Eerie Embraces from the Peculiar Purgatory

By Devil James

Devil-James is not a fan of money and is a spiritual writer who writes only for the art alone, so in all reality, he has no concern whatsoever if you read this book. However, if you are already a fan or self-proclaimed proud member of the "Devil-James Cult" or still find yourself genuinely interested in the weird & unique style of Devil-James, then here is a vague foggy description of what you are about to get yourself in to... Somewhere high above into the dreary dark midnight skies, the slow-rolling thunderclouds of doomy deception disguise the way out. Some kind of sinister secretive eerie exit from these wicked worlds of wasted wonder. The only jaded joke is that it appears the only way to find this escape from the ferocious fate of the brutal begging is to follow the misplaced steps of Devil-James carefully and cautiously into the cynical creepy descent of doom. A terrifying trek into the vindictive void. Of course, you could spare yourself the haunting horror of not reading this and perhaps save yourself the maniacal madness that could well convert you into a stark raving lunatic, hopelessly as bat-shit crazy as Devil-James himself. You have been warned. It's not too late to skip this dreadful, dark delusion while you can. For the rest of you, welcome to the eerie embraces of the peculiar purgatory. We've been waiting for you so so long. We have all missed you so so much.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Jul 22, 2022
• ISBN: 9781662479519

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Eerie Embraces 

from the

Peculiar Purgatory

Devil James

Copyright © 2022 Devil James

All rights reserved

First Edition

PAGE PUBLISHING

Conneaut Lake, PA

First originally published by Page Publishing 2022

ISBN 978-1-6624-7950-2 (hc)

ISBN 978-1-6624-7951-9 (digital)

Printed in the United States of America

To my family and friends

For always being there in one way or another,

always taking pity on my tortured soul

in a loving way

Preface, Prologue, Introduction, and Disclaimer

Like some kind of nightmare, like some kinda hazy, foggy dream. Please remember when you read my cynical stories of doom and gloom that paint pictures of every jaded emotion and thought in demented detail that whatever roller coaster of ups and downs of emotions and thoughts that most of us do our best to push back down within the lost empty chambers of our cold hearts and the thoughts that we choose to never think or face by fading the things we do not want to face or be reminded of by pushing them into the darkest, loneliest, emptiest places in our confused, bewildered, shocked, and numb minds because we are afraid of those thoughts and feelings and what they may create or what they might find.

So I take out this time to remind all of my dear loyal readers and loved ones to never forget that these books and stories are meant to do just that—to expand our minds by picking the scabs off suppressed memories and facing the dreadful thoughts we may be afraid to think or face these emotions that we may not want to feel because it may take us to a dark or lonely place. Please remember I am an artist and a musician and a writer, and these artistic forms of expression are an outlet for my own self-therapeutic, unique, weird way from the strange ways I think, and the crazy things I say… In my own style of genre, I am into saving souls, and am not interested in running with the clicks and trends.

This is why I created the yin-yang of duality meshing. I will drown your ego in the surface of the yin-yang river deep into the undertows of the Devil-James Cult, only to pull you out and give you mouth-to-mouth resuscitation and set you free with some kind of morbid humility. Some of my writing influences for these stories, I have written in the key of the Mad Arab are the infamous cult horror writers such as H. P. Lovecraft for seeing through the cracks, and gazing beyond the veil of this primitive planet of perception we are all unfortunate prisoners of and my other writer influences, was my favorite, dear Edgar Alan Poe, for his romantic dark-side expressionism.

These two famous authors, book writers, were just two of about six of my favorite poets and book writers that have inspired me and, in that way, maybe perhaps rubbed off in small unknown ways into my own creative writings and imaginations. Far past multiverses and dimensions and further past the vortex portals of parallel worlds deeper into the mirrored universe in which lies echoes of haunting and disturbing things most of us do our best to dismiss and forget…

So… In short, the purpose of this disclaimer is having deep love and compassion in my heart for not just my friends, my family, and my faithful fans of my paintings and loyal readers who love my books and my unique style, but also because I have lived my life with mental illnesses and deep major depression disorder.

