Deliver us from evil_forLit

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Deliver us from evil_forLit Page 4

by AndyAfro

It was aga­in a New Eng­land win­ter night, this ti­me at the end of Feb­ru­ary. It was cold and dis­mal out­si­de, but Julia's apart­ment was qu­ite warm and che­ery. Julia had in­vi­ted her boyf­ri­end John, her brot­her and her sis­ter-in-law over for the eve­ning. Her sis­ter-in-law was to ha­ve a baby any day now. The girls tho­ught that it wo­uld be fun to use the ou­i­ja bo­ard that night to le­arn whet­her the new baby wo­uld be a boy or a girl. The ou­i­ja re­fu­sed to be se­ri­o­us and ga­ve them garb­led ans­wers. They fi­nal­ly put it away and for­got it for the night. At abo­ut 11 o'clock Julia's brot­her and his wi­fe left. John sta­yed and watc­hed te­le­vi­si­on un­til 1 o'clock. On­ce aga­in, be­ca­use it was such a cold night, Julia slept on the warm so­fa-bed in the li­ving ro­om. She awo­ke not long af­ter­ward fe­eling cold. Julia had ne­ver be­en cold li­ke this be­fo­re, it was a fre­ezing, damp cold, al­most as she ima­gi­ned de­ath wo­uld be! It se­emed to be slip­ping over her slowly, co­ve­ring her. It was the psychic cold which he­ralds the ar­ri­val of an en­tity from be­yond. Sud­denly the end of her bed drop­ped sharply as if an ext­re­mely he­avy we­ight had fal­len on­to it. She jer­ked aro­und to­ward it but was for­ced back flat aga­inst the bed when the we­ight smas­hed in­to her. It was crus­hing her, for­cing her al­most thro­ugh the bed, ma­king the bed's sup­port bars, which she had ne­ver felt be­fo­re, grind in­to her back. She was suf­fo­ca­ting, gas­ping for bre­ath, en­ve­lo­ped in a thick, air­less black! Julia was pa­nic-stric­ken, she was hor­ri­fi­ed! Her he­art was po­un­ding so hard, she felt it wo­uld burst. She co­uldn't mo­ve a sing­le musc­le. She felt her­self abo­ut to fa­int as icy hands stro­ked her jaw, ca­res­sed her che­eks and brus­hed ac­ross her lips. Sud­denly, in that split se­cond, she re­mem­be­red so­met­hing a fri­end had told her to do in ca­ses such as this, and it ga­ve her the strength to re­ma­in con­ci­o­us. She tri­ed to for­ce her­self to spe­ak, but for the mo­ment she co­uldn't. Her ton­gue se­emed to stick to the ro­of of her mo­uth, her lips re­fu­sed to mo­ve. Fi­nal­ly, as if she we­re ca­ught by a gi­ant whirl­po­ol and be­ing pul­led down to her de­ath, her lungs al­most vo­id of air, she ma­na­ged to shri­ek out the words, "GOD BLESS YOU! GOD BLESS YOU!!" The we­ight re­co­iled from her vi­olently, but it was still in the ro­om. She co­uld fe­el it lur­king so­mew­he­re ne­ar her. She for­ced her­self to over­co­me her fe­ar by thin­king of John. Julia tho­ught as hard as she co­uld abo­ut him, and then in her mind she co­uld he­ar John's vo­ice sa­ying, "I lo­ve you, Julia, you are go­ing to be al­right!" She be­gan to fe­el the warmth of lo­ve and hap­pi­ness pass thro­ugh her, and with that the ma­le­vo­lent pre­sen­ce de­par­ted, le­aving Julia sa­fe.

  Calling for help had sa­ved Julia from im­mi­nent dan­ger of be­ing dest­ro­yed men­tal­ly by the shock of the ex­pe­ri­en­ce. Yet the en­tity it­self was so to­tal­ly de­mo­nic that even when she cal­led out tho­se words of bles­sing, it re­fu­sed to le­ave. This ma­de it ne­ces­sary for a "spi­rit gu­ide" to co­me forth and, as the War­rens exp­la­in, re­as­su­re Julia that she wo­uld be all right by using John's vo­ice te­le­pat­hi­cal­ly (a vo­ice that she knew and lo­ved and trus­ted). This ga­ve her the con­fi­den­ce and sta­mi­na that she ne­eded to over­co­me this ma­lign be­ing.

