In the beginning...

Autumn, 1980.

When I was four-years-old, I was visited by a demon.

I remember it clearly.

Although my mother was usually home to greet me when I got off the bus from preschool, on this particular day, she had been visiting at a friend's house and lost track of time.  She would later inform me that approximately 30 minutes had elapsed, from the time I stepped off the bus to the time she arrived back at our house.

The sky was overcast that day.  I walked out of the early Fall gloom and into our living room, through the back door.  Calling for my mom and feeling scared at hearing no answer, I climbed up onto the couch, where the first few minutes passed uneventfully.  I then watched as, about 3-feet in front of me, on the blue carpet between the sofa and our television set, something that looked and smelled like a small puddle of vomit formed, as if out of nothing.

Without knowing how or why, I could somehow sense that this... thing... had intent.  It was a conscious presence, and I knew it had a purpose:  to scare the living hell out of me.  I began to cry, and stared as the small, vomitus puddle grew in size.  Its swirling mass became a whirlpool, all beige and brown and pink, wet with gastric acid and a rancid, mucosal slime, emitting a sound like deep growling and rushing waves.  The thing seemed to have an impossible dimension of depth, reaching far below the level of the floor at its center.  I was afraid that if I stepped off of the couch, it would pull me in.

Tearfully, after a few vain attempts to find my voice, I called out for help.  The back door opened, and a body of light in the approximate shape of a tall person walked into the room.  As this being approached the whirlpool, its features condensed and it took on the appearance of a man in a white robe, with long, brown hair and a full beard.  Although I no longer identify as a member of any particular religion, having been raised in a fairly traditional Protestant Christian home, I at once recognized and was comforted by the appearance this being assumed; it looked like the familiar image of Jesus, as depicted by classical European painters.  This robed man said nothing, but kindly looked once in my direction.  He then strode across my living room to where the whirlpool was, reached his outstretched arms down, around the outer edges of the churning mass, and lifted it up out of the floor.  The thing seemed to struggle in his arms.  The man walked out the back door, across the lawn and into the woods, and then they were both gone.

When my mom came home, I was crying.  I told her what had happened.  She said she believed me.

I remember it clearly.

Thirty-five years later, grey, overcast, autumn days are still my absolute favorite.