Jona: Autobiography of an Exorcist

By WllM Worth

“Jona is short for Jonathan, a name that I have never been called other than a few times on the first day of school.”
Orphanage to Catholic boarding schools then a seminary, where the only father figure in his life teaches, seemed to be his path. Something happens on Jonas’ twenty-fourth birthday: Father Clements gives him a box containing information about his family. The diaries and photos inspire a quest to find out what happened to them. Secrets of prostitution, witchcraft, powerful books and a discovery so unexpected:

“You can ask your aunt if you wish to. She lives, if I dare still call it that, in a private hospital run by the church.”
“Yes Father. I’ll go there today if you’ll permit it.” I asked, again upright and alert.
“No, Jona, not today.” He cautioned me. “First, you must read the diaries and discuss them with me for three months. Then, if you wish to continue, I will call for priests that specialize in these things to counsel you for another three months.”
“Priests that specialize in these things?” I was confused. “What kind of priests are you referring to, Father?”
“Exorcists.” He said the word then made the sign of the cross.

Jona is reunited with his aunt and the demons within her. His teaching Exorcists, a Cardinal and an Army Chaplain, tell him not to believe what is said by the damned. Claims that he is the last of a Roman Emperors bloodline, has abilities not meant for man and is one of the few that Angels watch are becoming harder to dispute. His chosen ministry at the Orphanage where he grew up seems worlds away. Omens are seen, dreams contain messages and demons impatient for Jona to act on their behalf: attack. Discover what the demons want from him and if Jona will finally be ordained.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Oct 10, 2014
• ISBN: 9781483540368

Book preview

far.

CH1

In the beginning there was a single mother named Camille. She was an exotic blend of Spanish and Italian with voluptuous curves and large breasts that men would pay to see as she danced on dimly lit stages and closer to them in expensive restaurants or on their yachts. They gave her gifts to show their appreciation of the time she would be at their side or more so the times when she was under them. Supposedly, my father was one of the many men she called John, so I guess in a way I am a junior.

I have a photo of her on one such yacht. Her olive complexion skin is glistening with the teal blue sea water behind her as she is modeling a one piece cream color bathing suit that has colorful fabric flowers stitched along the neckline. Her long dark hair is mostly in a bun except for the wild strands hanging down along her neck. Perfectly smiling teeth entice as her hazel eyes look at me through an ancient lens across the seas of time. There is something else in this photo that appears in the lower right corner, the blurred image of a finger or thumb. The photographer: my father. I know this because of what is written in pencil on the back, Jona, I’m sorry you didn’t get to know him. This is the family portrait that I look at on holidays and birthdays.

Life for me began in New York City where I was born. My mother had an apartment with her sister. I don’t know exactly where because it was never in her name and she had no record of income. I have photos of the two of them in beautiful evening dresses. My Aunt Eloise was darker with more exotic and it seems less costly looks. I say this because of the more expensive looking jewelry that my mother wears and her acquired stance of status. All of these trinkets were sold to pay for the Catholic boarding schools of my life as was the house in upstate New York. I also have a trust with enough funds to afford me to go to college if I choose.

A page in her diary written just after my father, I’ve presumed, gifted her with a family home tells me this. With a house so beautiful, I don’t think I’ll miss the city very much, maybe just the restaurants. Everything is painted white, even the woodwork and staircase leading to the bedrooms. There are two bathrooms upstairs so Eloise and I will each have our own. The furniture is nice, so much more so than I imagined. The kitchen is big and we have a formal dining room where we will have all of our family dinners and I have a porch with chairs and a swing on it. The schools here will be good for Jona and Provincetown is only a few hours away. I’m happy.

The house they had just acquired also had something in it that was not bargained for but accepted the new residents without prejudice. Early diary entries show attempts at pleasant introductions and a will to make itself known. We can’t seem to keep the attic door closed. There must be a breeze stronger than the old hinges. This is followed by an eerie entry, Weathered stairs and wooden floors creak to sound like footsteps. Houses are different than apartments. The last before the entity was recognized, We found some odd stains on the floor under the furniture in the living room when we were dusting. We can’t get them clean but the rug and couch will cover them up anyway.

There is another photo of me with my mother on the porch swing of the house. In this one she is wearing a pink and tope pants suit and I am dressed up in a little sailors outfit. She has that beautiful practiced smile and I seem to be a happy child. My eyes, however, are glancing to the right. I didn’t think to follow the direction of my long ago stare until recently. They are looking at a shadow behind one of the curtained windows along the porch. It appears to be a figure of a person with a bent arm and outstretched hand full of long protruding fingers reaching out towards me. An optical illusion of my aunt blocking the sun while she stood with the camera is the logical conclusion of this odd apparition.

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CH2

The devil sends his greetings. An early page of the diary that my aunt Eloise started, perhaps to compete with that of my mothers, warns or maybe brags. I must be careful when reading this due to the fact that every time I turn the burnt pages, parts of them break away and are lost. I rarely take it out of the plastic bag that protects it.

A few entries tell of an interesting foray of my aunt as well as what she practiced in secret. This summer is going to be memorable. There is a Provincetown psychic called Romy that I met and befriended on this, the first ofour weekend trips during the summer months. He is an effeminate man as handsome as any that ever appeared in those cigarette advertisements. She also stated theybecame instant friends because we recognized each other for what we were.There are severalpartial references about them drinking and flirting with men at dances that lasted until dawn. In a rare, unburnt, two pages she describes his place of business is located on a street called Pilgrim Heights with his apartment above.The entry wall is decorated with empty picture frames, mostly distressed and peeling paint or their varnish, haphazardly nailed to the wall. In the center of one of them was what he called his heirloom turbanhanging from one of several framed coat hooks. It was his grandmother’s headscarf with several medals and charms pinned to it.

