Synopsis: The demon haunting you since using an ouija board finally makes its mark.
Warnings: Non-Con, Demon possession, fingering
Male! Demon X Gender Neutral! Reader
How many people genuinely believed in the legitimacy of Ouija boards? For heaven’s sake department stores sold them in neon pink packaging, decorative planchettes were advertised as earrings, and movie themed boards were decorated with unforgettable franchises.
So why was it that, somehow, yours actually worked?
Not only did your Ouija board work, it was powerful. The planchette fully moved on its own, objects flew across the board, scratch marks damaged its cracked wood from unseeable hands. None of your friends had experienced the same with their plastic, painted-on boards.
You had begun to find scratch marks elsewhere-- your back was riddled with them, some kind of letter or number carving deep in your skin that you couldn’t quite read in the mirror.
And to top it all off, there were the night terrors. Just dreams at first, being led down dark hallways, a brightly lit fireplace, a growing sense of unease and dread. Sometimes you’d wake up to find yourself oddly aroused.
It made no sense; you had no recollection of anything, the finger-shaped marks on your arms seemingly coming from nowhere, and the wetness in your pajama shorts just as confusing.
But your midnight visitor, your guest from the board who you had shared simple conversations with, quickly made himself known. He had been waiting for your resolve to begin to break, the exhaustion going past your eyes and into your ribs, your feet.
“What do you want? What can I give you to make you go away?” You asked, cracks leaving your throat as you sit in the dark, a single candle lit. It was nearly burned to the bottom now, sitting in a pool of its own searing wax as you sat in despair.
The planchette moved to three letters.
Y O U
Not helpful one bit. You groaned loudly, looking around your room for any floating specter or shadow you could blame. Nothing stood out; the entire room had been shrouded in an inescapable darkness, turning your ceiling nearly pitch black, as it had become every time night fell.
Your roommates didn’t bother to check up on you anymore.
Moving the planchette to the ‘goodbye’ phrase on the board, you shove it under your bed along with the board’s box.
Enough ghost business-- if this damn thing was going to keep talking in riddles and jokes, you weren’t going to bother with it. You’d just have to get an exorcist, or some kind of high priest to end your plight. But for tonight, you had enough.
Getting under the covers, you relish in the chill of your sheets and the exhaustion behind your eyes. Sleep seemed only moments away, your candle dying to mere smoke, bedroom door lock turning to a silent twist.
You could’ve fallen asleep, even with the sensation of a phantom hand under your pants, grazing at the seam of your underwear. It burned, hot and icy as a finger swirled around your crotch, then two.
It could’ve been nothing, really.
But the symbol on your back began to burn, and the slow inching of your pajama shirt over your head was too ridiculous to ignore.
“Cut it out!” You yell, trying to pull your shirt back down. You manage to do it, even with two hands rubbing sorely around your nipples, a third still at your crotch.
“Invite me in.” Something whispers. “I’ll leave you alone….all you have to do… tell me I’m welcome. So simple, isn’t it?”
No way in hell are you going to let this thing inside of you, especially not with whatever it might be-- ghost, evil spirit, demon-- you just want to be free of it.
But the symbol on your back burns brighter, as if a welding rod is being shoved into your skin. It crisps, and you can hear the sound of sizzling from against your back on the sheets. You hold back tears, clenching your teeth as the burn glows brighter.
“Just two words. Come in. Invite me. So easy. ‘Come. In.’ You can say it. Two words, come on now. It’s easy, little thing.”
You let out an agonized groan, biting “come-fucking-in!” between your teeth.
The final syllable uttered from your tongue changes your world to dark. Your eyes have rolled back, body frozen in paralysis as something feels like it steps inside you, putting on your skin.
“Awh, so easy. I forget sometimes how simple it is once you’ve called on me.” The arousal between your legs is searing, oozing from you as your body feels like its sharing space with another. “And you’ve broken so much quicker than I thought. A pity.”
The voice is demonic, low and guttural as it growls in your ringing ears, your hand flashing in front of your gaze as it twists and turns without your permission. It’s quick to fall across your lips, your throat begging to cry out as you manage to force hoarse grunts, impossible to get through this thick, viscous substance holding you back from your own ability to move.
“Ah ah ah now, enough of that.” It speaks in your voice, bringing one hand to cup your awfully pulsing, desperate crotch. Your other hand flies to your lips, slamming two fingers into your mouth to choke on. “Wouldn’t want me to meet your roommates so soon, would you? I’m sure they’d just love to watch you fuck yourself mercilessly, cursing God and looking as if the devil himself had gotten a hold of you, hm?”
