Her old mountain home was still in decent repair after nearly a hundred years. Her husband had been born in this house. So many good memories, she thought as she wrapped up folding her laundry. Their six children had known this side of the mountain as their home, as well. And, those six had given them fifteen grandchildren. It was a shame that John hadn’t gotten to see and know all of them before he passed. A couple of those grandchildren were approaching marrying age. Would she get to be a great-grandmother? God, you are so good!
Leaning over to a corner table, she picked up her Bible and opened it to the Psalms. With so many friends and kin who lived nearby—resulting in somewhat frequent, somewhat unexpected visits—she didn’t always have the luxury of reading the Word in the evenings. But, she never missed a morning. Her quiet time with the Lord was the elixir she needed daily for her loneliness.
Those first few weeks and months without her husband had been the most difficult in her life, having to enter into every new day alone. If the Lord had not been present with her each morning she’d have surely gone mad. The first words from her lips each new day were, and continued to be, Good morning, Jesus. No, it wasn’t an instant fix for the pain, but she was determined to continue her conversations each morning with someone that she loved. There would be no more Good morning, Honey. No more Ready for breakfast? But she could still converse, and she could still drink in love and acceptance. She could still feel comfort.
To wake up with her Lord close by was a bona fide treatment that gave her a measure of what she needed to get through her days alone. Oh, how she still missed her husband.
She turned a few pages, settling on Psalm 100. She began to read aloud to herself. There was always something about hearing the Word of God spoken, even if it was she who was doing the speaking.
“‘Make a joyful noise unto the Lord, all ye lands. Serve the Lord with gladness; come before His presence with singing.’ You sure are good to me. Thank you for your love and your provision. ‘Know ye that the Lord He is God: it is He that hath made us, and not we ourselves; we are His people, and the sheep of His pasture.’ Jesus, thank you that you are great enough and big enough to handle all of our challenges.”
Tears came to her eyes as she surrendered her loneliness to him for the ten-thousandth time. “‘Enter into His gates with thanksgiving, and into His courts with praise; be thankful unto Him and bless His name.’ You are worthy, Lord. Worthy even when things do not go the way I’d like. ‘For the Lord is good; His mercy is everlasting; and His truth endureth to all generations.’” She placed her finger between the pages to mark her spot, closed the book, and looked through her ceiling to Heaven. “You have shown me your mercy, O Lord. You have not forsaken me. Never forsaken me. Now, that’s not to say that I always felt that way. No, Sir. Thought you had abandoned me for a time, but I was wrong. You got me through. And, You still do.”
She leaned back her head and just sat silent for a moment, enjoying his Presence. She sighed with contentment. Then it came. A disquiet rose up in her spirit. She sat up.
“What is it, Lord? I feel you quickening my spirit.” She closed her eyes and waited for an answer. It wasn’t what she expected. It was a Scripture reference that came to mind. It was distinct: Psalm 91:14-16. She opened her eyes immediately and flipped open her old King James Bible. The pages hardly stayed in the binding any longer after years of constant use. One of her grandchildren had given her a brand new, modern version of the Bible earlier in the year because of the condition of the one she held. While she appreciated the gesture, her old Bible was a gift from her husband; a gift that wouldn’t be traded in.
She found the reference. And, until she began reading it, she didn’t know what it was going to say. Again she began to read aloud. “‘Because he hath set his love upon me, therefore I will deliver him: I will set him on high, because he hath known my name. He shall call upon me, and I will answer him: I will be with him in trouble; I will deliver him, and honour him. With long life will I satisfy him, and shew him my salvation.’
“What, Lord? What does this mean? Are you warning me? Is this for me?” She fell into a wary silence. A word formed in her mind … Grandson.
SATURDAY,
JANUARY 10 – 1:07 A.M.
HE LAY AWAKE, exhausted. Brent’s mind was moving a million miles a minute. It was all his fault. He should have known from the very beginning that he didn’t have a “gift.” Ha! What a joke. A dark, ugly joke. And the joke was on him.
How could his life end up in such a mess because of five stupid bottle caps, a penny, and a deck of playing cards? It was planned. It had to be. These things … these dark beings that whispered to him every night had set him up. It was so clear now. It was clear … now. And now was too late.
“Hello, Brent.” 1
Oh God, no. Please, God. Please keep them away.
“Brent, let us in. You wanted power. We can give it,” the almost audible voice claimed.
This is not happening. This isn’t real. You’re creating these voices yourself, and you’ve got to stop it.
“Brent, you know us. We’ve been with you for a while, now. We’ve chosen you to give our power to. You can finally have control of your life.”
Panic began to rise within him. Would he give in this time? Would the arguments that these voices made be more convincing this time? He felt his protective resolve waning.
“Brent, take control. Take charge of your life. You’ve been trying to use your gifts to influence those around you. You’ve seen small results. You need us. You need us in you. Allow us to enter.”
No. I won’t. I won’t do this. He felt a cold sweat seep to the surface of his skin. “Leave me alone,” he demanded in a strained whisper. “I don’t want you in my life anymore.”
