I’ve seen Demon Possession. It’s beyond scary…

I’m no preacher. I can only talk about what I have seen and Demon Possession is some of it as a Texas Prison Guard. When? On two suicide attempts. And during and after fights. One Demon Possession lasted for six weeks while the Offender screamed nonstop 24 hours a day. Demon Possession is very real and you better not ever play with Demons. You’re Alive and they want Your Living Being very Dead.

Do they Haunt me? No, but like Today, memories of them do come back to remind me to Pray Always. If you don’t, please start. Being Demon Possessed and Killing yourself or Others is just NOT YOU. Pray is the only answer that has protected me. And my Prayers go straight to God.

Now, read…

The concrete walls of a Texas prison hold more than just men. They hold the echoes of violence, the ghosts of forgotten lives, and sometimes, something much older and far more sinister. I spent years walking those cell blocks, and I saw things that don’t make it into reports or the nightly news. I saw what happens when the human breaks and something else slides in to take its place. This is a story about that unseen horror, a story about the day the lights went out, not in the prison, but in a man’s eyes.

It was a hot day, even by Texas standards. The air was a suffocating blanket, thick with the smell of stale sweat and disinfectant. The fluorescent lights hummed with a low, constant drone that seemed to press down on your skull. The tension in the dayroom was a physical thing you could feel in your teeth, a pressure cooker about to blow. Two offenders, usually quiet and unremarkable, were locked in a heated argument over a card game. It started with whispers, then became a low growl, and then, a glint of metal appeared as one of them produced a shiv.

The fight was fast and brutal. We were on them in an instant, but in that moment, something shifted. The inmate with the knife, a scrawny kid named Lenny who was serving time for a petty theft, suddenly seemed to swell. His shoulders broadened, his neck thickened, and the muscles in his arms bulged in a way that defied his frail frame. His face, contorted at first with rage, settled into an expression that was not anger at all, but something colder, something like silent, manic ecstasy. And then, I saw it. The most terrifying thing I have ever witnessed.

His eyes.

The whites of his eyes were gone, and the pale blue of his irises vanished without a trace. They were just two pools of polished obsidian, a solid, glassy black that reflected nothing and swallowed all the light. They weren’t looking at me; they were looking through me, and in that vacant, endless gaze, I felt a terrible, bottomless cold. It was like looking into a deep well with nothing at the end. I shouted at him, trying to break the trance, but it was like speaking to an empty shell. The body was his, but the inhabitant was not. His movements were too precise, too inhumanly fast. It wasn’t until we had him wrestled down to the floor, and the adrenaline of the moment began to subside, that the blackness in his eyes seemed to drain away. It was a visible phenomenon, like ink dissipating in clear water, and the pale blue returned. When he came to, he was confused and terrified, with no memory of what had happened.

This wasn’t a one-time event. That glassy blackness became a horrifying constant in the most desperate and violent moments I witnessed. I saw it in the throes of other fights, a flash of pure darkness in the eyes of men who were usually calm. And it was a terrifyingly consistent feature in every suicide attempt. I would find them in the process of hanging themselves or with makeshift weapons at their wrists, and their eyes would be the same solid, glassy black. I saw it on two separate occasions in men I helped rescue, and in both cases, when the blackness receded, they were bewildered, with no memory of their actions. It was as if they had been hijacked, their bodies taken over by something that did not care what it did to them.

But the worst, the most profoundly terrifying experience, was an active, prolonged possession. The offender was a big man with a gentle spirit, known for his quiet demeanor and his love of drawing. One day, he simply began to scream. It was not a scream of pain or fear, but a primal, inhuman sound that tore at your nerves and seemed to vibrate the very air. Not just for a day, but for weeks. The sound was incessant. We put him in a separate cell, but the screaming didn’t stop. He was always on the move, writhing and contorting in ways a human body shouldn’t, sometimes clinging to the wall on all fours like a spider, his body unnaturally rigid. He would remain that way for hours, motionless, screaming.

Then one day, I was standing outside his cell, trying to see if he was still alive beneath the incessant wailing. That’s when it happened. The screaming stopped. The silence that followed was more terrifying than the noise had been. The man’s body went still, clinging to the wall, his head twisted at an impossible angle. He stared at me with those two endless black voids for eyes. Then, his mouth moved, and a voice—not his, not human—spoke. It was a guttural, ancient sound that seemed to vibrate the very concrete of the cell walls. It talked to me, and the words were a vile, venomous stream that told me what it was and what it did. A powerful, unholy intelligence resided there, an evil so cold and complete it felt like it had been waiting for me to acknowledge it. I felt a chill run down my spine that had nothing to do with the temperature.

I have never forgotten that voice. I can still hear the echo of that unholy sound in the quiet moments of the night. It’s a memory that lives in my bones and in the dark corners of my mind. It’s a constant reminder of the unseen battles that wage around us and in our souls. It is why I pray, forevermore, for every person on Earth and for their families.

I’ve written about this in my books, in my A Panther’s Father book series, and I’ve tried to capture the essence of it in my stories. Because the most valuable lesson of all is this: these things are real, and the next time you see someone act with crazy, utter, intense stupidity, you should know that there might be something else in the room with them. Something waiting.

Be careful. You never know who’s watching.

So, you ask-How can anyone do these stupid crazy things we all see on TV or in person? And that’s where I have to ask-WERE THEY DEMON POSSESSED? If I can see their EYES and if they are completely full glossy BLACK, that’s when I know it is Demon Possession.

At TDCJ, when I was on a Five Man Team taking care of a man attempting Suicide, the Lt. was the first to point out to me his EYES were Solid BLACK and that it was Demon Possession. He also said that we couldn’t do nothing until the Demon left. Or Demons. It was shocking to see that. Actual Demon Possession