Reading all the stories here got me to thinking about my own experiences, and after spending several days contemplating things I’ve decided to share an abbreviated version of what actually happened. I don’t typically talk about it, as I’ve learned that there are some things that I’m just not well equipped to deal with.
While the story itself is an accurate portrayal of what I experienced, there are details I’m leaving out and I changed the names (involved) just in case.
Like many of my peers, I played baseball on the town little league team. In a small, rural area like ours, it wasn’t uncommon to see a teammate bring a visiting relative with them to our practices. Back then, vacations were mostly spent visiting family members in other locations.
At least one half of our team consisted of local farm kids who would get up early in the morning to irrigate the crops before going to baseball practice. Our coach always tried to schedule practice sometime in the morning before it got too hot for comfort, but late enough that the farm-kids could get their chores done.
On one particular morning, the team began showing up around 15 minutes before practice was scheduled to start. As usual, we made small talk, in between horsing around, while we waited for the coach to show up. After a few minutes, one of my friends, Bill, showed up with his out-of-state cousin, John, tagging along. Introductions were made and we were soon shaking John’s hand as we fired questions at him.
The moment my hand touched John’s, I knew he was going to die. It was an awful feeling: one that I had never had before. But I didn’t say a word about the horrible image to anyone and chalked my premonition up to irrational thoughts.
After practice, we left to return to our normal summer routines: some of the kids going back to work on the farm and some heading down to the local swimming hole. I was one of the farm kids and headed back to a day of checking the fields being irrigated and mowing the grass in the dirt roads that snaked through our 1200 acres of crops and pastures.
Sitting on a tractor gives you a lot of time to think, and I couldn’t tear my mind away from that dreadful picture conjured up in my mind when I shook John’s hand. John was my age (fourteen) and way too young to die. It had to be a mistake and I set about trying to convince myself that I was imagining things; terrible things that just couldn’t possibly come true.
By the time I came home that night I had all but convinced myself that John was fine: he’d return to his home in a week and spend the rest of his summer hanging out with his friends.
I had no sooner walked in the door when my Dad approached me and told me that he had something he wanted to tell me. By the look on his face, I knew something was wrong, but I assumed that I was in trouble for something I had done (or not done).
John had died that afternoon: less than two hours after I had my premonition. He and Bill had gone out motorcycle riding and John had somehow crashed and broke his neck.
I can’t really describe all the emotions I felt upon learning of John’s death, but one of them was some sort of sick, twisted sense of a newfound power to foresee the future.
Shortly afterwards, I began reading everything I could find about premonitions, psychic abilities and the like. I learned about a third-eye in the middle of your forehead and I learned about a sensitive spot in your back.
I became convinced that I had this ability and my convictions were cemented when lesser premonitions also came true. It wasn’t long before I believed I had an amazing gift of unbelievable powers.
Fast forward a couple of years and I found myself in a battle that still terrifies me to this day.
My best friend was a local kid named Jim; he and I hunted together, fished together and played ball on the same team. When I wasn’t working or out on a date, I was usually hanging out with Jim.
One night, long after everyone had gone to sleep, something came to me and taunted me with threats of harm to my friend, Jim. I wasn’t about to let anything harm Jim and I was completely convinced that my “powers” were strong enough to bar that from happening.
In the beginning I didn’t know who, or what, had awakened me. It wasn’t exactly a voice that could be heard: instead it was more of a presence that was felt, but the intentions rang through as clear as if someone had been standing next to me and yelling as loud as they possibly could.
At first I felt no fear.
Then, once I had accepted the challenge to save Jim from harm, I knew what real fear was.
There was silence and ear-piercing screams of agony all at the same time. I saw brilliant lights of every color imaginable, but none that could be distinguished. I was surrounded by unimaginable evil: I could feel it, taste it even, as it permeated every cell in my body. Its greed was palpable and its lust to do harm immeasurable: it wasn’t happy with merely winning; it had to completely consume anything that stood in its path.
I don’t really know how long the battle lasted: it could’ve been mere seconds or it could’ve been centuries. Man’s concept of time isn’t capable of measuring such things
I woke up totally drenched in sweat. I was colder than I have ever been and I was mentally and physically drained of all energy. It was as though my body had been drained of every last drop of blood, my soul ripped out and a condemned shell left behind.
I had lost.
The Devil had won.
At the time, I didn’t know what that would mean. But I would soon find out.
Not long afterwards, I found myself crying in front of the bathroom mirror. A silent voice was telling me “Do it, Do it, DO IT.”
