The Power of Possession

Fog rolled through the city of Clifton, NJ, the same way it did many times before, but this fog was different, darker, denser, more mystifying, than ever it was before on October 31st. Jackson Speer was in his room on his computer when the fog first caught his attention. He glanced outside to check the weather on this Halloween night, expecting to see the usual group of kids walking up and down the street trick or treating and screaming at each other like it was any other Halloween. Instead, he saw the thick fog covering everything below with an eerie quiet. He turned his attention back towards his computer where he was instant messaging his friend, Evan, about their plans for the evening.

As Jackson was looking outside, Evan had sent him a message asking him if he was still coming for some Halloween fun or would the fog be keeping him away. Jackson placed his hands on the keyboard, tapping the keys while trying to think of an excuse to get out of Evan’s plans. He did not even want to know what Evan, with his twisted sense of humor, considered “Halloween fun”, yet he was dying to find out. Evan’s plans had to be better than the plans Jackson would have for himself if he did not go-a night alone on his computer and a horror movie marathon. Jackson told Evan he would be there. Evan told Jackson to meet him at Abe’s Pizzeria at 8:30 P.M. and to not be late.

Jackson threw on the only clean clothes he could find, a red hoodie and black jeans, and told his mom he would be back later; his mom immediately asked him every detail of his plans for the evening, later was not good enough answer for her. Jackson knew his mom was overprotective, but she only grilled him about his whereabouts out of love.

Jackson arrived at Abe’s Pizzeria on Van Houten Ave, to find Evan already sitting at a table, a soda in front of him and a mischievous look on his face. Evan glanced at what Jackson was wearing. “Not exactly what you wear to Evan’s Halloween fun night. It's not very festive either,” Evan commented with a wry smile, “but it’ll have to do. Don’t worry, Speer, I’ll make a Halloween believer out of you.” Jackson just grinned. He was used to these mysterious musings from Evan. Evan was very complex and often spoke in riddles for the pure pleasure of confusing others. He loved the looks on their faces.

"What did you want me to wear? My birthday suit?” retorted Jackson with a hint of laughter. “You know, Jackson M’Boy, that could have worked. Quite well actually,” replied Evan, grinning. The battle of wits between him and Jackson was called to a truce when the pizza came. After pizza, they thought about bowling, changed their minds because no one felt like wearing someone else’s shoes, and went to Evan’s car.

“So Evan, what’s the big surprise tonight? I’m dying to know,” asked Jackson, putting his hands inside his pockets because of the cold wind that seemed to greet the fog, his breath curling in the air when he spoke. “You’ll be dying of something tonight, Jack, but it’s not because of the surprise, rather what is inside the surprise,” replied Evan vaguely. “Get in the car, we’re going to be late.” “Late for what?” asked Jackson, “Is it a party? Do we have to meet someone?" "You’ll see," sing-songed Evan, turning the key in the ignition. Evan drove through Clifton slowly, determined to show Jackson the surprise. They were driving for what seemed like hours when Evan abruptly stopped in the middle of a desolate road, picked up speed for a few miles, and began to swerve, finally skidding off the road and onto the grass. “What the hell, Evan? What are you trying to do kill me?” shouted Jackson, his heart in his throat, his stomach in knots.

“Just showing you The Gates of Hell," he replied, his normally green eyes seeming to flash a menacing yellow. “The Gates of Hell?”, echoed Jackson sarcastically, “The one with seven rooms, Red Eye Mike, and the Devil? Oh, and the talking, whistling water and the stalker? The one behind the Pathmark on Paulison past the abandoned rail cars? Evan, hate to break to you, but the Gates are not here man. This is the middle of nowhere in Clifton!” Jackson gestured with his arms to the area around him. “And the Gates aren’t real. They’re just a legend.”

“Oh, the Gates are a very real place, Jackson, a place more real than anything else. And hate to break it to you Jackson, but you are no longer in Clifton. You have entered my hell!” Evan shouted with a maniacal laugh. His voice began to get deeper, taking on a surreal tone that could only be duplicated by playing a record backwards. “My hell-a place where nothing is as it seems and the paranormal run rampant. Bow to the Prince!”, Evan commanded his eyes threatening Jackson. Jackson stood still just staring at him in disbelief. “Bow, fool!” bellowed Evan.

Jackson pretended he was going to bow, straightened up, then stood in his place and confronted Evan. “Evan,” Jackson said slowly, trying to keep his cool, knowing he was confronting a demon, “You’re acting insane. Calm down. You are scaring me. Are you glad that you are scaring me? You are not the Prince of whatever hell you think you are. Your name is Evan Cartwright, and you are human just like me,” Jackson was hoping what he just said helped. “You are acting possessed," he mumbled.

