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Deliver us from evil_forLit Page 7

by AndyAfro


  "The re­ason that the dolls are in exis­tan­ce now is that they fa­iled to work when they we­re sup­po­sed to. If they had wor­ked on the­ir in­ten­ded vic­tims, the dolls wo­uld ha­ve im­me­di­ately be­en dest­ro­yed, re­le­asing the for­ces sto­red in them by the ma­gi­ci­an.

  The witch doll with the no­ose aro­und its neck was de­sig­ned to ma­ke the vic­tim hang him­self. The vo­odoo doll, which has re­al ha­ir and fin­ger­na­ils ta­ken from the vic­tim, was pro­bably me­ant to be hung in a ra­in spo­ut or si­mi­lar area at the vic­tim's ho­use so that as it rot­ted away, the vic­tim wo­uld too.

  The fact that ne­it­her doll was dest­ro­yed me­ans that the cur­ses did not work but re­ver­ted back to the ma­gi­ci­an, dest­ro­ying him. His spi­rit wo­uld then ha­ve be­en trap­ped in the doll, to be re­le­ased only when the doll was fi­nal­ly dest­ro­yed.

  If cer­ta­in ri­tes are not per­for­med over them, then the per­son who dest­roys the dolls wo­uld be­co­me the next vic­tim of the cur­ses,"

  When the War­rens to­ok pos­ses­si­on of the two dolls, they put them on disp­lay in the­ir mu­se­um in the ba­se­ment, un­der glass do­mes. They had cir­cu­mam­bu­lism per­for­med aro­und the ca­ses by a high spi­ri­tu­al per­son. Cir­cu­mam­bu­lism is a se­ri­es of pra­yers sa­id in a circ­le for­med aro­und the obj­ects, to hold the vib­ra­ti­ons in.

  One night a re­ti­red Navy com­man­der and his wi­fe ca­me to vi­sit Ed and Lor­ra­ine. The wi­fe be­ca­me int­ri­gu­ed by the dolls and as­ked if she co­uld pick them up. Ed, of co­ur­se, wo­uld not let her and exp­la­ined why. All eve­ning the wo­man's at­ten­ti­on was drawn back to the dolls. When Ed had left the ro­om for a mo­ment the com­man­der's wi­fe went to the disp­lay and pic­ked up one of the dolls. The circ­le of pro­tec­ti­on was bro­ken. She gas­ped and drop­ped the doll, she sa­id it had bur­ned her. She did not bot­her with the dolls for the rest of the eve­ning. The da­ma­ge was do­ne.

  The com­man­der and his wi­fe left la­ter that night for the­ir ho­me in anot­her town and Ed and Lor­ra­ine went to bed.

  At abo­ut 2:30 in the mor­ning they we­re awa­ke­ned by the so­und of lo­ud cras­hing and ban­ging. It was co­ming from the di­rec­ti­on of the ba­se­ment. Ed ra­ced down the sta­irs. When he re­ac­hed the mu­se­um he saw all of his pa­in­tings and ar­ti­facts pi­led in the cen­ter of the ro­om. The two dolls, still in the­ir pla­ces, we­re lying on the­ir si­des. The ro­om was fil­led with the stench of bur­ning sulp­hur. Ed ope­ned the ba­se­ment win­dows to air it out. In or­der to pro­tect the dolls he to­ok them out to his stu­dio which was in a se­pa­ra­te bu­il­ding.

  About forty mi­nu­tes la­ter, Lor­ra­ine was aga­in awa­ke­ned. This ti­me the blin­king of the stu­dio lights shi­ning thro­ugh her bed­ro­om win­dow wo­ke her. She wo­ke Ed. He went to the win­dow and saw not­hing. He told Lor­ra­ine that her ima­gi­na­ti­on was ca­using her to see things. They went back to bed. A few mi­nu­tes la­ter they we­re back on the­ir fe­et aga­in when, this ti­me, they both saw the fren­zi­ed flas­hing of the stu­dio lights. When Ed se­arc­hed the stu­dio, he fo­und not­hing.

