Demons Are In My Head (And Yours Too)

*Week 3 of The 3 AM Beacon*

Truth is, I'm fucking scared of demons.

I'm writing this at 2:09 AM. I just hit delete on the polished draft I was supposed to send you.

It was pretty good too, but dry as a communion wafer. Neat. Tidy. Went through all the world's religions and their beliefs about demons. Mentioned that they appear over eighty times in the Bible, and a lot of other trivia that would've put you to sleep.

If you're reading this, thank you for being here. I want to make you a promise: the college research paper filter is gone. I've held myself back during my first few weeks online, trying to create a caricature that would fit into this social media world. But no more. I'm going to be myself, nose hairs and all.

So, let’s talk about why I’m really up at this hour.

Why I Believe in Demons

I’m not sure why exactly. Maybe I’m afraid of not believing in them. Perhaps it's Pascal's wager—if we don't know whether God exists, we should play it safe rather than risk being sorry when it’s too late. But it’s more than that for me.

Why We Can't Look Away

Why do we love demon movies, ghost stories, haunted houses, Halloween, and Count Chocula? It seems like we’re obsessed with horror. Another Exorcist 12 or Conjuring 9 tries to terrorize us every weekend.

Is it all just in our heads? I'd like to believe that, but I can't. And maybe that's why I'm spending thousands of hours writing a book about ghosts and demons. The ones in the wild and the ones in our heads.

You’ll never make it. Your work sucks. This book sucks. This is all a pipedream that will never work. You should be looking for a real job before you go broke. What kind of idiot thinks anyone will read this crap? You're no Stephen King.

Speaking of Stephen King

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Oh yeah, I met him once. My wife and I sat behind him at a Red Sox game. I was mere feet away from my childhood idol. The guy who awakened my love for horror and made me realize I wanted to be a writer. At nine, those were big revelations.

First inning, there was this single flake of dandruff on his black sweatshirt—like a tiny ghost clinging to his shoulder.

By the third inning, that lone flake had found friends. They congregated on his shoulders and seemed to expand like cancer cells multiplying under a microscope. I watched them spread—couldn't help myself—the way you can't look away from roadkill or a house fire.

Seventh-inning stretch. The flakes had colonized both shoulders now, like a brigade of dead corpses lost on the battlefield. When I finally worked up the balls to tap him on the shoulder, my voice came out like I was thirteen again, asking a girl to the junior high dance.

"Mr. King? Could I get a picture?"

He turned, and I swear that those flakes shifted like metal bits being dragged by a magic magnetic pen, resettling into new patterns that spelled out NO before he even opened his mouth.

(Mr. King, if you're reading this—I’d still love to take that photo someday.)

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Back to the Demons

Maybe I sound like a scared kid, and maybe I am. But I know one thing for certain: there is some evil shit in this world. Just look at what humans do to each other.

Something is out there pulling us toward evil, and we fight the urge to listen to that little red devil sitting on our shoulder. And when you cross paths with real evil, it makes you wonder: Is it just that person being a sick fuck, or did they listen to one of those pitchforked cocksuckers whispering in their ear?

There has to be something more than "intrusive thoughts" or some other psychobabble reason driving people to sexually abuse children, murder millions in gas chambers, starve out whole populations, or even beat their wives after one too many. On and on.

Maybe I'm naive. Maybe I'm still a kid at heart, believing in fairy tales. But I know that there’s good and evil, and light always pierces the darkness.

And I know something is crawling around in our heads, like roaches behind the baseboards. As I finish typing these words, it’s telling me to get the safe, boring draft out of the recycle bin.

Until Next Week

I'd love to tell you what to expect, but the truth is, I have no idea. I can promise it will be unfiltered and honest.

It's 3 AM. Do you know where your children are?

—T.C.

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