I want to be a beacon for each and every one of you. I want to be your shooting star in the dark, dreary, and lonely night. I want to be your steady lighthouse on the rocky ocean shore in the middle of a foggy, dark thunderstorm. I want to be your own source of inspiration in a not-so-perfect world. I want to remind you all that the yin-yang of good and bad is in everything. That although this can be a tough, cruel world, it is also equally beautiful, and although you may not be perfect and may suffer from despair, sorrow, depression, or mental illness that it’s okay to shine bright as the unique person you are and to keep fighting and keep rolling with the punches and keep getting up every day to face the next weird, strange, and peculiar yet wonderful world we all live in.

I want to remind you all that life is not fair or perfect, and none of us are perfect. I want to remind you that it’s not only okay to cry, but that I encourage it by facing all those thoughts and feelings that haunt us, the ones we try to suppress and trick ourselves to forget. So never give up or give in to the evil in the world; never ignore it or pretend it’s not there. In the spirit of It is what it is, embrace everything in this world and everything within our hearts and minds for what they really are.

Thank you for reading my books. I hope they touch you, motivate you, heal you, inspire you, set you free, and open doors in your heart and in your minds. With all that sincerely being said, Them and They along with fading sorrow may be my darkest writing I ever wrote. The sole purpose? To find your own dark demons, so you may confront them and release them.

They and Them

Chapter 1

The Restless, Agonizing Torment of Being Possessed

It watches, because they all watch… O Lord of the flies, legions of watchers hover and hide in the dark corners all they want. With observing eyes and sickening grins, they see all, as it plays with my mind and feeds off my fears… They hide because it wants to watch, it watches because it wants to know, and it knows that the best time to get inside is when the mind is the most vulnerable; in deep sleep, it whispers… Awoken again from the depths of haunting nightmares of past life trauma at the unholy witching hour of 3:00 a.m., the old familiar paralyzing feeling of dread that looms and watches by unseen but felt eyes in the dark, and drawn into the bathroom mirror in the dark bathroom may be the reflection of my tormentor with a twisted sickening smile, knowing I must get up to piss and stare into the shadow of that beckoning reflection, the creepy hideous smile of what the living and the dead both can do, feed off your fear, and use it as a tool to gain control or capture your attention.

Poltergeists actually come in forms of ominous shadows defying the laws of gravity and optical nature as each occasional bolt of lightning would briefly light up the hallway exposing them as they would creep up the walls like growing shadows crawling up the walls like crawling spiders on their outgrown broken webs of dread. They and them, and all that goes with it, is now my journey down that long, lonely hall in the late hours of the night as the distant sound of thunder chased the split-second flashes of light away in grumpy, growling, white-noise backdrop to vocalize the whispers into hissing growls of backward spells from the pitch-black abyss.

There once was a stalking, hazy fog of a lingering sinister feeling of dread that loomed about in a dark cloud of bad vibes during the lonely, gloomy gray days. This creeping, crawling follower of gloom and doom was simply the abyss making its home in mine as a parasitic stain waiting to gaze back into my depressed and defeated, dementia-ridden eyes of confused bewilderment of a haunted person trapped within a haunted house. The kind of bad company felt but not seen, an unwanted guest. Then the lonely and the darkness consumed me, and the unwanted guest became the parasite and I, the host that it now feeds with desperation and keeps me alive on my own hope held down by despair. The unseen but felt watching, peeking eyes that brought the haunting unwanted gift of whispering voices, like a dark, dreary rainy day lingering in the dusty shadows of emptiness.