You drool unceremoniously upon your fingers, the thing inside of you using your face to smile and lap at them like a dog. It’s not long before they’re soaked in your own spit, falling from your mouth to under your sheets. The creature pushes them beneath your underwear, and inside your gaping entrance. It begged to be filled, to be thrusted inside of as your mind screamed elsewise.
You try desperately to speak, to use your voice, to scream inside your head-- but it all goes muffled. Like a hand has wrapped itself around your throat, squeezing harder each time you just so as think of a word.
You clenched around your own fingers, a psychotic laugh leaving your mouth as drool runs down your lips, your eyes bloodshot and yellow. A low, wet, squelching fills your silent room.
You’re enjoying this. Getting off on it. But you don’t want to, you can’t-- there’s something coercing you, clouding your mind with a flurry of warmth in your belly, teasing your arousal.
You think to close your legs shut, finding them only to open wider.
“I plan on fucking you on every surface of this house, now that you’re nothing. Your body, mine. Your thoughts, I hear every one of them. You won’t be able to reply when someone speaks to you, poor thing.”
Tears fall from your face as your eyes refuse to blink, a whimper dying in the back of your throat. Your fingers drenched and hitting that sweet, heightened spot, are swift to pull away. They find themselves popped into your mouth.
You can taste yourself, salty and sweet, and something else; something bitter. Your fingers shut up anything left for you to cry out with, your tongue acting with a mind of its own and swirling around each digit.
“That’s all you are now-- my thing. A body for me to use, to torment.”
It laughs, sucking on your vulgar fluids as it crudely moans out in your voice. Another set of fingers come down to fuck you senseless, violently pulling your pants down.
A million hands, like a night time breeze caress your body, making invisible lumps beneath your shirt, around your neck, between your thighs. You can’t see them, don’t feel where they come from as they begin to pinch and bruise.
Curse you for picking up an Ouija board from the side of the road, thinking such a childish item could bear no evil. Amongst the pain and suffocation you found a sliver of ecstasy, shattering your mind into a million gut wrenching pieces.
Black tendrils come to follow, ones you can finally see within the darkness of your room. It wraps around your ankles with what feels like a thick, pointed tail.
Me (Host) thinking about my teenage years when I didn't know about my dissociative disorder and legit thought there were multiple demons posessing me and wondering why they didn't go away no matter how much I prayed
Trauma holder (one of the former "demons"): "Not even god can kill me😎"
You never used to believe in demons. Not until you were nearly possessed, and then subsequently stricken with the ability to see all things unholy and dead. You were woefully, horribly unequipped for what you saw. Now, your only chances of navigating your terrifying new reality lie with a certain by-the-books exorcist you just can’t seem to see eye to eye with.
You were having that dream again, the one where you were being followed.
It always started the same. You were leaving work, wrapping up the closing shift, and it was pouring rain. For some reason, the umbrella holder beside the door was empty (it never was), and you were then forced to walk back to your apartment without cover. You walked towards the traffic light at the street corner, intending to duck beneath the nearby bus shelter to possibly buy yourself some time to wait for the rain to calm down a little bit. Then, you sat down on the rain speckled bench, and all at once, you felt a presence beside you.
You stiffened, as one does when they realize someone is there that they didn’t see before, your mouth curving into an awkward but polite half smile. You felt the rush of embarrassment, your mind running at top speed as you tried to decide if you’d accidentally sat too close to this person, or if any other various social faux-pas had been violated, and it was always at this point that you’d turn your head to see who was there.
But there never was anyone there, even while the presence of a person remained, pressing heavy against your side.
Cautiously, you looked around, searching for the unseen presence, but after not finding anything, you settled back into the uneasy silence, listening to the sound of the rain on the pavement. It was then, like clockwork, that the hair on the back of your neck stood up, and inexplicably, you felt the inescapable urge to get home as quickly as possible.
And so you stood, the presence shifting like ink in water, hard to place as you walked quickly towards the stoplight, staring up at the neon display of the red, outstretched palm telling you to stop. It flickered, and you grew more anxious as the presence shifted closer, the weight of it like tar against your rain chilled skin, every second that ticked by causing you to tighten like a coiled spring.
It was around here that you would realize you were dreaming. You were never sure what made you realize this, but that was when it clicked for you. Maybe it was the flickering neon sign, flicking between ‘stop’ and ‘walk’ like an old projector, or maybe it was the way the sound of the rain faded away to be replaced by slight, tentative footsteps, though the rain continued to fall.
