How do you get possesed by the devil?

Answer 1

So many of us have been sold into slavery to an idea or so. These ideas could be so sublime that we forget they are there.

An aunt told you, "You are too stupid to go to school."

A cousin has said, "You can't hold a note in a bucket."

A pastor has admonished, "You will go to Hell if …."

So now, at twenty years old, you are still too ugly, too fat, too flat, and too worthless. So, what do you do? You bought that banjo, that pencil, that haircut. You practice in the shower, in your dreams, in the hallows of Massacre Canyon on a rainy day.

You have a dream. You have a drive. You have a road block. You have worked that Flute until the holes are worn and splintery. Yet you run and hide the moment someone suggests a recital (but, he sounded so nice from the other room).

So, you find a cunjure doctur. She sells you some fine stuff in a box, sends you to a lonesome crossroad with your … flute, your poetry, your gambler's dice, what you want to make a divine mark on the world with.

The first night you play that flute till you are out of breath.

Third night, again you play to an audience of one … owl, who keeps passing by for some reason. Maybe your two candles are drawing her favorite meal.

Seventh night; she brings a friend or two. She and the coyotes keep a respectable distance. You can see the light from your red and black candles glow in their eyes, but who cares.

Ninth night - is that a storm in the distance? She said to do this nine nights, so this is it. You draw your flute out, oil her with love (and maybe some Mojo Perfume), join the pieces together with lust. Is that rain you smell?

Never mind. The audience creeps forward as you light the candles for one last performance. Looks like Coyote has brought her whelps. Draw your circle, cross it with three or four radii, kneel, breathe.

Breathe, and enjoy that wind, the smell of rain. You lift that flute to your mouth and there is no turning back.

Your soul is now his.

You play: soft, sweet, poetic. You play: hard, bitter, dramatic. Your flute wails and the coyotes sing with you. The flute flies and floats and wanders through Russian steppes and Chinese temples, over plains and oceans.

Freedom.

No aunt, no cousin, no friend, no chiding moralist to complain. And, hell, Reverend, what's it to ya?

Sitting before you is the Devil himself, in all his glory. A sweet smile that charms you shines from his black face. His strong body is draped with a red cloth tied across his chest at the shoulder, which lets his powerful hands roam free.

And one of them is reaching toward you, gently asking to borrow your flute.

No, there is no turning back now. You freely give it to him. He nods his thanks, and breathes.

He kisses the flute with the lust of a virgin in heat. Soft, hard, sweet, blue, sensuous and brutal. Your flute takes on a life of its … no, her own.

Reverently, in the fading echoes of thunder, he hands her back to you. In awe, some jealousy, you embrace her like a lover reunited. You caress her holes, her body, your breath … divinely inspires her soul with life. The magic … the music flows, alive … you are alive.

Yes, the Devil knows a good thing when he sees it … and now you see it too. And you have a new master, a merchant, and you are his trade, his disciple. And you are his slave. No, not likely to get you to Harvard. For that you would have been orating some argument before an imaginary court for those nine nights like a jurist doctor, while finding some way to improve your luck in financial matters. But now you are worth something.

Answer 2

From dabbling in the Occult, such as playing with ouija boards.