Book Read Free

Deliver us from evil_forLit

Page 2

by AndyAfro


  People of­ten ask me how I can pro­ve that I am wor­king with vic­tims of re­al de­mo­nic pos­ses­si­on. In so­me ca­ses su­per­na­tu­ral ac­ti­vity is vi­sibly pre­sent, and yet in ot­hers I must rely on my ex­pe­ri­en­ce with the­se elu­si­ve for­ces. My know­led­ge of de­mo­no­logy do­es not co­me from a uni­ver­sity. The­re is no col­le­ge co­ur­se that can te­ach me the fan­tas­tic and inc­re­dib­le ways in which the­se ne­ga­ti­ve for­ces of dark­ness work the­ir ma­lign de­eds.

  There are psychi­at­rists and psycho­lo­gists who wo­uld di­sag­ree with my fin­dings in many of the­se ca­ses. On the ot­her hand, the­re are many who wo­uld ag­ree. I ha­ve ma­de mis­ta­kes in my work and no do­ubt will ma­ke many mo­re, but I ha­ve al­so be­en right and ha­ve be­en ab­le to help many of tho­se who call on me. 1 will not turn my back on the vic­tims of de­mo­nic for­ces simply be­ca­use a skep­ti­cal pub­lic is not yet re­ady to ac­cept the re­ality of the su­per­na­tu­ral. It is stran­ge that alt­ho­ugh many ca­ses of mo­dern-day de­mo­no­logy ha­ve be­en pro­ven, skep­tics still scoff simply be­ca­use they do not want to ad­mit, even to them­sel­ves, that the­re are things in both he­aven and earth which just can­not yet be exp­la­ined with a sli­de ru­le.

  If you want the truth on the­se su­bj­ects, we will bring what know­led­ge we ha­ve of them to you. 1 think it is very im­por­tant for the pub­lic to know exactly what the me­aning of witchc­raft and sa­tan-ism is to­day. So­me of you, per­haps, are re­ading this bo­ok to ga­in know­led­ge, ot­her! out of cu­ri­osity, and yet ot­hers only to ri­di­cu­le. Re­mem­ber, by hi­ding our he­ads in the sand, we be­li­eve, li­ke the ost­rich, that be­ca­use we can­not tee our dan­gers they do not exist; we pre­tend that be­ca­use it may be hard to see this su­per­na­tu­ral world, the dan­gers of black witchc­raft and sa­ta­nism do not exist. Un­for­tu­na­tely, they do exist.

  When in this bo­ok J. F. Saw­yer talks of the black mass and dis­gus­ting ri­tes of sa­ta­nism, he is not trying to glo­rify them. He is trying to de­pict what is ac­tu­al­ly hap­pe­ning ac­ross the Uni­ted Sta­tes and thro­ug­ho­ut the world. How el­se can you be­co­me awa­re of many of the­se hap­pe­nings un­less so­me­one li­ke our­sel­ves brings it to yo­ur at­ten­ti­on? We can only do this thro­ugh the pa­ges of this bo­ok. He­re­in, you will find much of the in­for­ma­ti­on that I ha­ve ac­qu­ired thro­ugh my in­ves­ti­ga­ti­ons.

  The only way new truths can be dis­co­ve­red is thro­ugh the study and exp­lo­ra­ti­on of the­se unk­nown su­bj­ects. Ho­we­ver, 1 am not a witch and 1 am not a sa­ta­nist in dis­gu­ise. I am so­lely an in­ves­ti­ga­tor of su­per­na­tu­ral ac­ti­vity, witchc­raft and de­mo­no­logy.

  I be­li­eve that the­re is a God, and I wo­uldn't ha­ve it any ot­her way. But how do­es one pro­ve to ot­hers the exis­ten­ce of an in­vi­sib­le world, a world of fle­eting sha­dows and ma­lign en­ti­ti­es? How do­es one pro­ve that the­re is a world which is not of a tan­gib­le na­tu­re? We can­not see the wind, yet we know that it exists be­ca­use we fe­el the sen­sa­ti­on it ca­uses. We can see its ef­fects in the ge­ne­ral mo­ti­on of tree branc­hes, grass and flo­wers as it si­lently mo­ves along its co­ur­se. In my ca­se his­to­ri­es of both whi­te and black witchc­raft, 1 am cons­tantly en­te­ring the in­vi­sib­le, in­tan­gib­le world. I am an exp­lo­rer of the re­alm of dark­ness.

