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School for Warlocks

 

Centro was a place where humanity met the supernatural in a most diabolical way, a place where I went to “school” to learn how to lend my body to evil spirits—to be demon-possessed. We met at Cookie’s house in a large room on the first floor. About sixty people gathered in rows of folding chairs set up facing the mesa blanca. Aunt Maria took me there for the first time on a Friday


night. As I walked inside the room, my eyes adjusting to the dim glow of candlelight, I felt chills run up and down my spine. Something in the atmosphere told me this was not a regular meeting. People stood in clusters talking before the service, but they took their seats when the six mediums assumed their place at the white table. Glancing around, I saw that I was easily the youngest one there, so I sat somewhere in the middle, trying to lose myself among the older people. But there was no chance I’d be lost that night.

“We have a special guest tonight,” Cookie said as she called the service to order, dressed all in white. “He’s a new initiate in the religion. John, would you come up here please?” She held out her hand toward me, a motherly expression on her face, and I couldn’t refuse in front of all those staring adults. I walked to the front and Cookie sat me on the edge of the mesa blanca so I could watch, listen, and learn as the mediums worked the table.

No lights were allowed, because demon spirits only come down when it’s dark, as Aunt Maria had told me before. The service started about 9 p.m. I had no idea that first time it would last until five o’clock in the morning. One by one the mediums performed cleansings, gave readings, and prophesied over those in the folding chairs who had come for healing or guidance or deliverance from spells.

“Focus and watch what we’re doing,” Cookie whispered to me. I nodded, instinctively aware that I should remain silent. “Permission of the white table,” she suddenly intoned. “I see . . .”—and she called out what she saw in the large vase full of water in the center of the table, encircled by candles. The spirits showed her and the other mediums certain things in the water, or in their mind/conscience, and they would call those things out, addressing the person the prophecy pertained to. In time I grew bold enough to start speaking out things I saw in the water too, or the different vibes and spirit voices hovering over the table.

The mediums would target individuals in the audience, placing a glass of water and a candle behind their chair. “Permission of the white table, I see this lady who lives in your house—pale white skin, jet-black hair—and she’s put a spell on your family. Now we’re going to break that spell,” one of the mediums said. The woman in the chair shook visibly, tears spilling down her cheeks. As the medium continued prophesying over the woman, he prepared himself to “catch” the demon that was casting the spell over the family, entrapping it in his body.

Suddenly the medium started yelling like a madman, foaming at the mouth. His eyes rolled back in his head, showing only the whites, and he practically floated in the air before grabbing the victim by the throat. The other five mediums around the table got up and started to pray—“Hail Mary, full of grace . . .”—throwing holy water on the medium in the chair. One medium grabbed a cross in her hand and confronted the demon trapped in the medium’s body. Every time a spray of holy water hit the medium, his body jerked and contorted. By this point, I could see that the medium was in a trance—no longer himself but something diabolical. “Don’t hit me! Leave me alone!” he screamed in the guttural voice of the trapped spirit. Finally, he fell back as if dead, growling and making weird noises as the other mediums drove the demon spirit back to hell.



“Permission of the white table,” Cookie called out one night, directing her dark eyes toward me. “I see one of the most powerful guardian spirits in all espiritismo guiding and protecting you, John.” Her words hung in the air as I waited for what would come next. “He is an Indian chief spirit named Tawata,” she added, and at that moment I remembered the Indian necklace that had dropped out of the sky when I was younger. Amazed, after that I prayed to this special new deity— my protective spirit—daily, even moment by moment.


At another gathering one night, the intensity of the service reached an electrifying pitch, and I felt pulled to keep glancing at this six-year-old girl who’d been brought there by her mother. My sharpened spiritual senses picked up an evil vibe in the same instant the mediums at the white table shouted, “Focus, focus! There’s a bad spirit in the air tonight, and the bad spirit is trying to grab somebody and take them with him.” As they spoke, I felt the vibe of the spirit try to snatch the little girl. Before our astonished eyes, she hopped out of her seat, jumped up in the air, and spun around like a ballerina—spinning and spinning nonstop for several minutes. Her eyes were not her own, her hands were not her own, and her feet were not her own as they floated, not even touching the floor.

Later that evening at the white table, Aunt Maria stood paralyzed without blinking or moving her features for over an hour, looking like a mannequin. Dressed all in black for a change, she stood trapped in a trance with a demon that was new to the occult but not new to her. I left the service even more astonished about how the demon world worked, and I learned something new—not only how powerful the spirits of the dark side could be, but also that they have no respect for age. The purity of that six-year-old was snatched away that night. She was now one of us, never to be an innocent child again.

This was the life I lived for weeks on end, months on end, and years on end. After the service was over, often an adult would pull me aside and smile down at me. “You’re going to be something great in this religion,” one might say, a look of admiration in their eyes. “We can’t wait to see how far you’re going to go in Santeria,” another would echo. “You’re going to be very powerful. You will win many souls . . .”

Even though I didn’t understand these predictions at the time, I felt like I was a part of something that wanted me for once. I was part of something great. For the first time in my life, I enjoyed the acceptance and love I never got from my father. I looked forward to the next validation the following Friday night.


 

 


Date: 2015-01-11; view: 1004


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