Deliver us from evil_forLit

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Deliver us from evil_forLit Page 6

by AndyAfro


  Almost as if to con­firm her sus­pi­ci­ons, the day af­ter Ruth had ma­de the shaky con­nec­ti­on bet­we­en that man and the at­tacks on her, a wo­man who li­ved in the apart­ment downs­ta­irs, ca­me up to see her. She told her that she had be­en told of Ruth's mi­sery and wan­ted to help her. She sa­id that she had known the man and he had, in­de­ed, put a cur­se on her. The wo­man sa­id that the only way that Ruth co­uld lift the spell was to per­form so­me co­un­ter-ma­gic. She sug­ges­ted that they go to. a ce­me­tery and cast the co­un­ter-spell. Ruth than­ked the wo­man for her con­cern, but sa­id that she did not think that she ca­red to use so­met­hing that she did not be­li­eve in.. the su­per­na­tu­ral.

  She al­most re­con­si­de­red the wo­man's of­fer af­ter the en­tity struck aga­in, this ti­me en­dan­ge­ring her sis­ter as well.

  Ruth was dri­ving ho­me one night, her sis­ter was in the car with her, when she he­ard tho­se stran­ge, whis­pe­ring so­unds aga­in war­ning her. She for­ced her­self to con­cent­ra­te on the ro­ad, pra­ying that her con­cent­ra­ti­on wo­uld not al­low the en­tity to ta­ke hold of her. In spi­te of her ef­fort the warm, num­bing fe­eling be­gan ma­king its way over her back, run­ning its une­arthly fin­gers thro­ugh her ha­ir. It be­gan ed­ging aro­und her si­des, craw­ling over her wa­ist, ma­king it mo­re dif­fi­cult for her to dri­ve. Her fin­gers we­re be­co­ming numb, she co­uld hardly hold on­to the whe­el. Her fo­ot was be­co­ming he­avi­er, we­ig­hing down the gas pe­dal, the car be­gan ra­cing fas­ter and fas­ter swer­ving wildly over the ro­ad. Ruth's sis­ter co­uld not see the en­tity but she co­uld see, in Ruth's eyes, that so­met­hing hor­rib­le was hap­pe­ning to her. She drew her bre­ath and be­gan to scre­am and at the sa­me ti­me re­ac­hed over and held down the horn. The en­tity co­uld not fight Ruth's in­ten­se con­cent­ra­ti­on, the scre­aming of her sis­ter and the blo­wing of the horn and it ret­re­ated to its murky world of now­he­re.

  Ruth was now at the po­int whe­re she co­uld not go out in pub­lic, she had to ha­ve a per­son at her si­de at all ti­mes. She co­uld not be left alo­ne or she wo­uld be at­tac­ked. It was at this po­int that she con­tac­ted Ed and Lor­ra­ine War­ren. The­ir in ves­ti­ga­ti­on re­ve­aled that a spell had, in­de­ed, be­en cast on Ruth. As ti­me pas­sed, it strengt­he­ned its hold on her. Was it too la­te to help Ruth? Ed and Lor­ra­ine de­ci­ded to send her to an exor­cist whom they felt co­uld help her. Af­ter spen­ding many days le­ar­ning the exor­cism ri­tes, Ruth ca­me away with the first fe­eling of pe­ace she had known in we­eks.

  Her fe­elings of con­tent­ment we­re short-li­ved, tho­ugh. The at­tacks ca­me back with even gre­ater for­ce. At­tack af­ter at­tack ca­me upon her with inc­re­dib­le in­ten­sity. Hyste­ri­cal, frust­ra­ted be­yond en­du­ran­ce, Ruth be­gan to fe­el that every ho­pe had de­ser­ted her. She be­gan to con­si­der that last des­pa­iring act.

  One last ho­pe re­ma­ined for Ruth. The War­rens knew a high spi­ri­tu­al yo­gi who of­fe­red his help on Ruth's be­half. He had her co­me and stay with him so that he co­uld of­fer pro­tec­ti­on to her whe­ne­ver an at­tack ca­me. Af­ter vi­olent fights with the en­tity, the at­tacks di­mi­nis­hed. As of this wri­ting, Ruth has spent much ti­me to­tal­ly free of her de­mo­nic en­tity. The cur­se has be­en tur­ned back, ho­pe­ful­ly, to its sen­der.