It has magical properties. He told me. I laughed then he went onalmost jesting as if I were another tourist, offering me a free use as some sort of proof. If you look into her bloodstone earrings you may get a glimpse of your future.

The gems were large with the smallest of brass chain links wrapped around them having five strands hanging off each, the center being longest.

All I can see is my bloodshot and tired eyes looking back at me. I said causing us both to laugh this time before I made use of his exceptionally clean restroom to freshen up before we headed to another club.

He also reads cards and knew how to interpret the spitting leaves, a gypsy superstition of how to see curses or dark forces that surround you. On that next morning, after I spit the wet bits of tea leaves from my mouth onto a sheet of white paper, they left an image of a head with horns which prompted my opening statement."

When I asked why, she states on the next page. Romy told me that it has to do with the house or something in it. I told him I would perform an incantation of reveal that I often used before committing to long term dates with men to get some idea of what to expect from them. He cautioned against using the wordreveal because if these forces were indeed demonic, I may not really want to see them. I’ll take his advice and change the word to identify and see what happens.

Did she take the advice, really? I don’t know but wonder even if she did would it have been enough? Creatures of darkness don’t like to be tricked.

A few pages later describe the night of a discovery that changed the destiny of us all.

The knocking and the sounds of walking have kept us up for several nights now. I have told Camille of my incantation and she was upset telling me that she did not wish for such things to be done in the house. I reminded her of the benefits we have received because of my spells and charms that we wear but she was insistent so I agreed. After another sleepless night she allowed me the request of one more spell to direct us to find what is in the house that is causing this disturbance. My belief is that once we know what it is we can figure out how to deal with it and appease the spirit.

As a man who has dedicated his life to the service of God and is currently in study to become a priest, I feel compelled to state a warning to those that may be reading this. Some divine quotes come to mind: In the dark they dig through houses, which they had marked for themselves in the daytime. Job 24:16, and, My punishment is greater than I can bear. Genesis 4:13. To use spells and writs of dark minds rather than prayer is to take on the sin of that which you seek. You cannot defeat evil using evil things as weapons. Power can stand against power, true, but our souls and not victories are eternal so eventually we must pay for our deeds. Sometimes the request of payment is made sooner than later.

The flame of the black candle I held led us back upstairsto the attic door that was again open after we had secured it shut. We entered the stairway after Camille checked on the baby to find him fast asleep. Halfway up, the plaster began to crack before our eyes and small chips fell to the steps only in one area. I asked Camille to go get the hammer underneath the sink in the bathroom. We used it to make a hole along the cracks to find an area much like a wall safe behind the plaster and lattice. There was a rectangular shaped object wrapped in black satin upright in the space. Camille took it out and set it upon the steps. Together we removed the protective fabric to find a large book about the size of a family bible. Other than the size, this book could never be mistaken for a bible. It had anodd feeling charcoal black leather-like covering with a raised star pattern in its center from something placed beneath it. There were also strange symbols barely embossed in an overlapping fashion on the front and back. The book was very heavy and the sides of its pages seemed to have been painted shut with a reddishbrown substance. Camille suggested we take it down stairs to the dining room so we could see it better.

Another note from my studies is to say that a dining room table is a modern version of an altar or piece of furniture that was created for use in temples for the purpose of food offerings. Priests or those who maintained these places of worship would place a bit of every meal they ate onto the table for their gods as others would also bring offerings of their own. This still holds true today as a place where families gather to share the prepared offerings of meals with similar prayers and hope of nourishment and favor from God above. These offerings are stolen when dark objects or spells or scrolls or powerful tomes are placed upon any dining room table whether this act is intentional or not.

After carrying and setting the heavy book down upon our dining room table, Camille had to wash her handsbecause she said the book had a sticky feel to it. I turned on the overhead light so we could study what was found hidden in the walls of our home.

She didn’t wait for my mother.

I tried to open the cover but it would not budge. My aunt’s notes continue. Funny thing, I actually used both hands to try to force it open and the book didn’t move at all from its place on the table while I attempted this. It was as if the thing had been glued to the spot. She asked what I was doing when she returned and I laughed. Try to move it. I said as she approached and did just that, she pushed the side of the thick book and it slid easily. I’ll have to think about this. What could it mean?

I wonder the purpose of these markings on the cover?My Aunt seemed to ask me and the book itself. I am writing this in my diary because of what happened next. First, I have to remind myself that I have been a practicing witch for most of my life, since the time my breasts were touched without consent at age thirteen. That helpless feeling led me to find a power within myself to fight back and I have learned well. I won’t put those examples in print for fear that they would become evidence at some future date but I do have knowledge of these arts. So why, I have to ask myself again, is Camille the one that the book seems to respond to?

What could these symbols mean? My sister had asked as she touched one of them on the cover and it changed from a curvy line with hash marks across its center into the letter T. She touched the next symbol, a half-moon with circles drawn inside and it changed into an O. A triangle with fourentwined lines pointing up from its base became an M and the next, three curved lines over one another changed into an E. The book had now revealed its title to us,or maybejust to her. The book wishes for itself to be known as TOME. We decided to put it back into its resting place until I could do some research about it. I’ll go to the public library in New York City this week while Camille is having her meeting at the bank for another transfer of funds."

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CH3

Here they are just waiting for you. The very old white-haired librarian gentleman said with slipping dentures causing a jagged smile. He had led me to a far off corner in the ancient philosophies section. The man seemed as old as the building itself which still had gas lanterns mounted onto its exterior walls along the sidewalk and some, unused, still inside. He walked unsteadily using