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The Descended

The father walks not far from his house contemplating as he goes the spectacle the show of the temple has become, recalling to himself thoughts veiled whispers of vague memories of his life in front of him; “I’ve heard what they say, the dancing, the music, people go in, and then don’t come back for hours at a time.”

My wife says that it has gotten out of hand, people lose themselves there, like slaves or addicts, “I don’t see how that could possibly be?” he says silently to himself. All I know it seems to scare her what she has heard, a darker side to what others merely call entertainment. Her words of warning softly echo in his head; “Stay away from there, nothing good will come from that place!”

Ridiculous as it may seem, ghosts stories, monsters under the bed, witches dancing in the groves up in the hills, these fairy tales never seemed to scare him even as a youth, perhaps that was one benefit of being borne with a strong arm, completely confident he could take care of himself. Plus curiosity has always been a weakness of his not necessarily limited to the comings and goings of cats.

The beautiful sparkling eyes of his children he can’t help but notice as his son walk’s along at his feet, how he loves playing on the ground playing with him, or picking up his daughter, holding his children close to his chest, how beautiful they are. It is so easy to see his wife’s eyes in them, the purity of the child’s smile tickles his memory for the days of his youth, the sweet smile of his wife on their wedding day, each day is another nugget of gold so bountiful God has given him every single day of his adult life.

Thoughts cascade with each step in a moment through years of life highlights as he strokes the path along this ever seemingly darkening road. There is an air of restlessness ahead, voices even screams, seeming sirens on the wind; “is that pleasure or pain he hears?” dancing among the many busy thoroughfares he passes these days.

His earlier years were less complicated days, the pressures of responsibility were only just beginning to shine their light through the morning trees. A man only had to think of himself in those early hours, care for himself, work enough to feed himself, but the joy of a wife does bring their own comforts, contemplations, and added tasks.

A man wonders to himself if everyone feels this way, but I certainly have seen the pleasures of my labors, the gift of love given him by an adoring wife, and loving children that count on us to provide all they need, place them on the right path in this life. But who really gave them these gifts, for only within the source of such perfection could a masterpiece of such magnificence spring?

These precious lives kept in our care, brought under the responsibility of my wife’s and my protection, until they are old enough to make decisions for themselves. It is a great responsibility, their lives, growth, even health is determined by the choices we make, the work the very ground a man tills until they come to the day of accountability.

He remembers his own ceremony that wonderful Bar Mitzvah, how he so looked forward to it as a child himself. The thought of finally being old enough to make his own decisions, be responsible for himself, it seemed so freeing of thought then, how little did he know that moving into adulthood brought with it not only the accountability of self but the responsibility of everyone else who comes under your care?

“I just don’t see what’s all the excitement about watching the priests and priestesses carrying on.” He suddenly finishes saying to himself as he walks up closer to the building now clearly displaying everything out on the steps and even into the streets, open for all to see.

The temple he was speaking of, is the newly built temple to molech, and while he had heard of this religion, if you could call it that, has been around for centuries, it is only recently that these structures have come into sight. The kings today seem more tolerant to such practices than in the past, even seem to be encouraging this carrying-on otherwise why would they build so many temples?

People come and stare for hours at the performances, a spectacle for all to see. Priests engaged in all sorts of shows, demonstrating even participating themselves in every act of vile, vice, war mimicking dances, or death acts imaginable, many things only years ago would not have been tolerated, are now being seen now on display to a docile and cheering crowd. Priestesses, the most beautiful of the land, voluptuous beyond belief openly flaunt nudity with lust-filled eyes. Calling out to other men and women, luring them with their gestures, they are all adorned with strange symbols and markings that seem to sinisterly resonate with dark meanings of their own just beyond the limit of one’s awareness.

Men of strength and stature, display themselves with smirks across their faces clearly displaying the pride they have for themselves as they taunt others with their sweat-drenched gestures. Performances that mimic violence and war, aggression, even fighting displays with such ferocity it is difficult to see if it is real or merely an act?  Eunuchs whose exact original sex not exactly clear to determine, engaged in all manner of sexual perversion with each other, the more flamboyant the better, desperate to bring attention to themselves.

They even engage in horrible acts with animals, the horrified imprisoned creatures stare back at them in terror, understanding somewhere in their beings the evil that seems to reside here. Many even dance against cold stone statues that seem in themselves lingering on the edge of some possible supernatural movement. The more shocking and degrading, the more blood involved, the more the people’s gaze mesmerized in wonder, stare, gawk, and cheer.

Hands stretched out reaching, wanting, evermore unsatisfied, grasping for something anything to quench the ever-present hunger that burns within. The large rectangle cut out of his stomach is the place they throw various sacrifices, priest’s and priestesses cast various elements of precious wealth into the blazing chasm, screaming in a combination of ecstasy and pain, searing pain from the burning tentacles that reach out and touch any and all that come near. The priest must fling the treasure into the hot belly because getting too close already had caused a few to spontaneously erupt in flame as their clothes, hair, or ornamental dressing catch fire sending the unfortunate into a crumbling blaze of fire and screaming. This only seems to cause the other attendants to laugh and dance more feverishly.

