Tuesday, April 17, 2012

The Demon’s Hideout

(Minnesota, 1990)

Un-humanized—that is what was happening to my cousin, that is what was taking place the summer, evening he knocked on my door and told me what was taking place in his apartment, he even told me, “My wife’s a witch.” And I suppose that is what happens when you meet the devil’s henchmen, his demonic forces with open arms, and lithely, his wife was doing just that, and she with them were dragging him into their web.

Indissolubly interwoven is how I refer to this transformation that was taking place, first his wife, now him, what made him come to me though? I’ll never know. This all was inexpressively shock to me—I didn’t know what to say, after he had knocked on my door, and told me what he told me, it was as if some good kind force had taken over his spirit for the moment: I kept a flat effect on my face, but an empathetic one with my eyes, I listened for the most part.

When I walked into his apartment at his request—his apartment building being across from mine—which one could see, had he or I looked out of our windows, on the second floor, at one anther, had I been standing in the kitchen and him in the bedroom— as I walked into his apartment building, and then directly up the flight of stairs, and through the door, being openly in his living room—erect, he demanded I tell him where the henchman was hiding; the best reasoning I could get out of him for the cause was, lack of sleep on his behalf—an intruder, invader for the most part, and it irritated him.

A visage that now met my eyes, was a large picture on the wall, it took no more than a few minutes, “He’s in the picture of the lion.” I told him. He looked at me as quizzical, with a tinge of reserve, but more than willing.

He had undergone a fearful change, thus, he quickly took the picture down, and the unwholesomeness, the dark chill that had swept over apartment, like a dark cloud crossing the moon at midnight, vanished, curved, as he put it in a hallway closet, outside of his apartment, and locked it.

“Oh yes, yes that was it,” he said “my wife’s bed was being lifted up last night by the demon; she’s a witch, a witch.” Perhaps that was part of the reasoning he’d not mentioned, being a cause for eviction of the demon; who’s to say?

“But you refuse to leave, you needn’t stay here if you don’t want to be married to a witch,” I suggested. There was no response. It wasn’t I caught on, a matter of leaving; it was a matter of eviction of the demon who was taking control, so I gathered.

But before this all took place within the confines of his living room, I had for a long moment continued looking at the painting—in the eyes of the lion, with the most acute and penetrating glance I have ever been fortunate enough to produce, and likewise encounter, for it equaled mine.

It was all evil with unwholesomeness, putrid, unclean. It is a wonder I told my voice within my mind: that I had been able to identify it so quickly, God was with me: and I had remained calm throughout this whole tribulation, or call it experience.

The unfortunate demon clutched both hands—I’m sure, for this occurrence was an intolerable sting, it was his refuge.

#898 ((April 13, 2012) (11:30 a.m.)) Inspirit by actual events