  1 am of­ten as­ked to show pro­of. This I can do only thro­ugh re­li­ab­le wit­nes­ses, pe­op­le who ha­ve go­ne thro­ugh fan­tas­tic and so­me­ti­mes ter­rib­le ex­pe­ri­en­ces. I can­not show sci­en­ti­fic pro­of abo­ut a world that simply is not sci­en­ti­fic. When we do co­me up with overw­hel­ming evi­den­ce, ho­we­ver, skep­tics shrug it off lightly, sa­ying the­re is a lo­gi­cal, exp­la­na­ti­on for the phe­no­me­non. But, of co­ur­se, they ne­ver co­me up with this lo­gi­cal exp­la­na­ti­on.

  I know that the­re is a God and that He is cal­led by many dif­fe­rent na­mes. Yet I can­not pro­ve this sci­en­ti­fi­cal­ly. As 1 know that the­re is a God, 1 al­so know that the­re are de­mons which can ob­sess the tho­ughts and pos­sess the bo­di­es of hu­mans. I ha­ve se­en this! Skep­tics say that the­se pe­op­le are men­tal­ly ill; but do­es a men­tal­ly ill per­son talk in nu­me­ro­us lan­gu­ages that he has ne­ver he­ard, ri­di­cu­le and at­tack a per­son hol­ding a re­li­gi­o­us ar­tic­le, or even, as wit­nes­sed in many ca­ses, ac­tu­al­ly ri­se off the gro­und?

  The physi­cal body of a per­son un­der de­mo­nic at­tack is al­most cons­tantly un­der bru­tal Lo­ud slaps can be he­ard and welts sud­denly ap­pe­ar. The ha­ir can many ti­mes be se­en be­ing torn from the he­ad by in­vi­sib­le hands. The vic­tim scre­ams out in agony as in­hu­man la­ugh­ter rings thro­ugh the air! Me­anw­hi­le, the stench of rot­ting flesh or bur­ning sul­fur can per­me­ate the iirea so badly that it ca­uses na­usea. Obs­ce­ni­ti­es and fo­ul lan­gu­age in­ces­santly po­ur from the mo­uth of the un­for­tu­na­te pos­ses­sed vic­tim^ and his l&yes are full of twis­ted ha­te and moc­king de­ri­si­on. Do­es this so­und li­ke a per­son who is men­tal­ly ill?

  When exor­cism ri­tes are per­for­med, li­ve per­son per­for­ming the exor­cism is in gre­at dang­fi.; he is the vi­sib­le chal­len­ging the in­vi­sib­le. The exor­cist must be of a high mo­ral and spi­ri­tu­al na­tu­re. If he is a pri­est, he must be a true pri­est in his every word, de­ed and ac­ti­on. The man who cla­ims to be a true mi­nis­ter of God, and then in the sa­me bre­ath, says that he is only hu­man and 10 in­dul­ges in prac­ti­ces un­be­fit­ting his of­fi­ce, fill ne­ver be an exor­cist. At le­ast he sho­uld ftQt Jty to be one. If he is we­ak and can­not re­sist Iftnttn temp­ta­ti­ons, he will so­on find out, to his gre»t di­imfly, that the world of de­mons on which he ga­ve so many ser­mons is all too re­al.

  One ne­ed only go back in­to church re­cords to find ca­ses of true pos­ses­si­on. To­day as ne­ver be­fo­re the­re is a ne­ed for or­da­ined exor­cists. The pub­lic is fas­ci­na­ted by witchc­raft and sa­ta­nic ri­tes. We re­ce­ive ma­il every we­ek from pe­op­le who ha­ve del­ved in­to the black arts and can­not cont­rol what they ha­ve sum­mo­ned.

  I ha­ve no qu­ar­rel with pe­op­le who wors­hip in wha­te­ver way they wish, but I do obj­ect to de­vil wors­hip, to the de­fi­ling of gra­ves, to the ta­king of hu­man corp­ses to be used in ri­tu­al ce­re­mo­ni­es, and to the ste­aling of re­li­gi­o­us ar­tic­les from churc­hes. "DO WHAT THOU WILT SHALT BE THE WHO­LE OF THE LAW."

  This is the­ir mot­to, and to this I who­le­he­ar­tedly obj­ect.