  While the com­man­der and his wi­fe we­re on the­ir way ho­me from the­ir vi­sit that night they suf­fe­red an ac­ci­dent that al­most to­ok the­ir li­ves. The ro­ad was per­fectly cle­ar, vi­si­bi­lity was ex­cel­lent and the­re was not a car in sight. The com­man­der had pul­led on­to one of the ma­in high­ways ne­ar his ho­me when, out of now­he­re, blin­ding he­ad­lights ref­lec­ted in his mir­ror and, in a split se­cond, the­re was a tre­men­do­us crash. The­ir car was pus­hed over se­venty fi­ve fe­et down the ro­ad. The win­dows we­re smas­hed by the im­pact. The se­at belts, which we­re strap­ped aro­und the com­man­der and his wi­fe, we­re snap­ped. The­re had be­en ab­so­lu­tely not­hing on the high­way when the com­man­der pul­led out, yet se­conds la­ter he was struck from be­hind. Ne­it­her dri­ver had se­en the ot­her car. No one had be­en drin­king.

  Four pe­op­le al­most di­ed that night. Was it be­ca­use the circ­le of pro­tec­ti­on had be­en bro­ken from aro­und the witch doll and the vo­odoo doll? It is im­pos­sib­le to be su­re. Con­si­der this sta­te­ment ma­de by the com­man­der to the po­li­ce shortly af­ter the ac­ci­dent and la­ter to the War­rens: "I lo­oked up in­to the mir­ror and saw tho­se blin­ding he­ad­lights and no­ti­ced that they for­med sort of a ha­lo and… God, I swe­ar that in the cen­ter of of that ha­lo we­re tho­se two dolls, sta­ring at me, la­ug­hing!"

  CHAPTER IX

  Haunting In New Haven

  New Ha­ven, Con­nec­ti­cut, arc­hi­tec­tu­ral­ly, com­bi­nes the very mo­dern with the clas­sic set­tings of the old town and Ya­le Uni­ver­sity. Out­si­de the cen­ter of the city are co­unt­less nar­row stre­ets li­ned with hund­red-ye­ar-old wo­oden ho­uses, now all con­ver­ted in­to two or three fa­mily dwel­lings. The yards aro­und the­se ho­uses usu­al­ly con­sist of a fi­ve fo­ot wi­de strip of grass on two si­des, a dri­ve­way on the third and, in back, a small rec­tang­le of dirt with a car­ri­age ho­use, now ser­ving as a ga­ra­ge. It is in pre­ci­sely this type of ho­use that our next ca­se be­gins.

  It was a two-fa­mily ho­me, sta­irs led up to the third flo­or but the ro­oms we­re not fi­nis­hed. When the Stil­lman fa­mily bo­ught the ho­use, they knew not­hing of its his­tory. They we­re qu­ickly told by the ne­igh­bors that the man who had li­ved the­re be­fo­re them had hung him­self in the at­tic - and the ro­pe was still the­re, ti­ed to the raf­ters!

  One night so­on af­ter they had mo­ved in­to the ho­use, Ann Stil­lman felt a strong fe­ar of put­ting her bed­ro­om light out and go­ing to sle­ep. Af­ter se­ve­ral mi­nu­tes she con­vin­ced her­self that she was be­ing chil­dish and she re­ac­hed over to flip the switch when she felt so­met­hing very cold to­uch her arm. It to­uc­hed her aga­in, and be­fo­re she co­uld withd­raw her arm, an un­se­en hand to­ok hold of her wrist. Ann strug­gled to re­le­ase her­self from the icy grip. When she had fre­ed her­self, she no­ti­ced what ap­pe­ared to be welts on her wrist. Upon clo­se ins­pec­ti­on, they se­emed to form let­ters cre­ating a word in a lan­gu­age she was not ab­le to de­cip­her.

  Many ti­mes Ann's hus­band, Stan­ley wo­uld co­me ho­me from work and find the lights on all over the ho­use. At first this did not bot­her him. So­on he he­ard do­ors ope­ning and clo­sing and fo­ots­teps on the se­cond flo­or, even when he knew the­re was no one el­se in the ho­use. Stan­ley did not know exactly what was ca­using the stran­ge events, but he did try to avo­id be­ing alo­ne in the ho­use any mo­re.

