Out of the Devil’s Cauldron 6 page

At nights I would lie in bed and wish and pray not to wake up the next morning because the pain was beyond any pain I had ever known.

What was the point of living?

Chapter 8

Losing It All

Time went on and Amanda grew. But we didn’t grow apart. I went to all her birthday parties, spent Easter, Thanksgiving, and Christmas with her, and was allowed to see her on weekends. But being the dad I was I wanted more, and when I couldn’t get it, it left me feeling confused, angry, and lost. The result: I pushed myself deeper into espiritismo. I immersed myself in a world of witchcraft parties, cleansing ceremonies, tarot card readings, and promotions to higher demonic ranks, learning new secrets. I liked learning more about the religion. How demons liked things done for them. Which ones liked blood and which ones preferred roosters or birds. I learned the different languages demons spoke so I could understand them. It was something like those “Hallelujah people” who spoke in a strange language themselves.

Higher levels brought new challenges and new skills. Each time I predicted someone’s future, my powers increased, and with each increase unsuspecting people fell prey to whatever I told them—things only they knew about. This left

them in awe, allowing me to do what I had done to others— reach down into their souls and drain them of their only means of protection: the power to resist the dark forces of espiritismo. Recruiting souls became my passion, a mission I lived to fulfill daily for the spirits I served.

By this point, my nightlife at the clubs was out of control. As much as I wanted to stop, a power stronger than me kept dragging me back. The clubs became like a playground for me. It was there that I started to recruit people into the dark side, introducing them to the religion. It was an addiction that kept me out many nights until the next morning.

I always hoped those I came across were the so-called Christians. They were my favorites. I was eager to challenge their “faith” and what they believed to be the truth. By getting them to agree to do a fortune reading, they allowed me to usher them through an open door to the satanic world. I exposed them to an evil they had no idea of, an evil that would bring all sorts of misfortune upon their lives. They always thought they had it all together and were better than others, and that the world I lived in was not good enough for them. How I hated hearing them talk about this man called Jesus and how much He loved them. To me it was foolishness, and they deserved to be punished. That’s what made them my favorites.

Oddly enough, Christians weren’t all that hard to find in my world. Witches and warlocks threw house parties all the time, and often they would invite friends who claimed to be Christians—people who didn’t know the secret lives we carried on apart from our jobs and daytime facades.

I strolled into just such a house party one night and scanned the room, reading the vibes that came off the people there and asking the spirits to direct me to the souls that were ripe for the plucking.

Julio, the man who hosted that night’s party, flagged me down when I stepped through the front door. “Hey, John, you made it! Come on over here, man. I want to introduce you to someone.”

I nodded back at him and headed in his direction, taking long, deliberate strides. I could see the guy he stood next to sizing me up, thinking, Who is this tall man dressed all in black?

I sensed a vibe of fascination . . . and maybe a little fear. Perfect. “What’s happening?” I said as Julio and I shook hands. I darted my eyes to the stranger by his side.

“Oh, yeah,” Julio said, “this is my friend Chris. He goes to church. You know, one of those holy rollers!” He jabbed Chris with his elbow and the guy laughed.

“How’s it going, Chris?” I said politely, extending my hand. “My name is John.” And then I stood back and watched the situation for a while, letting Julio and Chris banter on about nothing as the wine flowed and their tongues got looser. Every now and then I interjected something humorous into the conversation until Chris warmed up to me and regarded me as a new friend.

Excusing myself, I mingled throughout the party, renewing old acquaintances and making new ones. Sometime later that night I waited until the spirits told me it was time to

invade Chris’s spiritual space. I strolled over and refilled my wineglass next to where he was standing.

“Hey, Chris, we met earlier,” I said. “Nice party going on. There’s a few cute girls in here, huh?”

Chris smiled in recognition. “Oh, yeah . . . John, right? Yeah, dude, I know what you mean. I’ve been trying to chat up a few girls but no luck so far.”

I ignored his comment and went in for the kill. “You know, there’s something interesting that I know about you that the people in your life don’t know.”

Caught off guard, Chris laughed awkwardly. “Well, tell me, what do you know about me that nobody else knows? The suspense is killing me.”

I kept a smile from spreading across my face. Without realizing it, his response had just opened a door for me to come into his spiritual space. I released a spirit of unbelief in his mind because I knew that the battlefield between him and me was in the mind. If I was able to capture a person’s mind I was able to capture their heart, and that’s how they became my victims no matter where I met them—lounges, subways, house gatherings.

