Fighting Malevolent Spirits: A Demonologist's Darkest Encounters (16 page)

I felt sad for Kathy—to her the haunting was very much real and yet I would likely not be able to help her.

After gathering my thoughts, I took on the uncomfortable task of explaining to Kathy that what she was seeing was not paranormal. “Well, the good news is that these shadows, symbols, and numbers you are seeing are actually not paranormal. They are basic reflections and shadows, not apparitions. So that is good!” I continued. “I don’t sense or feel a demonic presence here in your house. It is possible that there
was
a demonic entity or haunting here previously, however, I am not picking up on it anymore.” I explained that I had felt a strange energy in the basement, but it could be caused by the high levels of electromagnetic waves from electrical lines. I suggested that Kathy have her breaker box looked at by an
electrician to make sure it wasn’t emitting an unhealthy EMF
level.

“We can still perform a house blessing just to make sure we cover all our bases.” Kathy did not appear to agree or accept our conclusion but was happy that we would still offer her and Josh a house blessing.

And so we proceeded with the house blessing, which was anticlimactic for a change.
Refreshing!
There were no paranormal reactions to our cleansing and I did not feel any resistance from a paranormal presence. It was tranquil. Kathy stated that the house blessing made her feel more at ease, which I was glad for.

I do believe in the power of house blessings as an alternative form of healing and I had hoped that it would help Kathy with her delusions and paranoia. I felt silly having Mike Best drive all the way from Indiana to help calm the nerves of a mentally unstable woman, but I knew Kathy and Josh appreciated our efforts.

After packing up our supplies I left Kathy some instructions on how to perform a basic house blessing if she ever felt that the house needed some “new and fresh energy.” I also aked her to visit with her physician to discuss her experiences as they would be able to help her further. We said our goodbyes and left the house.

Just down the road was a bar and grill that the three of us decided to stop at. We needed to gather our thoughts and to share input on the case. I also wanted to catch up with Mike since I hadn’t seen him in months, and it was nice to spend time together that wasn’t solely focused on “casting out the ghouls.”

“Well that was interesting!” Mike announced.

“Yeah, I am not sure about the validity of her paranormal sightings,” Carl agreed.

“You know what makes me wonder?” I said, “If those ‘phone calls’ to Jason’s group were actually from Kathy and she was just having a psychotic episode. And if that CJ guy in Jason’s group was just faking falling down during their blessing or if there really
was
a demon and they successfully cast it out
.” I added, “I’m not sure.”

We all concluded that at the present moment there was not a demon at Kathy and Josh’s house, but it was possible that an entity had previously resided there. I remember Kathy and I talked on the phone for over an hour and a few days later she called me and asked if I had any experience with demonic cases—something we had talked about at length previously, but she had obviously forgotten completely.

I continued pointing out other possible flaws in Kathy’s case. “I had to repeat several things for her. I just assumed her mind was so scattered from the stress of dealing with a demonic case, but I think she really has a mental illness.
And
nothing physical happened with this case, like her getting scratched or objects moving … I think that was a huge signal that this was all inside her mind. I had my suspicions after I first talked with Kathy, but wanted to give her story a fair chance.”

As we sat in the restaurant waiting for a delicious feast we laid the paranormal topics to rest and just enjoyed ourselves as “normal people” for once. It was great. Each table had its own television and we eagerly watched the college basketball game as we stuffed our faces. Before heading our separate directions, I apologized to Carl and Mike for dragging them to a seemingly trivial case, but they just laughed it off and agreed it was great to see each other again.

On the drive home I kept mulling over the fact that Kathy’s apparent illness or disorder slipped past my detection and evaluation. I always ask clients mental health questions, family history with disorders, and if they have been diagnosed with any illness.
Unless you have been diagnosed with a mental disorder, how would you know that you are just experiencing an illness’s symptoms?
Kathy’s answers to these questions were truthful, but they didn’t accurately portray her true disorder. No, she hadn’t been diagnosed, she did not have a family history of any disorders, and she was not suffering from other mental illnesses.

Sometimes our minds lead us to believe one thing, when our hearts and intuition are telling us a different story. Throughout my experience with Kathy, since the initial discussion, my gut questioned the soundness of her stories, but my mind insisted that it was likely just a very severe case and we had to help.

From dealing with Matt’s stalking tendencies to Kathy’s delusions of a demonic haunting, it was an interesting experience for me. Exhausted and confused, I chuckled to myself in the car and remembered that this “strangeness” came with the paranormal territory—I just always assumed it would be caused by the other side and not living humans. I was dead wrong (no pun intended).

A few weeks later, in March, Kathy wrote to me, stating that the demon and demonic shadows were still present in her home and she wanted additional help. I reassured her that the shadows were not paranormal, and to prove so, I asked her to keep a journal of what time the shadows appeared during the day. I responded in a thorough letter.