  I ha­ve be­en cri­ti­ci­zed by many pe­op­le for tal­king on this su­bj­ect. They say that I am in­ci­ting in­te­rest in witchc­raft. But if the­se sa­me pe­op­le wo­uld bot­her to go in­to any ne­igh­bor­ho­od drug sto­re and see the many bo­oks on witchc­raft which are on the­ir shel­ves, and re­ali­ze the in­te­rest ge­ne­ra­ted by the­se bo­oks, they wo­uld then know that I am he­re only to bring a war­ning to tho­se who wo­uld in­vol­ve them­sel­ves in the of­ten dan­ge­ro­us black arts.

  CHAPTER I

  The Accursed Inn

  Tucked away in a cor­ner of Con­nec­ti­cut is a pe­ace­ful co­untry vil­la­ge sur­ro­un­ded by rol­ling farm­land. Not far out­si­de of this vil­la­ge, on the old Bos­ton to Hart­ford high­way, stands the now di­la­pi­da­ted Sto­ne­ham Ta­vern, a 180 ye­ar old, six­te­en ro­om for­mer sta­ge stop. Whi­le still an inn, the bu­il­ding saw its sha­re of vi­olen­ce, as did many such pi­one­er ta­verns. Even­tu­al­ly it was con­ver­ted in­to a pri­va­te dwel­ling and was ow­ned by three or fo­ur fa­mi­li­es be­fo­re it was bo­ught by Henry and Vic­to­ria D. in the early 1900's.

  Mr. and Mrs. D. and the­ir fa­mily had ma
ny stran­ge ex­pe­ri­en­ces in that ho­use du­ring the fifty ye­ars they li­ved the­re. The stran­gest and most he­artb­re­aking event to­ok pla­ce only a few ye­ars af­ter they had mo­ved in. Vic­to­ria had hitc­hed up the car­ri­age one mor­ning to ta­ke her se­ven child­ren to the one ro­om scho­ol­ho­use abo­ut a mi­le down the ro­ad. But La­ura, who was 14, sa­id that she was sick and so was al­lo­wed to re­ma­in at ho­me. Ap­pa­rently she had the mumps. Vic­to­ria drop­ped the child­ren off and re­tur­ned to the ho­use, only to find that La­ura was mis­sing! An in­ten­si­ve se­arch was con­duc­ted by the fa­mily and by sta­te po­li­ce, but no clue was ever fo­und - La­ura had di­sap­pe­ared wit­ho­ut a sing­le tra­ce!

  In 1951, the ho­use was bo­ught by Char­les and Flo­ren­ce V. They mo­ved in on Go­od Fri­day and qu­ickly be­gan to try to res­to­re the ho­ti­ee to its ori­gi­nal splen­dor.

  One night a few months af­ter they had mo­ved in Flo­ren­ce and her twel­ve ye­ar old da­ugh­ter, Sand­ra, we­re sit­ting in the kitc­hen re­ading, ThSJ we­re the only ones in the ho­use. Slowly, they both be­ca­me awa­re of so­me­one wal­king abo­ut the empty se­cond flo­or. As the fo­ots­teps be­gan to get mo­re fren­zi­ed, Sand­ra as­ked, "Who's that?" Flo­ren­ce, not wan­ting to frigh­ten the child, ans­we­red, "It's pro­bably just a squ­ir­rel." Just as she sa­id that, the­re we­re two lo­ud thumps, as if he­avy obj­ects we­re be­ing drop­ped di­rectly abo­ve them, and then si­len­ce. With that, Flo­ren­ce wal­ked in­to her bed­ro­om, al­so on the first flo­or, pic­ked up a .22 re­vol­ver that she had for pro­tec­ti­on and, with it sa­fely in her ap­ron poc­ket, sha­kily re-ente­red the kitc­hen. Si­len­ce still. With a mu­tu­al sigh of re­li­ef, they both tri­ed to go back to the­ir re­ading. Ups­ta­irs, in a far cor­ner of the ho­use, an unk­nown pre­sen­ce aga­in be­gan pa­cing the flo­or, aga­in be­gan tre­ading mo­re he­avily and lo­udly ac­ross the full length of the se­cond flo­or, un­til, with a ra­pid scur­rying of fo­ots­teps, the event aga­in cul­mi­na­ted in two lo­ud thumps and then si­len­ce. Flo­ren­ce and her da­ugh­ter qu­ickly for­got abo­ut trying to re­ad. Sand­ra was rus­hed off to bed, and, too frigh­te­ned to go ups­ta­irs to see what ca­used the no­ises, Flo­ren­ce sat in bed her­self and ner­vo­usly wa­ited for her hus­band to co­me ho­me. Fi­nal­ly he ar­ri­ved, and Flo­ren­ce jum­ped out of bed to qu­ickly re­co­unt to him all that had ta­ken pla­ce. To­get­her they se­arc­hed the ho­use. The­re was not­hing to be fo­und. He told her that she wo­uld just ha­ve to get used to li­ving in the co­untry, the­re are all kinds of stran­ge no­ises out the­re.

