Beware the Night by Ralph Sarchie Page A

those afflicted by bodily ills or natural disasters. On the back are Latin words reading “Begone Satan! Suggest not to me thy vain things. The cup thou profferest me is evil; drink then thy poison.”
    As I was changing out of my uniform at EOT (end of tour) the next day, I felt for my medal as a matter of habit, but it was gone. The chain was still around my neck and there was no break in the soldered link that had held the medal. I couldn’t understand how it could have gotten lost. The medal had been under my T-shirt, which was covered by a form-fitting bulletproof vest. I checked inside my shirt and even the cuffs of my pants, in case it had worked its way down there. I hadn’t been involved in any fights or chases: It was a very mellow day for the projects. I searched my patrol car but came up empty. At home, I reluctantly put on one of my other St. Benedict medals. Before going to bed, I prayed I’d find my favorite medal.
    The next morning when I was in the bathroom getting ready for work, I heard what sounded like a gunshot. It was faint and off in the distance, but being a cop I thought I should note the time, in case a crime was being committed. Just at that moment something struck me in the neck and slid down my back. There on the floor was a St. Benedict medal. I grabbed my chain to see if the new medal had fallen off, but it was still there. When I realized it wasn’t that medal, the hair on the back of my neck stood up and an ungodly chill ran through my body. I knew then that the demonic was involved: The sound of the gunshot was the evil force sending my medal back into this plane of existence. The spirit that took my medal and sent it back was a very powerful devil, because only the strongest demons can manipulate blessed objects. The medal has never left my neck since.
    I was really shaken by what had happened. I went into the bedroom where Jen was sleeping and called her name. Even in sleep, she could sense the distress in my voice and leapt out of bed. I told her what had happened, and she couldn’t come up with any natural explanation for it either. Although neither of us knew it at the time, this was just the start of harassment by the demonic that we’ve endured since I started in the Work.
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    Although nothing unsettling happened to Jen at the museum at that first visit, she pronounced it “creepy”—saying she was petrified to be around these things and never wanted to return there. I, however, was intrigued by what I’d heard and seen. Soon I became a regular at the Warrens’ Monday night classes for psychic researchers and spent hours soaking up the lore of demonology. During these lectures Ed talked about the hundreds of cases he’s handled over the years and the frightening, violent, and inhumanly cruel phenomena he’d witnessed firsthand. But the best times of all were when Ed and I would get together, just the two of us, and he’d tell me things that weren’t in the books I’d read or relate some of the incredibly fascinating experiences he had in his long life.
    I realized that investigating the demonic is a lot like police work: You’ve got to arm yourself, not with a gun and badge but with prayer, holy water, and a crucifix; you’ve got to examine the “crime scene” for clues, assess the credibility of the witnesses, interview terrified victims, keep meticulous case notes, and, finally, try to bust the perp—before he strikes again. This particular perp was more dangerous than any gangbanger, crackhead, or killer I’d ever meet on a slum street: the Devil himself. My work on the Job was ideal preparation for “the Work.”
    I also saw that I couldn’t go up against Satan without improving my relationship with God. From the moment I first spoke with Lorraine, then met Joe on the street corner, my faith started to grow, and it continues to get stronger each day. It’s true I found my faith through the Work, but it is my faith that keeps me in this work,