Deliver us from evil_forLit

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Deliver us from evil_forLit Page 10

by AndyAfro


  As the days pas­sed La­ura be­gan to be­li­eve that her boyf­ri­end's best fri­end, Do­nald, had ca­used the­ir se­pa­ra­ti­on. An in­ten­se hat­red of Do­nald grew in­si­de La­ura. In fact, the hat­red be­ca­me so in­ten­se that she de­ci­ded to kill him. She war­ned Do­nald of the con­se­qu­en­ces if he con­ti­nu­ed to in­ter­fe­re. He wo­uld not lis­ten.

  The wolf-de­mon ap­pe­ared aga­in in La­ura's mir­ror and she as­ked it to help her. Un­der its gu­idan­ce, she be­gan to work on an obs­cu­re vo­odoo ri­te.

  With a pa­il of wa­ter in front of her, La­ura con­cent­ra­ted on ma­king Do­nald's fa­ce ap­pe­ar on the sur­fa­ce of the wa­ter. When she saw his fa­ce cle­arly, she stab­bed it aga­in and aga­in with a lar­ge kitc­hen kni­fe. The de­mon had told her that if she con­cent­ra­ted hard eno­ugh, the wa­ter wo­uld turn to blo­od and Do­nald wo­uld die. It didn't work.

  Laura knew that Black Ma­gic, if per­for­med pro­perly, wo­uld work. She de­ci­ded to try aga­in, this ti­me in­tent on kil­ling her­self af­ter she did away with Do­nald. Im­me­di­ately af­ter that de­ci­si­on, the wolf-de­mon ap­pe­ared and de­man­ded that she for­get both her boyf­ri­end and Do­nald… the­re we­re bet­ter things for her to do in the ser­vi­ce of her new-fo­und lord, Sa­tan. She to­ok the ad­vi­ce and even­tu­al­ly did for­get them. She re­di­rec­ted her lo­ve in a new, un­for­tu­na­te di­rec­ti­on.

  It is in­te­res­ting to no­te he­re that du­ring La­ura's first in­ter­vi­ew with Ed and Lor­ra­ine, as she told them of the wolf-de­mon, Ed be­gan co­ug­hing. A stran­ge, sul­fu­ric odor fil­led the ro­om and ir­ri­ta­ted his lungs. La­ura was ob­ses­sed and the en­tity which at­tac­ked her ma­de its pre­sen­ce known to Ed.

  For the next few we­eks La­ura glo­ri­fi­ed in the fe­eling of po­wer which she had ga­ined and, se­arc­hing for mo­re, she as­ked for ad­di­ti­onal de­mons to en­ter her body.

  Near mid­night on the se­cond day of a va­ca­ti­on on Ca­pe Cod, La­ura felt a strong ur­ge to le­ave her fri­end's ho­use and go for a walk. With a blan­ket wrap­ped aro­und her for a ca­pe, she ma­de her way thro­ugh the dark, nar­row, win­ding stre­ets un­til she ar­ri­ved at an an­ci­ent ce­me­tery. The­re, she thre­aded her way aro­und the worn sto­nes. She enj­oyed her­self im­men­sely, La­ura felt qu­ite at ho­me. She ca­me back out thro­ugh the old wo­oden ga­te and sat down on the sto­ne wall that bor­de­red the old bu­ri­al pla­ce. So­on, a yo­ung man abo­ut twenty ye­ars old, who was slightly drunk, ca­me wan­de­ring by. He saw La­ura sit­ting the­re and as­ked if he co­uld jo­in her. She ne­it­her en­co­ura­ged him or dis­co­ura­ged him so he sat down and en­ga­ged her in small talk. Slowly, wit­ho­ut sa­ying a word, La­ura wrap­ped her arms aro­und his neck and drew him clo­ser. He stop­ped tal­king and, ple­ased with his suc­cess, mo­ved clo­ser to her, clo­sed his eyes and pre­pa­red for the co­ming kiss. It ne­ver ca­me. Ins­te­ad, La­ura sud­denly jer­ked him to her and, ba­ring her te­eth, she sunk them de­eply in­to his thro­at and drank the blo­od that spur­ted out. The yo­ung man sud­denly be­ca­me so­ber. He ma­na­ged to bre­ak away from her and, pres­sing his hand to his neck to stop the flow of blo­od, he ran off in­to the night. He glan­ced back over his sho­ul­der on­ce as if he ex­pec­ted all the spi­rits of Hell to be af­ter him.

