Out of the Devil’s Cauldron 9 page

Rachael called me first thing the next day, her voice trembling.

“John, John, you don’t know what happened to Sarah and me last night after you left.”

“Tell me, what happened?” I said.

“As soon as you were gone, I sensed a heavy presence hovering over my apartment. I grabbed Sarah and we went into the bathroom to take a shower to shake things off. But things got worse. As we were coming out of the bathroom, I looked into my living room. The same fear gripped me again, but this time even worse. My blood went cold and I tried to scream, but nothing came out of my mouth—something had me by the throat. I saw this monster, like a four-legged animal with fiery red eyes, sitting in my living room. I knew that was the devil himself, sitting there waiting for my daughter and me. As I grabbed Sarah to run into my bedroom and close the door behind me, I felt that thing get up and try to chase us into the room. I slammed the door and started to call on the name of Jesus. Once I did that, it was gone. What is going on, John?”

“This all has to do with your ex,” I said. “I had nothing to do with it. But I’ll tell you what, just because it affected

Sarah, he will pay the price. I will make sure he gets punished beyond what he could ever imagine.”

I hung up the phone.

Chapter 12

The Setup

One night I received an unexpected phone call from Robert. “Hey, John, my wife and I are having a prayer service in

our house on Saturday afternoon about one o’clock, and we would like you to come. Please be here.”

“Well, what kind of meeting are you talking about?” I

asked.

“Just some church members getting together to pray.” “Okay, I’ll be there.” I knew this was my chance to

confront Ray, the man who spilled the beans about me at the banquet. It was my opportunity to get revenge. This meeting would give me a chance to mock and challenge those who claimed they were Christian. I would cling to my espiritismo and evil powers during the time I was at the gathering. How entertaining that would be. I would be in control of it all, and no one would ever know.

That Saturday afternoon, one by one they came: smiles on their faces, God’s praises on their lips. Men shook hands and clapped each other’s shoulders while women hugged and

kissed one another on the cheek. These people really loved each other. Later I would discover the reason was because they lived by a different Spirit, for a different cause, under another name, a man named Jesus. They said He walked on water, healed the sick, spoke truth, and died on Good Friday. No one from the religion believed anything like this. The principles of espiritismo just didn’t teach such things.

When everyone settled down, the group of Christians, about fifteen people in all, stood to their feet in a circle, held hands, and began to pray, one person at a time. It was so orderly. I thought it strange they didn’t pray for themselves but for each other. Even people who weren’t there were prayed for—brothers and sisters from their faith who were physically ill, and others in need of God’s intervention. This was crazy. What kind of people went around calling themselves brothers and sisters? Shedding tears for one another?

After a round of applause and cries of hallelujahs, the person next to me shouted about how Jesus changed his life, and everyone sat down to hear his testimony. “I’ll never be the same,” the man said.

I would have challenged him right then and there, but a demon began revealing things to me, personal things about everyone there. Right then, one of the older men—a man they called an “elder”—started to say things to the people. As he went around the room, he told church members about the goodness, love, and plan that Jesus had for their lives. As he drew near to me, I was already half demon-possessed. He pointed a finger at me and told me Jesus loved me and died for

me on the cross to give me a new life. Then he said, “Jesus is calling you. What are you waiting for?”

At that moment, I wanted to leap from my seat and choke the life out of him. My blood went ice cold, and I could feel the fire within me. What nerve he had to speak to me that way. If he only knew I had the power the take him out at any given time, he would never have pointed a finger at me. He was beneath me. The old man’s eyes locked into me as if someone had given him authority. He wasn’t the quiet old man anymore. The spiritual battle between me and the elder came to a halt when he motioned to the pastor to pray.

I couldn’t wait for the meeting to be over because my eyes were on that blabber-mouth, the one who had told Robert and Anna about my life in the religion.

When the gathering ended with a prayer and a few hallelujahs, people started to embrace each other while I was getting ready to attack. As soon as my eyes pierced across the room, I targeted Ray and made my way over. My first words were, “How are you doing, Ray?”

He fidgeted and replied in a nervous voice, “I’m fine.”

I looked him up and down. “The reason I came to this meeting was to see you. To discuss the comments you made about me at the banquet to Rachael’s dad. Did you think for a second I wasn’t going to find out?”

“I was nervous and didn’t know what to do,” he said. “The evening I saw you, fear gripped me and I thought—oh my God, these witches are having their own banquet next door to ours. That’s when I panicked and told someone. And who

better than Robert? But I’m so sorry for what happened.”