  Unfortunately for Julia, it will ta­ke much mo­re than that to comp­le­tely rid her apart­ment of the ha­un­ting. Her unk­nown vi­si­tor has aga­in co­me cal­ling, and even now Julia oc­ca­si­onal­ly awa­kens in the mid­dle of the night to the so­und of the do­or ope­ning and the soft pad­ding of a lar­ge cat strut­ting ha­ugh­tily ac­ross the wo­oden li­ving ro­om flo­or.

  CHAPTER IV

  Satan's Daughter

  Two black cand­les fla­red on the dres­ser, the­ir fe­eb­le light ref­lec­ted in the mir­ror, cre­ating a soft but tho­ro­ughly ina­de­qu­ate glow. Then, from out of the flic­ke­ring dark­ness, a wo­man's vo­ice aro­se, ti­midly at first but stron­ger with each word, chan­ting its ri­tu­al pra­yer:

  "Hear me, oh ye who ha­ve the po­wer to kind­le the he­arts of men. Fill him with lo­ve and de­si­re. He­ar me, oh The­ri­el, Ari­el, Don­qu­i­el…"

  In her sab­le gown and som­ber mo­ur­ners ve­il, Li­sa knelt in front of the imp­ro­vi­sed al­tar. Ab­ruptly, the air aro­und her be­ca­me a thick, clammy cold, and, aga­inst her will, Li­sa's ga­ze was for­ced up to the glass. Ama­zed and ter­ri­fi­ed, she re­ali­zed that she was no lon­ger alo­ne! The ha­ir on the na­pe of her neck ro­se as she star­ted sob­bing help­les­sly, for in the mir­ror Li­sa saw not only her own ref­lec­ti­on but that of a gre­at, black mist with arm-li­ke ap­pen­da­ges lo­oming over her, abo­ut to at­tack!

  A ye­ar of ter­ror, a ye­ar of ne­ar men­tal sla­very fol­lo­wed be­fo­re Li­sa, then 18, was ta­ken by a clo­se fri­end of hers na­med Stan to talk to Ed and Lor­ra­ine War­ren. The his­tory of a de­mo­nic ob­ses­si­on and oc­ca­si­onal pos­ses­si­on un­fol­ded be­fo­re Li­sa, right the­re, met aga­in with her at­tac­ker.

  Why did it all start? As, un­for­tu­na­tely, in so many ca­ses of this na­tu­re, it be­gan with an ur­gent de­si­re for so­met­hing be­yond the "vic­tim's" re­ach; it be­gan with a gre­at ne­ed for the lo­ve of a par­ti­cu­lar man and a pro­mi­se to do anyt­hing to get that lo­ve.

  Lisa, who had be­en adop­ted when she was a yo­ung child by a we­althy New York fa­mily, fo­und her­self fal­ling in lo­ve with a mem­ber of a mo­torcyc­le gang na­med John, who was her op­po­si­te in prac­ti­cal­ly every way. She des­pe­ra­tely tri­ed everyt­hing that she co­uld to ma­ke him no­ti­ce her, but still he hardly se­emed to.

  While se­arc­hing for a me­ans of at­trac­ting his at­ten­ti­on, she hit upon the idea of trying witchc­raft. She didn't know then that it was ac­tu­al­ly a form of Sa­ta­nism. She tho­ught that it was not­hing mo­re than as­king the gods of lo­ve for help. The­re was no con­nec­ti­on bet­we­en the two in her mind. If she had known then what she was so­on to le­arn, she cer­ta­inly wo­uld ne­ver ha­ve go­ne in­to it.

  However, the ri­tu­al was per­for­med, and du­ring it that aw­ful, ma­le­vo­lent be­ing ma­de the first of its many ap­pe­aran­ces. It co­mes so of­ten now, just be­ca­use of that one ri­te! He's not the­re all of the ti­me, but he ke­eps co­ming a lot. Even when she do­esn't see him, she can fe­el him - she can he­ar him talk to her and fe­el his to­uch. When the en­tity do­es co­me, she he­ars its vo­ice softly whis­pe­ring, te­le­pat­hi­cal­ly.

  "You are mi­ne, Li­sa, all mi­ne! Re­mem­ber yo­ur pro­mi­se, Li­sa? You sa­id that you wo­uld do anyt­hing for me if I ma­de John lo­ve you. Well, John do­es lo­ve you, Li­sa, John do­es lo­ve you!"