The gaping maw in the belly is never satisfied, the fires cause the statue’s skin to burn deeper red and hotter with every sacrifice. The tormented destruction of everything that is thrown in is evident from the gasps and radiate stares on the faces of all that stand and watch. Shadowy reflections of the flames dance across the faces of the onlookers like small menacing spirits in an endless chaotic rhythm across cheeks, eyes, and mouths. Many of the onlookers wear masks over their mouths, as do the more subservient attendants, they are clearly not leading but following the procession.

The ever-growing and constant fire within that is heating the creature to a point of almost white-hot, glowing even pulsating along the now almost moving edges seems to ripple with a life of its own. Gyrating figures all around enticing more and more onlookers, some sprint into the crowds of onlookers only to pull reluctant participants before the statue, mostly these are young children or young women that are pulled out of the crowd, alone nobody helps them as they are pulled away in grasping horror. The majority of them screaming and crying in resistance as they are drug by the priestesses, even pushes by others in the crowd. People of all ages and status, standing, sitting, kneeling even bowing low in front of the image, watching in a sort of trans, staring for hours upon end, waiting for yet again another tingle in their emotional base to spark, most of them on all fours, it is truly the earth that has them in its grip.

The most popular and beautiful are solicited into service as priests and priestesses, this service is not without compensation or costs, they receive the highest pay of the land, nearly rivaling the kings, they’re every want and desires are fulfilled, power, pleasure, and even prestige. But to the costs; they pay with their servitude, it is a service for life, a blood contract for their very soul once signed they no longer have access to, only death can separate them from service once they have entered. Every bit of purity, beauty, and strength is slowly sucked out of them until only a dried-up husk of a shell remains.

All of their symbols, the demonstrations, even the words being uttered are not their own, everyone seems to know the true source of the chanting, and as a result, their every movement seems watched and scrutinized by the leaders, for they must always conform to the behavior dictated by the temple or their position will be eliminated, outcast, or worse yet find themselves on the sacrificial table. They, of course, must perform as they are instructed whether they believe in the ritual or not. They have paid with their soul, it is no longer theirs to choose, for they must bow down, and confess with their mouths the lies that the head priests instruct.

The growing crowds of onlookers who worship them with their eyes, ears, hearts, and time, long to engage them, mimic them, even but touch one of them for the lusts and acts they impress into the audiences souls. There seems to be a repeated rhythm to the show presented, the underlying negative message hidden deep within symbolism passed in front of the eyes of the onlookers, messages hidden that repeatedly create almost undetectable small scars in the memories of everyone watching. People have no idea they are being manipulated, memories and images locked away within the deepest chambers of their minds recesses, hidden doors to secret rooms that the priests can later use when the time is right.

A priestess rushes into the crowd to pull a screaming baby from the clutches of its horrified mother. Others in the crowd now hold mother back as the priestess brings the now flailing and desperately horrified child up towards the now red hot outstretched hands of the statue. She holds the infant up between the glowing hands clearly burning herself in the process.

A man stand’s off to the side gripping his small child’s hand, while part of him is pulling to rush in rescue the child from the witch’s grip, yet the other part remains fast as the fear for his own child keeps him from acting.

As the screams of the child, so desperate also the mother in the crowd, as well as many of the onlookers, reach a crescendo, the priestess turns and places the now dying child onto the burning hand of the demon. The very act seems to take the remaining strength from the priestess as she collapses between the searing hands of the idol, no-one steps forward to help her as she also begins to smolder igniting into flame from the heat.

A man turns to leave, his stomach already convulsing at the sight he just witnessed, suddenly jerked to a stop as he feels his own young son is being pulled back out of his grip by another priestess. A second and even a third priestess now grab the now screaming child and pull as the man thrashes, desperately gripping the hand of his child only with his one hand, because the rest of his body is being restrained by the multitude of onlookers around him not allowing him even to hardly turn or free his other arm to help.

Even as he feels his child’s hand slip from his own now sweat-drenched grip, so does his thoughts fade slowly into insanity as darkness descends its veil upon the mind of our man and the devastating realization of what is coming, fear and dread constrict upon themselves somewhere in his chest, everything fades too black.

I see our family man being brought to the image by his friends at first, then later just coming on his own, sitting more and more in front of the image. Staring into the rectangle of wonder, the rituals unfolding before him, he is hardly noticing the gradual deterioration of the events playing out in front of his eyes, the increasing images of fire, blood, and abuse of women and children being displayed. The programs seem to descend into deeper vile and vice every day, even the sporting contests he likes to watch are themselves becoming increasingly violent and angry.

The images continue to ever amplify in volume and intensity, brighter and more realistic, louder and longer, the same themes playing out on every channel long into the night. When did they all start dancing with each other naked, when did it become acceptable for the strong to abuse and rape the weak, when did the cursing just flow like filth through open sewer ditches of peoples mouths, when did the thief, the murderer, the child abuser, the criminal, the demon, Lucifer himself become the hero?