  CHAPTER VII

  To Dwell With A Devil

  Tangled black oaks fra­me the an­ci­ent, dingy whi­te farm­ho­use. Its win­dows se­em to be sta­ring back at you, in­vi­ting you to en­ter. The in­si­de can best be desc­ri­bed as turn of the cen­tury. Drab, fa­ded re­li­gi­o­us pic­tu­res hang whe­re they ha­ve hung for ye­ars. Starc­hed whi­te do­ili­es which ha­ve un­der­go­ne tho­usands of was­hings and ca­re­ful iro­nings now sit on the arms of co­lor­less overs­tuf­fed cha­irs. From the out­si­de the ho­use is de­cep­ti­ve, its many ang­les gi­ve the imp­res­si­on that the ho­use has many ro­oms, yet it has only se­ven. The sag­ging wo­od fra­me dwel­ling, ho­uses me­mo­ri­es of many ge­ne­ra­ti­ons. The pre­sent ge­ne­ra­ti­on con­sists of six­te­en ye­ar old Kathy, her mot­her Ire­ne, her fat­her Fred and her sis­ter Pat. Her ol­der brot­her di­ed by drow­ning in 1970.

  The ha­un­ting was first dis­co­ve­red on a co­ol fall mor­ning. When Ire­ne awo­ke that mor­ning she dis­co­ve­red that the frin­ge on her bedsp­re­ad had be­en tightly bra­ided du­ring the night. Pa­irs of stoc­kings and slip straps had al­so be­en bra­ided. Ire­ne was up­set to think that so­me­one had co­me in­to her ro­om whi­le she was sle­eping. Why wo­uld an­yo­ne do such a silly thing? The bra­iding hap­pe­ned aga­in the next night, then aga­in each night for abo­ut a we­ek. Ire­ne co­uldn't stand it any lon­ger so she cut the frin­ge off the bedsp­re­ad.

  That night Ire­ne awo­ke from a so­und sle­ep with the une­asy fe­eling that the­re was so­me­one el­se in the ro­om. She felt so­me­one lift the co­vers and climb in bed with her. It was a yo­ung girl. As the girl's body mo­ved clo­ser to her a bi­ting, pi­er­cing cold tur­ned Ire­ne to ice. She re­ac­hed for the light han­ging on the wall just abo­ve her he­ad. As she did, she co­uld fe­el the girl slip out of bed. By the ti­me she had tur­ned on the light the ro­om was empty, the girl had di­sap­pe­ared.

  For days af­ter­ward ro­oms, which we­re known to be empty, ec­ho­ed with the so­und of pa­cing fe­et on wo­oden flo­ors. Do­ors we­re he­ard ope­ning and clo­sing even tho­ugh no vi­sib­le per­son was the­re. All mem­bers of the fa­mily he­ard the­se eerie so­unds. No­ne wan­ted to be­li­eve it!

  Not long be­fo­re he di­ed, Kathy's brot­her had wit­nes­sed the ter­ror hid­den in the ho­use. One night he was awa­ke­ned by the ter­rib­le fe­eling that he was be­ing crus­hed. When he ope­ned his eyes, he co­uld ma­ke out what se­emed to be a man lying on top of him, smot­he­ring him. Just as he was abo­ut to cry out for help, the man ro­se from the bed and wal­ked in­to in­fi­nity.

  For Kathy the ha­un­ting had just be­gun. She was alo­ne one eve­ning, in the li­ving ro­om, re­ading. Slowly, she be­ca­me awa­re that she had be­en he­aring, in the back of her mind, a vo­ice cal­ling to her from so­mew­he­re el­se in the ho­use. It was al­most muf­fled as it cal­led out her na­me. She be­gan to lis­ten for the vo­ice now.. it se­emed to be co­ming from the cel­lar. Her he­art be­gan po­un­ding wildly. Kathy was not a par­ti­cu­larly bra­ve girl but, for so­me re­ason, got up and he­aded for the cel­lar do­or.

  Kathy's tremb­ling hand re­ac­hed for the do­ork­nob. She for­ced it to grasp the hand­le. Al­most auto­ma­ti­cal­ly it tur­ned slightly and the do­or ope­ned.

  A child's vo­ice co­uld be he­ard te­asingly cal­ling Kathy's na­me. She wan­ted to run out of the ho­use and call for so­me­one to jo­in her in the se­arch of the cel­lar. So­met­hing for­ced her to the ba­se­ment. The vo­ice co­uld be he­ard very cle­arly now, it se­emed to be right next to her. She gro­ped in the dark for the light, to­uc­hed the cord and pul­led it on. The ro­om was flo­oded with light, the­re was no one the­re.

