In October of 1987, I met a girl named Cheryl in school. We rode the bus together when I lived in upstate New York. We had a lot of the same interests. We had four wheel motorcycles, traveled through the Appalachian trails and hung out with the same friends. We always gravitated to the nearby firehouse parking lot to play kickball with the other kids. She always invited me over, but her house was up the road on top of this huge hill. It looked spooky.
One day I took her up on her offer. She invited me to come over after school. I could get off the bus with her instead of my usual stop. My mother kept begging me not to go there. I didn’t know why she didn’t like Cheryl, but she kept saying, “It’s not that I don’t like her, just don’t go there!” I never knew why my mother kept insisting me not to visit my friend.
Curiosity got the best of me of course, and I ended up getting off at her stop. I remember looking straight up at a desolate hill full of overgrown grass that probably has never been mowed, and broken down white fences surrounding this three story white house, with many little windows all over it. The walk up the hill seemed to last forever, and the feeling I got while walking inside was incredible.
We first walked into the kitchen. It looked very industrial, with high ceilings, an old sink that big restaurants use and yellowy stained tiled walls. The living room was huge. The odd part about it was, there was hardly any furniture in it but an old couch and a television set with rabbit ears. The coffee table with a skimpy little wooden staple just to put beverages and snacks on. Everything was dusty. I remembered that much.
“Deb, you gotta see this! When my parents and I moved in here, this was still here—come inside this room!” Cheryl said, as she took my hand and guided me down a long hallway all the way down to a door with a frosted window on it that said, “BAR”.
We walked inside, and to my left, was a long wooden bar with stools beside it. The rest of the room had old tables—much like the structure of her coffee table inside her living room. Everything was dusty in there too. I looked around, and there were little porch-like screened in windows on each side of the room. In fact, the entire room had a separate entrance to it as well.
“This used to be a biker bar way back in the early sixties to late seventies.” Cheryl said.
“Oh cool.” I replied, not knowing what else to say. I didn’t know they had bars up in my area, since we lived in a very woodsy neighborhood. There was even a bar across the street near the lake. I looked around some more, and then followed Cheryl back out into the hallway, where we came from.
Then we heard a loud noise along with some screeching sounds; much like someone moving furniture around.
We walked slowly back towards the door that said, “BAR” on it. She opened it up and screamed, “Oh shit!” I walked in, and noticed all the stools were on top of the bar, and all of the chairs were on top of the tables. We ran back into the kitchen. The entire place started shaking—pots were moving and dishes and plates inside the cabinets were clanking due to the vibrations. I picked up the receiver of the phone that was on the wall. I remember it was one of those old ITT light green wall phones. I dialed my mother, and stuttered, as I tried to ask her to pick me up. My hands were shaking, and I could barely get the receiver back on it’s cradle.
“Come wait with me outside Cheryl!” She walked me outside, and began telling me that this was a common occurrence in her home. She was used to it, but wasn’t that afraid anymore. I nearly fainted out of fear! She was only there with her parents for a couple of years, but I don’t think I could ever get used to that kind of activity in my home. I was already done with the ‘boogieman phase’ while growing up, and realized there were no such thing as ghosts…until I encountered this.
My mother came driving up the hill in her car. I said my goodbyes to Cheryl and hopped in the car.
“Are you okay?” My mother asked. How could I tell her what happened, after she had told me for many years that there were no such thing as ghosts.
“I’m fine. I just got scared mom. Nothing happened…I just want to go home.” I replied, as I sobbed like a big baby.
“Good. I’m glad you called me. You sure nothing happened?”
I kept my mouth shut for years. I didn’t want people thinking I was freaking out. They would have sent me to some psyche ward or juvenile center for whacks. I would have been riding that small minivan bus to school instead. (Years later, they ended up giving our neighborhood that bus anyway!)
When I got home, I had dinner, watched some TV, and then went to sleep. I will never, ever forget the dream I had that night. It was so vivid, that it was practically real.
In the dream, I was walking down a cement staircase into a dungeon-like church. There were torches and candles all over the walls, lighting up the stairwell. To my right, there was a huge room with cathedral ceilings. A crowd of people prayed around a circle. A pentagram was in the center of this circle they were praying around. The candles that were on the magnificent sculpted tables were stunningly beautiful—yet eerie. There was gothic architecture everywhere and windows from the middle ages. The floor was designed with beautiful black stone-like tiles that were strategically placed to show you where to go—almost like a path.
I first approached a man that looked like Vlad Tepes, (Dracula), but not so tacky looking. He was handsome and well dressed. Silently, he reached out for my hand to take me to the circle. He was just like one of the elders at the Christian churches guiding you to your seat. Same concept.
Long dream short---this dream interpreted what hell would look like. It’s not some place where you’re constantly in flames. It’s living with earthly desires having the same negative emotions forever and ever. See, people who don’t believe in heaven, simply are satisfied with the offer Satan has for you.
For instance, you can live in constant lust, having sex with anyone you want without the thought of, “I’m gonna go to hell for this!” (‘Cause you’re already there.) You can have as much money as you want. You can buy absolutely anything you want at any time. Materialistic things are at your fingers. You basically can live out your wildest fantasies without it being a “sin” anymore.