The display switched to ‘walk,’ and you hurried across the crosswalk, head ducked low, trying to ignore the way you could hear those footsteps slipping perfectly into time with your own, but no matter where you looked, there was nothing there. You slowed down, so did it, and if you sped up, it did the same.
As you grew sick with dread, repeating over and over in your head that it was just a dream, you broke into a run, and so did whatever was following you. Your chest got tighter and tighter, and you had to stop as you coughed and hacked, struggling to breathe, and pitch black bile sprung past your lips, splattering the pavement. You could feel it grabbing you, feel its arctic breath on your skin as your vision dotted with black, and you knew you were dying, but you couldn’t move.
You didn’t think you were supposed to feel pain in dreams. Or at least, nothing like the real thing, just a cheap imitation conjured up by your brain, a memory of what pain felt like. But what you felt as you coughed harder and harder, inky liquid staining the front of your clothing, streaking your skin, it felt like the real thing.
Your vision dimmed.
And that was it. All you had to do then was wait to wake up.
. . .
It was a seamless transition, from the velvety black of death to the dark behind your eyelids, the sounds of the city streets outside your apartment alive with murmuring sound, sometimes made louder if you’d left your bedroom window cracked open.
You were on the couch this time. The television was on; you could hear it softly, set to a low volume. Your chest hurt, and so did your head.
You groaned as you shifted on the sofa, still heavy eyelids dragging open as you sat up, putting your heavy head in your hands. You had no idea how long you’d been asleep, just that every time you had that stupid dream, you felt like you hadn’t slept at all. Exhaustion tugged at the corners of your mind as you slid off the sofa and onto your feet, trudging to the bathroom, where you flicked on the light.
Your reflection was a disheveled echo of what you usually looked like, your hair a tangled halo around your head, your eyes ringed with dark circles. You knew without looking at any clock what time it was. Three in the morning. It always was, when you woke up from that dream, like a scripted event in some kind of video game.
Leaning forward, you clasped the edges of the sink basin with your hands, taking a deep, shaking breath. They had started off staggered, the dreams. It didn’t happen the first few nights you slept in the apartment after moving in roughly two weeks ago, and the first time you had the dream, you’d been so terrified that you slept with the lights on for the next few days. These days, you had the dream almost nightly. Sometimes it would start off as something else, and then it would slowly bleed into the rainy dreamscape you’d become familiar with.
You released the sink, moving back to finger comb your hair, shedding your pajamas before stepping into the shower, turning the water up as high as it would go. The hot water felt good on your aching muscles, and you relished in the temporary relief, resting your forehead against the cool tile wall. You felt sick. You’d felt sick all week, but nothing you did made it go away. You decided to see a doctor the next day, whenever available, as you looked down at your bare body, eyes scanning over the purpling bruises that patterned your skin.
With a tired sigh, you lathered your scalp, rinsing and repeating before smoothing conditioner over the ends of your hair. You didn’t spend much longer in the shower, turning off the water as soon as your hair was rinsed clean, toweling yourself off and brushing your hair out until it was free of tangles.
You really did feel sick. You stared at your appearance in the fogged over mirror, your skin reddened from the heat of the water, and you looked sick as you felt. Maybe you had the flu. Or some kind of weird stomach bug. That didn’t explain the nightmares, nor did it explain the bruises, but it explained some of the symptoms. Nausea rolled over you like a breaking wave, and you grimaced, pressing your palm against the mirror to pop open the medicine cabinet. After searching for a few moments with your eyes, you found what you were looking for, and you picked up the pink bottle, frowning at the lack of weight to it.
You were out of Pepto Bismol.
Fantastic.
You mentally ran over what you had in the house to alleviate nausea, and came up blank. You didn’t have any ginger ale, or anything with ginger in it besides a package of ginger cookies, but your appetite had been a fickle beast these past few weeks. Sometimes you were so ravenous that devouring everything in the house was all you could think about. Other times, the thought of eating so much as a slice of plain bread made your stomach roil.
There was a twenty-four hour grocery store around the corner. You’d been there before, during the daytime. You weren’t exactly keen on leaving your apartment at this hour, but you needed something to calm your upset stomach. Reluctantly, you trudged into your bedroom, quickly dressing in whatever sweats you could find before tugging on a pair of socks, as well as some sneakers. You grabbed a coat from the closet by the front door, grabbing your purse and keys from the side table.
You looked like hell, and you knew it as you stared at your reflection, displayed in the small mirror above the entry table. Your hair was untangled, but you still looked like you hadn’t slept in weeks. And, in a sense, you kind of hadn’t. At least, not well. You flipped the collar of your coat up in a half-assed effort to hide your face, and threw the deadbolt, locking the door behind you.