Dreariness transforms to weariness, and soon what was once the tormentor becomes the captor. I am a haunted and tortured soul dragging along with me everywhere I go a collection of lost ones. The late hours of the night are also the early hours of the coming day, along with them, the paranormal plagues of these infestations. What do the spirits see from the other side? The common occurrence of reaction by the living of those who can and cannot sense their presence? And what of the tortured souls who gave up pretending that they were not among us? But instead going about things in my silent solitude with shared company, I finally gave in over the years and quit ignoring them. And when I quit pretending I was ignoring them, and then I eventually made aware of their presence, and soon after, with practice, mastered the art of allowing them to know that we shared a realm of awareness of not only each other, not only of the dark presence from a cautious distance, but also of the unseen plane of whispers. I am not sure exactly what is in here with me in this dark, old building, but whatever it is, it’s watching me and latching on like some kind of parasitic pest. Messages, empathy from beyond this world. Them. My cautious steps down the hall into the bathroom brought along that old feeling of something not of this world among me, a feeling I feel in the hairs of my arms and breathing down my neck from the other side of the lost and found souls, some good, some bad, and the other kind that are not of this world. Them. They. Words I always used in my vocabulary, always confused at the reaction of others when they would be heard used in a sentence. I tell you this to open that creepy, creaking door in the midnight darkness, or maybe it’s the door to another room in the shadows of a lonely day alone. Alone is the key, for them, the key of opportunity.

Capturing your attention is the beckoning beginning to draw you into their embrace. I do not take it all in fear; fear is just another raw emotion that they drain and thrive off, or should I say drive? As in drive you completely batshit crazy from an occurrence that most people are afraid to discuss, and the rest in denial or refusal of belief. Yet we are all victims of what they and them can do, and we all have our stories because at one time or another we all have been touched by them in some manner or the other. I push the bathroom door open, only revealing at first the pale-lit moonlight lunar glow of a dimly lit, empty, and somewhat dark bathroom. Then I see it: the lingering presence that causes the back of the neck to send sensations of awareness…the looming, hidden, tall, dark, and shadowy figure in the corner of the bathroom by the towel shelf. Even the ones who refuse to believe, even the biggest of skeptics, still fear them and what they can do. I always imagined skeptics just merely sounding the horn to their own fears, questioning what some just may not be in tune with.

If the neighbors are playing their music too loud and everyone hears it but you, does not mean that the music is not playing; it just means you can’t hear it. And when someone can’t hear what others hear, they get angry and skeptical. But if you listen, you can learn to eventually hear with more and more ease. Listening and hearing is not enough to control your fear; sometimes it can take years to go from there. The wallowing in despair from the anchor of deep depression can hold people captive if they ignore what they chose to let in. The face in the reflection, my face, in the other side of the mirror, it’s like a funeral home: so many emotions, yet all alone one creeping and disgusting feeling that lingers and outlasts the others, the one that always returns because it never left. The sinister doom in the gut that has slowly placed me in my own private hell.

And behind me in the bathroom mirror the tall, dark, shadowy figure crawls across the dark ceiling and dangles over my shoulder. There are things that live in death’s shadow watching the soul harvester claiming the ones left alone in dark gloom. Sinking to the depths of decadent depravity in the bottom of the murky waters of Davy Jones’s locker are smiling creatures bigger than whales with grinning teeth, waiting to catch a glimpse of those lonely, drifting, sinking things with their huge pitch-black eyes, and then eat you up into the belly of the beast to never be seen or heard from again. Oh yes, they wait in the shadows of all the darkly lit rooms. Things I have grown accustomed to, but never truly enjoy, no matter how much I defiantly push my inner instincts to accept the whispering voices and the ghost knocks. In my despair and loneliness is when I’m the most vulnerable, and at 3:00 a.m. I’m awoken on the dot almost every night, sometimes horrific night terrors and nightmarish, haunting, disturbing things that have wormed their way into my head and taunted and teased me with my most intimate and private thoughts. Other times, even a normal or pleasant dream is completely interrupted by a sudden awakening in the pitch-black night, only for me to gaze up at the clock to see the old familiar 3:00 a.m. Any one of us who know our history of the spooky urban legends, any one of us who have taken that even further into the dark knowledge of demonology and the occult, all know the significance and meaning of 3:00 a.m. Some call it the unholy hour, some call it the witching hour, whatever you call it; I will share with you this, I know now and have known for quite some time that if I am indeed being aroused from my slumber even in the middle of pleasant dreams, then what entity that occasionally enters my subconscious mind in its dream state by horrific nightmares is in fact and external outside malevolent force capable of waking me by different means than just dream altering.