  Kathy ne­ver se­emed the sa­me af­ter that ex­pe­ri­en­ce. The en­tity be­gan to ob­sess her and she be­ca­me the vic­tim of al­most nightly hor­rors.

  A few nights la­ter a stran­ge une­asi­ness ca­me over Kathy and wo­ke her. Still half as­le­ep, she glan­ced qu­ickly aro­und the ro­om, as if to as­su­re her­self that all is well. When her eyes ca­me upon her sis­ter's bed, she saw the ans­wer to her une­asi­ness. A tall erect fi­gu­re, pu­re whi­te in co­lor and hol­ding a tri­dent, sto­od next to Pat's bed. As she watc­hed, a host of va­gue, whi­te ap­pa­ri­ti­ons en­te­red thro­ugh every con­ce­ivab­le ope­ning in the ro­om, each be­aring a gre­at kni­fe. The hor­des con­ti­nu­o­usly ad­van­ced on the bed, ma­ki
ng re­pe­ated at­tempts to at­tack her still sle­eping sis­ter. The gre­at whi­te spi­rit gu­ide sto­od gu­ard over the girl, fen­ded them off and sent them back to whe­re they ca­me from. Kathy watc­hed the si­lent ghostly bat­tle, too stun­ned to cry for help, too we­ak to run away. Mo­ments la­ter she slip­ped in­to un­cons­ci­o­us­ness and slept un­til mor­ning.

  As the we­eks went by, all of the fa­mily he­ard the nightly cras­hes of he­avy obj­ects downs­ta­irs. In­ves­ti­ga­ti­on re­ve­aled that not­hing was ever out of its pla­ce or bro­ken. AH we­re un­ner­ved by the so­unds of whis­pe­ring vo­ices that car­ri­ed up from the cel­lar, fa­intly ec­ho­ing thro­ug­ho­ut the ro­oms in the de­ad of night.

  Kathy so­on fo­und stran­ge tho­ughts en­te­ring her mind, tho­ughts of des­pa­ir and dest­ruc­ti­on and even su­ici­de. She felt that she was the ca­use of the une­arthly oc­cur­ren­ces. She must be pu­nis­hed! Over and over aga­in, the vo­ices in her mind told her that she was evil. One night she co­uldn't re­sist the com­pel­ling ur­ge, and she was drawn in­to her bed­ro­om for pe­nan­ce. On­ce alo­ne, she to­ok a lar­ge me­tal cross and be­gan he­ating it with a ligh­ter. When the cru­ci­fix had ab­sor­bed as much he­at as it co­uld from the fla­ming ligh­ter, she pres­sed it aga­inst her up­per arm, bran­ding her skin and bur­ning it de­ep in­to the flesh. Fo­ur ti­mes mo­re she re­pe­ated this un­til her up­per arm was a mass of han­ging flesh. The en­tity was ga­ining its hold of Kathy, her pu­nish­ment was fi­nis­hed - for now. She was lo­sing cont­rol, and she didn't know how to stop it.

  Kathy's de­si­re to pu­nish her­self was fo­re­most in her mind. She knew that her en­tity was res­pon­sib­le for this tor­tu­re. She de­ci­ded that the only way she co­uld rid her­self of this evil was by su­ici­de! The ma­lign spi­rit co­uld not ha­ve be­en hap­pi­er - that was pre­ci­sely what it wan­ted her to do. She loc­ked her­self in her ro­om and pre­pa­red to set it on fi­re. She felt that the fi­re wo­uld dest­roy the evil with her. At the mo­ment she struck the match her sis­ter knoc­ked on the do­or. The su­ici­de was put off, for now at le­ast. The en­tity lost a mi­nor bat­tle, but the­re we­re mo­re to co­me.

  Disturbances con­ti­nu­ed. On her way to bed one night, Kathy fo­und her­self fol­lo­wing a wo­man with a long whi­te ve­il up the sta­irs. As the wo­man ne­ar-ed the top of the sta­irs, she just fa­ded away!

  Later that night Kathy was awa­ke­ned by the so­und of a light switch be­ing snap­ped on and off. Alt­ho­ugh she co­uld he­ar the switch, the lights did not go on or off. This too, hap­pe­ned night af­ter night. The en­tity had fo­und yet anot­her way to tor­ment Kathy. On­ce aga­in she felt that she must pu­nish her­self for be­ing evil, this ti­me the sharp bla­de of a ra­zor re­sul­ted in her hos­pi­ta­li­za­ti­on.