“
You should see a correlation between when the shadows appear and the time of day. If you keep a journal long enough, you will see that the appearances of the shadows will also be affected by the hours of daylight as the seasons continue. I want you to go around the house with Josh and try to figure out what objects are causing each shadow. You can try to rearrange the objects so that the shadows don’t resemble faces or silhouettes anymore.”
In regards to her request for additional help, I did not feel comfortable passing this case on to another paranormal group seeing as it was likely a mental illness problem.

“I am unfortunately not comfortable with forwarding your case on to someone else—the shadows you perceived to be paranormal were explainable and you have not experienced any other signs of a demonic haunting. If I were to forward your case on to someone else I would be obligated to share this information and they likely would want you to have a psychological evaluation.”

I also suggested that she follow up with performing her own house blessings every season, due to the calming effect white sage has. Perhaps it could act as a placebo as well.

A month later I received another e-mail from Kathy asking for help with the shadows—she had completely forgotten my response and explanation, never bothered to read it, or she didn’t want to accept it. She had also seemingly forgotten that I left her instructions for performing her own blessing and that we had debunked all of the shadows inside her home. I wanted to help her, but the only help I really could offer was pointing her in the direction of a psychologist. I suggested that she contact me if she experienced anything physical (being scratched, doors banging, touching, and so on), but aside from that she would have to adjust to living with the shadows in her home.

Not all cases and “hauntings” are paranormal; however, the majority of my clients are truly experiencing something not of this world. In this case, Kathy had lost her ability of deductive reasoning. Most people realize that when objects or things block a light source, a shadow is generated; however, Kathy believed that these shadows were an imminent threat to her well-being. It is always a healthy practice to try to find a rational explanation for strange phenomena and to not immediately jump to paranormal conclusions. Therefore, when something truly abnormal happens, you will be able to recognize the difference.

I have not heard from Kathy since, but I hope she is finally in harmony with her home and receiving the help she needs from a medical professional.

[contents]

CHAPTER 8

MY MOTHER’S ENCOUNTER

T
he following chapter is an experience my mother had years ago and was instrumental in stirring my curiosity about spiritual warfare and the demonic. It is the story that haunted me in my young adult life and was always a favorite “request” amongst my friends during Halloween season. My mother didn’t like sharing the story because she was fearful others would not receive the story well or assume that her sanity was up for grabs. I always knew my mother was telling the truth, if only for the telltale goose bumps she had when sharing the story. I would like the story to be told in my mother’s own words so she, too, can share her experience with you. I think she writes beautifully and is best at painting this dark story in your mind.

_____

Long before my daughter Samantha was born, I would encounter something I would later realize was a demon. I always had psychic abilities, as do many of the women in our family; however, this was something I had never encountered, nor was prepared for.

My aunt Ilene needed help, whether she wanted to acknowledge it or not. I went to Denver, along with my mom, to do whatever was necessary to get her life back on track. We had no idea how hard that would prove to be. We did know, however, that Ilene had a problem with alcoholism. It was out of control, as was her battle with hoarding. Her life was falling apart and, as her family, we needed to help.

Ilene’s daughters had taken her on vacation, allowing us to clean up the house while she was gone. Our visit and agenda was not known to Ilene but it had to be that way—Ilene would have never let us come into her home, let alone clean it for her. Her hoarding problem prevented her from throwing away a simple piece of paper; how could we have thoroughly cleaned it with her present?

Opening the back door of her quad-level home I was met with the stench of rotting food and other obscene smells. The door would only open a little because of the collection of junk and debris in its path. It was an overwhelming sight as my mom pushed against me and the door trying to get in.

“Get in!” she kept saying.

“There is
no
place
to
get!” I explained. It was true. Trash, piled as high as skyscrapers, landscaped the room. A cityscape of trash—its roads were tiny pathways. I had never seen anything like it, nor had my mom, as our eyes adjusted in the dim light of the sobering scene.

“Oh my God,” she breathed behind me, her eyes wide. She stood paralyzed by the enormity of encountering her sister’s real life; the one Ilene had tried so hard to conceal. It stood before us now exposed, raw, and unrelenting in its depravity and sadness. She had lived like this for decades; lived in this filth, this utter hopelessness, pretending to the outside world that all was fine. It clearly was not. Nothing was fine.

I picked my way along the paths through the teetering piles of junk, bottles, rotting food, clothes, old toys, and nameless trash. Deeper and deeper into the hoard I went, stunned by its severity. A toilet crowded to its rim in bloody tissues, its water a thick hardened crust.

