Some of my relatives have always taken an interest in demon hunting stories, but in practice it seems my dad had a… different approach to it. I won’t mention who. However, I will say that sometimes it seems an over interest in power and control comes hand in hand with an over interest in the demonic. Those who go to religious systems for control and power seem to take the same interest in demons that warlock summoners take: deals with the devil, appeals to power they think they can control and cannot.

Here’s what I remember.

I remember having an imaginary friend and wanting to get rid of it based on the reaction my parents had from things I told them about it. I don’t remember the name other than it had an M in the name. Mola. Mauve. Mona. Maud. Mordechai. Marduk. Molech. Sure, any of those. 

I remember the walls creaked the way a hundred year old’s house or a timber hull at sea will creak.  The floorboards, the stillness of the room, the dark. I remember that I gasped in my sleep. Sleepwalking came later (which I’ll talk about) as well as hypnogogic and hypnopompic terrors. Sleep apnea. Sleep talking in weird voices. I remember the visions and the terrors the most. There’s only one other person I’ve been able to talk to about this who experienced something similar, these waking terrors. He’s a cinematographer I’ve worked with often enough. That and an African paster from Zimbabwe. They get it. 

My aunt lived upstairs at this place. She was single, she was out of high school, few prospects. This is the one that died at like… 43? 53? I don’t remember how old she was, stupid young anyways. Swelled up like a balloon full of phlegm, it was awful. I won’t go into detail other than to say it was exactly the week after dad died. I’d just finished delivering his eulogy. It was the way my hometown could give me one more middle finger before I left for NYC. 

But she was younger then, still alone, still full of faith and hope in the world. Living in our attic. She’d be gone and there would be these hammer fall footsteps on the attic stairwell. Someone rooting around through her papers and sheets. These sorts of things. 

Other weird stuff would happen with the power. With the television. With the lights. With my Teddy Ruxpin animatronic doll that had a tape deck where his spine should deign to go. That thing moving its mouth to weird static. 

In any case, when we finally left that house the next tenants bought it and fresh paint was on the wall. Some finger with a busted fingernail had scrawled WELCOME HOME into the wet paint. They had to repaint it. The sounds continued and a weird sort of curse hung over that family. 

Dad’s reaction to all of this was to neither let it scare him nor rule him, but to utter a simple prayer and move on with his life. 

That still, to me, seems to be the best way to respond to ghosts, the demonic, the paranormal rather than demon hunting. Wasn’t it the guy who wrote Unbound that said 80% of exorcisms are just referrals to a CBT therapist for forgiveness, bitterness, and reconciliation training? Wasn’t it The Pope’s Exorcist who said the same? 

Dad, at his best, tried to respond to these happenings with calm, with prayer, with reconciliation. He was, after all, seemingly cool with Aunt Danee staying there. She wasn’t his flesh and blood. 

How did your dad handle demon hunting or the supernatural?

Tell me in the comments.