  Laura didn't know what had co­me over her. She was as­ha­med of what she had do­ne and be­gan to think that she re­al­ly was in­sa­ne.

  Laura be­ca­me the high pri­es­tess of a sa­ta­nic co­ven which held its ri­tu­als in the de­ser­ted sand pits at the bot­tom of the val­ley. Whi­le they we­re prac­ti­cing the­ir ce­re­mo­ni­es one mo­on­lit night, they we­re dis­co­ve­red by the po­li­ce.

  Laura had just fi­nis­hed the in­vo­ca­ti­on to Sa­tan and, as the ot­hers watc­hed, she ma­de re­ady to slit the thro­at of the ro­os­ter in or­der to dra­in its blo­od in­to the cha­li­ce. As she ra­ised the dag­ger, two blin­ding shafts of light fo­cu­sed on her and three po­li­ce­men jum­ped out of the car. Two of them sto­od gu­ard, ma­king su­re no one es­ca­ped. The third rus­hed to the al­tar in an at­tempt to find out what La­ura was do­ing.

  By the ti­me the of­fi­cer got to La­ura's si­de, she had hid­den the kni­fe. When he as­ked why the ro­os­ter was the­re, she told him that it was the­ir pet. He was not fully con­vin­ced but he had no know­led­ge of witchc­raft, so that tho­ught didn't en­ter his mind. Sin­ce the­re was no evi­den­ce of a vi­ola­ti­on of the law, the po­li­ce left.

  Laura de­ve­lo­ped an inc­re­dib­le lust for blo­od. It was so in­ten­se that at ti­mes she co­uldn't avo­id the strong ur­ge and fo­und her­self do­ing wha­te­ver she co­uld to sa­tisfy it.. inc­lu­ding drin­king her own blo­od!

  Laura wasn't alo­ne in that in­hu­man lust. Kathy, a clo­se fri­end whom she had int­ro­du­ced to black ma­gic, al­so sha­red the gho­ulish de­si­re. Many ti­mes when they we­re unab­le to find a ro­os­ter or ot­her ap­prop­ri­ate sac­ri­fi­ce, they wo­uld draw blo­od from the­ir own arms with a hypo­der­mic ne­ed­le and then, mi­xing it with wi­ne, wo­uld in­dul­ge the­ir cra­ving. Even­tu­al­ly this prac­ti­ce ca­used La­ura to be hos­pi­ta­li­zed with an in­fec­ted arm. Doc­tors even con­si­de­red am­pu­ta­ti­on. Un­til that ti­me she had no qu­alms abo­ut sli­cing her arm in any man­ner ne­ces­sary to draw out mo­re and mo­re blo­od.

  At this po­int in the se­cond in­ter­vi­ew with Ed War­ren, when she dis­cus­sed her hos­pi­ta­li­za­ti­on, Ed pro­du­ced a cup of li­qu­id that lo­oked re­mar­kably li­ke blo­od. He han­ded it to La­ura and as­ked her to drink it. She be­ca­me sus­pi­ci­o­us at first, thin­king it might be me­di­ci­ne. When she re­ali­zed that it wasn't, she drank the li­qu­id. This pro­ved to Ed that she wo­uld drink blo­od wit­ho­ut a mo­ment's he­si­ta­ti­on. Af­ter she drank it, she sa­id that it co­uld not ha­ve be­en blo­od be­ca­use it didn't tas­te li­ke it.

  Soon La­ura be­ca­me fas­ci­na­ted with ce­me­te­ri­es and the de­ad. She spent prac­ti­cal­ly every night wan­de­ring aro­und the old gra­ve­yards in her area. She and Kathy ma­de plans to dig up a body but at the last mi­nu­te de­ci­ded aga­inst it.

  Laura's thirst for blo­od inc­re­ased. She al­lo­wed her­self to be pic­ked up by yo­ung men who we­re lo­oking for sex. She di­rec­ted them to the sand pit area and when they be­ca­me in­vol­ved in a he­ated emb­ra­ce, she sunk her te­eth in the­ir necks, drin­king the­ir blo­od.

