ON SLEEP
The professor continued his lecture: ‘ … and … and … it is a well known fact that … the mind keeps working while we sleep …’
It was becoming increasingly hard for him to continue. The world seemed to be spinning. He knew he should have had more sleep; pressures made it impossible; he had an experience of deja vu. He continued: ‘In particular, during REM sleep, we dream.’
‘And what does REM mean?’ asked his only listener, alone in the auditorium.
‘What? Oh, rapid eye movement – it is how we tell a person is dreaming – the eyes … they dart from side to side under the eye lids.’
‘Fascinating,’ said the listener, a sickening expression upon his face. After all, he had reason. He had only recently discovered the identity of the man who had had an affair with his wife.
‘May I continue?’ asked the professor. Receiving a ‘yes’, he said: ‘I even have studies on-going to see if, during the dream state, a person from outside can communicate or direct the dream.’
The listener interrupted once more: ‘And if true, does that mean the dreamer must obey?’
‘My research suggests it is a possibility,’ the professor agreed.
The listener began to laugh at that point, and the professor couldn’t help but notice a similarity to a recent dream. He wasn’t immediately aware that his eyes were darting from side to side, but from the far recesses of his mind, he heard the voice of the listener saying, ‘you will never wake up, ever.’
The professor continued his lecture: ‘ and … and … it is a well known fact that …
THE OLD MAN
To lose faith is to lose life, to suffocate, bereft of the air of spirituality you breathe. To lose faith is to lose direction, to turn your existence upside down and exist in a psychological labyrinth which traps you and will not let you out. To lose faith ...
I had lost my faith; which was all the more alarming because I was a vicar.
How could I stand in front of my congregation, now, and speak of the love of God when God is no longer in my life? How can I comfort the bereaved, tell them that the loved one exists in Heaven, when I no longer believe in such a place? How could I lie to myself, as I kneel before the altar, as I partake of his body and blood!
I could not.
So I left the Church, took off my dog collar and began to build a new life for myself.
I had to do it - be true to myself - even though I had realised I had been touched by evil. But in being touched, I realised Christian faith was not enough, for it couldn't understand, really, the nature of the evil around us. It is far more fundamental than the story of evil the Church tells.
That evil first touched me one night as I sat in the church, praying. I felt the presence long before I saw it; sensed its cold touch on my shoulder, its icy breath touch my cheek.
I turned, and there beside me stood the old man.
His grey hair and wrinkled face - even his slight stoop - were like many old men and offered nothing of which to be afraid. But the vision began with those eyes; eyes which seemed to go right back to the centre of the universe, infinite, timeless, and bringing out, in their gaze, the blackness that IS that centre.
He was dressed completely in black, but it was a blackness more than a mere colour; it was almost as if his clothes were a barrier to light, as if light could not penetrate the attire of this old man. And around his neck the inverted cross; the symbol that said it all; that advertised that this man was on the errand of Satan.
He never did anything to me as he stood there. He never did anything at all; not then, not during the dozens of similar appearances over the next week or two. He simply appeared, stayed a moment and departed.
I would be in a Parish meeting and he would appear behind the secretary. I would be officiating at a funeral and he would rise from the grave. I would be asleep, restlessly, in bed, and he would appear by my bedside.
'What do you want?' I would ask, but I would receive no reply. He would just stand there and stare, deep, deep into my soul.
I tried to rid myself of this unGodly stalker by official means. I would pray, I would sprinkle Holy water. I would perform exorcism, but my faith was unable to shift this infernal presence, and I realised it was more powerful than the God I thought to be all powerful.
How can faith continue with such an obvious truth?
Of course, there were other ways to fight the spiritual fight, I knew. From early on in theological college we were warned - told of the two paths to the Godhead; of the good path, and of the evil. And it was in this direction I decided to go, for in the evil we had the chance to confront, to talk, find out the whys of the universe that had been invested in Christ.
It was at this point I knew my faith was gone; at this time, as I read the Grimoires, as I practiced the mind control, as I descended into the other ritual, I realised I had to take good into evil by using its own tricks. But would I have done so if I'd understood, really, the powers with which I was playing?
The argument is pointless - now. For I did it.
Maybe, if I'd used a magic circle for protection rather than relying on the love of God it would not have ended as it did. Or maybe it was inevitable that it had to end like this. But regardless, I did the ritual, relaxed my mind, adopted the posture, and allowed my mind to leave my body.
It was a beautiful feeling, being up there, looking down upon myself. Unrestricted by body, the mind is omnipotent, all seeing and fantastic. And momentarily my mind was gone from my body and from the reality I knew and I existed in a void.
In all directions I saw everything and saw nothing, knew everything and knew nothing, and then, the old man was with me, staring.
I asked 'why?' - such a simple question, but if we understood why we would know everything. And maybe that is the point, for in knowing everything we are a god ourselves.
He didn't answer me. He just stood there and stared as he had done before, so many times. But I wanted more, much more and I moved towards him, and as our essences touched, I began, at least, to understand.