  Still the fo­ots­teps con­ti­nu­ed. In fact al­most ever­yo­ne who ever sta­yed as an over­night gu­est left the next mor­ning with so­me com­ment on the stran­ge no­ises that they he­ard du­ring the night. Flo­ren­ce's mot­her re­fu­sed to stay in the ho­use aga­in af­ter spen­ding two nights lis­te­ning to the une­arthly fo­ots­teps pa­cing the se­cond flo­or.

  Florence's sis­ter, Aura, who sta­yed over­night oc­ca­si­onal­ly, comp­la­ined of tap­pings on the out­si­de of her se­cond flo­or bed­ro­om win­dow, as if a tree branch we­re hit­ting it in the wind. The­re was not a tree anyw­he­re ne­ar the win­dow.

  One mor­ning she as­ked her sis­ter, "Flo­ren­ce, who sta­yed in the cor­ner ro­om last night?"

  "What do you me­an? That ro­om's al­ways empty!"

  "Well, I he­ard whis­pe­ring and ar­gu­ing all night long, but the only thing is, I co­uldn't un­ders­tand what was be­ing sa­id."

  'Magic' whis­pe­ring is a phe­no­me­non in many ha­un­tings.

  One very hot day in Sep­tem­ber of the ye­ar in which they had mo­ved in­to the ho­use, Flo­ren­ce was the­re alo­ne, pa­in­ting the walls of an ups­ta­irs bed­ro­om. As she wor­ked, the ro­om slowly be­gan to get col­der, even tho­ugh the sun con­ti­nu­ed to be­at down just as in­ten­sely out­si­de. The ro­om kept get­ting col­der and col­der un­til Flo­ren­ce re­ali­zed that she was shi­ve­ring un­cont­rol­lably. Sud­denly, even tho­ugh she was lo­oking out of the win­dow, she knew that so­me­one was in the ro­om with her. She stif­fe­ned - this be­ing was evil and ha­ted her. Fe­ar wel­led up in her. She was ter­ri­fi­ed, unab­le to turn aro­und to see who was be­hind her. She tri­ed to gat­her up her co­ura­ge, tri­ed to for­ce her musc­les to turn her aro­und, when sud­denly a fre­ezing hand clam­ped down upon her sho­ul­der! Tremb­ling, not wan­ting to be­li­eve what she most fe­ared, she slowly tur­ned, the hand still on her sho­ul­der. Then she be­gan scre­aming over and over aga­in as the ice-cold hand mel­ted from her, for the­re was no one the­re! She yel­led: "I don't know who you are or what you want, but you won­lE for­ce me out of this ho­use!"

  Still scre­aming, she ran down the sta­irs, out on­to the front porch and wa­ited for her da­ugh­ter to co­me ho­me be­fo­re she wo­uld go back in. She la­ter told her da­ugh­ter that she co­uld get used to the wal­king, but what she ex­pe­ri­en­ced in that ro­om was evil, ter­ribly evil!

  At cer­ta­in ti­mes, usu­al­ly whi­le Flo­ren­ce was pre­pa­ring din­ner, the­re wo­uld be three lo­ud knocks at the front do­or. Upon ans­we­ring it, she wo­uld find no one the­re. Aga­in the three knocks wo­uld so­und, but be­fo­re she co­uld get to the do­or she wo­uld he­ar it open and slam shut, and so­me­one very he­avy wo­uld run right past her and up the sta­irs.

  Keeping farm help be­ca­me im­pos­sib­le. They we­re ter­ri­fi­ed. One comp­la­ined of an un­se­en per­son tuc­king him in at night! Anot­her had the co­vers cons­tantly pul­led off of him. Then the­re was the in­ces­sant wal­king in the halls and aro­und the beds to add to the­ir mi­sery.

