I have a complicated relationship with religion. My dad, an Irish Italian, was raised ultra-Catholic. My mom, very much a southern belle, was raised Protestant. My parents could never come to terms with the best way to instill religion in me, but since they were married in the Church, it was expected that any children (they ended up just having me) would also be Catholic. I was dragged to CCD (catechism) through First Communion. I remember hating it. The teachers were mean and crazy, and liked to tell us the Devil lived under our beds. My friends and I worked through the requirements but always agreed these people were bat-shit–not the religion, just the strange humans running the program. My paternal grandmother is Irish (her parents were from County Cork, Ireland). I didn’t know until I was older that there is spiritual sensitivity through that line–it passes through the women. As a child, maybe three or four years old, I experienced strange, unexplainable things in my room. I had an old mirror by my bed that had belonged to someone in my family (she was a wonderful lady, so no one thought anything of it). At night, completely unbeknownst to my parents, I would see little lights–like miniature fairies dancing inside the glass. As a tiny child, I was mesmerized and liked them. Over time, they began to venture out–forming a perfectly straight line streaming out of the mirror and into my room, circling my head. At this point, I didn’t like them so much.
Things moved quickly from that point. I realized the lights were NOT fairies, but dark mincing stills that ran past my eyes. They showed me horrendous things. Terrible, frightening things that would scare anyone, but certainly terrify a four- or five-year-old. At this point, I tried to tell my parents. My dad believed me instantly–being Catholic and believing in demons and exorcisms. He blessed my room, dousing my mirror in holy water. Things got better for a short time, and then they didn’t. The lights–the images–no longer circled my head and floated before my eyes, they entered them. I couldn’t squeeze them from my vision and though unspoken, I knew that should I tell anyone anything again, they would bring the most horrific of all the images to fruition–the one of my parents’ car mangled beyond repair (this didn’t happen, thank God, but I still have nightmares about the possibility). After years, I did share the truth with my parents. They believed me. They hated that they didn’t know, of course. I demanded the entity (or entities) leave and they did–though it didn’t keep them at bay permanently. But little by little, they stayed gone longer and longer until they eventually didn’t come back. We learned from my best friend’s mom that the neighborhood had been built on the site of an old trailer park where a man had violently murdered children (ok…I have full body chills now).
On a lighter note, I started writing with Show Don’t Tell exercises in 6th grade, and while everyone else jumped into the prompt with the gusto to finish, I would take my time–pondering it for far too long and with far too much consideration. I loved doing it. I was often awarded with praise and little Xeroxed certificates with my name scripted in my teacher’s swirled hand–it pleased me. At first, I enjoyed the recognition, but soon it came to mean that I was continually upping my game. Their expectations for me raised with each assignment but could never touch my expectations for myself. As I honed my skills and my twists and turns became better veiled and more inevitable, others came to look forward to hearing my work too. My friends no longer teased me or rolled their eyes when I blew the curve (which was something I often did). Teachers from older grades would stop me in the halls and compliment my work–evidently, my LA teacher was bragging on me in the break room.
Definitely sounds like an encounter with the demonic. I’m not a believer in “ghosts.” I believe that people either remain asleep or are reincarnated into a new human body after they die. All “ghosts” are really demons, in truth.
However, the statement from your article that really proves this was the last sentence in your second paragraph. The ancient book of Enoch speaks of the giants that were created as the result of hybridization between angels and humans. Because the giants were unnatural creations, their soul had nowhere to go when they died. When they died their spirits wandered the earth and became known as “demons.”
One of the reasons why ancient child sacrifice rituals happened was because the demons, during their former physical life, had turned to cannibalism because there was not enough ‘normal’ food on earth to feed their gigantic form. When they ran out of plants and animals, they turned to humans for food. You can say whatever you want about the adrenochrome ‘conspiracy theories,’ but fact is that even the giants found that eating terrified humans was addictive.
Because the child sacrifice rituals reminded demons of their old cannibalistic ways, the demons would commune with whoever was insane enough to perform the ritual. Why do I say this? Because in any location where the mass murder of children occurs, such as the example you mentioned, there is likely to be higher levels of demonic activity attracted to that area.
You said that as you grew older, the demons were less interested in bothering you. And that’s probably because you aren’t a child anymore.
Also, Catholicism attracts demons because Catholicism is demonic controlled-opposition. That’s why none of the ‘exorcising rituals’ ever actually worked permanently.
Anyway, that’s enough of my rambling. Thanks for sharing the story. It was very interesting. Have a good day,
– Michael Power
Thank you. It was an insane experience and has become a constant theme in my writing.
Jeez, that sounds terrifying, especially at such a young age! I guess sometimes truth is scarier than fiction.
Right? It has differently shaped my fiction. 😃