I told him what had happened in his personal life that no one knew about, the skeletons hidden deep in his closet even though he claimed to be a Christian. I fought hard to keep a sneer off my face as I watched Chris’s wide-eyed stare turn into a look of desperation and fear and, finally, helplessness. He was totally drained. It felt like I was choking him to death slowly, and I got a sense of power and enjoyment, ripping him

open spiritually. I left him so dazed by my powers that he was already drunk in the spirit from the taste I had left behind.

Eager to prove my powers, I took every opportunity to show off the superiority of my religion, and sometimes that resulted in a battle of wills—and egos—between me and a good friend who was Muslim. We made light of it, but Muhammad and I taunted each other back and forth, him praising the powers of Allah and I declaring Satan the supreme ruler.

“I believe my religion is stronger than yours and I’m going to prove it to you,” I said as we sauntered into the Step-In Diner in Parkchester late one afternoon and slid into a back booth. “Yours is a Mickey Mouse religion, and today’s the day that you’re going to have to prove it.”

Muhammad glared at me with mock hostility. “Then I’ll prove it.”

We waited for the waitress to leave, and I leaned in across the table, pointing my finger in his direction. “Either your religion is bigger than mine, or mine is bigger than yours. You wanna see power? My religion and my daddy have more power than your religion. I’ll give you the chance to go first.”

I took a long drink of my soda and turned to the two girls sitting in the booth across from us. “Excuse me,” I said to the dark-haired girl, “but my friend doesn’t believe I have fortune-telling powers, and I want to prove it to him. He thinks he has them too. Would you allow us to tell you some things about your life?”

The girls looked at each other and giggled, then

shrugged. “Why not?”

“I’m going to allow my friend Muhammad to go first,” I

said.

Muhammad turned to the girls. “You both got boyfriends, right? And you’re both in love, right? And you’ve been with your boyfriends for a very long time.”

The girls shook their heads and laughed. “You’re way off,” the dark-haired girl said. “Not true.” She looked at me. “Now it’s your turn.”

Even as I prepared to speak I sensed the demon show up who was going to help me. I knew nothing about these girls —what walk of life they came from, what they were into—but I was about to read their mail in a way they never expected.

They thought it was a game, but instantly I turned serious. “You recently broke up with your boyfriend,” I told the first girl. “You caught him cheating. This is the third time in your life that you’ve been stepped on by a man.” Her face went blank and she looked across the booth at her friend in a wordless appeal.

“And you,” I said, pointing to the other girl, “you’re nothing but a spare tire. You’re worthless. You hand yourself out to any man. You can’t even get your own man. You don’t even remember the last time you had a real relationship ’cause you’re too busy taking other people’s men.”

The second girl’s face turned red and her eyes pooled with tears, but I didn’t care. I turned back to Mohammad and gave him a raised-eyebrow look.

“How do you know these things?” the dark-haired girl asked. Her friend was still too dumbfounded to speak.

I just laughed. “I told you—I have powers.”

The girls tried to shake things off, not believing what had just happened, and they pointed in my direction. “He’s the one with the powers. He’s the powerful one.”

That day Muhammad had to bow down to my god. His religion was worthless.

Too Far Gone

One night I went out and met up with a good friend in the religion, an NYPD narcotics officer who was also a warlock. We had already made up our minds which club to attend that night. He was out looking for girlfriends; I was looking for souls. I knew that night was a special night. Zarabanda and Siete Rayos, my two strongest spirits, were coming out withme, and they never disappointed. As we strolled down the sidewalk, I looked up at the sky. It was a clear spring night, and the heavens were crystal clear—you could count the stars in all that inky darkness, and the moon shone like the sun. I turned to Joe. “This is going to be a hell of a night. I feel it in the atmosphere.”

He chuckled. “I’m ready for anything that comes our way, bro, especially some fine females.”

I laughed in reply and smoothed my hand back over my jet-black hair. Dressed all in black, I knew I looked my best. As

we entered the club, I heard the salsa music throbbing out its rhythmic beat. People whispered in the background as we walked in, and the smell of liquor hung heavy in the atmosphere. My mind was running at 90 miles an hour. Joe turned to me and smiled. “Wow, the place is packed with beautiful women, just the way I like it.”

I smiled back.

We danced with the most beautiful women in the club, and I could sense the presence of the spirits looking around, trying to target someone I could speak to—someone I could do a reading with—but to my surprise there was no one there. I found that to be odd, but I kept dancing the night away with different women and making new friends. As the music wound down and the bartender yelled out “last call for alcohol” I went across the dance floor and told Joe it was time to go.

“Already?” he said in a drunken slur. “I’m just getting to know Wanda here.”

“Now!” I snapped, not even looking at the girl. “Let’s get out of here.” Anger simmered in my chest at the night’s failed mission.

