by Sarah Lotz
This is the last email I received from Lillian Small, dated 29 May.
We’re doing the best we can, Elspeth. I’m still shaken, who wouldn’t be after something like that? But I’m trying to be strong for Reuben and Bobby. Bobby is fine–I don’t think he was really aware of what was going on.
I think I’ve given you all you wanted to know. If, in your book, you could please say that we don’t know why Reuben started talking again, but it isn’t anything to do with Bobby. I thought about denying it, after those evil men started saying it was another sign, but Betsy knows the truth and so does Bobby. I don’t want him to read this book and the news reports when he’s old enough and see that his Bubbe is a liar. I believe in my heart that Reuben made one last effort to kick Al out of his consciousness so that he could spend time with his grandson. It was the force of his love that made this possible.
They’re insisting that we move to a safe house now. There isn’t much choice if I want to keep Bobby safe. There’s talk of putting Reuben in a care facility in a different state, but I won’t have that.
No. We’re a family and we’re going to stick together whatever happens.
Transcript of Paul Craddock’s last voice recording, May/June 2012.
14 May, 5.30 a.m.
I can’t get rid of the smell. That fishy smell. The one Stephen leaves when he comes. I’ve tried everything; even resorted to scrubbing the walls with Domestos. The bleach made my eyes burn, but I couldn’t stop.
Jess didn’t take any notice as usual. She sat in the lounge watching The X Factor while her mad uncle flitted through the house with a bucket of toilet cleaner. Couldn’t give a toss, as Geoff would say. I invited Mrs E-B around; I was hoping maybe she had some old-lady wisdom about getting rid of lingering odours (I lied and said that I’d burned Jess’s fish fingers). But she said she couldn’t smell anything, apart from the eye-watering sting of bleach. She took me outside into the garden for a cigarette, patted my hand again, and said that maybe I was trying to do too much, especially with all the pressure from the media. She said I should try to cry more, get my grief out that way instead of bottling it up. Went on and on about how cut up she was when her husband died ten years ago. She said she didn’t think she’d be able to go on, but God helped her find a way.
Hello, God, it’s me, Paul. Why the fuck aren’t you listening?
It’s like I’m split in two. Rational Paul and Going Mental Paul. It’s not like it was before. That was just a depressive episode. More than once I’ve picked up the phone to call Dr K or Darren to beg them to take Jess away from me. But then Shelly’s voice pops into my head, ‘All they need is love, and you’ve got buckets to spare, Paul.’
I can’t let them down.
Could it be Capgras Syndrome? Could it?
I’ve even… God. I even made an excuse to take Jess over to Mrs E-B’s place so that I could see how Mrs E-B’s dog reacted to her. In the movies, animals can always sense if there’s something wrong with someone. If they’re possessed or whatever. But that dog didn’t do anything. It just lay there. Got to take it a day at a time.
Got to.
But the pressure of acting normal when I’m screaming inside… Jesus. The Discovery Channel wants me to do some kind of interview about how I felt when I heard the news about the crash. I can’t. Turned them down flat. And I completely forgot about a Sunday Times photo shoot that Gerry organised weeks ago. When the photographers showed up I slammed the door on them.
Gerry’s tearing his hair out, and he’s no longer buying my ‘I’m still grief-stricken’ card. He says your publishers are going to sue, Mandi. Let them. Fuck, what do I care? It’s all falling apart.
And the pills don’t work.
How the fuck did she know the Dictaphone was in her room?
21 May, 2.30 p.m.
While Jess was at school I did some more Internet research. Googled the crap out of the Pamelists, the alien theorists, even the ones who believe the kids are possessed by demons (there are a lot of these).
Because the kids. The other kids. Bobby Small and Hiro whatshisname. They’re not normal, either, are they? I could tell Lillian was hiding something when I phoned her, and now I know what it was. There’s no cure for Alzheimer’s. Everyone knows that. No. There’s something up with Bobby. And the other one, talking through an android. What the fuck is that all about?
Couldn’t find much on Kenneth Oduah apart from what I was expecting–a shedload of hysterical religious sites (The Final Proof We Need!), several satirical articles, and some bumf about him being kept at a safe house in Lagos ‘for his own safety’.
What if they are the horsemen? I know, I know. Mel especially would freak if she heard me talking like this. But just hear me out. Sane Paul won’t even take this on board, but I think we need to keep an open mind. There’s definitely something wrong with Jess. And weird shit is happening around the other two. Or three. Who the fuck knows what gubbins the other one is up to?
Aliens, horsemen or demons–oh my!
(Starts sobbing)
Should I call Lillian again? I just don’t know.
28 May, 10.30 p.m.
I know I should feel sorry for Bobby after being attacked like that, but I only feel sorry for Lillian.
It’s all over the news of course. Every bloody channel. In the old days I’d try to stop Jess watching it. Keep her away from it, but why bother? It doesn’t seem to affect her either way.
On the Sky report they had a collage of photographs of the crashes and giant blown up pics of The Three. I found Jess sitting inches from the screen, her My Little Ponies littered around her, watching as Sky did a ‘timeline’ of events and brought pundits in to discuss it ad nauseam.