  Only af­ter she had ma­de John lo­ve her did Li­sa re­ali­ze what he was, but she fo­und that she wasn't ab­le to get rid of him - that the en­tity wo­uld not let her. Whe­ne­ver she wo­uld try, the at­tacks wo­uld get much wor­se. She wo­uld find her­self be­ing for­ced to do things that she did not want to do. He ma­kes her hurt tho­se that she lo­ves. He ma­kes her sho­ut at them and say things that she do­esn't want to say. She can­not stop it - the words just ke­ep co­ming out! He says that she can do anyt­hing bad that she wants to do, and he'll ma­ke su­re no one finds out that she did it. He wants her to do the­se things! But she do­esn't want to!

  While sit­ting the­re tal­king to Ed War­ren, Li­sa felt the cold cre­eping over her aga­in, and he­ard the vo­ice his­sing abo­ut her! She star­ted crying hyste­ri­cal­ly: "Oh, he's he­re, he's he­re! Help me, ple­ase, help me!"

  "What do­es it want?"

  "He says that he's go­ing to te­ar my he­art out for tal­king to you and then he's go­ing to put me in­to the sea of ob­li­vi­on and ne­ver let me out! He says he's go­ing to cut my ton­gue out!… Ohh
h… Ple­ase, ple­ase help me! I didn't know what I was do­ing! Now I'm wors­hip­ping Sa­tan but I don't want to! Oh, no-o-o… he wants me to kill Stan! He's go­ing to ma­ke me kill Stan! I won't be ab­le to stop myself!…"

  Ed fi­nal­ly for­ced the en­tity to le­ave. When Li­sa had cal­med down eno­ugh, to help her for­get what she just went thro­ugh, he as­ked her to talk abo­ut her li­fe and in­te­rests in ge­ne­ral. She be­gan to talk abo­ut her lo­ve for wri­ting, and then she re­mem­be­red a story that she had writ­ten not long be­fo­re, a story comp­le­tely un­li­ke any ot­her she had ever writ­ten.

  "It was abo­ut a girl who was alo­ne in a pitch-dark ro­om, wa­iting to me­et her boyf­ri­end, Stan. She kept cal­ling his na­me over and over but he wo­uldn't ans­wer. He still hadn't co­me. Then the­re was so­me­one el­se in the ro­om with her, and she knew it was Sa­tan him­self! She felt him smi­ling at her, sta­ring at her. Then he sa­id, 'You are my da­ugh­ter and you must do so­met­hing for me. Re­mem­ber yo­ur pro­mi­se that you wo­uld do anyt­hing I as­ked if I ma­de Stan lo­ve you? Well, the ti­me has co­me, de­ar da­ugh­ter. I want you to kill Stan!' Then the girl scre­amed, 'No, I wont,' and she be­gan stab­bing her de­mon-fat­her with a let­ter ope­ner that she had. All the whi­le he just kept la­ug­hing. Fi­nal­ly, he was de­ad. But when she tur­ned on the lights, she dis­co­ve­red that she had ac­tu­al­ly kil­led Stan!"

  During each of the last few ri­tu­als which she had per­for­med be­fo­re she ca­me to the War­rens (which she prac­ti­ced even tho­ugh she did not want to prac­ti­ce them), in the midst of the in­vo­ca­ti­ons she wo­uld he­ar her own vo­ice ec­ho­ing in the back of her mind sa­ying,

  "Hear me, for I am thi­ne… Thy own humb­le ser­vant, thy own da­ugh­ter, Li­sa…"

  The next mor­ning, ha­ving spent the night at the War­rens, Li­sa and Stan left to go back to the­ir col­le­ge in ups­ta­te Con­nec­ti­cut. By this ti­me, Li­sa had re­ali­zed that she must gi­ve up John and that she co­uld fight the "de­mon" that was trying to pos­sess her. But in the car on the way back, Li­sa ex­pe­ri­en­ced a new phe­no­me­non for the first ti­me, a sharp pa­in ac­ross her chest which ma­de it very dif­fi­cult for her to bre­at­he. The pa­in las­ted for a few mi­nu­tes be­fo­re it aba­ted. Twi­ce mo­re that day she felt the pa­in. It was comp­le­tely un­li­ke anyt­hing she had ever felt be­fo­re. She was frigh­te­ned. She tho­ught per­haps she had a tu­mor or so­met­hing el­se equ­al­ly se­ri­o­us. That night the de­mon ca­me to her aga­in. She co­uld fe­el the black clo­ud next to her bed, but she fo­ught it away from her, kept it from get­ting to her.