The hall was quiet, as was the elevator ride down, and you weren’t surprised by this, given the hour. It felt weird, seeing the deserted lobby, the front desk vacant. You checked your coat pocket for your keys, and after finding that they were, in fact, there, you took a deep breath, stepping out into the freezing October night.
It was clear outside, the sky smattered with faint stars, dimmed by the lights of Celestia City. The moon was a crescent, casting silvery light over the rooftops and threading through dark corners, the pass of wispy clouds over the moon making the light move like it was a living thing. A city like this had a heartbeat, one you could feel through the soles of your feet. It felt good to be outside, you decided, your head clearing with each deep breath.
On instinct, as one often does when leaving home, you turned, eyes searching for the balcony on the third floor, the one that opened into your living room. You didn’t know why you always did this, or why you saw others do it as well. Maybe it was just habitual. Maybe you liked to look up to where you lived, imagining yourself sitting on the balcony, overlooking the very street you were standing on. And you never saw anything there when you looked, not even at your old apartment, the one that got too expensive for you to keep, farther uptown.
There shouldn’t be anything there, sans the folding patio chairs you’d arranged on the balcony with the little glass-top table between them. And you could see those, through the slats of the balustrades supporting the balcony railing. But there was something else, too. The chairs and table belonged there. This didn’t.
You weren’t sure what made you see it. You shouldn’t have been able to. It was barely visible, a shadow silhouetted against shadow, and, in any logical situation, it wouldn’t be visible. But you could see it. A figure, standing just inside the sliding glass doors of the balcony. You stared at it, and you didn’t know why, but you knew it was staring back.
From what you could make out, it was very tall. Tall enough that it took up the entire right panel of glass that made up one half of the doors, but very, very thin. You had no idea what it was, but as you continued to look, a sense of wrongness overtook you, every cell in your body telling you that you were not supposed to see this. Fear thundered through your veins, more potent than anything you’d ever felt before, drownings out every other thought you may have been having before you laid eyes on that figure.
There’s someone in the house, there has to be.
You considered yourself to be a logical person. You’d always been a skeptic of anything paranormal or weird. You were always one to ignore the little, uneasy voice in the back of your head, asking what if when you heard a bump in the night, and you were always the first to reassure your anxious friends that it was just a leaky pipe or the house settling when they heard a sudden noise at a sleepover. ‘A good head on her shoulders,’ people said, when asked to describe you. You never believed in ghosts or monsters, all that had stopped when you were a kid.
But as you stared at the figure on your balcony, all you were was afraid, and nothing about the mess of thoughts running through your head was logical.
Intruder, you tried to tell yourself, but that little what if in the back of your head, the one you’d been so good at silencing before, was louder than your voice of reason.
No. No.
Get a grip.
You looked down at your shoes, watching your breath turn to mist in front of your face. Maybe it was the exhaustion. Exhaustion causes hallucinations. You knew it did. With careful precision, you tucked that worried part of yourself back into its corner, telling yourself that when you looked up, the figure would be gone. You rubbed your tired eyes, taking a few deep breaths before raising your head.
At first, you thought you’d been correct. It had disappeared from your balcony. You breathed a sigh of relief, mentally chiding yourself for immediately jumping to danger mode, and you half turned away to continue your walk to the store, but then, something caught your eye.
Your heart dropped into your stomach like an oversized anvil, and your mouth went dry.
It wasn’t gone. It had moved.
Fear blossomed in your chest, quickly spreading throughout your body as you stared at the doors leading into the lobby, where whatever had been upstairs was now standing.
That was not a person. You didn’t know what it was.
Everything about it was setting off alarm bells in your head, telling you that what you were looking at was wrong, that it shouldn’t exist. What you were looking at was something out of a nightmare.
Backlit by the dim lights of the lobby, you could see that it was built like a child’s drawing of a person, a living stick figure, its body the color of charcoal, like gathered shadows. It was as if someone had erased a space in the scenery in front of you, leaving a dark spot behind. The only thing you could liken the body to was old photos of famine victims, gaunt and emaciated, with each protruding bone visible. Its fingers were long and thin, tapering off into points. And its face.
Its eyes were like empty pits, somehow darker than its already pitch black body, like yawning voids of absolute nothingness. You could see no mouth, though you figured it was there, full of needle sharp teeth, set in jaws which were far too wide to fit its head. And finally, atop its head were a pair of horns. They were tall, extending far above, gnarled like old tree branches, fading off into transparency, dissipating like smoke.
