Evil Possessions

About This Story: This is not fiction. Every detail in this account actually happened to me when I was fifteen years old. Over the course of about five days, I experienced three evil encounters that I can only describe as possessions.

I've carried these memories for decades and am sharing them now because I believe some experiences transcend normal understanding. What happened to me was real, terrifying, and ultimately taught me that faith can be more powerful than any darkness that tries to claim us.

Evil Possessions

The apartment on Strawberry Street felt like luxury to my fifteen-year-old eyes. Two bedrooms upstairs, a bathroom between them, and enough space that I thought we were rich. My mother and stepfather, Jim, had been married by then, though I couldn't remember the ceremony. They'd done it without telling us kids.

My bedroom sat at the front of the apartment. Mom and Jim's room was at the back. Between them stretched a hallway that I walked up to every day after school, climbing those stairs with my school book bag in my hand, thinking about homework or what was on TV.

Mom kept a toilet paper doll on her dresser. She had made it herself, wrapping a roll of toilet paper in fabric and lace, and topping it with a porcelain head. The roll served as the body beneath the doll's dress, hidden by the layers of material. Its glassy eyes stared straight at me into the hallway. Every time I walked past her open door, I saw those eyes fixed in my direction.

I had never liked dolls. Something about their frozen faces and unblinking stares made my skin crawl. This one was no different.

One afternoon in October, I came home from Taft Middle School to an empty apartment. The silence pressed against my eardrums as I dropped my book bag by the front door. I made a peanut butter and jelly sandwich in the kitchen, ate it standing at the counter, then climbed the stairs to my room.

Mom's door was open. The doll sat on her dresser, staring at me as always. I glanced at it for a split second and kept walking.

In my room, I kicked off my shoes and lay down on my bed. My head sank into the pillow, hands clasped behind my neck. I closed my eyes, ready for a nap before starting homework.

The moment my head settled into the pillow, every muscle in my body locked.

I couldn't move my arms. Couldn't turn my head. Couldn't blink. My eyes stayed fixed on the ceiling, wide open, while panic flooded through me like ice water. I tried to lift my hand, flex my fingers, anything. Nothing responded. My body had become a prison, trapping my mind inside paralyzed flesh.

Then I saw the doll.

It appeared above me, floating near my headboard. The same Horrific smile, the same glassy eyes, but now it was here, in my room, suspended in mid-air. I watched, unable to move or look away, as it dropped straight down onto my chest.

The moment it touched me, it vanished.

A vibration started deep inside my body and spread outward, filling every inch of my being. It felt like horror, like something foreign pulsed through my veins, something that didn't belong.

I tried to scream. Nothing came out. I tried to call for help. My throat wouldn't work. But somehow, I could whisper. Just barely, forcing air through my locked vocal cords.

"Get out of me."

The vibration continued, growing stronger.

"Get out of me."

Still there, pulsing through my body like a second life force.

"Get out of me."

The vibration stopped. My muscles unlocked. I could move again.

I shot off that bed and ran downstairs, not stopping until I was outside in the afternoon sunlight. My heart hammered against my ribs as I stood on the sidewalk, gulping cool air and trying to make sense of what had happened.

When Mom came home from work, I told her everything. She listened with raised eyebrows, then giggled.

"That's strange," she said, then quickly changed the subject. But not before mentioning that her bedroom door had been closed when she left the house. It was not closed when I walked up those thirteen steps. Something had opened it, probably making sure the doll could look at me.

I spent the next couple of days convincing myself it had been a nightmare. A weird daydream. Or anything but what it had felt like. Anything but something else inside my body.

A day or two later, I stayed overnight at my sister's downtown apartment. She and her husband lived in a tiny efficiency with their baby son. The couch divided the space into three areas: the living room in front, the bedroom behind, kitchen to the side. I slept on that couch.

The next morning, they left to take their baby to the doctor. I locked the door behind them and settled back onto the couch.

I lay on my left side, ready to go back to sleep. The moment I touched the couch, my body was locked again.

