. Frank described it as a deep male baritone, not unlike his own voice, and said it began forecasting events that later came true. For example, it told him that a friend of his was pregnant. “The voice even predicted that she’d have a boy,” the dry cleaner added. “And that was before she’d even told anybody she was expecting!”

  After that, Frank found that when he’d meditate on the Bible, his mind seemed to open up and he could understand its passages perfectly. This filled him with pride rather than a reverence for God—definitely a sign that he was under the influence of a demon. By feeding his ego, the fiend was gradually luring him away from righteousness and into the sin of pride.

  Over time, Frank began to trust the voice more and more, eventually reaching a point where he’d do nothing without its approval. This went on for several years, until his life abruptly took an upsetting twist. It seemed that the other people in his group didn’t share his view that he was a “chosen one,” turned against him, and actually kicked him out of their group. In a bitter tone, Frank quoted another biblical passage: “‘Yet for all this they sinned still more and believed not in his wonders … though their hearts were not steadfast towards him, nor were they faithful to his covenant. Yet he, being merciful, destroyed them not; often he turned back his anger and l
et none of his wrath be roused. He remembered that they were flesh, a passing breath that returns not.’”

  I took his ouster from the Jehovah’s Witnesses as further evidence of diabolical influence, since I’ve seen time and time again how the demonic lead people down a path of isolation, to make them more vulnerable to possession. The evil spirit’s goal was clear: to separate Frank from his support system so it could more effectively break down his will.

  That’s when he noticed that he wasn’t just hearing the voice in his mind: It now spoke out loud, as if somebody nearby were talking to him. Frank refused to see that he was heading further and further in the wrong direction: Even during the interview, he quoted the Bible constantly, making it difficult for us to get the information we needed to help him. When Keith asked what kind of religious upbringing Frank had, the dry cleaner’s answer, if you want to call it one, was this passage from Ecclesiastes: “‘Remember your Creator in the days of your youth, before the evil days to come and the years approach of which you will say, I have no pleasure in them before the sun is darkened.’” Understandably, Keith didn’t pursue this line of questioning.

  Later in the interview, I saw Frank swell with pride at what he thought were clever interpretations of certain passages. He even went so far as to tell me how the demonic work according to the Scriptures, yet he refused to see how twisted this was. Instead, he arrogantly informed me that he had such “respect” for God and His authority that he refused to listen to anybody else. Never once, however, did he speak of “love” for God.