“That’s where you’re wrong. I am not like you. I am not acting insane or how would you say it, possessed? I am The Possessed. And this is the last place you will ever see. Here there is no light of day, no hope of tomorrow. I am Evan Cartwright, Prince of the Gates of Hell and Servant to Satan. My Master wants you to meet him and now you shall. He is in need of fresh blood,” Evan horrifically shouted, his eyes now alive with the fires of an orange hell. He grabbed Jackson right off the ground and attempted to fly Jackson to a small tunnel, the entrance to the Gates, and throw him inside. Thing is, Evan does not fly and when he tried to do so, Jackson ended up on the ground, with Evan on top of him, who began to scratch and punch at him

anywhere he saw visible skin. No doubt to fulfill his Master’s need of blood. Jackson felt his blood trickling down his cheek and had to stop Evan from attacking him further. He managed to push Evan off, which got Evan furious. He continued to scream, “Enter my hell!” at greater volumes, which caused him to charge at Jackson. Jackson got in a crouched position, his plan to grab Evan by the shoulders and hold him down, except it did not happen as Jackson planned.

Evan charged at him, that happened, but before Jackson could restrain him, Evan flew over Jackson’s head and tumbled through the air where he landed about twenty feet off from where Jackson was, on top of a jagged rock, in the wilderness of nowhere. As Evan was falling, Jackson heard something snap. Jackson ran to him, praying he was not dead. He looked at Evan, his eyes were rolled back in his head, spinning like marbles, and he was foaming at the mouth. There was bright red blood all over his face. Jackson felt Evan’s skin, which was cold. Jackson did not know what to do. Did Evan have a seizure? Was he alive? Should Jackson call the cops? He could not do that; they would arrest him on the spot. He had to do something, but what?

He began to look inside Evan’s pocket for some type of medication, but found none. Evan’s arm was bleeding, so Jackson took Evan's jacket off and saw a symbol, a demonic symbol, branded into the skin of Evan’s forearm. It was raw, too. He tore a piece of cloth off from Evan’s jacket and wrapped it around his arm as a tourniquet. Jackson considered going home and getting a priest at this point.

Jackson was trying to decide what to do when he heard a woman screaming from inside the tunnel. This was his call to action. He grabbed a flashlight from the trunk of Evan’s car and made his way slowly past Evan, into the tunnel. He walked slowly, his senses on high alert for anything suspicious. The tunnel was about six feet high, filled with wet gravel and an inch of water. He walked through the tunnel, his feet sloshing. It was pitch dark in there. His flashlight only casted a small glow ahead of him, barely enough to see by. As he was walking, Jackson heard someone sloshing through the puddles behind him. He quickly turned around and swore he saw a shape. “Hello is anyone there?” he called. His only response was his own echo. He knew not to pass the spectral off as a hallucination.

Inside the tunnel, there was graffiti; the most prominent were the words “The Gates of Hell” spray-painted in large letters across a wall with flames beneath. This made the hairs on the back of Jackson’s neck stand on end. Was he really entering hell? The walls inside were crumbling bricks with deep eaves, where every so often, Jackson heard bats’ squeak and the fluttering of their wings. He also smelt a strong odor of decay and something else just as horrible that strengthened as he led deeper into this tunnel of no return.

As Jackson kept moving, out of fear mainly, the water in the tunnel got deeper, and the sloshing grew into a loud, haunting whistle. It followed Jackson wherever he went, growing louder. Mixed in with the whistling of what Jackson thought was the water, he heard voices, voices talking-to him. Their language was unintelligible, but what he did hear were pleas of help from these trapped souls-“Save Us, Pray for Us”, the most terrifying being “Join us, Come to us .We yearn for fresh blood.” Jackson questioned that fact that maybe he was so scared; he heard the voices because they fit into his surroundings or he had paranoia-schizophrenia.

Jackson saw that as the tunnels got deeper they sloped and curved downward. The first slope expanded into a large tunnel, filled waist deep with water. There was more than water inside the tunnels. Jackson still heard the voices and kept looking in front of him when he walked. He was so preoccupied with what was ahead of him, that he did not look where he was walking and tripped. He lay in the water, gasping for air, the stagnant current picking up speed, forcing him to stay down beneath the water. He could not even doggy paddle and began grabbing the water beneath him for something to hold on to, when he grabbed what he thought was a rock. As he blinked the water out of his eyes, he expected the rock to stay under the water as he got up, but it did not, it moved with him. It was not a rock; it was hand, a cold, dead, deformed human hand attached to a corpse. Jackson’s fear increased to terror. In this room, corpses were everywhere, floating on the surface. They were bloody, their former remnants of clothes were in rags or nothing if that, their bodies in decay.

Jackson ran, tripping through the water, as his legs carried him to God knows where. The voices were getting louder, the footsteps increasing. There was ‘Death’ scrawled on the walls in blood. Jackson kept moving, he knew he was not being followed anymore; he was being stalked by something from the beyond. He wanted to leave, but did not want to go through the Death room again so he had no choice but to go on. The next rooms were more horrific than the last, each one holding images more terrifying and gruesome. These rooms held evil at a ghastly level. He did not even realize, after running so much, that he dropped his flashlight in one of the rooms. He had to stop. He had to breath. His lungs, muscles, and mind were on fire with pain and anxiety. In his worst nightmares nothing could compare to this ordeal he seemed to relive in new degrees, never imagining a tunnel in Clifton being hell. A hell worse than anything described in the Bible. A hell with no chance of being exorcised.