We shook hands. “Don’t you ever let something like this happen again.”

I departed to the kitchen where they were serving brunch.

Later, Rachael and I met up and she asked me, “What did you think of the prayer meeting?”

“It was . . . okay.” I really didn’t want to discuss it. I was accustomed to casting spells, winning battles, and watching gullible people succumb to whatever curses I placed on them. But today, for the first time, I had experienced something different, and all regarding a Spirit that was not only powerful, but gentle as well. They called the Spirit the Holy Ghost. But I was still filled with questions. Things I didn’t want to share with anyone.

A few days later I found myself confronting a Jehovah’s Witness in the neighborhood running her mouth off about how this Jesus died on a tree. How dare she spill such erroneous information! She got her story dead wrong.

“Listen to me, lady,” I said. “What do you know about this Jesus man? You know nothing. He died on a cross.”

“But the cross was a tree,” she said.

I turned around and said, “No, it was a cross. How foolish are you, lady?” My blood started to boil and my temperature began to rise. I wanted to grab her by the throat and shake some sense into her. I couldn’t believe myself as I snapped out of it. What am I doing? I’m a devil worshipper.

How can I be defending this guy named Jesus?

“Get your story straight next time,” I spat out as I turned away from the lady and walked down the sidewalk. As I left I was embarrassed with myself, defending someone I did not serve or believe in. How crazy I was!

The Visitation

It happened one lazy afternoon while I was home watching TV. My back was reclined, and my legs kicked up, when a voice that wasn’t part of the dialogue on the screen spoke. This voice seemed to emanate from somewhere beyond the living room, yet it sounded so near.

I jumped from the couch and wheeled around at the four walls but saw no one. Yet somehow I knew I was being watched. Then the voice spoke again. And this time every hair on my body stood at attention: My son, I am coming soon. What are you planning to do with yourself?

The voice wasn’t from any demon. This voice was different from any voice I had ever known. The best way I could describe it was the awesome peace I experienced that was beyond human comprehension. Like standing at a brook and hearing its current passing by.

Seconds later, my eyes were led across my living room to a vision of a blazing sky, like a ball of fire, while people on earth screamed and ran in fear for their lives. I tried to make sense of it all, but at the same time I wanted to shake it off like

it never happened. I waited with petrified amazement until the strange vision disappeared. Seeing something that amazing left a need in my heart.

A few days later I couldn’t hold it in anymore, and I confronted Robert about what happened in my living room. As I explained to him, he said, “Jesus is calling you, John. Jesus loves you.”

“You’re crazy, you know that?” I said, laughing it off. “I finally came to the conclusion that you’re crazy. No one is calling me.”

His message to me was clear. The choice to surrender to God was mine. No one could make it for me. I could either continue yielding to the devil, worshipping him and his demons, or I could give my life to Jesus and let Him have full control. But was I willing to part with the position I held in espiritismo under threat of death? Was I ready to stop doingwhat I loved? Did I really want God to change me? I was so confused that when I went home that night, I didn’t consult the resident demons in my bedroom. Instead, the next night I arranged a meeting with Aunt Maria.

As we sat at her kitchen table, she said, “John, what seems to be the problem?”

“I’m tired of these hallelujah people saying that we’re evil and they’re the good ones,” I said.

My aunt stayed silent, her eyes focused on me.

“Aunt Maria, did you hear what I said? Why are we the bad ones and they are the good ones? Could you answer my question?”

Aunt Maria turned her eyes away from me. “I’ve been a devil worshipper since I was a little girl, and I’m glad that I have these powers and I can defend myself and hurt those who want to hurt me.”

I knew in my heart that Aunt Maria couldn’t answer the question, and I realized that maybe these church people knew something I didn’t know. For the first time, I felt ashamed and dirty being part of this thing called the religion. I walked away feeling sorrowful, empty, and confused.

Stepping into the Light

Time went by and once again Rachael’s parents extended an invitation they had prayed I would accept: to visit their church.

I laughed. “You’re kidding, right?”

But they asked me to think it over. So I told them I would. Since when did I care about other people’s feelings? I was only interested in me, how to descend deeper into the abyss of hell, how to do greater things than anyone in the religion had ever done. Yet little by little, moment by moment, my resistance was breaking down. Lately I had found myself unable to say no to such simple invitations. First it was the banquet, then the prayer meeting, and now church. When would I stop giving in? When would this strange urge quit drawing me to places I hated to be in?