The kitchen was a mass of moldy pots, dishes, cans, food, and cereal boxes staggering on top of each other. Mousetraps with mummified mice in various stages of decomposition balanced on the boxes. I heard live ones scuttle away from me in hiding. A black ooze ebbed from the refrigerator, which had stopped working months ago. Everything was rotten and had liquefied.

Every single room was blanketed in thick layers of trash. I stopped in the upper hallway to peer into the bathroom. It was unusable; the tub filled with magazines, the sink with cans and bottles from her drinking.

I started shuffling towards her bedroom when I was stopped by something I had never experienced before. Without warning, I was transported back in time. Seemingly, a movie began playing before my eyes. In front of me was my pregnant aunt, cowering on the floor of the hallway while her husband, in his drunken rage, kicked and hit her with fists as she screamed.

I watched, horrified, unable to help as he mercilessly beat her. It was only a glimpse into the horrors of her life before I was back—back in the hallway, shaking. Dazed, I tried to collect my wits. It was a psychic vision. I had seen a clip of Ilene’s life and what she had actually experienced in that exact spot in the house.

From the back door of the house I heard my mother call. She had been too overwhelmed to even move past the back door. “Do you think we can do it?” The fear and uncertainty was clear in her voice.

I thought to myself,
Drop a match
—it would have been a quick solution, but I knew that wasn’t the answer. We were Ilene’s only chance at a normal life. If we didn’t help her, no one would.

“Yeah,” I tentatively answered. “We can do it.”

My uncle Keith, a recovering alcoholic who was separated from Ilene and living in his own apartment, tried his best to warn us off. She was like a banshee when angry and she would be furious! He was obviously scared of her, how she would react, what she would do when she returned home. He begged us to just fly back home and leave it as it was. However, that would be a death sentence for my aunt. Someone had to help her. We had to be the help, and there was no one else.

With my mom and uncle so against tackling the job, I prayed that night for a sign from God, something to tell me this was the right thing to do, even though I dreaded it. The next morning a rainbow greeted me. Not just one rainbow, but two—a double rainbow. I knew it was my sign, the sign I often get in answer to a prayer.

We lugged bag upon bag of garbage out of the house, slinging it into the back of the car and driving off to the many dumpsters we used throughout the city. We had promised her daughters, my cousins, we would be discreet, “so the neighbors wouldn’t know.” We had stupidly agreed. Renting a dumpster would have been far easier, and the neighbors DID know—how could they not? Living next to them for years, they knew. The shroud of secrecy alcoholic families hide in is an illusion, their way of protecting themselves from the truth everyone else can see except them.

From early in the morning to late in the evening we worked, clearing away the debris of her broken life. In the evenings we attended alcoholic intervention sessions put on by the local hospital to understand the disease and how to encourage her to get help for herself.

My mom contacted plumbers and repairmen to get the systems in the house working again. Mom bought Ilene a new water heater and refrigerator. The old fridge, when taken away, had vomited its rotten, slimy contents on the lawn, burning the grass brown and filling the neighborhood with its stench. A fortune in bottle returns from her drink mixers was saved, along with money we found in random tin cans and other places, to give to her later. We put it in an Easter basket, the largest thing we could find. She had so very little to live on.

Days passed as we worked, exhausted and reeking, but the
house was slowly getting cleaner. Next up on the list of clean
ing was her bedroom. It had been a nice bedroom once. There was a matching furniture set and flowered bedspread. It was very pretty at one time, before the mice had chewed through it, and the mattress she slept on. She kept a hammer near her indent in the bed to fend them off. Thick layers of newspapers from decades past carpeted the floor. Her children’s baby teeth were saved in a can on the dresser and in envelopes on the floor. Silver dollars, a wedding gift meant for me, were in a sack behind the door. In the shower was a waterfall of dead mice rotting in traps that cascaded to the drain. Horrible, it was all so horrible.

I let my mind wander, taking a break from it all, as I absentmindedly looked out the window towards the mountains. I needed to see something pretty, something peaceful. Clouds were rolling in. I watched them billow across the clear blue sky. Slowly, lazily at first, then faster and faster the clouds came, roiling into a boil. It became alarming. They churned towards the window, tumbling at me in a mad heat.

A wind blew into the room, slowly rising to a gust, then to a fierce howl. Angrily picking up pieces of paper and throwing them, the wind swirled around me, taunting. This was no ordinary gust of wind that would blow in and die down, or one that would just stream through on its way to someplace else. This wind had a purpose, a mind. What was this? It felt threatening.

It swirled faster and faster, picking up dust, debris, and papers, giving itself form until it was a confusing, terrifying whirlwind speeding all around me. Papers flapped, rattled, and snapped at my face. At first I had watched in awe, then disbelief, now in fear. My skin prickled. The hairs on my arms and neck stood straight up in sheer terror. Something I could feel but couldn’t see was inside that whirling mass.