“It’s too late for that, Brent. There’s no backing out now. Let us give you what you’ve been seeking. Power.”
“I don’t want it anymore. I don’t need it.”
The gravelly whisper continued in his mind, “Sure you do, Brent. You need what we can give. It’s free. It won’t cost you a thing. You will enjoy the pleasure that we can give you. You will feel the warm, physical ecstasy of letting us enjoy your body. We’ll give you such intense pleasure that you’ll wonder why you waited this long.”
Brent knew what they were claiming. They were promising sexual gratification. He could have the power for which he’d been yearning, if he would allow them to defile him sexually. It was insane! There was a price. It wouldn’t be free. And, Brent was too scared to allow it.
“No! I won’t allow it. Leave me alone!”
“Brent …”
“I said no!” Brent rolled out of bed, tears trailing down his cheeks. Why wasn’t God doing something? Maybe he didn’t exist after all. No, that wasn’t true, and he knew it. The fact that something was haunting him every night proved that there was a spirit realm.
Brent walked to his dresser and stared into the mirror set into the hutch above. He was terrified. He could see it in his own eyes. I want out of this. I need out of this. I can’t take it any longer. Without breaking eye contact with himself, he opened a small drawer built into the right side of the hutch and found his Boy Scout knife. Unfolding it, he lowered his eyes to his left wrist. The scar was still there. How many times had he stood here with the same intention that he had now? Only one time had he set aside the fear of penetrating the skin. He remembered how the blood had pooled on his wrist before spilling over and down onto his dresser. Could he actually do the deed this time?
I hate my life. I hate it! God, please, help me do this. Help me get it done. He placed the tip of the blade onto the scar. The voices returned.
“Brent, maybe you’re right. Maybe this is the best solution. Your fears will be over. You will no longer cause your parents’ marriage to fail. You will finally know peace.”
“Shut up,” Brent demanded through clinched teeth. He began to apply the needed downward pressure.
1:10 A.M.
> HANNAH MOORE KNEW that sleep was not an option. Not now. Not while she felt the Lord’s continued call to prayer. Initially she didn’t know which of her six grandsons she was to pray for. But it became clear as she began to intercede. It was Brent. She hadn’t seen him in nearly seven months, not since the annual visit by her daughter, Sharon, and her family. The family came down from Millsville, Ohio, once a year for a two-week visit, something she always looked forward to. She loved all her children and grandchildren deeply.
Remembering their last visit, Hannah recalled the somber mood that Brent seemed to have upon arriving. He was distant and looked … tired. She remembered thinking that he looked like many adults who had been shouldering too many worries. He’s too young to look that way, she had thought then. But, a few days into the family’s visit, Brent looked completely refreshed and happy, without a care in the world. With that her concerns had evaporated.
Now she focused her prayers on the boy. She knew that “old slew foot” was up to no good as far as her grandson was concerned. She was familiar with Satan’s devices. She’d battled him off and on for years. He and his demonic horde were formidable. But, since the Lord was directing the prayer, she knew that God was going to move on Brent’s behalf. All she had to do to keep God’s hands—and his plan—moving forward was to remain diligent in her supplications.2
She had gotten out of her chair nearly an hour ago, falling to her knees beside her bed. She intuitively knew that this situation, whatever it was, was going to require more than casual prayer, and she grew up believing that intercession happened on one’s knees.
The Spirit persisted in his urgings. Therefore she would also persist. Maybe it would be a night without sleep, but little did that matter. She would keep a long-distance, prayerful vigil until the Holy Spirit gave her release.
1 Go to Appendix A for information on Multiple Personality Disorder vs. Demonism
2 Go to Appendix A for information on Effective Prayer
He had failed again. Brent wept on his knees where he had collapsed, the open knife held loosely in his right hand.
Again he had failed to penetrate the skin. He failed because he was scared. At the moment that he felt actual pain, induced by the point of his knife, he thought about something. Or, rather, some place.
It was a destination that he thought little of, if it even existed. As he had stood there watching the blade push against the taut skin of his wrist, a sudden recollection invaded his mind.
His grandmother, whom he’d always known as “Mamaw,” had often talked about Heaven, and she made it sound so real. There never seemed to be a twinge of doubt in her mind that it existed. “It’s where I will be with your Papaw again someday,” she would say. “There are so many people that I long to see again, and many of them will be there on the opposite bank of the river waiting for me as I cross into glory.”
A river? In Heaven? He remembered thinking how impossible that sounded. But, if she said it was there, who was he to say that it wasn’t?
In none of his other attempts to kill himself had Heaven entered his thoughts. What had always stopped him was the remembrance of the pain that was created the first time he had succeeded in drawing blood. He couldn’t fathom the pain of pushing it all the way in then drawing it back.
Then there was Lydia. What if she ended up being the one who found him? He couldn’t bear the thought. Tonight, though, she slept at the home of a friend. If he was going to finally follow through, this would have been the perfect night.
He sighed. So much for convenience.
Now, new and troubling thoughts occupied his mind; thoughts that revolved around a place called Heaven.