  More black mas­ses we­re per­for­med in ho­nor of Sa­tan. Both La­ura and Kathy sto­le re­li­gi­o­us ar­tic­les from lo­cal churc­hes. They bur­ned Bib­les and con­ta­mi­na­ted holy wa­ter. At every op­por­tu­nity they de­fi­led the word of God.

  Laura co­uld no lon­ger un­ders­tand what was hap­pe­ning to her. She felt gre­at hap­pi­ness and po­wer whi­le per­for­ming her ugly de­eds, but af­ter­wards she felt gu­ilty and as­ha­med. She be­gan to be­li­eve that she was go­ing in­sa­ne, but she co­uldn't stop her­self. The en­tity that she had cal­led had ac­tu­al­ly ta­ken cont­rol of her li­fe. She be­gan to see the fa­ce of the wolf-de­mon in stran­gers on the stre­et. Even when she lo­oked at her fri­end Kathy she was hor­ri­fi­ed to see that fa­ce. La­ura was be­yond the po­int of re­turn.

  Candlemass, a Chris­ti­an holy day, was co­ming and La­ura and Kathy ma­de plans to de­fi­le it. They wo­uld hold a mass and of­fer a hu­man sac­ri­fi­ce this ti­me to the de­vil. Kathy as­ked La­ura to open her arm on­ce mo­re so that they co­uld use her blo­od but it was badly ab­ses­sed aga­in and La­ura tur­ned her down. They wo­uld ha­ve to lo­ok el­sew­he­re.

  At first they tho­ught that they sho­uld kid­nap a baby for the sac­ri­fi­ce but Kathy ca­me up with a mo­re evil plan.

&nb
sp; Kathy ha­ted her fat­her. She knew that if she used him as the­ir sac­ri­fi­ce, Sa­tan wo­uld be sa­tis­fi­ed. She desc­ri­bed her gru­eso­me plan to La­ura in de­ta­il. She wo­uld stab him and then te­ar his body apart and gor­ge her­self on his flesh. Kathy's eyes gle­amed madly in her pos­ses­sed sta­te, her fa­ce con­tor­ted with the sa­ta­nic la­ugh­ter of the de­mo­nic en­ti­ti­es which we­re ta­king comp­le­te cont­rol of her.

  Laura fled the apart­ment half cra­zed with fe­ar. She had ne­ver se­en Kathy in such a sta­te. She swo­re to her­self that she wo­uld ne­ver see Kathy aga­in and pro­mi­sed not to per­form the pro­fa­ne ri­tes which had be­co­me so much a part of her li­fe. Wit­hin a we­ek the two we­re to­get­her on­ce mo­re, the­ir vo­ices ec­ho­ing in obs­ce­ne wors­hip from be­hind a mo­und in the sand pits.

  A ca­cop­hony of vi­olins, tam­bo­uri­nes, flu­tes and drums cre­ated the ab­surd ac­com­pa­ni­ment to the lewd dan­cing at the de­vil's mass. The par­ti­ci­pants drank from a jug of wi­ne mi­xed with worm­wo­od, absynt­he, mor­ning glory se­eds, nights­ha­de, de­vil's net­tle, la­urel le­aves and blo­od… a hor­ribly po­tent witch's brew.

  The full mo­on glis­te­ned on the na­ked bo­di­es as they ran fas­ter and fas­ter in an ever ex­pan­ding circ­le un­til, fi­nal­ly, they col­lap­sed in a he­ap, too ex­ha­us­ted to mo­ve. La­ura lay the­re pan­ting he­avily. Her ecs­tacy of the mo­ment blan­ked out her me­mory of the let­ter that she had ma­iled that af­ter­no­on du­ring a fit of des­pe­ra­ti­on. It re­ad:

  "Help me ple­ase! I'm in­to black ma­gic too de­eply now and I'm af­ra­id that I'll ne­ver get out. We're go­ing too far… our Lord wants us to gi­ve him hu­mans now, no mo­re ani­mals. I don't want to, but I can't turn back! It se­ems to be my who­le li­fe. I saw the wolf in the mir­ror aga­in. He sa­id that I wo­uld li­ve only a lit­tle whi­le lon­ger. What can I do? I don't want to die! Help me!"