When animals were suddenly cruelly tormented and put to death for all to see, women brutalized to the cheer’s and ecstasy of the onlookers, children victimized at the very hands of other children, people didn’t even seem to notice the digression. When onlookers give up family, love, jobs, life, to sit there and worship, place their gold at the temple feet of these image providers, the transition was hardly noticeable.

When people start burning themselves on the white-hot hands of their god, it gives the onlookers an almost sexual feeling, while watching the pain it solicits. The audience almost erupts in orgasmic ecstasy with each ever-increasing act of human destruction. Crying for more, they will pay anything, their last coin, their pound of flesh, for one more moment of ever-increasing perversion. The most powerful of the land have become slaves to the blood as much if not more than those who perform these acts.

Finally, the high priest turns to the audience and says; “molech demands; you give us your families, no you give us your children now because the time has come and strong is he!” The priestesses are the first to place their screaming babies in the hands of the hellish demon. Men riding on the backs of the demon baal fling their crowns off their heads, and shriek in terrorizing delight.

One after another gives their own children to the clenches of the actors and priestesses as they rip them from less loving hands. There is no safety, no kindness, no compassion, just an ever-present hunger and lust to take the young lives and use them. “Put molech in every room!” the priest screams and men rush off to obey. “Lay your children in front of him!” the priestess demands, “and watch the fire devour the virgin flesh!” she screams with a witches shrill voice.

A wife comes to our man, pleading with him to come home, take his eyes away from the hypnosis that has gripped his mind, and come back to her family, their home that has fallen apart from lack of care. Our man no longer has time, he barely has time to function, his service to his family is in direct proportion to his interest in the events away from his gaze, and right now he one hundred percent in front of this image as soon as possible, sit there in a euphoric coma all day, even falling asleep in front in front of it. He Worships’ it!

His children that used to play at his feet, climb on his lap, nestle against his chest, come less and less each day, because all he does is push them away. One day they stop coming altogether, and eventually, even his wife stops coming as well, never even bothering to call him to dinner.

He is not alone, many have jumped into the fray even screaming with ecstasy as they lay their babies on the burning white hands of this filthy demon. Putting them in front of the merciless hot flames, any and all purity burned from them. Screaming in pain the sweet innocent children’s cries are only drowned out by the louder insane screams of the lusting onlookers. One after another cast into the fiery maw of the filthy beast, now black with the soot of the many innocent victims within. Baby after innocent baby is thrown in without care or concern. The screams of the onlookers, why do they care, as long as these children don’t interfere with their fun.

He hardly feels it as his daughter is taken by the images she watches in the solace of her own room. The grips of many witches clasp her hand as they pull her mind into the shadowy realm of darkened spell-craft, sure they promise her popularity, beauty, even love, they know full well none of these are theirs to give. Suddenly screams are heard by parents only feet down the hall as a father is finally pulled from his stupor and dashes away from the images just to meet a closed door and demonic screams issuing from his sweet daughter’s room.

He’s a big man, made large not only from his indulgence but from the years of heavy labor he has performed. He always trusted the strength of his arms to solve any problem he might encounter. He slams against the locked door multiple times and while it should have easily yielded something more powerful than himself was barring his way. Suddenly the demonic growls cease as well as his daughter’s weeping voice and the door just easily opens before him. Both his wife and he almost stare in sudden shock as the door opens by its own will. A man steps through even while gripped from behind by his wife, and only manages to reach out a single hand to take what appears to be his daughter’s hand in his own.

She has become more of an animal than human, sitting on the ground, eyes staring forward in some horrific trance, looking more like a Jackal than the daughter he knew only moments ago. As she tries to pull her own hand away from his own now tear-drenched hand. Her strength has become uncontrollable, the grip sliding through his own as a shadowy veil descends upon his mind, an almost constriction seems to be occurring where his heart was, and he himself slips into darkness.

Gone forever the beautiful brown eyes of his child, our poor man stares into dark foolish loneliness. So dark is our man’s heart become, black as soot.

What about him, who by her own indulgences has been left behind,

taking too long, only interested in eating they find?

The leaves and grasses now withered and grey,

unaware of the autumn storms a lost journey may sway?

What about those whom by choice or foolishness amend,

went the wrong way and willfulness descend?

Fall into the crevasse, or into the sewers distress,

only to find themselves being carried away into dark filth, dismay, and death’s recess.

Not a death of resurrection as seen from above,

a new life of winged flight and heavenly life, light, and love.

But a death of destruction where no new life can be found,

merely the disintegration of hope,

with its reintegration into soil they are bound.

By Peter Colla

“God I pray for all who have been deceived by the spirit of this demon, and I pray that not only will those people who have been captured into the service of this dark temple lift their heads and have their eyes open, but You will also grant them the wisdom of how they can bring the fight right into the enemies camp with an influx of Your Spirit, Your Will, and Your Actions. Let us turn from slaves to great warriors of Christ and take back the venues meant to enslave us, Your people, turning it into a great weapon in the army of Christ.”

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