  Ann and her da­ugh­ter Deb­bie, tra­ced back the his­tory of the for­mer te­nants and dis­co­ve­red that all of the men who had ever li­ved in the ho­use, no mat­ter how kind and gent­le they we­re be­fo­re they mo­ved in, be­ca­me very cru­el and vi­olent af­ter they had mo­ved in. They al­so se­emed to be­co­me pro­ne to unu­su­al ac­ci­dents. Anot­her unu­su­al fact that they un­co­ve­red, all of the pre­vi­o­us ow­ners lost the ho­use, usu­al­ly thro­ugh mort­ga­ge fo­rec­lo­su­re. In fact, the man who had hung him­self in the at­tic did so be­ca­use his mort­ga­ge on the ho­use was be­ing fo­rec­lo­sed.

  Wedding bells so­on rang for Deb­bie and she and her hus­band mo­ved in­to the va­cant apart­ment on the se­cond flo­or. As in her fat­hers ca­se, when she was alo­ne in the ho­use, she wo­uld he­ar no­ises li­ke the ope­ning and clo­sing of do­ors and the so­und of fo­ots­teps in the unu­sed at­tic. Deb­bie be­ca­me used to the so­unds. She even be­gan to re­fer to the so­unds as co­ming from her fri­end, the ghost.

  Debbie's hus­band, true to tra­di­ti­on, so­on be­ca­me ext­re­mely vi­olent. He wo­uld sho­ut and scre­am at Deb­bie for no ap­pa­ren
t re­ason. On­ce he threw a lamp at the wall, it cras­hed in­to a hund­red pi­eces. She be­ca­me ter­ri­fi­ed of him. Oc­ca­si­onal­ly, when she ca­me ho­me from work la­te at night, she wo­uld find that her hus­band had ta­ken all of the bulbs from the lights on the sta­irs le­ading up to, her apart­ment. She of­ten had the fe­eling that her hus­band, in a vi­olent mo­od, wo­uld be hi­ding on the sta­irs wa­iting to strang­le her. Whe­ne­ver the lights we­re out, the­re­fo­re, she wo­uld ask her fri­end the ghost for help. Wit­ho­ut fa­il, Deb­bie wo­uld fe­el a cold hand ta­ke her by the el­bow and gently gu­ide her up the sta­irs; she knew at tho­se ti­mes that not­hing co­uld harm her. Her gu­ide was ne­ver se­en but was al­ways the­re to help her.

  Debbie's fat­her ca­me ho­me one night and aga­in the lights we­re on in his downs­ta­irs apart­ment, he knew no one was ho­me. He went to a pay pho­ne and cal­led Deb­bie and as­ked her if she wo­uld, with the aid of her fri­endly ghost, go in the­re with him. At first, with the ex­cep­ti­on of the lights be­ing on, everyt­hing se­emed to be in or­der. When they en­te­red the li­ving ro­om, Deb­bie saw a man sit­ting on the so­fa. He was very tall and lo­oked to be abo­ut forty ye­ars old. He smi­led at Deb­bie as tho­ugh they had be­en long ti­me fri­ends. Thin­king that the man was a fri­end of her fat­her's, she lo­oked to­ward him for an int­ro­duc­ti­on. She co­uld see that her fat­her co­uld not see the man. She lo­oked back at the man just in ti­me to see him va­nish.

  The Stil­lman's re­mo­de­led the at­tic and Deb­bie mo­ved up the­re. Deb­bie's sis­ter Sop­hie and her fa­mily mo­ved in­to the se­cond flo­or apart­ment. She had he­ard of so­me of the stran­ge things that hap­pe­ned in the ho­use but she re­fu­sed to be­li­eve any of it. Be­si­des, no ghost co­uld frigh­ten her!

  One eve­ning Deb­bie and her sis­ter exc­han­ged words over so­me mi­nor di­sag­re­ement. In her an­ger she wis­hed that her ghostly fri­end wo­uld co­me and pull Sop­hie out of bed. That night, Sop­hie had hardly put out the light when so­met­hing had grab­bed her by the ank­les and pul­led her to the flo­or. She had a very dif­fi­cult ti­me exp­la­ining to her hus­band what she was do­ing on the flo­or.