I didn’t want to die. I hadn’t really begun to live. I was only 16 and I wanted to live.
“DO IT”
With trembling hands no longer under my complete control, I reached into the medicine cabinet and took out two full bottles of long-forgotten prescriptions.
I don’t remember much that happened after that. I know I cried because it was my last day on earth and I greatly feared where I was obviously going.
The next thing I remember is monsters chasing me. My legs wouldn’t work right; the monsters caught me and threw me down to the ground. Somehow I managed to fight my way out of their grip and was running again. But I couldn’t get away; the monsters caught me again and again.
The monsters put me on some kind of platform and strapped my arms and legs down so I could no longer fight them. They started poking me, prodding me with long needles as they yelled at me in a foreign tongue.
I broke the straps and began fighting my way out of their control.
Five days later I woke up: everything was white and I couldn’t hear because of the intense ringing in my ears. My vision was blurry and I asked if I was dead.
I saw my mother: she was crying, the tears were steaming down her face.
I asked her if I was dead.
She said “No, everything is alright.”
She had to say it several times before I understood.
Sometime in the next few days a doctor came in and told me that he didn’t really understand how I was alive. It had been too late to pump my stomach and I had taken enough pills to kill me.
Over time I learned that the “monsters” were hospital staff, a police officer and my father. I had managed to escape them numerous times before they managed to get me on the hospital bed. Then I had broken the leather straps holding down one arm and one leg and they had to subdue me again.
Once I had recovered enough, I returned to school. Nothing was the same: few people would talk to me and several people began ridiculing me, hollering “suicide, suicide” as I was walking down the halls.
Before long, the command was back.
“DO IT.”
“DO IT.”
My parents heard me crying in my bedroom that time and rushed me to the hospital to have my stomach pumped.
The next time, my father walked in as I was attempting to pull the trigger on the loaded 12-guage that was firmly planted in my mouth.
I was sent away to several different psychiatric clinics and spent much of my senior year in and out of places like that.
I did manage to attend my senior year enough to become friends with the foreign-exchange student. Upon graduation, I paid a visit to her host family so I could bid Janet goodbye before she went back to her native country.
Janet was staying with a local family who were very religious, and they happened to attend the same church my family went to. Their oldest daughter, Emily, was my age but we had never been more than casually friendly toward each other.
Emily’s mother was pleasant though a bit off-standing when I asked permission to visit, but she invited me in anyway and the four of us sat down and talked about our plans for the future.
Suddenly Emily began babbling incoherently: she sounded like she was speaking bits and pieces of multiple foreign languages all at once.
Puzzled, I turned to her mother and asked what Emily was saying; telling her that I didn’t understand. Emily’s mother had this horrified look on her face and abruptly told me that Emily was speaking in tongues. After a few more seconds of Emily’s incoherent babbling, her mother stood up and told me that I was the anti-Christ and that I had to leave immediately.
I never saw any of them again and I didn’t get to tell Janet goodbye. I just left in shame; wondering if Emily was correct. I had told nobody about my battle and I couldn’t figure out how they could possibly know. But they did.
The next two years were uneventful as far as the commands were concerned: I had gotten married and my wife had recently given birth to a baby boy. I had everything to live for and seemed to have moved beyond my past.
One day my wife had asked me to pick up a few things from the local store and as I pulled into the parking lot I “hear” it again.
“DO IT”
“DO IT”
I began to cry as I sat there in my truck. I had everything to live for: a wife and my infant son. I wanted to live.
The command came again: “DO IT.”
I was powerless and I knew where this would go. I knew that I should’ve been dead already and that I would be dead if I couldn’t find a way to stop the Devil’s relentless torment.
Exhausted, I said the following out loud:
“Please help me Jesus. I can’t do this anymore and I need your help.”
Like that it was over. I felt a great weight instantly lifted from my shoulders. I felt more alive than I had felt since I first knew John was going to die.
It has been 40 years since that day and I’ve not heard the command one single time since I asked for help. I don’t know why it took me so long to find the answer, but I’m glad that I did.
I can’t really say why I decided to tell my story. I went years without telling a soul, and then I told only a couple of people I knew very well (so I was certain I wouldn’t be judged too harshly). I did share my story online (about 7 years ago) and found that human nature being what it is – there are those who insist on attacking those who have had experiences that they had not had themselves; hence the reason why I took several days prior to deciding to post my experiences.
Hopefully my story will help others learn that it is OK to ask for help: we all need it at times.
)