I made myself approach her. ‘Do you want to talk about this, Jess?’
‘Talk about what, Uncle Paul?’
‘Why that little boy is on the news. Why your photograph is on the news.’
‘No thanks.’
I hovered around for a few more seconds, then ran outside for a fag.
Darren says it’s likely that the police will be keeping a close eye on the house, just in case the religious nutters decide to jump across the Atlantic and target Jess.
Tonight after she has gone to bed, I’m going to try one last time to get Stephen to talk to me. ‘How could you let that thing in here?’ He has to mean Jess, right?
I should have done it ages ago.
I’m going to stay up all night, drink enough coffee to fell a horse, and when Stephen comes I’m going to make him talk to me.
30 May, 4.00 a.m.
I must’ve dropped off. Because when I woke up, there he was. All the lights were on, but he looked like he was in the dark. Sitting in shadow. Couldn’t see his face.
He shifted his position, and the smell was so strong I gagged.
‘What do you want? Please tell me,’ I begged him. ‘Please!’
I reached out to grab him, but there was nothing there.
I ran into Jess’s room, shook her, thrust a photo of Polly in her face. ‘This is your sister! Why don’t you fucking care?’
She turned over, stretched, and smiled at me. ‘Uncle Paul, I need to sleep. I’ve got school in the morning.’
Jesus. Could it be that she’s the rational one?
God help me.
1 June, 6.30 p.m.
A couple of cops came to see me today, showed up this morning before I was even dressed. Actually, they’re not police, but Special Branch. Sane Paul, the me before all this fucked-up shit happened, was squeeing inside. Calvin and Mason, they’re called. Calvin and Mason! Like the title of a butch cop show. Calvin’s black, speaks with a public school accent, and has shoulders like a prop forward. Totally Sane Paul’s type. Mason is older, a silver fox.
I made them tea, apologised for the lingering bleach smell (after Mrs E-B’s reaction I’ve learned not to mention the fishy rotten stench). They wanted to know if I’d had any threatening phone calls lately, like the ones we
got right at the beginning when Jess first came home. I said no. Told them the truth. That the only hassle we were getting these days was from the press.
Jess was on its best behaviour of course. Smiling and laughing and acting like a charming little celebrity. Hot they may be, but I don’t think much of Mason and Calvin’s detection skills. They fell for it, of course. Hook, line and sinker. Mason even had the gall to ask if he could have a photo with her to show to his daughter.
They said they’d be keeping an eye on the house, and to give them a call if I was worried about anything. I almost said, ‘Would you mind giving my brother a warning, and telling him to leave me the fuck alone?’ My dead brother! And IT, of course. Imagine how that would have gone down.
Must stop calling Jess ‘it’. Not right, just feeds the monster.
When they left, I tried to call Lillian again. No answer.
2 June, 4.00 a.m.
(Sobbing)
Okay.
Woke up. Felt that familiar weight on the bed. But it wasn’t Stephen. It was Jess, although she’s not heavy enough to make a dent in the mattress, is she?
‘Do you like your dreams?’ she said. ‘I’ve given them to you, Uncle Paul. So that you can see Stephen whenever you like.’
‘What are you?’ It was the first time I’d come out and said it.
‘I’m Jess,’ she said. ‘Who do you think I am? You’re such a silly billy, Uncle Paul.’
‘Get out!’ I screamed at her. ‘Get out get out get out.’ My throat is still sore.
She laughed and skipped away. I locked the door behind her.
I’m running out of options. They’ll take Jess away from me if they find out what I’m thinking. Some days I think that would be a good thing. But what if the real Jess is still in there, trying to get out, trying to get help? What if she needs me?
It’s time to be proactive. Explore my options. Keep an open mind. Do more research. Cover all bases.
I don’t have any other choice.
Gerhard Friedmann, a ‘secular exorcist’ who works throughout Europe, agreed to talk to me via Skype in late June after I made a donation to his organisation.
Before I begin to answer your questions, I would like to make something clear. Exorcism is not a word I like to use. It has too many connotations. No, I exact ‘inner healing and spirit deliverance’. That is the service I offer. I also want to make it clear that I do not charge a fee for this service, but merely ask for a donation, of whatever amount the subject or client chooses to provide. I am also not affiliated with any particular church or religious institution. I just go about my practice in a slightly different manner. And business is very good at the moment. Let us just say that it is rare that I do not fly first class. At around the time I was contacted by Mr Craddock, I would say that I was doing up to three spirit deliverances and cleanses a day, all around Europe and the UK.
I ask Gerhard how Paul Craddock contacted him.
I have a number of ways in which prospective clients can get in touch with me. Mr Craddock contacted me through one of my Facebook accounts. I have several. I am also on Twitter, of course, and have a website. As his circumstances did not allow me to come to his residence, we agreed to meet at a location that I sometimes use for spirit deliverance.
(He refuses to reveal this location)
I ask him if he was aware who Paul Craddock was before they met.
Yes. Mr Craddock was very candid about this, but I assured him that our relationship would be confidential–akin to that of a doctor/patient agreement. I was aware of the theories about Jessica Craddock and the other children, but did not let these influence my diagnosis. I am only talking to you now because the news that Mr Craddock contracted my services was leaked by his defence team.