To my surprise, when we stepped out of the club one of the spirits whispered, “Look to your right.” There sat a panhandler in a wheelchair, begging for money outside the club. I fixed my eyes on him and went straight at him, knowing he was going to be my prey for the night. I was half demon-possessed when I got up to where he sat—no longer me.

“Do you want to make a bet?” I said, a sneer spreading across my face.

Surprised, the panhandler remained silent and glanced from me to Joe to see what was up.

“Hey, come on, bro, leave him alone,” Joe said, nudging me with his arm.

I shook him off and glared at the man in the wheelchair. “I said do you want to make a bet? I’m willing to bet the money I have left in my pocket to the money you have in that pathetic paper cup. That’s a whole night’s take, isn’t it?” I added with a sinister grin.

“What are we betting on?” the panhandler asked. My smile froze. “Your life.”

He gave a nervous laugh. “The bet is on.”

“Good,” I said. “I can tell you your whole life story in ten minutes and how you ended up in that wheelchair. Are you up for the challenge?”

The man shrugged. “I got nothing to lose.”

“Only your soul,” I murmured. “Tonight’s your lucky night.” As I went on to describe his life, I could see that I was breaking him bit by bit spiritually. What started with a chuckle and a smile ended up in tears and sorrow. I knew I had him just where I wanted him—to the point that I tried to force him off the chair and make him walk, even though he was paralyzed.

“Stand up, you lousy beggar! Stand up and face me down like a man!” I shouted.

The panhandler crumpled over in his wheelchair and covered his face with his hands, his sobs escaping into the now-silent night.

Joe stood by with a blank look on his face. I knew that as soon as I was done with this man he was destined for hell. As I won the bet and left him sobbing in a pool of tears, I took his cup full of change and threw it into the street.

Before I turned to leave, I leaned over the man and said in a low voice, “You’re a waste of a life on Planet Earth. Nobody loves you. Why don’t you do yourself a favor and die?”

“Now it’s time to go,” I said to Joe, jerking my head in the direction we should walk. I could hear his voice cracking as he tried to speak up, like he had a knot in his throat. All that came out was “John, John . . .”

I looked up and saw tears in Joe’s eyes.

“What’s the matter?” I spat out. “You can’t handle it? Aren’t you a devil worshipper as well as I am?”

He just stood there, shaking his head. “John, I can’t hang with you no more, man. You’re too far gone.”

That night I knew I had reached a place in my walk with the devil that left many others behind who were in the same occult inner circle. As we made it to Joe’s building, I sensed he had reached a breaking point. It didn’t matter that he was a police officer, seeing so many harsh things in the world we live in. What he saw tonight pushed him beyond his limit.

I turned to him for the last time. “You’re nothing but a disappointment to the religion. I thought you wanted to move up the ranks, but you have no heart for the spirits. Go to hell and goodnight.”

As I walked away, strolling down the avenue toward my own home, I felt fearless—like I could take on the world. The streetlamps overhead illuminated the sidewalk with a silvery light. As I crossed the streets I felt the familiar predator instinct churn in my gut. I looked around to see if anyone was out on the avenue that I could prey on, but the streets were as empty as the cemetery I hung out in from time to time.

Hitting Rock Bottom

The months went by and turned into years as I dedicated my every waking moment to pleasing Satan and the spirit gods of my religion. But I missed my daughter Amanda so much it hurt. I felt spiritually exhausted from lending my body out to demonic forces, hunting for victims in clubs, and feeling the weight of loss from Amanda’s increasing absence in my life. The older she grew, the less time she had for me.

One morning I got up and something just clicked in my brain, like flipping a switch. “I’m not doing this anymore,” I said out loud to the four walls. “I don’t even care if I die.” For death was a near certainty. Anyone who tried to leave the religion faced a death penalty and soon became the victim of some freak accident or sudden illness. I’d seen it happen several times.

As I began to be disobedient to the demons’ requests everything in my world fell apart. I no longer did the rituals and stopped showing up for certain witchcraft meetings. As I

started to lose power, my life careened into a two-year living hell on earth. In the long painful process of my divorce, I lost a $40,000-a-year job with a shipping company. No one knew of my woes because I kept my life private. I knew how to deceive people into thinking things were going well with me. But the truth was, with no employment and no money I ended up homeless, living in the first-floor vacant apartment I had been evicted from. Every night I climbed through the window just to stay off the streets.