It was a place where good people went. Certainly he wouldn’t—couldn’t—measure up like his Mamaw. But it sure would be good to dream about such a place; to have his inveterate nightmare replaced by a dream of Heaven…
He sighed again.
Why even bother thinking about it? That wasn’t where he’d go anyway. And besides, the thought of the place was just one more thing that kept him locked in this devilish world for another day and night.
The notion of reliving all of this emotion and mental torture again in twenty-four hours caused him to take one more glance at his knife and contemplate another attempt. But, again, his thoughts drifted back to after-death destinations.
If not Heaven, where? Doesn’t the existence of Heaven, if real, presume an actual place called Hell? And, if so, wasn’t it obvious that he was a ripe candidate for admittance there?
Brent got up and began to pace, open knife still in his hand.
In times past he would have laughed it up with friends who, usually after a few drinks, would boast of the parties that they’d have once they all arrived in Hell. Someone would usually start singing or shouting “Highway to Hell!” to everyone’s amusement.
He wasn’t laughing now, though. Something in his mind screamed that Hell was to be avoided at all cost.
So, there it lay, sprawled out in front of his mind’s eye; a roadmap showing two entirely different directions. Neither of the routes promised even the remotest hope of safety … of peace.
He was at a fork in the road, and he’d arrived at it by a one-way street. To the left was life as usual. To the right was suicide. And there was no way to back up.
Only minutes ago the decision to travel to the right was paramount in his mind. But now he sat, stationary, knowing that, with no way to keep it from happening, life was going to drag him kicking, screaming, and clawing to the left. All because he was scared. For months he’d been too scared to live, but now … now he was also too scared to die.
I’ve just discovered the true definition of misery, he thought.
Brent folded his knife. He walked over to the hutch, put the knife in the drawer, closed it, and walked back over to his bed. He’d survived another night.
Survived. Yeah, there’s some irony.
At least the voices were gone—for now. They wouldn’t torment him again until the following night. And now he’d be able to fall asleep.
Now, though, he had to face the nightmare.
1:23 A.M.
HANNAH FELT A sense that the battle was ebbing. She didn’t get up immediately, though. It was always safer to pray a little longer than needed than to assume the battle was over and stop, only to find out later that she could have done more.
“Lord, is that it? Is there more prayin’ that needs to be done? I feel like the enemy has retreated. Is that true?” She waited. She listened.
Silence. Calm. Peace.
“So be it, Lord. But, Father, I come to you now with a pleadin’ heart. You wouldn’t have burdened me to fight tonight if you didn’t have Brent’s safety in mind. And I know that safety to you is a matter of eternity. Father, I don’t know if that boy knows you or not. In my mind I have doubts about that.
“O Redeemer of the souls of Man, don’t leave this boy alone. You trouble him. You get his attention. You put the right people into his path to share your love with him. And, just to make sure you do, I’m going to trouble you day and night until that boy is safely in your arms.” She looked up and shook her index finger at the air, imagining that her Lord was looking down at it, and hopefully smiling. “You don’t want an old, determined woman pestering you to no end, do you?” She smiled. “Actually, I don’t reckon you’d mind that at all.”
Hannah got up off the floor, her knees arguing with her all the way up. “Next time, Lord, would you remind me to kneel on a pillow?” She got into bed and pulled her thick comforter up to her neck. She was asleep in moments.
It had been a week since his last major encounter with the voices from hell, as he had come to consider them. But he was suspicious. Was it all a ploy? For some reason or another they seemed to be less effective in getting to him. It wasn’t that they had stopped their nightly visits. No, they still came, but just as quickly as he would hear one of those … those things, it would shut up and go away as if it had been muzzl
ed.
This gave him a modicum of peace, but no true comfort. The fact that the voices still came, if only for a moment or two, was evidence enough that he was still in trouble.
Brent sighed.
He looked up into a near-cloudless sky and squinted; the intensity of the sunlight causing his blue eyes to water. It was probably just below freezing, even in the sunshine. The warmth and moisture of his breath caused puffs of white to float away in the morning air.
Looking down, he saw his shadow stretching down the driveway, causing his five foot, eleven inches to look nearly twice that. His thick, dark hair stuck out around the stocking cap he had pulled over his head, something his Grandma Lawton had made for him. It was an item that was worn in the daylight only when there was no one else around. He had a matching scarf and mittens that remained in the closet. He could wear them … one item at a time, perhaps, but after having seen what he looked like with everything on at the same time…
He laughed.
Yep, cap or scarf, but never both, and certainly never the mittens.
It felt good to smile. If nothing else, his grandmother’s amusing gift had provided the small lift that he needed right now. He knew it would be short-lived, though.
He desperately wanted to talk with someone. But who does one speak to about voices that no one else can hear—voices coming from some dark, wicked being-thing? All he could think of was a Catholic priest, and the only image that would form in his mind about priests and demonic voices was ‘The Exorcist.’ There was no way he was going to allow anybody to throw burning holy water on him!
Was he possessed? He didn’t think so. But things were definitely serious.
Deliver Us From Darkness Page 3