One of its hands was flattened against the door, like it was going to push it open, those endless eyes fixed on you. It wasn’t just mere coincidence that whatever this thing was had been on your balcony. You could tell from the way that it was looking at you that it meant you harm, and as you stared back at it, terrified to look away or even blink, you felt like your feet had been cemented to the sidewalk.
And then, nothing.
You were still standing there, on the street, motionless, and you could still feel the pass of the late autumn air against your exposed skin, the sounds of the distant traffic and the whisper of the breeze filling your ears. You could still see, could still smell, could still touch. But you felt nothing. All the fear and anxiety and bone deep exhaustion had vanished without a trace, leaving you feeling like an endless pit had opened inside of you, taking the place of the emotions you should be feeling, but weren’t.
It should scare you. But it didn’t. You didn’t even realize you were moving, not until you saw your hand moving in your periphery, and you realized you were standing at the door back into the building. Something deep inside of you started at the realization, prickles of fear dancing up and along your spine, but whatever had taken root in your mind swatted them away like one would a pesky fly.
Your fingers wrapped around the push bar of the door, and you froze.
Stop it.
You shook your head, confused; disoriented. Your wrist flexed as you began to push the door, and then you realized. This wasn’t right.
Don’t see, something said, never see, never, never see, neverseeneverseeneverseeNEVERSEE—
You felt like your head was filled with television static, the volume dial stuck on maximum. It was a mess of fog and conflicting thoughts, all slamming against each other with enough force to make your head ache, their voices overlapping into nothingness. And then, through all of that, one single voice spoke up.
Open the door.
The voice was more disorienting than anything else you were feeling. It was both cold and warm, firm but gentle. It reminded you of several things; of a mother trying to coax a small child to do something, or of a teacher trying to encourage a wayward student. Patient, loving kindness, that seemed to know better than you. Your wrist twitched again, but you froze, your breath stuttering in your lungs.
THIS IS NOT RIGHT.
Another voice was screaming in your ears, at the top of its lungs, trying to drown out the other voice, which was now chanting the gentle command to please open those doors, over and over again, mixing with the other, frantic voice in a cacophony of confusing noise. Something in you was fighting so hard, screaming itself hoarse, and you still felt nothing.
Let me in, (Y/N).
You squeezed your eyes shut, blinking rapidly. A soft, gentle chuckle filled your head.
Let… In. Let me in.
The words were weird, you realized, all at once, the voice itself sounded wrong. It sounded like something was trying to imitate human speech, well practiced but still imperfect. Something about the cadence was just not quite right, the pitch too inconsistent. Your grip on the push bar loosened. Your head felt like it was about to explode, the coaxing voice erupting into screams of rage.
It was now shrieking at you with a voice that sounded like several people all speaking over each other, in a language you couldn’t understand, that you’d never learned or even heard, but somehow, you knew exactly what was being said.
God has left you.
The words were spoken in an unfamiliar tongue, but the meaning was being filtered into plain English.
Let me in, you st̸̘͖͉̟̾̅͒̕̚ͅu̴̩̠̼̞̐̑́ṕ̶̛̰̜̘̯̦̝̈́͗̓̏̉͜ͅị̴͍̣̤̬̫̬̅ḏ̶͓̗̲͓̥͓͍̥̫͎̗͈̥̏͋͗̆̐ ̶̢̡͖̂̐̐b̴̜̲͕̪̤̙̝̱̋̔̃̇̍̎̍i̵͕͇̮̗̩̰͚͓͎̝̟͍̦͋̊̊͗̈́̐͗́ț̷͕͎̫̫̺̙̖̞̅͊͆͊̑͛͛͑̈́̈́͜͜͠c̸̫̳̥̙̠̠̠̥͉̠̅̑͒̍͛̏̿͊̈͝h̸̢̛̤͈̪̮̪͖̱͒̓̇͠ͅ. Your putrid soul is mine. I will tear your f̴͙̞̝̺̳̙̮̫̔̍̎̂̒̇͐̀͒̀̎̐̑̾̉͜ͅi̷̜̤͙̓̀̒̃̄̍̕l̷̺̼͕̞̯̭̺̗̇̑̄̂̌͂̊͂͘t̵̗̩̠̏̏̉̈́̑̐͠͝ͅh̷̥̖͚͓̫̹̆̈́̾͌́̅̄͑͝y̵̮̥̲̩̙̥͆̍ͅ ̶̧̛͕̤̺͎͚̝̗͎͈̺̔͂̀̈̈́͐͌͂̈́͛̚͝c̵͓̄͊̿͂̌̿̀͘å̵̢̰̯͖̈́̏͒̓̉́͆͋ṙ̶͉̠̀̉c̵̝͖̤̰͓̳̆̽̽̔̂̏̌̂ą̶̲̤͈͔̼̻̮̲̖̦̔̀ş̸̱̠̪͖̕ś̷͍͑̍̃̍͒̀̇̽̈́̐̕apart and devour your heart.