During the day I roamed around like a zombie walking the earth, not having a clue or sense of direction. Mine was a life of broken pieces, and I had no idea when it would come together. As the daylight waned and darkness stole over the earth, I pretended I was the man I used to be—always having somewhere to go, something to do, people to see. I would roam until late at night, walking the streets of Castle Hill in an aimless rhythm. Every corner I turned showed nothing but concrete sidewalks and concrete buildings, with the smell of death in the air. I wondered how much time I had left here on earth.

As I approached my old apartment building, I looked around to make sure no one followed me home before turning the corner into the dead-end street the apartment faced. I acted like I was looking for something on the ground, then jumped up, opened the front window slightly, and dropped into the empty, dark apartment that I called home. Curling up on the bare floor, with no heat to stave off the freezing cold, I fell into a fitful sleep.

But oftentimes sleep eluded me and I would stare at the empty apartment that once had been filled with life. In my mind, I could hear the laughter of my daughter as she ran around the apartment. I envisioned her playing in the center of the room with all her toys and dolls. I could hear her calling my name, “Daddy, Daddy!” When I eventually fell asleep, I would awaken in the middle of the night hoping she would be there so I could hold her and kiss her, letting her know how much I loved her. But instead of Amanda’s little-girl giggle, all I could hear now was the sound of rats running across the living room floor. This was my reality, and I could not wake up from it.

I cried myself to sleep on the cold hard floor surrounded by darkness—a cruel reminder of what my life had become, dark with no light. Where had I gone wrong? Life had no meaning anymore. All this went on until I landed on public assistance, and eventually I found an affordable apartment on McGraw Avenue across the street from my mother’s building.

Stolen Sight

Because I didn’t return to the religion fully, a deeper punishment came—a curse that harkened back to my childhood initiation into Santeria. “Your son is on the verge of losing his sight . . .” I remembered Cookie telling my motherwhen I was just ten years old. Now the old curse had come to claim me because of my disobedience to the spirits. Out of the clear blue the retinas of both eyes began to detach. To correct

this, I had one operation after the other—a total of seven—but to no avail. I was completely blind. It is one thing to be born blind but quite another to lose your sight after seeing the sky, the birds, the faces of family, friends, and even those you hate.

What had life done to me now? After thirty years of seeing everything I wanted to see, now I couldn’t even see my own hand in front of my face. Was God punishing me? Or testing me? Why would I be able to see for thirty years and suddenly not see at all? Each blind person’s experience is unique. For me, it was like a grayish mist came down over my vision, or like a cloudy day sitting on top of my eyes. What an experience. I learned to depend on my hearing and touching through my hands.

The funniest things, the small things that didn’t matter, or the things you never took notice of, you suddenly crave when you’re blind, and those thoughts constantly run through your mind. Life is gray and not by choice. It’s like a whole different dimension where your world closes in. It’s like living in your world with no visitors. What was important at one time doesn’t matter anymore. Emptiness and sorrow become your friends.

The doctors told me I had two choices: a seeing-eye dog or a cane to maneuver myself around with.

That’s when my mother decided it was time for me to move back closer to her. By now I lived on the twelfth floor in her building and she lived on the second. But with the new arrangement, I stayed in her apartment. She knew about the crazy religion I had been involved in, but she wasn’t afraid of

my demons. I was her son, and she was going to take good care of me.

My world came to a stop. Losing it all, losing my vision, I lay in one of the back rooms of her apartment, with a treatment of eye drops every four hours. From somewhere in the apartment I could hear a clock ticking, counting off the seconds of my new life—seconds that seemed to stretch into an eternity of nothingness. Doctor’s orders required that I lie twelve hours in bed on my back and twelve hours on my stomach after squeezing the prescription drops into my eyes: twelve hours face-up and twelve hours face-down. The only time I was allowed to get up was to go to the bathroom, shower, or eat. This regimen went on for six months—I was unable to sit up, unable to go outside. It took a toll on me mentally, and as I lay in bed I recapped the good times I spent in the clubs.

“Mom!” I would yell out from my bed. “What time is

it?”

And she would answer back, calling out the time. If it was 11:30 p.m., I would recall dancing the night away with beautiful women, or drawing a soul into my dark religion through a reading in a smoke-filled room. Remembering the past and how I went about my daily and nightly activities kept my mind from cracking.

At my next appointment two weeks later, the doctor took me into an examination room and looked into the retina of my right eye. My vision wasn’t getting any better, which meant it was time for drastic measures.

The doctor turned to me and whispered, “Today we’re going to do a procedure that will be one of the most difficult you ever experience. We will not use anesthesia for this one.”

As he got up, I looked the doctor straight in his eyes and said, “Do whatever you have to do, it’s fine with me,” not realizing what was about to take place.