It was personal in tone and it wasn’t stopping. Somehow I remembered I could, and therefore would, escape. I ran for the door. Grasping the knob I turned and pulled, expecting relief. The door didn’t budge. There was
no
lock, just a regular doorknob— logically it should have opened. I turned it again, pulling harder. Harder and harder I pulled at the door. The door remained unnaturally solid, unmoving, not even flinching. I banged my fist against it, kicking it—still it didn’t move. I was panicking at the thought and reality of being trapped. The whirlwind behind me grew stronger.

Terrified, I started screaming. I was screaming for all I was worth and banging furiously on the door. I felt it move. The knob turned on its own. Then the door burst open with ease into the room. My mother’s worried face behind it.

“What’s wron …” She stopped speaking as soon as she saw it—the angry swirling mass behind me. Her eyes and mouth flew open. Slowly, quietly, she formed the words, “What
is
that?”

“I don’t know! But we’re getting
out of here
!” I grabbed her hand, forcing her down the stairs with me. We didn’t stop running until we reached the curb of the street.

Like dazed birds hitting a window, we stood trying to grasp what had just happened. “What
was
that?” she asked again.

“I don’t know, I don’t know,” I kept repeating as if repetition would somehow make it clear. “We need to get away from here.” That was all I knew.

The warm coffee at the coffee shop we sat in helped soothe us. Talking it over, we were as frightened and confused as before. There were no answers for what had just happened. It defied any rational explanation. All I knew was that
something
was in that house now, something angry. Whatever this thing was, it hated us, hated us for disturbing it and Ilene, its prey. It was evil, and I feared it. We didn’t go back to the house for the rest of the day.

Somehow we found the courage to go back the next day and continue on with our work for the days to come. We cleaned and fixed the house up until there was no more time. Ilene was coming home that day.

When she arrived at my uncle’s apartment, she eyed me suspiciously. “Why are you here?”

The people in the room scattered, anticipating the storm. I sucked up my courage and met her gaze head-on, “We’ve come to help you. We’ve cleaned your house.”

I couldn’t keep track of all the emotions that raced across her face, until she settled upon the one she wanted to use. It was hurt.

After all the incriminations of “How could you? Why would you do this to me? What have you done?” were played out, I explained why. She knew. She understood, but she was angry—angry and embarrassed—yet unsure how to play her hand.

In walking-on-eggshells mode, we took her over to the house. She walked through it with all of us, hesitant, unsure, yet in wonder. Amazed at the change and what had been done, she was awed. I saw genuine thankfulness in her eyes, and at times in her voice, as she commented on the work we had done. She knew it hadn’t been easy and that it had been done to benefit her, not to hurt her. Still, she was overwhelmed, unsure what to do, or feel.

Ilene stayed at Keith’s apartment, along with the rest of us—her daughters, mom, and me. It was a normal night—dinner, some TV, and relaxing. I hadn’t had a chance to talk with her daughters about what was to happen next. I discretely gathered them into a bedroom to talk. We were going to stage an intervention for Ilene and confront her with the truth of her alcoholism. We wanted her to see we loved her, and wanted her to live the best life she could. However, in order to do that, she had to give up the alcohol. They agreed and the plan was set.

Ilene however, had been listening at the door, which none of us realized until later. In the few moments her daughters and I had been talking, she had gotten into the one bottle of whisky Keith kept in his apartment, as a reminder of his former life.

She was opening a package as I sat down next to her at the table. She grabbed the knife she had been using and held it up at me menacingly. Threatened, I stiffened, waiting on instinct. “Want to spend the night with me at
my
house?” she asked, coolly eyeing me.

Staying with her, at her house was
not
something I wanted to do, ever. I made some polite excuse as to why I didn’t want to stay there
that
night, in case I was misreading her. However, she knew
why, and sensed I knew too. We were talking about the darkness in her house, even though it didn’t have a name. Slowly she began working herself into a rage, working toward her shrieking crescendo. Screaming, blind with rage, she demanded to go home. There was no negotiating with her. She was a ranting banshee until someone agreed to take her back home.

Over the next several days she raged in a drunken furor. We checked in on her, as she would let us; the few times she’d answer the phone. We’d been told at the alcoholic intervention training that unless she was in danger of hurting herself or someone else, there legally wasn’t anything we could do. We didn’t have the authority to have her committed. Keith and her daughters, who did have the authority, were too afraid of her, and refused to do what needed to be done.

Finally, calling her bluff, mom and I went over and demanded she let us in. We gave her the Easter basket full of money we’d left earlier by the back door in a failed attempt to entice her out. The money she liked. She didn’t like our talk, and hurled a toaster at me, threatening both mom and myself. She was not going to stop, even if it meant her death; this was the way she wanted it, to drink herself to death. She made that very clear.