  The co­ven con­ti­nu­es with the­ir grisly ri­tes. They wors­hip the evil which they cal­led upon, ne­ver will they cont­rol it for they are no lon­ger in cont­rol of them­sel­ves. In each, in the hid­den re­ces­ses of the­ir mind, a sub­con­ci­o­us vo­ice re­bels and, un­he­ard, scre­ams in agony, "So­me­one, ple­ase so­me­one, de­li­ver us from this evil!"

  CHAPTER XIII

  The Case Of Douglas Dean

  The sec­ret church fi­les of the ca­se on which "The Exor­cist" is ba­sed are open to very few pe­op­le. One of tho­se al­lo­wed to see them is Ed War­ren, a de­mo­no­lo­gist, who is con­si­de­red a le­ading ex­pert on ghosts and spi­rits and who has in­ves­ti­ga­ted a num­ber of al­le­ged pos­ses­si­ons. War­ren has re­ad the tes­ti­mony by the many doc­tors and pri­ests who we­re part of the "Exor­cist" ca­se.

  To get a re­port of what tho­se con­fi­den­ti­al fi­les con­ta­in, I went to Ed War­ren's ho­me one warm, mo­on­less night last sum­mer. The ho­use was shro­uded by he­at mists sif­ting down from the Con­nec­ti­cut hills. It se­emed iso­la­ted, so­li­tary. In­si­de the air was co­ol, al­most chilly, des­pi­te the

  summer he­at. The soft fi­re-red glow of li­ving ro­om lights crept ac­ross cre­vi­ces in dark wo­od walls. A stran­ge mo­od - so­me war­ning vib­ra­ti­ons -hit me but I sho­ok it off as ove­rac­ti­ve ima­gi­na­ti­on.

  "You are be­ing su­bj­ec­ted to very bad vib­ra­ti­ons in this ho­use," War­ren war­ned me at the do­or, "be­ca­use be­low this le­vel is a ce­re­mo­ni­al ro­om whe­re ma­gic is per­for­med and whe­re my col­lec­ti­on of sa­ta­nic ar­tic­les is kept. The­ir vib­ra­ti­ons af­fect this who­le ho­use.

  With that che­er­ful int­ro­duc­ti­on War­ren us­he­red me in­to a cha­ir, as­su­ring me that I was in no dan­ger if I wo­uld fol­low his inst­ruc­ti­ons. I pro­mi­sed, cros­sed my fin­gers, tur­ned on the tapr re­cor­der, and as­ked him abo­ut de­mons.

  "There is not one iota of do­ubt in my mind that de­vils and de­mons exist," War­ren be­gan. "They walk the earth only thro­ugh pos­ses­si­on of the physi­cal body of a hu­man be­ing, when a per­son no lon­ger has po­wer over his body- the enemy just ta­kes over. Spi­rits al­so ap­pe­ar thro­ugh op­pres­si­on, by tel­ling a per­son what to do. Op­pres­si­on oc­curs the mo­ment so­me­one gets the idea to del­ve in­to any kind of su­per­na­tu­ral ac­ti­vity - using a Ou­i­ja bo­ard, hol­ding se­an­ces, or prac­ti­cing ESP. The­se ac­ti­vi­ti­es are in­vi­ta­ti­ons to ma­lign spi­rits, and to even­tu­al pos­ses­si­on by tho­se spi­rits.

  "I want you to un­ders­tand, by the way," War­ren sa­id to me, "that be­ca­use you are wri­ting abo­ut this, you are al­re­ady un­der op­pres­si­on."

  The words set the ends of my ha­ir ting­ling. Bits of pers­pi­ra­ti­on bro­ke out on my back. For a mo­ment, I con­si­de­red drop­ping the who­le su­bj­ect. But if I went back wit­ho­ut a story, I'd ha­ve a hard ti­me exp­la­ining why. The cho­ice was simp­le -de­mons or unemp­loy­ment.

