Say yes, friend.

Say yes, friend. | The Unnamed Ones

They seemed to want him all to themselves. And for the young boy, it felt good to be wanted.

“I have given you authority to trample on snakes and scorpions and to overcome all the power of the enemy; nothing will harm you. However, do not rejoice that the spirits submit to you, but rejoice that your names are written in heaven.”

— Jesus Christ

Trigger warning: This post contains implications of self-harm and demon possession. Please read with care.

_____

The first time Beor heard the voices, he was only eight years old.

They told him to place his hands in freshly boiled water. It was an odd idea that Beor had never considered before. He hesitated, hovering his hand over the steam, watching it appear and disappear.

He noticed that he felt no heat from the steam.

He tried placing one hand first, and then the other.

The voices said it wouldn’t hurt.

And they were right.

He waited for pain, for some sharp pull, or the instinct to recoil, but it never came. Only warmth did, and even that felt distant, like something happening to someone else.

A tinge of excitement and fear ran through his back.

And he told no one.

The next day, he tried the experiment again without the voices, and it failed, leaving him with a ghastly burn on his left hand.

His mother caught the last moment and screamed in horror. After nursing the wound, she held her crying son and rocked him until he fell asleep.

_____

The second time Beor heard the voices was just over a year later, when his little brother broke an ankle after falling from the top of the house. They were not supposed to be up there without an adult, but Beor loved adventures with his brother. As they played, the voices told Beor that his brother could fly.

And so he pushed him.

There had been crying and shouting. His mother’s voice was sharp with fear, and his father’s heavy with anger, but they felt far away.

Between multiple visits from a Gerasene healer and stern warnings from his parents, Beor found his thoughts lingering on the voices and what they might ask him to do next.

He hoped they wouldn’t wait so long to return this time.

To his excitement, they didn’t wait. And in the following years, their visits became the best part of his day.

_____

The voices sounded happy to be Beor’s friends.

They made suggestions, he accepted every challenge, and the result was either as predicted or a complete failure.

Either way, they were games among friends; one boy and his faceless companions.

Sometimes one voice seemed older, and rough at the edges, like their neighbor who lived across the street. Another was softer, quieter, and often near when he was alone or afraid. It reminded him of his grandmother. Sometimes there was a third. This one was lighter, quicker. It seemed less confident than the others, often speaking in whispers that were hard to hear.

Together, they kept Beor company often.

And together, they taught him many games.

It was a game when they asked him to pretend he could not hear his family.

“It’s practice,” the grandmother-type voice said, “for when you are all grown up.” What felt like a few hours passed quickly. He blinked and realized it had been two whole days of playing pretend.

It was a game when he placed sharp stones in his brother’s bed. That paid off at night time.

“It will teach him to be strong,” came the old man’s voice.

It was a game when he shoved his little sister toward racing hooves—the young girl narrowly missing the passing caravan of horses. She was stunned with disbelief, and terrified of her brother for many years to come.

It was still a game when he played with small animals, and he began to wonder what they would look like if they stopped living; the thought arrived uninvited and lingered longer each time.

That’s a strange thing to do, he giggled as he thought to himself, and played with the neighbor’s new dog. I would not do that to my little friend.

Beor had many thoughts and discussed them with his faceless friends. They seemed to enjoy his odd thoughts, especially the ones he would not share with anyone else. They also seemed to want him all to themselves. And for the young boy, it felt good to be wanted.

After all, apart from the stray animals who cast judgement on no one, people had started to think of him as odd.

Game for game, Beor was along for the ride, as he always got to be behind the wheel.

And he was behind the wheel for exactly seven years—until the voices stopped waiting for him to respond.

_____

The first time it happened, he did not remember deciding.

What he did remember was a distant whimper.

And the stillness that followed.

The neighbor’s young dog lay still at his feet, and Beor trembled.

He stared for a long time, as if the world might correct itself if he waited.

Something in him felt uneasy. It was small, but insistent.

The voices did not share his unease, though. Their approval pressed in around him like laughter. They grew louder than his thoughts, until even that small thing stirring inside him grew quiet.

Sixteen year old Beor buried the dog in a far corner of the town toward the sea— his hands shaking before, during, and hours later. He chose this place because, as his grandmother once said, “… the body came from the sea and would return to it. So we build our tombs by the sea, and we bury our dead there. That way, they can find their way back quickly.”

He wasn’t sure how that worked. But the voices said that no one could know what he had done.

And no one did.

_____

The next time they came to him with a game, Beor did not answer with the enthusiasm they had come to know.

Something in him recoiled— some small, stubborn fragment that had begun, at last, to recognize the shape of what he was becoming.

“No,” he whispered, and the word felt foreign in his mouth.

The silence that followed terrified him.

Then came the older-sounding voice, “What do you mean, no?”

“No,” he whispered again, “I don’t want to play tod— .”

Before Beor could finish his rebellion, a sharp pain startled him. It felt like something, or someone, had stabbed him from the inside out.

The white-hot tearing bent him forward before he could stop himself. The ground rushed up to meet his knees.

His breath broke into fragments, and his vision blurred.

He looked down, half expecting to see blood pooling out of his side.

Nothing.

A faint voice spoke up, and Beor recognized it to be the timid one.

“Say yes, friend.”

He stuttered, trying to find the breath to form a word.

“Say yes, friend. And there will be no more pain.”