There it was. There was that fear you’d been missing, trickling back in like an unblocked river, crashing forward when whatever was keeping your free will away was damaged. And among that fear, your will to fight came back, too.
But your hand was still wrapped around the push bar. You tried to speak, to bite back, but all that came out was slurred gibberish, tripping over your clumsy tongue, and your head filled with horrible laughter, taunting, and your wrist moved again, pushing, that artificial non-feeling wrestling against your own genuine feeling.
You swore you hadn’t opened the door. You hadn’t even felt yourself give the final push. But a single little inch was enough.
The creature rushed forward like the tide, a bony hand closing around your throat, and you got your first look at its horrible face up close. Its eyes were endless, and when you peered into them, you saw terrible things. You saw your loved ones dying in unimaginable ways, your life going wrong in any way possible, yourself getting sicker and sicker and dying alone and in the dark. You saw hell in those eyes, showing you all the things it knew you feared.
You are mine, the creature, the demon said in that strange language of overlapping voices.
Black spots swam across your vision, and even when you tried to scream, you found you were unable to. You were going to die, or get possessed, or whatever it was this thing had in store for you. Your mind was growing weaker, the cold of its reach ensnaring your struggling soul, pain radiating throughout your chest, making you cough hoarsely.
The demon’s other hand moved, claws scraping against your sternum, burning your flesh, trailing up to your chin to poise it between two claws, forcing you to meet its eyes.
Give in.
It was back to coaxing, and from the way it spoke, it made surrender sound so, so, sweet. Your head lolled forward, even when the other half of you, the half that was fighting, screamed at you to block it out. The demon got closer, the hand on your chin joining the other one around your throat, squeezing so tight you felt like your head would pop off. Your fingers lifted, clawing at the demon’s hands weakly, but your nails scrabbled uselessly as it dragged you closer.
Your hands dropped.
It’s no use.
You couldn’t tell which voice was yours and which one was the demon’s anymore. You didn’t want to give in, you wanted to fight, but you were so tired. Your shoulders sagged, tears streaking your frigid cheeks as your body convulsed, suffocating heat flooding your every pore. You felt like you were being invaded, like something was shoving aside your mind to replace it with something else, and it made your stomach twist. It was like when you go too deep in a pool, and water begins to fill your nostrils, burning your sinuses and your throat. All you could see was black, your vision overtaken by inky smoke, filtering into your body.
And then you felt something new.
Everything stopped, all at once. Your thoughts and non-thoughts crashed together like dominoes, all falling down and into disarray, even as something struggled to keep them upright.
You could hear another voice.
This one was real, outside your head. You struggled to understand the words, trying to kickstart your brain into working again, and you tried your hardest to listen.
“Blessed Michael, archangel, defend us in battle…”
Your head was swimming, and you heard the demon shriek, in rage and pain, though you weren’t sure if it was inside your head or out.
“…be our protection against the wickedness and snares of the devil…”
Prayer. Someone… praying?
“May God rebuke him, we humbly pray…”
Deep inside yourself, you realized you knew this prayer; the prayer to Saint Michael.
“…and do thou, O Prince of the heavenly host, by the power of God, thrust into hell Satan and all the evil spirits who prowl about the world seeking the ruin of souls.”
The words, that you thought you’d forgotten, rose to your lips like soda bubbles, and you prayed softly along, your breath slowly coming back to you as you whispered out…
“Amen.”
You were suddenly tumbling down, onto your knees, your palms making harsh contact with the sidewalk. Everything in your body was in utter agony, your head pounding and so, so loud. The praying continued, drowned out by the deafening shrieking that echoed in and outside of your skull. The voice of the demon was cursing the newcomer, calling him names and threatening horrifying violence, all in that language you shouldn’t be able to understand. But the newcomer was undeterred.
His hand touched your forehead and you shivered violently, your skin crawling, and when he splashed you with water, it both burned and felt like a relief. Your body was awash with bizarre, conflicting sensations, making you want to scream, but no sound came out. The voice of the demon switched between screaming and cursing you or the apparent exorcist, and all you wanted was to get it out.
He scooped you into his arms, and your limbs moved on their own and with an inhuman strength, shoving and hitting as he swung you over one shoulder. You barely registered the movement of his body as he ran, continuing to pray while whatever was inside of you used your mouth to snarl like an animal.