My body was heavy like stone. I could not move my arms, could not shift my legs, could not even close my eyes. Terror crashed over me as I realized it was happening again. This thing, whatever it was, was making another attempt.

But this time, a head appeared directly in front of me.

Bald and completely hairless, something hung from both ears, dangling like jewelry. The head had no body. It was just floating there in front of the couch, slowly turning to face me.

It was a man's face. Not ugly, not deformed, but carrying something in its expression that made my blood freeze. When it looked at me, I felt something like a connection, as if it were looking directly into me, seeing not just my face but everything inside me.

The vibration returned, stronger than before. It flooded through me, locking my body with violent intensity, and this time, I could sense intention behind it. This thing was trying to communicate. The vibration was getting stronger, A feeling that felt like words in some language I didn't understand. It didn't matter if it was trying to talk to me or not. I was only fifteen and I didn't want anything to do with it.

I attempted my defense again. The Entity caused my throat to tighten, but it worked. A faint whisper still escaped. I forced my words through shaking breath, I said, ‘Get out of me… get out of me… get out of me.’ And just like before, it stopped.

The head vanished as if it had melted into the air, leaving no trace. The vibration ceased. My body unlocked, and I could move again.

I sat up on the couch, gasping, and looked around frantically. The head was gone. I checked for my ball cap, hoping I'd confused it for the apparition, but found it under my body on the couch.

I ran outside, locked the door behind me, and waited in the front yard.

When my sister and brother-in-law returned, I tried to explain what had happened. They exchanged glances, the kind that looked as if they thought I was losing my mind. I wasn't.

The next day, I went to Dad's house for the weekend. I had my own room there, just like I did at home with my Mom. It had always been my safe place, filled with my own things, no one else’s. If anywhere could protect me from whatever was hunting me, it would be there.

We watched Beverly Hills Cop and Commando, filling the living room with Eddie Murphy's wisecracks and Arnold's one-liners. Everything felt normal. Safe. I remember watching Commando and seeing Alyssa Milano on screen. When I watched it, I imagined she was my girlfriend.

When bedtime came, I brushed my teeth and changed into pajamas, convinced myself that my ordeal was over. Distance would break whatever connection that thing formed with me. Time would heal whatever wound had opened in my life.

I lay down in my bed and closed my eyes.

Again, my body locked completely, but this time felt different. More thorough. More complete. I tried to whisper my protective words and discovered my mouth wouldn't work at all. My lips were sealed shut, my tongue pinned to the bottom of my mouth. The thing had learned again, adapting its methods to counter my defenses.

The bald head returned, more solid than before. Those earrings hung just as they had before, as it turned to study me. Its features were clearer now, unmistakably human-looking, but carrying something behind the eyes that belonged in much darker places.

The vibration that filled me this time was overwhelming. It was much stronger and felt like a voice. It surged through every cell in my body, trapping my mind in full awareness while my flesh became a vessel for something that felt evil. The sensation was no longer only a feeling. It was unmistakable communication, an evil-feeling voice.

I began to realize that this thing was trying to tell me something. Something I was not ready to hear, or maybe just did not want to accept.

Unable to speak, unable to move, I had one weapon left. My thoughts were still mine. In my mind, I roared the words that had saved me twice before: Get out of me, get out of me, get out of me.

The entity recoiled, its hold shattering like glass. The head vanished. The vibration stopped.

And I could move again.

I lay there afterward, understanding that this would never end on its own. Each encounter was stronger than the last. The thing was learning, growing more powerful, finding new ways to overcome my defenses.

That night, I started thinking about God. Really thinking, not just the Sunday school memories from childhood. I thought about protection, about faith, about forces stronger than whatever was trying to claim me.

Every night after that, as I prepared for sleep, I would repeat the same words until unconsciousness took me: "The bad things are not true, the bad things are not true, the bad things are not true." I built a wall of faith around my mind, brick by brick, prayer by prayer.

And finally, the possessions stopped.