Several Sundays passed without Rachael’s parents

getting a commitment from me. Then one day I decided to accept their invitation. For the first time in my life I stepped into an evangelical church service—without permission from the demon spirits that controlled my life. For the first time in twenty-five years, I was on my own.

Chapter 13

Mr. Rogers’ Neighborhood

Walking through the doors of Grace and Mercy Fellowship that Sunday morning, I thought I had stepped into Mr. Rogers’ Neighborhood. Everyone behaved so squeaky clean that it bugged the heck out of me. How could a bunch of people with different color skin and from different social and economic backgrounds all get along? Only in a make-believe world could something like this occur. Mr. Rogers’ Neighborhood was an appropriate name for where I was, and I wasn’t going to change it. I walked in with a smirk on my face, ready for any challenge.

“John, I’ve got a surprise for you,” Rachael said. “Really? What is it?”

She dug into her handbag and pulled out a large black

book.

I thought I was dreaming, but no, there it was in my hands: a black, leather-bound King James Version of the Holy Bible with gold-trimmed edges on every page. All sixty-six books. I didn’t want to hurt her feelings, so I accepted it. I said

to myself, She must be crazy thinking I’m going to keep this and read it. I haven’t seen a Bible in twenty-five years. This is for people who are weak to carry around.

As the weeks went by Rachael’s parents kept pressuring me with invitations to attend another church service with them. A miracle would have to happen for me to go with them again. But one Friday evening, it did.

Rachael and her parents begged me to go to another church service with them where people shared testimonies about how their lives were transformed. During that time, an usher came across the sanctuary toward me. He leaned over and asked, “Can I pray for you?”

Quick as lightning, a demon showed up to protect me. I looked at him and said, “Get out of my face with your prayer.”

Rachael was shocked, and we started to argue right there in church.

“Why didn’t you let him pray for you?” she said.

“I didn’t feel like it. Let him go pray for someone else. I don’t need any prayer.”

She rolled her eyes at me, and for the rest of the evening we didn’t speak to each other.

But on Sunday morning, I got up early and prepared myself to attend church with Rachael and Sarah.

After psyching myself to believe I was going to a party, I threw my Bible in a brown paper bag so that people in the neighborhood wouldn’t see me carrying it. What would they say if they caught me with the thing? The whole community

was aware of me being a devil worshipper. How foolish it would look for a true devil worshipper who had everyone in the neighborhood living in fear to carry a Bible? What a contradiction.

Services started at 10 a.m. I guided my car to the curb, extracted my Bible from the paper bag, and stepped into the church building.

First stop: Bible class. And the place was full. What had I gotten myself into?

After Bible class came the worship service. It was there I began feeling unusually sick. That’s when I realized my demon powers had kicked in, even with people all around singing praises to God. I knew the demons were trying to get my attention.

A person next to me turned to me and whispered, “Hey, are you okay? You don’t look well. You look kind of pale.”

“No, I’m okay . . . I’m fine.”

I tried to shake the feeling off, turning my attention back to the preacher on the platform.

Some Sundays when services ran long, I didn’t understand what was going on or what was being said. There were some simple truths about Bible doctrine I couldn’t grasp. But for the most part, being in church felt therapeutic. I was experiencing something I had never found in espiritismo—a genuine love demonstrated to me from members of the congregation.

The Man in the Mirror

The more I attended church, the more I began to like Bible class. It was something new to me. Different from the routine of devil worshipping and killing animals. But as much as I liked church, I loved the dark side more. And the main reason was because it gave me something I didn’t have as a boy: the image of a real father. One who was supposed to hug me, kiss me, and tell me how proud he was of me. Someone who should have asked, “How are things in school?” A role model to help me believe in myself and push me to become a man of virtue. A dad in whom I could take pause and reflect on the good memories he should have left for me and my brothers: trips to the park, a swim in the pool, bicycle rides. A man I could feel a sense of protection from, one who was supposed to make my mother smile instead of making her suffer. But no matter, I had a substitute—a relationship with Lucifer, the devil. He was my real father. And whenever I needed advice and guidance, I would go to him for answers.

Sometimes I wondered what I was doing by going to church. I would sit in the corner of the sanctuary and think to mys elf, What am I looking for? Everything I own I have obtained through witchcraft, and the more involved I become, the more I get. If I need another job, or money to buy clothes for my daughter, all I have to do is worship the devil and it is mine. I have it made. But I wasn’t happy because therelationships I’d once had now were falling apart. One of the

dearest persons in my life was my mother. I knew she loved me unconditionally, and that I would forever be her son. But I was too far gone down the path of devils and demons for her to reach out to me and take me back into her arms the way she used to when I was a boy. I was a man now and had no time to receive motherly affection, or even the friendship of my own brothers. I was only able to relate to those who lived crazy like me, bowing down to espiritismo, Santeria, and Palo. In that world, my distrust for people caused me to reject family and friends until they became as strangers. Who would be the next person I would estrange myself from?