Your back hit metal, and you could hear shouting as something closed around your wrists, even as you struggled, eyes wide and rolling into the back of your skull. You could hear an engine coming to life, the sounds of tires, the wind picking up.
It was when he began to ask for the prayers of the Saints that your body began to convulse. Your own voice, though not spoken by you, exited your lips, pleading for help, for the exorcist to stop, and all the while, the hijacker was trying its best to sound helpless and small and weak.
“Be unto her, O lord, a fortress of strength…”
Your hands clenched into fists as something stirred inside of you, your jaw wrenching open in an inaudible scream.
“I command thee, unclean spirit, whosoever thou art, along with all thine associates who have taken possession of this handmaid of God, that, by the mysteries of the Incarnation, Passion, Resurrection and Ascension of our Lord Jesus Christ—”
“Foolish exorcist,” came a voice, wrenched from the depths of your own chest, “I have already taken her worthless soul.”
No, no, you were here, you were still here, the voice was lying. You felt like you were trapped in a locked room, trying and failing to pry open the door. You felt trapped, helpless, and your only hope was this stranger succeeding in this battle for your very soul.
“There you are,” the exorcist said, and without missing another beat, he continued.
“…by the descent of the Holy Spirit, by the coming of our Lord unto judgment, thou shalt tell me by some sign or other thy name and the day and the hour of thy departure.”
The demon, so furious for being interrupted in its final stages of fully possessing you, shrieked in rage, but it was growing weaker, its hold on you slipping.
“I command thee, moreover, to obey me to the letter, I who, though unworthy, am a minister of God; neither shalt thou be emboldened to harm in any way this creature of God, nor the bystanders, nor any of their possessions.”
Your own voice finally broke through in a scream of pain and terror, a string of pleas and sobs on your tongue before the demon yanked you back under.
“She’s a fighter,” you heard a woman’s voice say, “come on, girl, don’t let the bastard win.”
Prayers flowed like water, washing over you, soothing you like someone applying salve to a burn. Holy water seared against your skin, making the unholy creature inside of you howl, and you convulsed, hissing and spitting when you felt the exorcist anointing your brow.
It all blurred together after that. Your own consciousness, your soul was beginning to grow stronger, and when the exorcist demanded a name once more, a name that felt unfamiliar and ancient slipped past your clumsy human tongue.
The name, pronounced back flawlessly by the exorcist, was like a jolt of lightning down your spine, and it was with that name that the exorcist commanded the unclean spirit back to Hell, his words reverberating through every fiber of your being. Your body lifted on its own, chest arched into the air, legs twitching, the voice that wasn’t yours screaming at the top of your lungs, and…
Everything… stopped. All at once, so abruptly that it made your breath catch in your throat. You could feel something struggling inside of you, yanking itself away from your soul in a frenzy, in a hurry to leave your now-blessed and battered body.
Your own thoughts flooded your mind like a tidal wave, hitting you all at once. You slumped forward, coughing violently, tears suddenly pouring down your cheeks. You felt the restraints on your wrists being loosened, then released, and you hugged your arms close to your chest. Nausea roiled, seizing in your stomach, and you suddenly found a bucket thrust into your hands as your body jolted forward. You coughed hard, pitch black liquid spilling from your mouth. You retched until your throat was raw and the bucket was half full of a reeking, inky substance. You gingerly set it beside your legs, your shaking hands threatening to drop it.
Sweat was sticky against your skin, making your hair flatten against your head, and you slumped back, eyes finally beginning to focus on your surroundings.
You were in a van. It had been redone and decorated, with shelving units on either wall, full of thick volumes and various bottles of liquid or herbs or something similar. The lighting was dim, being cast by a single camping lantern sitting on one of the seats, which were arranged in a row against the wall. The lantern was fastened in place with a seatbelt, which would have been kind of funny to you in any other circumstances. Beneath you was a carpeted floor, though you were currently sitting on a plastic tarp, probably with your demon-induced vomiting in mind. Finally, above the double doors leading out of the van, there hung a crucifix.
Two people were beside you, one on either side. A man and a woman.
The woman had messy, crimson red hair, styled in a choppy bob cut. Her skin was very pale, her eyes, ringed with dark circles, the color of mahogany. She was dressed in leather and studs, a motorcycle jacket hugging her body, which was long and limber. She was very beautiful, in a dark, gothic way. A silver cross hung on a chain around her neck.
