of prayer sisters associated with this particular revival took a disparaging view of such afflictions, and the consensus was that Sister Crowell was possessed by the Devil. In effect, my mother’s affliction gave them a golden opportunity to rebuke the hell out of that bony-fingered vermin who preyed so unmercifully on her soul.
One afternoon, six of them showed up unannounced at the house on Norvic Street and filed in like a coven. Wearing lace-up, square-heeled old-lady shoes and stockings and identical World War II–era business suits, their hair tied in braided buns, each one looked like a cross between Eleanor Roosevelt and Ayn Rand. The ringleader, probably in her mid-fifties, introduced herself as Sister Shook and informed my mother that the power of prayer was the only thing that could free her from an eternity in hell. As long as she played host to the Devil, the ravages of epilepsy would be visited upon her, and it was guaranteed that she’d have no chance of entering the kingdom of heaven. Telling my mother this was hitting below the belt, and Sister Shook did it without blinking. From then on, she could do with my mother as she wished.
First she instructed my mother to lie down on the living room floor. “Young man, go get a pillow,” the old prayer witch commanded. Assuming she was thinking of Momma’s comfort, I warmed slightly but soon realized she wanted the pillow only to kneel more comfortably beside her fallen prey.
“Show yourself, Demon,” she demanded. “In the name of God I order you to show yourself for the liar you are.” The other prayer witches chanted, “The Devil’s a liar.” Again Sister Shook demanded, “Show yourself, Demon,” and then all six of them started chanting the same thing over and over again, like some kind of weird Christian cheerleading squad. The rhythm and gathering intensity was starting to scare me.
Sister Shook was hell-bent on upping the ante. That she would bag the Devil this afternoon was preordained, and my mother’s well-being was beneath consideration. Sister Shook’s voice was like Thor’s hammer, and each new command a thunderclap. “Show us your cowardly work, Devil. Let us see you work through Sister Crowell.”
I eased in a little closer. She was inducing a seizure. “Don’t do that to Momma,” I said defiantly.
The old crone speared me with a look ten times more evil than the red-skinned Antichrist they claimed was messing with Sister Crowell. “Silence!”
She couldn’t have shut me up more thoroughly if she’d cut off my tongue with a knife. This was finality distilled to its most base form. My lips were sealed.
The prayer witches kept the chant going while Sister Shook repeated her ultimatum. “Show us your epilepsy, you lying coward. In the name of God almighty I demand you show us your vileness, Satan.”
Ever the good host, my mother obliged with as violent a seizure as any I’d seen. When she began to convulse, Sister Shook launched a well-rehearsed tirade of prayer into which the other witches fell effortlessly in step, like schoolgirls in a jump-rope line.
Oblivious to Sister Crowell’s condition, these bitches turned the intensity of their exorcism to full blast. Writhing on the floor, my mother ground her teeth and frothed like a rabid dog, her bones bending in directions physically impossible without breaking. In fairness to the prayer witches, she did look like someone possessed by the Devil.
“Spit him out! Spit him out!” Sister Shook screamed as this psychic storm raged in our living room.
Torn between seeing the Devil walking around our living room or watching my mother die, I threw my lot in with the prayer witches. If she did spit the Devil out, she might have a chance of surviving the ordeal, so I fell wholeheartedly into their chant. “Spit him out! Spit him out! In the name of God , spit him out!” we roared in unison, like crazed football fans.
I can’t imagine what the neighbors might’ve thought
One afternoon, six of them showed up unannounced at the house on Norvic Street and filed in like a coven. Wearing lace-up, square-heeled old-lady shoes and stockings and identical World War II–era business suits, their hair tied in braided buns, each one looked like a cross between Eleanor Roosevelt and Ayn Rand. The ringleader, probably in her mid-fifties, introduced herself as Sister Shook and informed my mother that the power of prayer was the only thing that could free her from an eternity in hell. As long as she played host to the Devil, the ravages of epilepsy would be visited upon her, and it was guaranteed that she’d have no chance of entering the kingdom of heaven. Telling my mother this was hitting below the belt, and Sister Shook did it without blinking. From then on, she could do with my mother as she wished.
First she instructed my mother to lie down on the living room floor. “Young man, go get a pillow,” the old prayer witch commanded. Assuming she was thinking of Momma’s comfort, I warmed slightly but soon realized she wanted the pillow only to kneel more comfortably beside her fallen prey.
“Show yourself, Demon,” she demanded. “In the name of God I order you to show yourself for the liar you are.” The other prayer witches chanted, “The Devil’s a liar.” Again Sister Shook demanded, “Show yourself, Demon,” and then all six of them started chanting the same thing over and over again, like some kind of weird Christian cheerleading squad. The rhythm and gathering intensity was starting to scare me.
Sister Shook was hell-bent on upping the ante. That she would bag the Devil this afternoon was preordained, and my mother’s well-being was beneath consideration. Sister Shook’s voice was like Thor’s hammer, and each new command a thunderclap. “Show us your cowardly work, Devil. Let us see you work through Sister Crowell.”
I eased in a little closer. She was inducing a seizure. “Don’t do that to Momma,” I said defiantly.
The old crone speared me with a look ten times more evil than the red-skinned Antichrist they claimed was messing with Sister Crowell. “Silence!”
She couldn’t have shut me up more thoroughly if she’d cut off my tongue with a knife. This was finality distilled to its most base form. My lips were sealed.
The prayer witches kept the chant going while Sister Shook repeated her ultimatum. “Show us your epilepsy, you lying coward. In the name of God almighty I demand you show us your vileness, Satan.”
Ever the good host, my mother obliged with as violent a seizure as any I’d seen. When she began to convulse, Sister Shook launched a well-rehearsed tirade of prayer into which the other witches fell effortlessly in step, like schoolgirls in a jump-rope line.
Oblivious to Sister Crowell’s condition, these bitches turned the intensity of their exorcism to full blast. Writhing on the floor, my mother ground her teeth and frothed like a rabid dog, her bones bending in directions physically impossible without breaking. In fairness to the prayer witches, she did look like someone possessed by the Devil.
“Spit him out! Spit him out!” Sister Shook screamed as this psychic storm raged in our living room.
Torn between seeing the Devil walking around our living room or watching my mother die, I threw my lot in with the prayer witches. If she did spit the Devil out, she might have a chance of surviving the ordeal, so I fell wholeheartedly into their chant. “Spit him out! Spit him out! In the name of God , spit him out!” we roared in unison, like crazed football fans.
I can’t imagine what the neighbors might’ve thought
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