  So I sat on the ed­ge of my cha­ir, kept my skep­ti­cism handy, and as­ked War­ren to tell me abo­ut the ca­se on which the story of "The Exor­cist" is ba­sed, the pos­ses­si­on of a boy to whom the Church has gi­ven the fic­ti­ti­o­us na­me of Do­ug­las De­an. War­ren's ac­co­unt is ba­sed upon his re­ading of Church re­cords and is re­pe­ated he­re just as he told it to me.

  The ter­ror be­gan for Do­ug­las De­an on Janu­ary 15, 1949, in Mo­unt Ra­ini­er, Mary­land. He was 14 when pos­ses­si­on be­gan, and the de­mons we­re in­vi­ted in, we think, by his pa­rents and aunt. They had used a Ou­i­ja bo­ard to con­tact the spi­rit world.

  The first in­di­ca­ti­ons we­re scratc­hing so­unds in the ho­use-in flo­or­bo­ards, ce­ilings, and walls. The fa­mily bla­med mi­ce and cal­led in ex­ter­mi­na­tors, which of co­ur­se did no go­od.

  Then the boy be­gan le­vi­ta­ting. Sit­ting qu­i­etly in a cha­ir, he wo­uld sud­denly be trans­por­ted ac­ross the ro­om. He'd lie in a bed that wo­uld then lift slowly in­to the air. Bed she­ets ro­se as if they had be­en he­avily starc­hed.

  At first, ever­yo­ne tho­ught the in­ci­dents we­re funny. But sud­denly Do­ug­las star­ted yel­ling in fo­re­ign lan­gu­ages and scre­aming obs­ce­ni­ti­es at his fa­mily.

  At that po­int the tho­ro­ughly frigh­te­ned pa­rents cal­led in the­ir Lut­he­ran mi­nis­ter. He sug­ges­ted that Do­ug­las be ta­ken to Ge­or­ge­town Uni­ver­sity, a Cat­ho­lic scho­ol in Was­hing­ton, D.C., run by Jesu­it pri­ests who had stu­di­ed ca­ses of di­abo­li­cal pos­ses­si­on. That ad­vi­ce was the first war­ning to the fa­mily that so­met­hing su­per­na­tu­ral had hap­pe­ned.

  At Ge­or­ge­town, Do­ug­las was pla­ced un­der ob­ser­va­ti­on in the uni­ver­sity hos­pi­tal. Pri­ests wan­ted to see if the­re we­re physi­cal ca­uses for the boy's ac­ti­ons. Nu­me­ro­us doc­tors went over every inch of his body. Psychi­at­rists tri­ed to talk to him. No­ne of the doc­tors co­uld find any me­di­cal re­ason for the we­ird oc­cur­ren­ces. Tes­ti­mony from the­se ex­perts ife in the Church fi­les as part of the evi­den­ce that pos­ses­si­on did ta­ke pla­ce.

  The symptoms be­ca­me inc­re­asingly wor­se. Do­ug­las desc­ri­bed de­ta­ils of his­to­ri­cal events he co­uldn't pos­sibly ha­ve ex­pe­ri­en­ced. He al­so sho­wed pre­cog­ni­ti­on by tal­king abo­ut events in the fu­tu­re.

  He desc­ri­bed pla­ces the de­mons to­ok him, gi­ving ac­cu­ra­te de­ta­ils to pro­ve he had be­en the­re. I can't tell you whe­re they we­re or desc­ri­be them, be­ca­use if you knew, the de­mons co­uld get you. Pri­ests at Ge­or­ge­town conc­lu­ded that the ast­ral, or spi­ri­tu­al body of the child had be­en ta­ken el­sew­he­re by the de­mons, sin­ce his physi­cal body sta­yed in the ro­om at all ti­mes.

  Douglas con­ti­nu­ed tal­king i
n fo­re­ign lan­gu­ages to pri­ests who qu­es­ti­oned him in French, La­tin, and Ita­li­an. So­me­ti­mes he even cor­rec­ted the­ir pro­nun­ci­ati­on.

  He co­uld le­vi­ta­te obj­ects in­to the air and mo­ve them aro­und. On­ce, when his mot­her cal­led a pri­est at Ge­or­ge­town, the pos­ses­sed boy ma­de the pho­ne tab­le exp­lo­de in front of her thro­ugh a pro­cess in which a high-pitc­hed, ina­udib­le so­und ma­kes things shat­ter.

 

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