  The pa­in kept co­ming and go­ing. A tre­men­do­us de­si­re ca­me with it, ho­we­ver; a de­si­re to go back to Sa­ta­nism and to kill Stan kept en­te­ring her, temp­ting her, al­most win­ning. But she fo­ught it, and fi­nal­ly, af­ter a few we­eks, which se­emed mo­re li­ke a few ye­ars, the de­mon be­gan to le­ave her alo­ne.

  Everything se­emed fi­ne. Scho­ol was go­ing well, the at­tacks had en­ded, gi­ving her the first pe­ace she had known in over a ye­ar - her li­fe was gre­at. Then in Eng­lish class each per­son was told to wri­te a pa­per on a su­bj­ect in which he or she was re­al­ly in­vol­ved. Li­sa be­gan to work on a pa­per abo­ut witchc­raft and Sa­ta­nism. The pa­per was due on a Mon­day, on the Fri­day night just be­fo­re, Li­sa had a stran­ge dre­am in which the de­mon was trying to get back to her. That night it ca­me to her aga­in, af­ter so many we­eks of pe­ace, and lur­ked abo­ut her ro­om. She he­ard its vo­ice cal­ling her, tel­ling her to co­me back. She for­ced it from her.

  Saturday night she and Stan and a few ot­hers, her brot­her among them, we­re sit­ting in the cam­pus ca­fe­te­ria when the sa­me in­ten­se pa­in that she had felt a few we­eks ear­li­er aga­in cros­sed her chest.

  "It was as if so­me­body we­re step­ping on my chest, ke­eping my lungs from ex­pan­ding," she sa­id. "I co­uld hardly bre­at­he!" She then pas­sed out, but with her eyes wi­de open, hor­ri­fi­ed. As the help­less on­lo­okers watc­hed, Li­sa's body be­gan to jump aro­und wildly in the cha­ir, pus­hing the tab­le away and knoc­king va­ri­o­us items off. She re­mem­be­red not­hing of the ex­pe­ri­en­ce ex­cept what the wit­nes­ses told her; yet she did re­mem­ber that as she was re­ga­ining cons­ci­o­us­ness, she he­ard lo­ud drums be­ating and a pi­er­cing, rin­ging so­und in her ears. Li­sa wo­ke up na­use­o­us and had to be ta­ken ho­me to bed im­me­di­ately. For the rest of the night, she was cold to the to­uch and ter­ribly pa­le.

  The next mor­ning, Sun­day, she tho­ught that she was abo­ut to pass put aga­in, so she as­ked to be ta­ken to the emer­gency ro­om at a ne­arby hos­pi­tal. The doc­tor the­re sa­id that her he­art and everyt­hing el­se was fi­ne. It was pro­bably just a small se­izu­re. He told her i it didn't hap­pen aga­in, not to worry abo­ut it. It co­uld ha­ve be­en her ner­ves or anyt­hing. She wasn't sa­tis­fi­ed with that ans­wer, tho­ugh. She wan­ted to ma­ke su­re that it wo­uld not hap­pen aga­in.

  Monday, Li­sa went to the scho­ol in­fir­mary. They sent her to a Hart­ford hos­pi­tal for an elect­ro­car­di­og­ram. She was gi­ven every sort of test ima­gi­nab­le to try to find a ca­use for her "se­izu­re." The re­sults of all the tests we­re nor­mal. Nor co­uld the ca­use ha­ve be­en a form of epi­lepsy, be­ca­use her se­izu­re had be­en of a to­tal­ly dif­fe­rent type. She was gi­ven a presc­rip­ti­on for tran­qu­ili­zers and aga­in told that if the se­izu­re did not re­cur, she sho­uldn't worry abo­ut it.

  Thursday mor­ning she awo­ke, aga­in fe­eling sick. She re­ali­zed al­so that her body was jum­ping abo­ut un­cont­rol­lably on the bed - the sa­me kind of se­izu­re, but this ti­me she was cons­ci­o­us. She felt a ter­rib­le pa­in in her chest, and black spots we­re circ­ling in front of her eyes.