  Sophie had a son who was of high scho­ol age, his na­me was Bob. He de­ci­ded to ha­ve a party one night and in­vi­ted his girl and a few ot­her co­up­les over. Alt­ho­ugh they had all he­ard sto­ri­es abo­ut the "ha­un­ted ho­use", no­ne of them be­li­eved them. Shortly af­ter they ar­ri­ved they be­gan po­king fun at Bob and his ha­un­ted ho­use. They ta­un­ted him to bring out his ghost. In a joking mo­od, they tur­ned out the lights to see what wo­uld hap­pen. Al­most im­me­di­ately a small ball of light ap­pe­ared and be­gan mo­ving aro­und the ro­om, le­aving a tra­il of smo­ke. The lights we­re qu­ickly tur­ned on aga­in and the sphe­re di­sap­pe­ared. The ro­om was se­arc­hed for so­me evi­den­ce of tric­kery, no­ne co­uld be fo­und. The gro­up bu­ilt up the­ir co­ura­ge with fal­se jovi­ality, on­ce mo­re they tur­ned out the lights. This ti­me the boy who had moc­ked the pre­sen­ce of a ghost in the ho­use most ve­he­mently, sud­denly fo­und him­self on the flo­or. No one was ne­ar him at the ti­me. The gro­up de­ci­ded that they had temp­ted the unk­nown eno­ugh that night. They went on with the­ir party, they ne­eded no mo­re pro­of.

  Bob of­ten awa­ke­ned in the mor­ning and fo­und him­self on the flo­or. He co­uld re­mem­ber ha­ving stran­ge dre­ams on tho­se nights and tho­ught that he had fal­len out of bed as a re­sult of them. One night he just co­uldn't fall al­se­ep. So­on he he­ard the fo­ots­teps that he had he­ard many ti­mes in that ho­use. Bob lis­te­ned as the fo­ots­teps ca­me clo­ser. (His ro­om was se­pa­ra­ted from the hall by only a bam­boo cur­ta­in.) He he­ard the fo­ots­teps stop. He re­ali­zed that the­re was so­me­one stan­ding be­hind the cur­ta­in, he co­uld see him sil­ho­u­et­ted aga­inst the dim hall light. He pre­ten­ded to be as­le­ep, ke­eping watch out of a slightly open eye. As if he we­re be­ing pu­nis­hed for spying on the ghost, he fo­und him­self on the flo­or, this ti­me the bed was on top of him.

  A few days la­ter Bob ca­me ho­me from scho­ol very ti­red. So ti­red that he de­ci­ded to ta­ke a nap be­fo­re din­ner. He lay on his bed with his arms be­hind his he­ad, when sud­denly he felt the ro­om be­gin­ning to spin. He tho­ught this me­ant that he was go­ing to fa­int, so he de­ci­ded to sit up. He co­uldn't sit up - he co­uldn't mo­ve! He tri­ed to sho­ut for help, he co­uldn't spe­ak! So­on, he be­gan to see pe­op­le, pe­op­le that he had ne­ver se­en be­fo­re, all stan­ding aro­und him, sta­ring at him. Then, just as qu­ickly as it star­ted, he stop­ped spin­ning. The pe­op­le di­sap­pe­ared, and he co­uld he­ar the so­und of chuck­ling, the ghost had on­ce aga­in sho­wed that he is the mas­ter of this ho­use in New Ha­ven.

  The ha­un­tings con­ti­nue in the ho­use. Se­ve­ral we­eks ago Sop­hie tho­ught she he­ard a no­ise in her bed­ro­om. It ca­me from un­der the bed, per­haps it was a mo­use. Bob went in as his mot­her qu­ickly exi­ted. He se­arc­hed, but to no ava­il. Then, just as he was abo­ut to get off his hands and kne­es, af­ter lo­oking un­der the bed, he saw, stan­ding in a cor­ner a tall, be­a­uti­ful wo­man dres­sed all in black, sta­ring at him. He felt a co­ol bre­eze in the ro­om. The wo­man was the­re al­right, he had no do­ubt of that. Yet, af­ter abo­ut ten se­conds, she just di­sap­pe­ared!