  Alone in the si­len­ce of her hos­pi­tal ro­om Kathy he­ard vo­ices. They so­un­ded li­ke the dro­ning chants of many nuns and monks who she felt sur­ro­un­ded her. They kept tel­ling her to go ho­me whe­re she be­lon­ged.

  When Kathy re­tur­ned ho­me she con­ti­nu­ed to be dri­ven by the en­tity. Ap­pa­rently it was no lon­ger sa­tis­fi­ed with ha­ving her harm only her­self. Kathy now felt the ne­ed to do physi­cal harm to ot­hers. The world was evil and the pe­op­le in it must be pu­nis­hed. At that po­int Ed and Lor­ra­ine War­ren we­re cal­led in to in­ves­ti­ga­te.

  Lorraine co­uld fe­el an en­tity in the ho­use, par­ti­cu­larly in one of the ups­ta­irs bed­ro­oms. This one se­emed evil, as if it we­re lying in wa­it. The­re we­re ot­her vib­ra­ti­ons in the ho­use, al­most as if mo­re than one une­arthly in­ha­bi­tant li­ved the­re. She co­uld fe­el the chil­dish, play­ful spi­rit that Kathy co­uld he­ar whis­pe­ring and cal­ling her na­me. The ups­ta­irs de­mon was the one that ut­terly to­ok pos ses­si­on of Kathy's mind.

  Kathy still re­ma­ins se­ized by ob­ses­si­on. The fa­mily's nights are fil­led with whis­pe­ring vo­ices and ap­pa­ri­ti­ons con­ti­nue to walk the sta­irs and lurk in the ro­oms of the old farm­ho­use.

  CHAPTER VIII

  The Voodoo Doll

  Mrs. C. bo­ught anot­her doll for her rat­her lar­ge col­lec­ti­on. The doll was qu­ite in­te­res­ting. It was abo­ut a fo­ot tall and had a cu­te whi­te cloth dress, lit­tle sho­es, long ha­ir and a fa­ce ma­de stran­gely frigh­te­ning by brightly pa­in­ted lips and che­eks and sta­ring eyes that se­emed al­most too re­al. Ti­ed tightly aro­und its neck was a no­ose - the doll had be­en han­ged.

  Mr. and Mrs. C. ow­ned and ope­ra­ted a rest ho­me, they li­ved on the gro­unds. Mrs. C, who was the doll col­lec­tor, pla­ced the "witch doll" in a wo­oden box when she re­tur­ned ho­me with it. She sa­id it was just a pre­ca­uti­on, af­ter all it was sup­po­sed to be cur­sed. She was not a su­pers­ti­ti­o­us wo­man, but it was best not to ta­ke any chan­ces.

  A few days la­ter, af­ter de­ci­ding the­re's no fun col­lec­ting if you can't show it off, she to­ok the doll from the wo­oden box and mo­ved it to the glass disp­lay ca­bi­net whe­re she kept her col­lec­ti­on. The ca­bi­net was al­ways kept loc­ked be­ca­use many of the dolls we­re qu­ite va­lu­ab­le. The only key was in the cons­tant pos­ses­si­on of her hus­band. In spi­te of this, by the next day the witch doll had di­sap­pe­ar ed. A tho­ro­ugh se­arch was ma­de of the ho­use and the rest ho­me, the doll co­uld not be fo­und. Fi­nal­ly, be­ca­use Mrs. C. had lo­oked everyw­he­re el­se, she se­arc­hed her bed­ro­om. The­re, in the bu­re­au dra­wer, she fo­und her witch doll. Many ti­mes sin­ce then her lit­tle witch doll has, for no ap­pa­rent re­ason, run for the co­ver of her bu­re­au dra­wer.

  Mrs. C. lo­ved to buy dolls at auc­ti­ons. She felt that each doll had the sec­rets of its pre­vi­o­us ow­ner so­me­how wit­hin it. The doll that she bo­ught in Jack­son­vil­le, Flo­ri­da was one such doll. This one tur­ned out to be a vo­odoo doll!

  From the mo­ment that she bo­ught the doll, her pe­ace­ful li­fe be­ca­me just a ple­asant me­mory. From that mo­ment on, her li­fe en­te­red anot­her di­men­si­on.