  As so­on as she re­co­ve­red, she dest­ro­yed all of her ri­tu­al items, ma­king a strong ef­fort ne­ver to be in­vol­ved in Sa­ta­nism aga­in. Sin­ce then, the pa­ins and at­tacks ha­ve aga­in sub­si­ded, and on­ce mo­re Li­sa knows com­pa­ra­ti­ve pe­ace, alt­ho­ugh on­ce in a whi­le the strong de­si­res still co­me to her, temp­ting her to go back to the fold, and temp­ting her to hurt Stan in wha­te­ver way she can. At tho­se ti­mes, if she is with Stan, she for­ces her­self to walk away wit­ho­ut sa­ying a word, figh­ting tho­se de­si­res with all of her strength. So­me­ti­mes, too, she wa­kes up in the mid­dle of the night and aga­in fe­els the de­mon in the ro­om with her. But sel­dom do­es she he­ar its vo­ice any mo­re. She has fi­nal­ly re­ga­ined the cont­rol of her­self that she lost so long ago. It wo­uld se­em that Li­sa is slip­ping from"the grasp of the de­mon.

  Stan, ho­we­ver, is still af­ra­id of ret­ri­bu­ti­on from the de­mon, for it was he who in­sis­ted that Li­sa go to the War­rens for help. It was he, in ef­fect, who to­ok Li­sa from the re­ac­hes of the en­tity.

  Strangely eno­ugh, Stan has re­cently be­gun ha­ving ter­rib­le night­ma­res in which he he­ars a vo­ice de­man­ding that he stab his pa­rents to de­ath. In the­se dre­ams, he fights a lo­sing bat­tle and fi­nal­ly do­es kill his mot­her and fat­her with a sharp kitc­hen kni­fe. The­se dre­ams, es­pe­ci­al­ly af­ter all he has go­ne thro­ugh with Li­sa, are par­ti­cu­larly frigh­te­ning to him. But even mo­re frigh­te­ning - he has be­gun to ha­ve tho­se ur­gent de­si­res to mur­der, tho­se per­sis­tent, temp­ting, hard to re­sist de­si­res to kill, even whi­le awa­ke. Is it just his over-acti­ve ima­gi­na­ti­on? Or is it to start all over aga­in?

  CHAPTER V

  Demon In The House

  The de­mon that you will re­ad abo­ut in the next few pa­ges cho­se a small and usu­al­ly qu­i­et town not far from Bos­ton. Its sha­ded, tree-li­ned stre­ets and si­lent, fri­endly ho­uses be�
�ar mu­te wit­ness to the nor­mal tran­qu­ility of the vil­la­ge. Ex­cept for a rash of su­ici­des cen­te­ring aro­und Map­le Stre­et in the past ye­ars, this tran­qu­ility has sel­dom be­en bro­ken.

  John and Joy­ce S. li­ve on Map­le Stre­et, they mo­ved in­to the­ir ho­me in 1965. If they had known then that the myste­ri­o­us events which be­gan hap­pe­ning so­on af­ter they ar­ri­ved we­re just a pre­lu­de of things to co­me, they wo­uld ha­ve mo­ved right back out aga­in. The­ir ho­me be­ca­me the cen­ter of an un­be­li­evab­le night­ma­re for in it, ever ma­li­ci­o­us and harm­ful, re­si­des an in­hu­man en­tity… a de­mon.

  On a be­a­uti­ful sun­lit af­ter­no­on, shortly af­ter they mo­ved in, they had the­ir first ex­pe­ri­en­ce with the su­per­na­tu­ral. Whi­le sit­ting at the kitc­hen tab­le. sip­ping cof­fee and tal­king over plans for the­ir new ho­use, a lamp, which was fas­te­ned to a wall, just se­emed to te­ar it­self lo­ose, screws and all, and fell to the flo­or abo­ut six fe­et from whe­re they sat.

  For the next co­up­le of months, al­most every ti­me so­me­one sat at the tab­le, the sa­me thing hap­pe­ned. John and Joy­ce we­re baf­fled.

  One of the cha­irs at the tab­le had be­lon­ged to Joy­ce's grand­mot­her and alt­ho­ugh she didn't be­li­eve in witc­hes and witchc­raft, she tho­ught just may­be the­re co­uld be a con­nec­ti­on bet­we­en her de­ad grand­mot­her, the cha­ir and the flying lamp. The en­tity pla­yed along. When she had the cha­ir bur­ned, the lamp stop­ped fal­ling.

 

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