  Doors still slam shut by them­sel­ves in that ho­use in New Ha­ven, fo­ots­teps are still he­ard in the empty ro­oms and ap­pa­ri­ti­ons are still se­en. The aut­hor le­ar­ned, just be­fo­re pub­li­ca­ti­on of this bo­ok, that the Stil­lmans are in the pro­cess of lo­sing the ho­use thro­ugh fo­rec­lo­su­re, as did so many of its pre­vi­o­us ow­ners.

  So many pe­op­le that ha­ve li­ved in that ho­use ha­ve known in­ten­se sad­ness, mi­sery and he­artb­re­ak. The bu­il­ding is li­ke a spon­ge, it so­aks up the emo­ti­ons of all who ha­ve li­ved the­re. For as long as it stands it will re­ma­in an abo­de of me­lanc­holy and a ho­use of hor­ror.

  CHAPTER X

  The Incredible Case Of Maria

  Maria had to ha­ve help. Her li­fe, sin­ce she was a child was fil­led with evil. Her mind and body had be­en ta­ken pri­so­ner by de­mons. Ed and Lor­ra­ine War­ren we­re her only chan­ce. Ma­ria told them of her mot­her's de­ath thro­ugh a vo­odoo cur­se.She told of her un­mar­ri­ed da­ugh­ter get­ting preg­nant, her ot­her da­ugh­ter get­ting hit by a car and al­most dying in the hos­pi­tal. Even her sis­ter was to­uc­hed by her pos­ses­si­on when she bro­ke her hip and had to be ta­ken to the hos­pi­tal.

  Maria ca­me from a po­or Ita­li­an fa­mily. When she was se­ven ye­ars old a man na­med An­ge­lo be­ca­me in­te­res­ted in her. Her mot­her, old-fas­hi­oned in her ways, con­si­de­red Ma­ria for­tu­na­te to ha­ve so­me­one with a go­od job in­te­res­ted in her. She did all she co­uld to ma­ke her lo­ok ol­der, she even al­lo­wed her to use ma­ke-up. When An­ge­lo wo­uld co­me to vi­sit he wo­uld ask Ma­ria to sit next to him and of­fer her fifty cents to stay and talk to him. To a child fifty cents was a lar­ge sum of mo­ney, but she al­ways re­fu­sed. Qu­ite of­ten, on Sun­days, An­ge­lo wo­uld ta­ke Ma­ria out for a ri­de or a pic­nic. Her mot­her wo­uld al­ways for­ce her to go.

  Maria did not li­ke An­ge­lo to­uc­hing her, pa­wing her. She pra­yed for help to de­fend aga­inst his cons­tant at­ten­ti­ons.

  One Sun­day when she was eight ye­ars old, she wal­ked in­to the kitc­hen and didn't see An­ge­lo. Her mot­her scol­ded her for ig­no­ring him, and ma­de her apo­lo­gi­ze. An­ge­lo sat the­re sta­ring hung­rily at Ma­ria as if she we­re a be­a­uti­ful yo­ung wo­man ins­te­ad of a child. In or­der to get to her bed­ro­om she had to walk right past him, so she skir­ted aro­und him in a lar­ge circ­le, th
us avo­iding con­tact with him. Aga­in her mot­her sho­uted at her and scol­ded her for be­ing im­po­li­te. An­ge­lo had co­me to ta­ke Ma­ria to a ne­arby amu­se­ment park. She beg­ged to be al­lo­wed to stay ho­me. Her mot­her in­sis­ted that she go with him. On­ce mo­re she pra­yed for help to re­sist him.

  Angelo tri­ed to ma­ke Ma­ria enj­oy her­self. He to­ok her on many of the ri­des, bo­ught her ice cre­am and hot dogs, but Ma­ria was mi­se­rab­le. Then he ma­de her walk with him in­to a big fi­eld ne­ar the park. The­re was no one in sight, the grass was qu­ite tall and Ma­ria was af­ra­id. An­ge­lo bent over to kiss her and at the sa­me ti­me threw her to the gro­und. Ma­ria scre­amed and, sud­denly, an ol­der man and wo­man ap­pe­ared out of now­he­re. An­ge­lo se­emed ter­ri­fi­ed. He hel­ped Ma­ria off the gro­und and to­ok her ho­me. Ma­ria or her fa­mily has not se­en or he­ard from An­ge­lo sin­ce.

 

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