Here’s the catch: You have to live with depression, anxiety, feelings of guilt and remorse. You have to live with physical pain and still feel as though you’re constantly living in the carnal nature. Pain and suffering is something that is attached to the extreme highs of earthly pleasures. This is hell.
Think about this. The pentagram symbolizes all the qualities of earth: Wood, fire, earth metal and water. These are all “of the earth”. God, the Holy Ghost, and all of our own spirits are not of this earth. So in Satanism, they worship the extremities of the positive nature that earth has to offer, but they also have to deal with the negative aspects that the world has to offer for the rest of eternity.
With that dream, I now understand what hell is. It’s almost like living on earth forever basically.
Aside from the dream, and into reality, I did have spiritual experiences that enabled me to believe that there's SO much better to be offered. Our bodies are so heavy, and we’re always in pain, but our tolerance to it all has surpassed the levels of basic feeling. Just to pick up your arm is too much effort. Just to even breathe is too much effort. We’re so used to it, that we don’t even realize how hard our bodies are working. Our spirit suffers here on earth as well. Emotion turmoil as well as spiritual conflict all go hand-in-hand with the struggle that humankind has to endure here on earth. There is nothing like an outer body experience from the positive forces of God. He has shown me that His feeling of love and His mere presence is a million times greater than having 100 orgasms. I’m telling you this in a blunt manner, because I want you to understand how we feel, when we’re in the throws of passion—thinking it has to be the best feeling in the entire world.
It isn’t…compared to what God has to offer. Believe me, I know, and I have felt this—so I am grateful. I have been to both spectrums of the good and bad. I have felt the heaviness of hell, and the wonderful feeling of effortless euphoria of heaven. And it wasn’t even at its full capacity!
Satan lures you in, by thinking there’s no such thing as “hell” per se, there’s just things down at his place that you would have fun with. True, true… But, the thing he doesn’t mention is that it’s an eternal ticket to life on earth, but ten times worse. He will entice you by giving you everything you have ever wanted here on earth. It’s lame, because he basically cheats you out of the greatness of heaven. There is no comparison.
Ever wonder why people worship Satan? I've always asked this question. “How can people worship the devil if they know that they’re going to be cast into a pit of fire?”
Because the devil insists that it’s all good down there. It’s what “you” want. It’s what you’ve always desired. He’ll even tap into your deepest forbidden desires and use that to catch your attention. He’ll come as an angel of light—a total disguise from what you’re use to imagining him as. Total deception.
Now granted, my experience with ‘hell’, has only been a dream (or nightmare) if you will…but I remember things so vividly, that they all come flooding back with details of things I’ve seen, people I met and places I’ve gone. It was all too real. On the other hand, you also have the right to believe that when I had my “Godly spiritual encounter’, I was probably under a psychotic moment of some sort. That’s fine. For me, it was real. It was unbelievably earth shattering to witness both. I have more of an understanding of what is deceiving and what is truthfully all love and greatness. Two ends of the spectrum.
So now, I’m in the middle of the extreme spectrums, telling you about my experiences. Why am I telling you this? Why am I choosing to tell you now? Is it because it’s close to Halloween? Is it because I’m going off on one of my religious rants? Or is it for another reason?
The other day, my mother sat me down and told me what happened at the old bar they used to go to… The one Cheryl lived in. I had no knowledge of this. She chose to tell me 'now'.
In the late sixties, my mother and father would go over to the bar. It was on the borderline of New Jersey and New York. Back then, New York had a state law that people 18 and over could drink. In New Jersey, the age was 21 to drink. So kids that were 18 yrs old would drive up to the New York border to go to this bar. Hundreds of people would be crammed in this barroom full of draft beer and shots of hard whiskey. Everybody of every type was there…The good and the bad.
Rumor has it that there were satanic rituals being held there in the basement, as well as sacrifices made on the other side of the lake from that bar. They killed many people, leaving body parts all over this particular section near the lake. It was said that many bodies were thrown down into the mines that were found there. This one street had tons of them—which had signs everywhere warning hikers and visitors to not step foot into that one section. I even saw this for myself.
The road that this house was on, led you to another road that went behind the lake. They called this, “Hell”. When I was growing up, I never knew why they called it “Hell”, it was so beautiful, with a gorgeous lake and woods all over. My friends and I would party there and never thought twice about it. It was desolate, and no one ever bothered you. We never saw cops swing by or people cruising on that road. It was a rundown rocky road that led into the main community.
Now that I have just recently found out why my mother never wanted me at Cheryl’s house—and was grateful I didn’t go into their basement…I understand what the scare was, because I went down to the basement in my dream. I even described it perfectly—as they have heard it to be. Is this one big coincidence? Maybe. Is it spooky? Definitely.
So this “BAR”, was apart of the huge homicide that had taken place in “Hell”, (which has a real road name to it and always has.) To locals, when we say, “Oh it’s right near Hell,” they automatically know where that is. To other people, they look at you as if you had horns on your head.
Finally, everything added up the other day. My mother told me the truth about that house, and I now know the truth of what those people did in there, and why Hell is so famous today.
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