Whether it was the constant prayer, the refusal to accept evil as reality, or simply the power of a faith stronger than fear, the thing never touched me again. The bald head with its terrible earrings faded into memory. The vibrations that had violated my body became just another part of my past.

But I never forgot the feeling of being invaded, of having something foreign pulse through my veins and whisper corruption into my soul. I learned that some things exist in the spaces between what we know and what we fear, waiting for moments of vulnerability to slip through cracks in reality.

Three times, something tried to take me. Three times, I found the strength to fight back. The third time, I discovered that faith could be a weapon, and thoughts could be armor, and the human spirit was harder to break than whatever forces sought to claim it.

I was fifteen years old when I learned that monsters were real. I was still fifteen when I learned I was stronger than they were.

Author’s Note

While I Was Writing

As I was writing about the second possession, I noticed something out of the corner of my eye near the right side of my leg. I quickly turned to look, but nothing was there. I could hear and feel something moving around me, and the eerie sensation became so overwhelming that I had to stop. I decided to go to bed and waited until the next day to continue writing about the third possession.

While I Was Editing

While I was editing this, I had just finished working on the part about the third possession when I heard something in the other room, the living room. I have a small computer room off the living room. I did not know what the sound was at first, but then I heard something moving around. I felt something walk in next to me, and it blocked the light with a shadow several times. I felt it standing right beside me. It felt evil.

I could barely say the words, “Jesus Jesus Jesus,” which I ended up saying a lot more than three times. After about ten or twenty seconds, which felt much longer, I yelled really loud, “Get out of here.” It was hard to say, as if something was trying to block my speech.

I stopped editing and called my wife. She was at work. I asked her how she was doing. She said she was fine, then asked me what was wrong, because I never call her like that while she is working. I told her what had happened. I needed to talk to somebody during that moment because it was freaking me out.

I went and lay on the bed. Our bedroom is off the computer room, on the opposite side of the living room. The computer room separates the bedroom from the living room. It is a small house. Technically, we were told that the computer room is the second bedroom of our two-bedroom house, but we use it as a computer room.

Our bathroom is off the kitchen, which is on the other side of the living room. I usually go through the living room, into the kitchen, and then into the bathroom before going back to the bedroom. This time I did not. I was too freaked out. Being freaked out does not usually happen to me, but this time I felt the evil. I just went into the bedroom and sat on the bed while I was still speaking with her on the phone.

After we finished talking, I lay down so she could get back to her job, and I fell asleep. I had been watching a YouTube video before falling asleep, just to break the silence. I thought I had only been asleep for a minute or two when I heard somebody in the bedroom. I looked up and saw my wife walking out of the room. As she saw me lift my head and turn toward her, she stopped, looking confused, and asked, “You are sleeping?”

I said, “Yeah, only for a couple of minutes.” But then I realized the video on YouTube was already over. When I had gone to sleep, it still had about half an hour left. So I had slept longer than I thought.

She then told me the front door was open when she got home.

I said, “Really?”

She said, “Yeah, but the storm door was still locked. I had to use my key to open it.”

I told her what had happened. I took her to my computer and showed her where I had been in the editing. I was right at the part where I had written about my mom saying her bedroom door was closed when she left. That line was still highlighted on the screen when I heard and felt all of that next to me.

After everything happened, she went to take a nap, and I decided to finish editing and then publish it. Later, I realized I had not actually finished because my train of thought had been thrown off by the incident. After I left the house and came back to re-edit it, that was when I decided to write about what happened and include it.

This is all true. One hundred percent. I have tons of material already written about my life, and I plan to publish everything as I have time. I write all my experiences as memoirs.

Good and evil have played tug of war with me my entire life. I do not know why. I have had a lot of incidents with evil trying to harm me. I have also experienced many things with God. He has spoken to me in many different ways, and I will be writing about all of it. They are all true stories.

When I am finished writing them and posting them, if I ever am, I plan to compile all my true stories into a memoir or an autobiography. That is my plan. It will be a journey through my life.