The doctor reached out for one of the longest needles I had ever seen. The thing must have been about six or seven inches long. As he came back and sat down, he said to me, “You must be still and grip the chair with both of your hands and look toward me. Don’t even blink your eye. I’m going to insert this needle straight into your pupil so it can hit the back of your eye behind the retina and form an air pocket. That will allow your retina to heal faster.”

When he stuck the needle through my eye, I gripped the chair with all my might and felt my blood run cold. I was not able to move or blink as he kept pushing the needle deeper into my eye.

But no matter what the doctors did, the disappointment in my mother’s voice painted a picture I didn’t want to see. I would be this way for a long time to come.

During my follow-up appointment I got more bad news. I already knew I had low vision, but now the doctor used a term that made my stomach feel like a bag full of rocks—legally blind.

In late fall of that year, I met with a counselor from the Commission of the Blind for my interview, and my case was accepted. From there, I was evaluated and placed into a

program tailor-made just for me while counselors monitored my progress. I would learn to do all the things blind people do in order to survive.

One morning after almost a year without normal vision, I got up and felt something strange in my eyes. A tiny bit of light shone through.

“Mom, come quick!” I called from the back room of the apartment.

“What is it, John,” my mother said as she came through the door.

I held up my hand and waved it back and forth in front of my eyes. A glimmer of light from the window created enough illumination for me to see the movement, slight though it was.

“John, are you saying . . .” Her words dropped off, and her voice caught in her throat.

“I can see.”

I was allowed to go out regularly under supervision, and in time my vision returned fully. I shared my experience with members of the religion, and soon after I returned to witchcraft with a new devotion. How I thanked my fellow witches and warlocks for praying for me, and for all the spirits for helping me in my time of need. My gratefulness propelled me full force into the dark side, serving the devil and casting spells on those who got in my way. I also remained faithful in luring new recruits from bars, clubs, lounges—wherever I could find them. I would prey on people by telling them their fortune and then destroy them.

A Flying Demon

Now that I was rededicated to the demon world, the spirits gave me a new assignment—and the power and ability to go with it. At night as I slept, I was able to leave my body and fly over neighborhoods, hurling taunts and curses down on the people who lived within their borders. Caught in the grip of strange dreams, I would catch myself being transported into different neighborhoods within the five boroughs of New York City. These out-of-body experiences allowed me to have dominion over the communities. I felt diabolical, devilish, like a vampire, and knew they had nothing on me. Sometimes I would even land and walk around the neighborhoods, bringing curses, bad luck, and the witchcraft aura.

Oddly, however, in some neighborhoods I met with strong resistance and at first couldn’t understand where the opposing power came from. In these neighborhoods, people were waiting for me to land. I prepared to curse the neighborhood, but when I landed a mob would chase me for blocks and I couldn’t curse them. Frustrated, I would fly off again, hovering as high as the streetlamps, and they would look up at me. Finally I realized these were the nasty Christians praying for their neighborhoods, their communities, their families—the prayers of the people I hated the most. Wherever these praying Christians lived, I couldn’t penetrate the neighborhood. I got in, but I couldn’t do the evil acts I had come to perform. So I would move on to the next

neighborhood. This was my calling, and it was also what I loved to do.

Chapter 9

Selling My Soul to the Devil

The afternoon I learned about Palo Mayombe in Aunt Maria’s basement—the same day I met New York City’s highest-ranked godfather in the religion—was a turning point for me. I knew I was going to a level in the spirit realm that others only dreamed about. In Palo Mayombe, you’re dealing straight with the devil. You learn to make evil spirits do your bidding. By the time I left Aunt Maria’s house it was dark outside, and I was excited as I stepped through the gate to head home. I knew I had to get the money together to do the initiation ceremony—it would cost me $3500 to become a Palero, a priest for the dark side, but I already considered it money well spent.

A few days later we all met up at my aunt’s house, and the high tata priest told those who were chosen to become priests of Palo Mayombe the do’s and don’ts of the final ceremony—what procedures would take place, what time to be there, what to wear—but first would come a ritual performed in the mountains at night. I glanced around the room. Along with me, sixteen other men stood ready to make a contract with the

devil. The tata told us that once you start the journey toward becoming a Palero, you can’t turn back. The spirits exact a death sentence on any cowards who don’t complete the ritual.

A guy across the room caught my eye and quickly looked away. I could see fear stamped on his face; another one looked vaguely puzzled, not knowing whether to say yes or no, but we all knew that saying no would not only be a death sentence, it would make us an embarrassment to the religion. The room throbbed with fear and excitement. We were stepping into something unknown, walking into this black hole called Palo Mayombe.

Date: 2016-04-22; view: 554