I tell him that I have been on his website, where he states that there is a spirit that manifests itself as homosexuality. I ask if he was aware that Paul Craddock was gay.
Yes, I knew of this. But I knew that in his case this wasn’t the root of the problem.
He was concerned that he or his niece was infested with bad energy, possessed, if you like. When we met, he was agitated, but not overly so. He kept saying, over and over again, that he had contacted me in order to ‘rule out this option’, and asked me to investigate this possibility. Mr Craddock told me that he was having extremely disturbing dreams, in which his dead brother would come to him, and that he was having difficulty relating to his niece. These are both symptoms of spirit possession and/or sickness induced by overexposure to negative energy.
I ask him if he was aware of Paul Craddock’s mental health issues.
Yes. He was very upfront about this. I am always careful not to confuse, for example, a schizophrenic episode with possession, but I knew immediately that this was not what I was dealing with. I am extremely intuitive when it comes to this.
I ask him how he usually goes about his spirit deliverance.
The first thing I do is settle the subject, make sure they’re comfortable. Then I anoint their forehead with oil. Any oil will do, but I prefer to use extra-virgin olive oil, as this seems to get the best results.
Next, I must decipher if I am dealing with bad energy poisoning or entity possession. If it is possession, the next step is to discover what kind of entity has attached itself to the client and call it out by name. Entities are disturbing and powerful phenomena that have made their way to earth from a different plane. They attach themselves to someone who is already weakened, perhaps because of abuse or because they have been poisoned by someone else’s bad energy, which has allowed their defences to be compromised. There are many many types of entities; the ones that I specialise in are those that have found doorways into this realm through sites where much negativity has taken place.
I also do object cleansing, as objects can also harbour negative energy. This is why I always encourage people to be careful when handling antiques and artefacts from museums.
I ask him why, if Paul Craddock believed Jessica was also possessed, he didn’t request that she also be cleansed.
That was not possible because of his current situation. He said he was under surveillance from the press, who followed him and Jess everywhere.
But when he went into more detail about his symptoms, which included being plagued by the sense that Jess wasn’t the real Jess but a facsimile, I was certain that if it was an entity that was causing the problem, then it had attached itself to him, and not to his niece. The grief and anguish he would have suffered after his family was killed in the plane crash would have weakened his defences enough for him to be a prime candidate for possession. He also expressed concern that Jess could be an alien being, but I assured him that aliens don’t exist and he was more than likely dealing with a bad energy influx.
And, as soon as I tuned into him, I did indeed find that he was suffering from severe malaise caused by an over-toxification of bad energy. I assured him that once we had gone through the cleansing ritual–which involves anointing with oil and transference of bad energy via touch–he would no longer be plagued by the dreams he was experiencing or the belief that his niece was a changeling.
Afterwards, I warned him that although he had been cleansed, he was still compromised, and there would still be traces of bad energy inside him that could eventually attract an entity. I encouraged him to avoid stressful situations at all costs.
He thanked me, and as he left, he said, ‘There can only be one explanation now.’
I ask him if he knew what Paul Craddock meant by this.
Not at the time.
PART TEN
END GAMES
Joe DeLesseps, a salesman who regularly travels through Maryland, Pennsylvania and Virginia, agreed to talk to me via Skype in late June.
I operate in three states, selling just about anything that you can care to think of in the hardware line; there are still people out there who prefer to deal with a human being rather than a computer. I keep off the turnpike when I can. I prefer the
back roads. Like my grandson Piper would say, that’s just how I roll. Over the years I’ve carved out several routes for myself, got my favourite places to stop off for coffee and pie, some of which I’ve been visiting for years, though more and more mom and pop outlets have been hit by the recession. I’m not a fan of those chain motels either, prefer the family-run joints. You may not get cable and Taco Bell on tap, but the company and the coffee’s always better and the rates are competitive.
I was running behind schedule that day. Wholesaler I’d seen in Baltimore liked to talk, and I’d lost track of time. Almost decided to take the interstate, but there’s this little roadhouse just before Mile Creek Road–one of my favourite routes which takes you near Green Ridge Forest–where the coffee’s good and the pancakes even better, so I decided to take the long way instead. My wife Tammy is always nagging me to watch my cholesterol, but I figured that what she didn’t know wouldn’t hurt her.
I made it there round about five, half-an-hour before closing time. Pulled up next to a new Chevy SUV with tinted windows. Soon as I walked in, I figured it had to belong to the small group sitting drinking coffee in one of the booths by the window. At first glance I thought they were just an ordinary family: a couple with their child, on a road-trip with grandma and grandpa. But when I looked closer, I could see they didn’t seem to fit together. There wasn’t that companionable ease you see with most families or holidaymakers; the younger couple especially looked on edge. Could practically see the creases on the younger fellow’s shirt where he’d just pulled it out of its packaging.
I knew Suze, the short-order cook, would be wanting to head home, so I ordered my pancakes real quick and put extra cream in my coffee so that I could chug it down faster.