Back in the real world, there were so many new questions brought out by my understanding - for instance, what could I now say of evil? Was it real, a force in the world, or was it more an attitude of man? As for my experience, had it really happened, or had it all been a dream? And if it had happened - if I really had touched something in this other-reality - was it simply that I had taken on the negativity of the world, or had I been possessed?
All I know is that when I looked in the mirror, I saw him.
Maybe I'm mad, but I saw him. I saw the grey hair, where before it was black. I saw the wrinkles, where before there were none. I saw I was the old man. Yet I'm only thirty.
BED MATE
Is the world we see about us real or illusion? Is the world a hard, material fact, or does reality bend to how we want the world to be? Philosophers and theologians have grappled with this question since history began and never have they provided a satisfactory answer. But in our day to day lives we need not worry about such things. Or should we?
I had decided to investigate the strange world to which I now belonged – become, for want of a better word, an investigator. And when James Berford came to see me I can only describe his demeanour as terrified.
'I need help,' he said as he sat in front of my desk.
I was immediately on edge as he said this, as his voice had that shaky hysteria of unpredictability. 'Perhaps you'd better tell me the problem,' I said.
'It's that clown. It's evil, pure evil. I know it is. And I'm sure it's going to kill my son.'
I offered as serene a smile as possible, although I must admit my alarm was rising by the second.
'The clown?' I asked.
'That bloody toy. It's demonic. It is, I'm telling you!'
It took me a long time to settle him down - to get from him the facts in as calm and logical a way as possible. And the facts seemed to be these: Four months ago baby Paul had been
born to James and Jenny Berford. And for the first week or so everything had gone exactly as had been expected. But then, as they were passing a toy shop, Jenny Berford had had an impulse to rush into the shop and buy a toy clown as bed mate for her baby.
'And ever since then,' James continued, 'she's changed. She's no longer happy, but goes around in a daze. And the only time she seems right is when she's holding that bloody clown. It's as if she's got a relationship with it. And both me and Paul are ignored.'
The explanation seemed obvious enough to me, but I decided it would be best to see what was going on for myself. Hence, under the pretence of being a friend and business associate I was invited to the house. And whilst I had decided that it was a simple case of post-natal depression with all emotions transferred to an inanimate object, the second I stepped into the house, a deep chill seemed to descend upon me.
This sense of unease infected everything in the Berford household, with even James losing his sense of the terrified and instead becoming almost comatose.
Jenny, herself, was clearly depressed. But I also sensed, in James, that everything was not quite right. Could I have been wrong in my initial hypothesis? Was it a simple case of post-natal depression, or could James, himself, be exhibiting a form of paranoia, perhaps based on the jealousy of his son, his wife no longer giving him the attention he felt he deserved?
I knew from that moment on that it would be a difficult case; but a case I had to get to the bottom of quickly, for it was clear that baby Paul's life could well be in danger.
Conversation, during my visit, was strained, even melancholy, and the oppressive nature of the house would simply not go away. And when, after asking to see their son, I went upstairs, I can only report that the eerie feeling of the place intensified.
Baby Paul slept peacefully in his cot, but even this most beautiful sight could not lift the mood, for beside him laid the clown, and I knew how easy it was to be delusive about such things.
The clown was a simple stuffed toy, about two feet long with yellow trousers, red and white stripped shirt, a huge bow-tie and blue jacket. But there was something about the clown's face that stirred in me my appreciation of evil.
I knew it was inanimate, but somehow the hint of animation was upon that face, as if it somehow knew what was going on; perhaps even playing a part.
As I left the house I tried to dismiss this feeling of unease as a by-product of the psychological mess the family was suffering. It was hard enough figuring out whether the problem laid in James or Jenny, without having to add a further, demonic angle to the case.
Finally managing to put these fears to the back of my mind, I knew, of course, what I had to do. Professional help was what James and Jenny Berford required, and I resolved to phone social services the very next morning and hand the case to them.
But if only I had done it straight away, it may not have ended as it did.
The phone rang at two o'clock that morning. Sleepily, I picked it up to be confronted by James Berford's manic voice.
'You've got to come quickly. It's Paul. He's dead!'
I rushed to the Berford household as quickly as I could.
As I entered the house, the same eerie feeling gripped me, as if as soon as you passed the threshold, an altered reality came into being. James Berford was sat, stiffly, on the settee, shock having gripped him and unable to communicate. Jenny was not to be seen, so I rushed upstairs and into Baby Paul's room. He laid there peacefully in death, yet the horror of seeing the slight bruising on his neck was too much for me.
With a heavy heart, I picked up my mobile, resolved to phone the police. Yet as I went out into the hall, the sound of quiet, but happy whisperings came to my ears.
Is the world we see about us real or illusion? I pushed open the door to the master bedroom, the hall light lancing through the dark to highlight the back of Jenny Berford sat on her bed, talking sweetly to the clown she held in her arms. And I swear to you, the clown's arm was stroking her back.
THE HAND OF GOD
I think I still believed in God. As an ex-priest it would be difficult to remove the idea completely. But I suppose the reason I'm an ex-priest concerns what kind of certainty God's existence is.