  Mr. and Mrs. V. had be­en li­ving in the ho­use for qu­ite so­me ti­me be­fo­re so­met­hing hap­pe­ned that was so frigh­te­ning, she co­uld ne­ver pos­sibly for­get. It oc­cur­red three ti­mes in one we­ek and the­re was no do­ubt that it was me­ant only for her to ex­pe­ri­en­ce.

  Florence had go­ne to bed with her hus­band. The ro­om was in comp­le­te dark­ness and she was on the ver­ge of fal­ling as­le­ep when sud­denly, she was jol­ted back to awa­re­ness. On the op­po­si­te wall the­re ap­pe­ared a black mass, blac­ker than the sur­ro­un­ding dark­ness. Slowly, it be­gan to glow, for­ming a ball. It star­ted to grow; its co­lor chan­ged to pa­le yel­low, to vi­vid oran­ge and then to bril­li­ant red. As it grew, it be­gan to ro­ar un­til it so­un­ded li­ke a blast fur­na­ce! Flo­ren­ce was pet­ri­fi­ed with fe­ar as the ro­ar be­ca­me de­afe­ning and the bril­li­an­ce blin­ding. She co­uldn't ta­ke any mo­re. The fe­ar, the no­ise, the blin­ding il­lu­mi­na­ti­on of the en­tity we­re all too in­ten­se. She slip­ped in­to un­cons­ci­o­us­ness as her hus­band slept pe­ace­ful­ly at her si­de.

  Twice mo­re that we­ek Flo­ren­ce had the sa­me ex­pe­ri­en­ce. Each ti­me she felt a gre­ater, mo­re po­wer­ful evil co­ming from the en­tity. Co­uld it pos­sibly be a war­ning?

  In 1958, Sand­ra went away to col­le­ge. That sa­me ye­ar, Flo­ren­ce had anot­her baby girl. Un­til that ti­me, ghostly oc­cur­ren­ces had so­mew­hat sub­si­ded gi­ving Mr. and Mrs. V. a res­pi­te. The­ir pe­ace, ho­we­ver, was short-li­ved.

  One co­ol fall night, Flo­ren­ce was in her li­ving ro­om watc­hing te­le­vi­si­on with one of the farm­hands. The baby was as­le­ep in her bed­ro­om down the hall. Inc­re­dibly, a thun­de­ring ro­ar sho­ok the ho­use co­ming from the di­rec­ti­on of the child's ro­om. Flo­ren­ce and the farm­hand ran down the hall to the bed­ro­om. The ro­om was ext­re­mely cold alt­ho­ugh the ho­use was very well he­ated. On­ce be­fo­re Flo­ren­ce had felt that sa­me fre­ezing, damp cold, and re­mem­be­red well the ter­ror that ca­me with it. Lo­oking ac­ross the ro­om, she saw that the ot­her do­or, wh
ich had be­en latc­hed from the in­si­de, was swin­ging wi­de open. The thick, he­avy latch was bent out of sha­pe and torn from the wall. The ra­di­ator, which the do­or had hit when it ope­ned, was still re­ver­be­ra­ting from the for­ce of the crash. The farm­hand then ran to the ba­se­ment to see if the fur­na­ce had blown up. Whi­le he was go­ne, Flo­ren­ce sud­denly had the dis­tinct imp­res­si­on that this and most of the ot­her hap­pe­nings in this ho­use cen­te­red aro­und a yo­ung girl who was long sin­ce de­ad!

  The fur­na­ce was wor­king per­fectly. No exp­la­na­ti­on co­uld be fo­und for the do­or ha­ving be­en for­ced open; that is, no earthly exp­la­na­ti­on. Nor co­uld Flo­ren­ce's hus­band Char­les, exp­la­in it when he ar­ri­ved ho­me. The­re is one mo­re stran­ge fac­tor to ta­ke in­to con­si­de­ra­ti­on; both Flo­ren­ce and the hi­red hand he­ard the de­afe­ning exp­lo­si­on. The baby girl in bed next to the do­or that was smas­hed open, slept thro­ugh it all una­wa­re of what had just hap­pe­ned!

  Neither this, nor the wa­ter fa­ucets which we­re cons­tantly be­ing tur­ned on thro­ug­ho­ut the ho­use, nor the he­avy fur­ni­tu­re thrown abo­ut in loc­ked unoc­cu­pi­ed ups­ta­irs ro­oms, wo­uld for­ce Flo­ren­ce to gi­ve up the ho­use she lo­ved so much.

 

‹ Prev