Sometimes the emptiness I felt inside hurt so bad laughter fled from me, and all I wanted to do was cry. Where were the demons I had worshipped for so long? Oh, they were still around. But this time, instead of infusing me with the power to overcome my problems, my problems were overcoming me. I was no longer a husband, and I was an absent dad. Suddenly all the witchcraft parties I’d attended, all the spells I had cast on unsuspecting people and sneaking into mental hospitals, all the years it took for me to attain the high rank I held in the religion now made me realize what a prideful, hateful, malicious, slanderous person I had become, especially to those who called themselves Christians. How I wanted to destroy them. Satan had offered his power to me on a fishhook, and I took it, thinking I could have the greatest thing anyone could possess, when in reality I possessed nothing. Satan possessed me. And he had no intentions of letting go. What I thought was his hand of protection on me was really a viselike

grip I could not escape. How I wanted to find the key to the invisible shackles on my wrists and ankles. How I longed to be free.

With all this goodness and kindness flowing my way, I still found myself within the inner circle of fellow cult members during the course of the week. It was what I craved. Those at the religion didn’t mind one bit that I attended a place of worship different from theirs. In fact, they weren’t even offended. They knew I wouldn’t betray them or any of the demons from the religion. They knew where my loyalty stood —with them. But with all that, I was still being drawn to church from time to time. Still caught between two worlds—light and darkness.

The Truth Calling

Many nights, alone in my apartment with my daughter, I still wrestled with the strange heaviness that created a sorrow in me and made my eyes pool with tears, all the while fighting back the on-rush of emotions because I didn’t want Amanda to see her old man cry. What kind of a man was I? And what had I really done with my life that would make my daughter Amanda proud of me one day? All I was good for was witchcraft, guzzling booze, and chasing women.

If Amanda was the one with tears in her eyes, I would’ve rushed to her, put my arms around her, and comforted her. But who did I have at that moment that would

comfort me? That’s when I felt a prompting to call an older woman from the church who was like a grandmother to all. So I did. I was so grateful she lived just a few blocks away. I waited until she picked up the phone. I was so desperate to talk to someone, anyone. But it had to be her because she was a godly, Christian woman.

Finally, her voice broke through like a ray of sunlight. She was so glad to hear it was me.

“Please lead me to the Lord,” I begged. “I want to pray to take the pain away.”

“I would love to, John,” she answered.

She invited me over to her place, and I was out of the house as soon as I hung up the phone, taking Amanda with me. I was heading in the wrong direction down the street and didn’t want to admit it—lost just like my soul and about to split hell wide open. I had been to the woman’s house once before. Why couldn’t I find it now?

It was dark and late, and as I hustled past lamp-lit streets with Amanda by the hand, I looked for a pay phone.

“Daddy, are you okay? Why are we rushing?” she said. “Everything’s going to be fine, Amanda.” My eyes darted around for a phone booth. “Do you trust me? I trust

you.”

“Yes, Daddy.”

“Do you love me? I love you.” “Yes, Daddy, I love you.”

“Okay, everything’s going to be all right.”

Happily, I found a pay phone, fed a quarter into the slot, and dialed the number. My hands were shaking, my breathing ragged. My patience strained, waiting for a ring. They say a man never asks for directions. But I was desperate. At the sound of a clunk I realized I had lost twenty-five cents and the call, so I ran to another booth and pumped in another quarter. The same thing happened. I slammed the receiver into the cradle, the urge to cry rising within. Someone was making it hard for me to find the address—to have the truth. That’s when I started thinking about going back home. But the voice that had spoken to that time in my living room wouldn’t let me. “Don’t give up,” it said. So I moved on with a determined pace.

At last I found the building. In no time I was in the old woman’s living room, sitting on her sofa, Amanda at my side. I wanted prayer for her too.

The woman said, “John, we can stand and hold hands, and I will pray for you and Amanda. Jesus wants to be the Lord of your life. Is that what you want?”

“Yes, that’s what I want,” I said. The surge of tears got stronger, rising like a mighty tide.