Jackson looked around him. He was in a tunnel, this one was brightly lit with torches and he heard music, harps and violins being played by invisible hands, floating through the air; it was beautiful music. Did I die? Is this heaven? he wondered. He walked ahead into what he thought was a bright light, the light that would lead him face to face with God and his Judgment Day. Only the light got darker and something stopped him. He had walked into a large wrought iron gate, elaborately detailed with demons and faces of terror, blocked by a small red demon, resembling a badly drawn leprechaun.

“Who are you?” he asked the small urchin. “ I am Red-Eye Mike, guard of the Gates of Hell. What is your name? Why are you here? You did not come on the boat with Charon or see the gatekeeper of limbo, Cerberus, did you?” the small man said in a deep husky voice. “No, I didn’t. I came through a tunnel. My name is Jack-“, Jackson was cut off. The little man was in his face now. Jackson knew why he was called Red-Eye Mike. His eyes were redder than any other red object he had ever seen. “Jackson Speer. I know why you are here; we have been expecting you. But you don’t belong in hell-not yet anyway”, he began to poke at Jackson with one of his claws, “and besides you’re still alive”. He gave an evil smile. “Come with me,” Mike continued, “there’s one more test, you still need to complete, before you see my Master.”

“Haven’t I been through enough in hell? First, the guy who I thought was my best friend, goes psychotic on me and tries to kill me, I’m guessing to send me here, to this nightmare.” Jackson threw up his arms in exasperation, “then in the six rooms back there, I run around scared out of my mind and hear voices. Here I think I’ll get a break, a nice rest, but no. There’s more crap I have to do to see the Devil, the last person on my list.” Mike’s only response was to snap, “So they tell me. God, you humans, complain a lot. Will you come on already?”

Jackson followed, knowing he should have shut up before and followed Mike. Mike’s black wings were his form of transportation as Jackson’s was his feet. Jackson was led to a stone room, cold as death, where an iron hammer was resting on a platform. “Your job”, Mike pointed at the hammer, “ is to lift it. Take all eternity if you need to. You’ll know when you’re done.” Mike vanished with a snap of his claws. Jackson walked up to the hammer and tried to lift it, it was difficult, but he did it after five tries. As soon as his fingers touched it, he felt the room revolve around him and found himself face to face with the Devil.

The Devil was so horrific, words could not describe him. He had a face, if it could be called that. He had small, yellow, piercing eyes, a long hooked nose, a distorted mouth with yellow crumbling teeth, horns on the side of his head, a deformed body covered in hair, a curved tail, long claws on his hands and feet, giant wings with ugly black feathers, and a pitchfork. The Devil was more than that. He was the visible form of pure evil, an evil with no soul, and an evil with a black heart. The Devil got closer to Jackson, now breathing on him, his breath as foul as his name. He was lunging at Jackson in such desire of his blood and the powers he possessed, those that supposedly gave him the strength to lift that hammer that no other human could.

His long talons were digging into Jackson's skin as well as his pitchfork, blood dripping out into the goblet the Devil held under the wounds. "I see you wore my favorite colors tonight," the Devil growled, " but even my favoritism for them won't save you now." "God'll save me," Jackson said weakly, "he's more powerful than you." Jackson's blood was all over him now. Jackson began to pray in his mind and say the Our Father. "Quiet, insolent fool!" the Devil snarled, "There is no God, he has no power over me. What makes you think he will save you? You despicable human." "There is a God," Jackson murmured, “He will come and kill you." The Devil was laughing hysterically, the sound hurting Jackson's ears. Jackson felt drained; he saw a pool of blood on the floor and knew it was his. He closed his eyes and felt his pain ending.

Not longer after this happened, a car passing by noticed the abandoned car on the side of the road. This car belonged to Clifton Police Officer, John Reynolds. Glinting in the moonlight, he saw the body of 17-year old Evan Cartwright laying on a rock, dead, his neck broken, his blood shining in the moonlight. Officer Reynolds called for a search party inside the tunnel; he had a feeling that there was someone else dead as well. His feeling was right. The body of 16-year old Jackson Speer was found seven miles inside of the tunnel, badly mutilated and barely recognizable as human. The boys’ families were notified that their children were found dead in an abandoned area in Clifton, the reason yet unknown and would require further investigation.

The funeral arrangements were made amidst hysteria of how these boys suffered a terrible fate. The case was further investigated; the investigators concluded their injuries were from a seizure resulting in a broken neck and an animal attack, but Officer Reynolds knew otherwise. He knew it was Satanic and quietly told the families of his conclusion, but he knew they did not believe him. Today, it is said if you go anywhere knew the Gates of Hell, you see the spirit of Evan Cartwright haunting the area and Jackson’s screams heard from inside the tunnel. After reading this story, only one important conclusion can be made-The Gates of Hell do exist.