  Even tho­se who knew not­hing of the doll's his­tory felt a stran­ge une­asi­ness when they saw it. They felt al­most as if the doll we­re watc­hing them. Many sa­id that the doll was evil and they re­fu­sed to even to­uch it. Mrs. C. de­ci­ded to put it un­der a glass do­me ho­ping that this wo­uld help to hold in what she tho­ught might he evil vib­ra­ti­ons.

  When one of the el­derly pa­ti­ents at the rest ho­me saw it en­ca­sed in its glass do­me, he sa­id that he got the eerie fe­eling that it was trying to get out, but it just co­uldn't. He sa­id that it ga­ve him the wil­li­es.

  Mrs. C. de­ci­ded, one day, that she was be­ing fo­olish. That doll co­uld not pos­sibly be evil or harm­ful. Af­ter all, it is only a doll! She to­ok it from un­der the glass and pla­ced it on a tab­le for disp­lay. Then her prob­lems be­gan. At the ti­me, a one hund­red tho­usand dol­lar ad­di­ti­on to the rest ho­me was be­ing const­ruc­ted. Work was prog­res­sing on sche­du­le, comp­le­ti­on was not far away. Less than one ho­ur af­ter the doll was re­mo­ved from its glass do­me, sta­te ins­pec­tors dis­co­ve­red that the cont­rac­tor had ma­de a se­ri­es of mis­ta­kes which for­ced of­fi­ci­als to chan­ge the ho­me's sta­tus from that of rest ho­me to con­va­les­cent ho­me. A costly, un­for­tu­na­te chan­ge! Inc­re­dib­le ot­her comp­li­ca­ti­ons aro­se which be­gan to be re­sol­ved only af­ter the doll had be­en gi­ven to Ed and Lor­ra­ine War­ren.

  Mr. and Mrs. C. had a son who had al­ways be­en a he­althy child. Shortly af­ter Mrs.C. had purc­ha­sed the vo­odoo doll, the boy be­gan to comp­la­in abo­ut fe­eling we­ak. Doc­tors co­uld find no ap­pa­rent re­ason for his con­di­ti­on. One of New Eng­land's le­ading pe­di­at­ri­ci­ans ran ex­ten­si­ve la­bo­ra­to
ry tests on him, but co­uld find no ca­use for his ma­lady. His con­di­ti­on wor­se­ned. Doc­tors co­uld presc­ri­be no me­di­ca­ti­on for him, the­re was no di­ag­no­sis. He be­ca­me so we­ak that doc­tors ga­ve up all ho­pe, it was just a mat­ter of ti­me. It was for this re­ason the War­rens we­re cal­led in. Lor­ra­ine co­uld fe­el evil vib­ra­ti­ons co­ming from the vo­odoo doll and ad­vi­sed that it be re­mo­ved from the ho­use. On­ce it was re­mo­ved, the boy be­gan to re­co­ver. To the doc­tors ama­ze­ment, in a few days, he was comp­le­tely re­co­ve­red.

  During the three ye­ars that Mrs. C. ow­ned the dolls, she suf­fe­red spells of gre­at dep­res­si­on. She did not re­ali­ze that the­re co­uld be any con­nec­ti­on bet­we­en the dolls and her men­tal suf­fe­ring. So­on, Mrs. C. no­ti­ced that every ti­me she spent any length of ti­me ne­ar the col­lec­ti­on she wo­uld suf­fer vi­olent he­adac­hes. She de­ci­ded that she wo­uld dest­roy the dolls and bring an end to the­ir evil ma­gic. The dolls me­ant a gre­at de­al to her, she had col­lec­ted them from many parts of the co­untry. She fi­nal­ly gat­he­red eno­ugh co­ura­ge to do what she re­al­ly didn't want to do and pic­ked up the vo­odoo doll to throw it in the fi­re. As she did, she co­uld fe­el what se­emed li­ke hat­red and sick­ness co­ming from the doll, flo­wing in­to her body thro­ugh her hand. She qu­ickly threw it on the flo­or. A mi­nu­te la­ter, af­ter she told her­self that it co­uldn't ha­ve hap­pe­ned, she pic­ked up the doll to try on­ce mo­re to dest­roy it. On­ce aga­in she was pre­ven­ted from do­ing so. She re­tur­ned it to the shelf. She was la­ter to dis­co­ver that dolls such as hers can­not be dest­ro­yed wit­ho­ut first per­for­ming cer­ta­in ri­tes-over them. Ed War­ren la­ter exp­la­ined:

 

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