And the man… His skin was a beautiful shade of tawny, contrasted sharply by the silvery white of his hair, which reached just below his shoulders, tied half back. His bangs fell across his forehead in a gentle swoop, partially covering his right eye but falling gracefully around his face. His face itself was a collection of sharp angles; high cheekbones and a strong jawline, a straight, very gently upturned nose, thin heart shaped lips, and narrow, fine brows that were turned ever so slightly downwards, giving him a mildly irritated look. His eyes, though, were the most striking part of him. They were upturned and angular, framed with pale lashes, with irises the color of polished bronze. He was dressed dark, like the woman, in dark jeans and a sweater, paired with heavy work boots.
He looked like…
”An… angel?”
You watched his brows press together at your comment, maybe more concerned about the hoarse quality of your voice, or the way everything seemed to be spinning. You fell backwards, the man and the woman doubling and tripling as they left your line of sight, your back hitting the floor. You were more tired than you’d ever been in your life, and you felt your eyelids beginning to flutter closed.
Everything went black in a matter of mere seconds.
This week’s Sabbath School commentary asks whether modern believers in the Bible should become complicit in the magical worldview of the Eph
For we wrestle not against flesh and blood, but against principalities, against powers, against the rulers of the darkness of this world, against spiritual wickedness in high places.
- Ephesians 6:12
For by him were all things created, that are in heaven, and that are in earth, visible and invisible, whether they be thrones, or dominions, or principalities, or powers: all things were created by him, and for him:
- Colossians 1:6
Therefore, since we are surrounded by such a great cloud of witnesses, let us throw off every encumbrance and the sin that so easily entangles, and let us run with endurance the race set out for us. Let us fix our eyes on Jesus, the author and perfecter of our faith, who for the joy set before Him endured the cross, scorning its shame, and sat down at the right hand of the throne of God.…
- Hebrews 12:1-2
For I am sure that neither death nor life, nor angels nor rulers, nor things present nor things to come, nor powers, nor height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord.
- Romans 8:38-39
The demons begged Jesus, “If you drive us out, send us into the herd of pigs.”
- Matthew 8:31
I find it odd that a professed Christian is willing to accept the "Magic Man in the Sky" concept while mocking the "principalities and powers of this world" as naïve. If you accept the one, the other must at least be plausible.
As an Adventist, I would expect an even greater sympathy for the unseen given that there's an elaborate "investigative judgement" as part of our soteriology to prove the righteousness of God to the universe/cosmos.
I think there are several threads of thought here that I'm trying to untangle.
The first is an overly materialist view of the Universe, an Atheistic Therapeutic Deism view of life. I have no idea what the person who wrote this article thinks heaven might be like, if he even believes in a heaven or if that idea slips into his category of superstitious fantasy. What about a bodily resurrection - realistic, or fantastic? What exactly does he think Christianity is if not acknowledging and engaging with the powers of light and darkness that surround us? Is all "demon possession" merely an imbalance of the humors, or perhaps, just "an undigested bit of beef, a blot of mustard, a crumb of cheese, a fragment of underdone potato"?
It's hard to say. He seems to be intellectually conflicted, and completely unsure as to what he believes.
A double minded man is unstable in all his ways.
- James 1:8
Depending upon a man's disdain for the spiritual, this line of thinking could lead to a very narcissistic Theology. One that emphasizes embracing and enjoying modern materiality culture such as lust, ambition, and avarice over the spiritual fruits of the Spirit.
The second thread of thought here, after embracing materiality over spirituality, is the idea that the Bible can't be trusted.
Now, I've made it clear that I'm not necessarily a Sola Scriptura kind of guy, but that doesn't mean that I replace it with modern notions of critical scholarship that throws out what I don't like, and interprets the rest to conform to my biases, proclivities, and passions.
Big No.
I look to those who think and write in the oldest Christian traditions I can find. Some of them may actually be modern, but all have been immersed in the waters of an ancient Christian Orthodoxy that predates Luther and even Pope Leo IX.
Thinkers who write in a tradition that predates all the Christian Schisms in the West. St. Isaac the Syrian, St Athanasius the Great, St. Gregory Palamas, St. Anthony the Great - many of the desert fathers to be sure - St. Gregory of Nazianzus, St. Irenaeus, St. John Chrysostom, St. Symeon the New Theologian, Pseudo-Dionysius the Areopagite, among many, many others.
The truth is, if you believe in God, and in his angels, then you must also recognize that Satan and demons exist too. They are two sides of the same coin. To think otherwise is to assert that we live in the best of all possible worlds - because only God and his angels exist.
I contend that we do not, in fact, live in the best of all possible worlds.
Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God,
Have Mercy upon me,
A Sinner.