What an incredible question that would be to answer - to know the mind of God. But for most of us we either ignore the question or take the literal truth of the Bible - that most bloody of books.
So what kind of existence IS God's? Is he a reality as identified in the Bible? Or rather, is he a thought? But a thought so powerful, so omnipotent, and placed so absolutely in people's minds, that he becomes a reality through their actions?
It had been a long time since I had asked the question when Michael Jones came to see me.
He sat before my desk a troubled soul. I had known him for many years, and had been inspired by his belief in God. That he had, eventually, lost his faith had been evident a long time ago. It was I, indeed, who had tried to restore it following his Mission in Africa. But the things he had seen - the corpses, the violence, the hell on Earth - had convinced him there was no room for a God's Creation in our world.
Michael Jones had affected me, then. For I suppose his case had been the first step to my fall from the Church. For if God could cause such disillusion in so believing a soul, there was little hope for the rest of us.
'So why have you come to see me?' I asked as he sat there.
It was natural enough for me to think he had come close to evil and needed my assistance; to wash it away; maybe rejuvenate his love of God. So you can imagine my shock when he told me he had found God once more but wanted to be free of It.
'To be free? Of the love of God?'
'It isn't love,' he rasped, 'not for me. It's a curse.'
I shook my head in disbelief. 'Oh, Michael, how far you have gone to think of God as cruel.'
'More than that,' he said. 'Pure evil.'
I sat back behind my desk. 'Tell me about it,' I said, knowing he had to be wrong.
He filled in the gaps of his life since the last time I had known him. I learnt of his crimes, his moral decline, his sexual perversions. They say that a reformed man becomes the exact opposite of what he was. And in Michael Jones, his fall from faith had caused a fall from moral humanity as he attempted to create his own hell of Earth, and enjoy it.
But this sort of life can never be fulfilling. It is not just Christianity that says this, but all religions. Man is never fulfilled without the spiritual. And the lives of those who are fully material - fully immoral - show the truth of it by their own self-destruction.
'But I was saved from total destruction,' said Michael Jones as he approached the end of his narrative.
'You were?'
'I had realised how deep into evil I had descended, and that there was no hope for me.' He paused, a mask of the greatest pain covering his face. 'So I knew I had to destroy myself. I took an overdose.'
'But you're still here,' I said.
'Yes. I am. And in my journey to near-death God came to me once more and I found the strength to fight for my life. It was a terrific experience, facing death and suddenly realising you don't want to die. Rather, with God's help, I wanted to repair the damage.'
'And with God's help, you won.'
'Oh yes,' said Michael Jones, 'but at a cost.
At that, he held up his hand. Took off the tight glove that covered it - revealed the deep, bleeding wound on his palm.
I sat back in shock.
'The Stigmata,' I said. 'The blood of Christ.'
Michael Jones had been honoured. Or at least, that is one way of taking it. Others would say Michael Jones had descended to such hysteria that the bleeding of his palm was psychological in nature. It is what I said about God at the beginning. Michael's burden was a reality, but from which certainty? That of a real God, or an omnipotent thought?
'It's a curse, my friend. A curse. And I want to be rid of it. Help me to be rid of it, please!'
To fight the mark of
Christ, or to ease a troubled mind?
That was my dilemma. Yet, if the former, I could not be successful. But if the latter, maybe I would know the reality of God.
I had been practising hypnosis of late and was becoming quite good, knowing what a powerful tool it could be for my work with evil. Hence, for several sessions Michael Jones returned for me to attempt to suggest away the wound.
It was the fourth attempt when I was successful. Even through his trance the relief showed, and as I watched the wound it began to disappear.
Michael Jones thanked me from the bottom of his heart, but I found I could not shake his hand. I was too troubled for that, my understanding of what form of certainty God took still evading me.
I could not shake his hand. And when he had gone, I sat on my chair, the pain of the experience filling my body. And as I held up my palm, I saw the Stigmata upon me.
WE MUST GO THERE
The forces in our life are great. We think ourselves individuals, but when we really look at the choices we make in life, how many are really down to our own mind? Are we the result of our own choices, or is this an illusion; a facade which finds its root in the ego and our certainty that we are our own person?
If an illusion, it is a powerful one. But that does not mean it cannot be an illusion; does not mean that we cannot be fooling ourselves; does not mean that, in reality, we cannot be ruled by fate.
Ah, fate - that great leveller; that unique path through life which takes us where it wants us to go, regardless of our own wishes; fate, the great ever-moving advancement of our person, the engine of change, for better or for worse.
'Oh yes, it is all inevitable,' said Barnaby James one day when we were discussing fate.
Barnaby was an eccentric with a mass of curly white hair and blazing eyes. An occultist, I had met him during my research; through my wish to know what this thing called evil is. Yet as I came to know him more and more, I realised if evil existed it was not in this man. He was simply one who loved novelty, and mixed this with a sense of wonder; a sense to know, as strong as any scientist I had ever known. And in his eccentric way, everything he found in the occult had a logic all its own.
I, Horror Page 5