A few members of her family surrounded me and began to pray. I felt at peace, but in the back of my mind I was very much aware that my demon tormentors were not far away, hunting me down. Lost in the intercession, I saw myself again as a nine-year-old boy. I had gotten off the bus at Fordham Road and was on my way home when I ran into an evangelical street meeting. There people were witnessing and giving out tracts. Some kind soul asked if I wanted prayer and I said yes.

What joy I had in my heart. But because I didn’t have anyone to direct my life or take me to church, something else did the directing for me. A better word was misdirected.

As the people prayed for me, I said the prayers from my lips but not from my heart. I couldn’t come to the full submission, accepting Jesus as my Savior, knowing the contract of twenty-five years of my life that was signed over to the devil and his demons. I went back home that night with my daughter, trying to make sense of everything that had taken place, with many unanswered questions.

The next time I saw the old woman in church, she counseled me about totally renouncing witchcraft and getting rid of all the paraphernalia in my apartment. If she only knew that in my heart I didn’t fully surrender to God because I was scared of being labeled a traitorous enemy by the religious members of espiritismo, Santeria, and Palo, and would no doubt have a death contract put out on me as soon as they discovered what was in my heart.

Now, in order to honor the commitment I made long ago with the dark side, I guarded the biggest secret I had ever kept —that I was falling in love with Jesus. But I could not fool those who knew my personal history since I was ten years old. It didn’t matter that I carried a Bible or went to church. To them, I was still the devil man. And how right they were. Even though I was prayed for by Christians, I kept attending the witchcraft world.

Chapter 14

Demon-Possessed in Church

One Sunday I decided to go back to Grace and Mercy Church on 170th Street and Jerome Avenue. I went back because in my heart I knew on the night I went to the old lady’s house and prayed with her, my yes was not to commit myself to the Lord, but for Him to protect me from the demons I knew would hound me like bounty hunters. I walked past the spacious lobby and into the gymnasium where the services were held.

There must have been about two hundred people attending church that day. As the service began, I heard a voice speak into my ear. What are you doing here? I turned to see who it was. But all I saw were those who stood around me, people clapping their hands and stomping their feet to the rhythm of guitars and harmonic voices being lifted up to God in worship.

I dismissed it and fell in line with what the others were doing. But the enjoyment didn’t last for long. Several minutes later, that same voice spoke stronger. WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE? it repeated. A chill swept through my bones as if ice

water flowed in my veins. They were coming for me. Hordes of them in the house of God. Something came over me with an all-too-familiar feeling. It reached inside and took ground. This was followed by another and another, until I realized with horror that I was being raided by demon spirits, a house invasion of the worst kind—for the possession of my soul.

I started to feel physically sick and dropped to my seat hoping no one would notice the transformation taking place. I tried fighting back. But all I kept hearing was that voice: You don’t belong here. You belong to us!

That’s when the pastor took the microphone and stopped the worship. He addressed the congregation. “Beloved, I was just led by the Holy Spirit right now to make an emergency altar call for those that need it. So please come up to the front; the altar is open.”

As I glanced around the sanctuary, I saw many people leave their seats and go up to the altar to be prayed for. I got the sudden urge to run to the altar, to flee from the things pursuing me. But I knew in my mind I was just going up there to shake off the demons, not to receive prayer at all. I walked to the front and stood alongside the others.

The pastor came down the line, praying for people one at a time. I was next to last in the long line of believers, hoping now that by the time it was my turn to be prayed for the demons would have fled and I could go happily back to my seat without incident. But the shorter the line got, and the closer the pastor approached, the more his face came into detail: brown eyes, thick mustache, graying temples. Now my

legs strangely locked and I was unable to step away. I stood before the pastor shaking from the warring demons within. For the first time in twenty-five years I had no control over the inner hosts. They were controlling me.

The pastor leaned into me and whispered, “John, do you want prayer?”

I looked him in the eye and glared at him. “No, go to

hell.”

He gave me an astonished look, and I said, “I came here for you.”

In that moment he knew it was no longer I who was confronting him, but the devil himself. An anger I had never known stirred from deep within like the rumblings of an active volcano, and before I knew it I was spewing profanity out of my mouth in a voice not my own. I was demon-possessed.

“Don’t you dare touch him, mother---.”

Suddenly my hands felt like welded steel. I reached for the pastor’s throat. It only took a moment for the viselike grip coupled with the tremendous strength flowing through my body to lift him off the floor—legs kicking, eyes bulging, open mouth gasping for precious air. A pair of hands grabbed me from behind, trying to pull me away, and the war between good and evil broke out at the altar. Killing him would be a pleasure. I had never been this demon-possessed before and it thrilled me.

Date: 2016-04-22; view: 672