I have been altered, manipulated, and tormented by things unseen and to most even nonexistent in a security blanket of denial, yet there in the mirror, in the dark, it looms and lingers and hovers over me, as the temperature drops around me. It is trying to show me its sick, disgusting, and deviant face of sinister and ill intent—to possess me. We refuse to believe in the things that go bump in the night, even though our very instinctual nature tells us otherwise. The hair that raises on your arms and your neck, no different than the primal natural instinct of most animals. Are we not animals? And what of the unworldly things not of this earth? Dark, malevolent spirits and tormenting, grinning demons gazing out of the abyss ready to feed off your fear to weaken you enough to take control. To have control. Over you, your life, your spirit, your thoughts, your action. Possessions.

I’m not just discussing the demons who rattle windows and knock shit around, but I am also talking about the ones who tremble the floorboards underneath your feet, the kind that shake beds. The kind that leaves three loud knocks on the empty attic floors, calling from the empty, cobwebbed, dusty, hollow attic space, beckoning you to come and investigate. Only a few of the chosen have the courage to take those steps up those lonely, empty attic steps alone to gaze your eyes in silent understanding that even though you may think you’re alone, something unworldly and unseen to the naked blind eyes lurks in your presence. Something from beyond the pit’s abyss watching with hungry, adoring eyes. An object of obsessed affection. Oh Come, Sweet Death, One Last Caress and as the ravens pick your eyes out, let the earth feed on you and pick your bones clean.

The honor it would be to be one last nourishing meal, the alternative to the musty tomb. Dead by Dawn, that old, familiar, haunting nightmare turned a common dream of something almost felt real from some distant past life. Lest the crows call on that dewy, wet, cold dawn on a weary soul, the no one with nowhere to go and nothing to do, alone and cold you walk with the spirits and lost souls from beyond, from the other side close enough to reach out and touch you, close enough to whisper in your ear. Close enough to lick your face like a hungry, starving, salivating black wolf, some kind of hellhound from the pit. Even the most-evil, grinning, malevolent demons shall walk side by side in patient, bloodthirsty lust. The ones who want to dwell within but can’t quite get their foot in the door yet. Maybe strike a deal? Or keep on walking? Because demons can enter men, and we become our worst nightmares: the frantic, hissing cluster of bats surrounding you, ever so gently gliding past as they accept you as one of their own. Stumble and fall, and out of the woodwork they shall creep after and alongside and among you. Them and they.

Never underestimate the things beyond our understanding, for just because you do not understand, does not mean it can be dismissed. Just because you don’t see it or feel it, does not mean that it’s not there. Trust me when I tell you with every living, pumping blood cell throughout this aging, tattered body, that them and they are there, and they see you. If you listen, you might even hear them calling out to you, calling your name. Shrug it off in nervous laughter, but that does not make it go away. Even the junkie who can’t keep their knuckles out of the cookie jar can tell you what manifesting your desires calls upon. A hellfire of brimstone? Or maybe just a wet, dark, cold lonely place? My pagan winter, my sweet dark thunderclouds of slow rolling punishing doom, come cleanse me and wash me in your darkness. Set me free! Yearning for freedom can’t kill away the torment; it is just a reminder of its existence.

I am indeed a tortured soul, awoken every night to the things that go bump in the night. The things that attach themselves to the mind where they can drain and manipulate the thought process, so they can get a foothold in the true intention of having control over you. The sickening twisted smiles of sinister and insidious soulless watchers. Parasitic, demonic, blackhearted manipulators. The things that make nightmares. Ah, nightmares, the nightmare that got me out of bed and down the hall where it stood and waited for me the whole time, patiently awaiting, and now staring into my eyes from behind me in the bathroom mirror. The eyes of the blackest coal of a soulless spirit thief. My nightmare in its shadowy figure form, revealing me its dark, mysterious, whispering message from beyond. If you actually looked up the term nightmare in any type of dictionary, the interpretation is sobering, the description is simple and to the point, and the translation means night demon.

It is crucial and critical that now that you know what they are and what they do, that you may take the time to let is resonate and sink in, and seep in. All those times you sensed them around you, near you, beside you, watching and waiting with evil grins of amusement, patiently biding their time like hidden unseen flies in the dark corners, all for their common goal: to possess you. Like some type of electric,