“Okay!” Beor screamed in response. “Yes.”

The pain loosened, but did not leave him entirely.

Beor stayed there for a long time, hunched and trembling, his hand still pressed to his left side. His thoughts waded through thick water.

And everything went dark.

_____

The next game seemed simple.

He was to shut himself away from his family for three days, with no food or water.

He obeyed.

Outside the door, his mother called his name until her voice broke. His father struck the wood with his fist so many times that Beor thought he heard a bone crack.

He half expected them to tear the door off its hinges, but something kept them away. It was almost as if they were scared… of him?

Beor sat in the dark and said nothing.

He told himself it was easier this way. It had been a few days since the shocking ordeal, and his pain had come down to levels that were only slightly bearable.

But something inside him knew it could come back at any point, and for any reason.

More days passed, and Beor stayed still in the quiet. The voices seemed to have forgotten him for a while. He pressed his forehead to his knees and listened.

He listened to the silence, to the distant sounds of his family, and to something within him that had not yet fully disappeared.

_____

His parents tried.

Years ago, they separated the boys, placing walls and distance between Beor and the brother who once followed him like a shadow. Their young daughter did not need to be told to stay away. Since the incident with the horses, she would not look her oldest brother in the eyes.

When Beor turned the attacks on himself, they stripped his room bare, removing anything that might become a weapon.

They spoke to him through the door.

They prayed.

They pleaded.

They brought healers and men of good standing from their town; those who claimed wisdom or strength enough to confront whatever had taken hold of their son.

And Beor threw them out. Literally.

A strength that was not his own lifted large men off the ground and, on more than one occasion, held them so tightly that he left dark marks on their skin. A few of the strongest men limped away with broken bones and terror in their eyes.

After that, fewer people came.

Once, when the potion from a diviner seemed to work for a few hours, a few men managed to use chains to hold him down, as ropes now proved too delicate. At this, Beor heard distant laughter from one voice and grumbled irritation from another.

And he wept bitterly.

_____

“I’m sorry, mother.”

Beor’s voice was ragged and faint through the door. His mother had just arrived to leave a meal by his door, as she always did.

A lump formed in the back of her throat and she fought the flood of tears that had become too familiar to her face. She cleared her throat and responded.

“How did you know it was me, my dear?”

“I know your smell, and the sound of your feet.” came his response. “And you never go a day without making me something to eat.”

A stream from one eye escaped and ran down her face.

“You will be better soon. I will hold you in my arms agai—”

“LEAVE US!” a guttural growl startled her. She took off running, leaving behind the broken bowl containing the warm meal, and a sound like the mix of barking and laughter coming from her son.

_____

It was early in the morning when the end came.

Beor’s mother had risen before the sun, as she always did, preparing the portion of food she would push through a small opening in his door.

She was halfway down the corridor when a cracking sound split the early morning silence.

A loud crash.

Then another.

Wood breaking, then something striking the walls. What followed was the unnerving growl that had become commonplace in their home.

She wished that some wild animal had snuck into their home in search of warmth or food.

But she knew better.

She froze only a moment before calling for her husband.

Moments later, they arrived at the source of the noise.

What met them at the doorway was an empty room in ruin. The door had been torn from its hinges and now lay in pieces. The wall around it had been broken inward, and chunks of it were scattered across the floor. Dark drops of blood marked the ground beyond, trailing outward into the open air.

And Beor—

Beor was gone.

____

Beor had no memory of arriving at the tombs.

That came as no surprise to him, as lapses in his memory became commonplace shortly after the first dog died by his hand.

What was a surprise was how much of his own blood he would wake up to, and that he had even woken up at all.

That was over a year ago.

Once, he tried to get help from some mourners who came to bury their dead. By their numbers and faces, this was one who was dearly loved.

He approached them to ask for water— for clothing— for death.

What he distantly remembered was some screaming and a few curses. His words came out as grunts and growls, completely different from what was in his head. It went dark, and upon waking, he assumed there might have been a fight, because he felt sore; the way he did when men had tried to help in his parents’ home.

His faceless friends no longer cared for his thoughts; not that he had room for any. They played games amongst themselves, daring each other to do things with his body that he could not control.

Worse yet, they invited others, until Beor lost count of how many he now hosted.

Where he had once been along for the ride, he had not just lost the wheel and his seat; he was tethered to the back of the ride and dragged like a rag doll with no hope of survival.

Until one morning, after a brief stormy night.

_____

A strange wind took the sea that night. Nothing unusual, except for how quickly it started and how quickly it calmed.

When a windstorm was over the seas, the voices usually played a game that would end up with his body underwater, a lapse in memory, and then coughing and spitting salt water, when he was washed back on the shore.

This time they did not. He was thankful, but sensed that something was terribly different.

The morning looked normal enough. Pig farmers had just released a heard as they did on occasion. The air was cool and silent, and the waters had recovered from the storm. But something from the night made the voices restless, and they would not stop well into the morning.

They were arguing among themselves about something related to time and distance, and someone who was coming.

This was the first time they seemed to argue, and Beor tried to remember if he had ever known them to express fear.

No, not just fear. They were terrified.

From what he could gather, whoever was coming from the sea had the power to cut their time short.

This could end, he thought. I can finally die.

Beor imagined a plan, but he was scared to embrace the thought, in case they heard and made everything dark again.

A few more moments passed, and the voices grew more restless. They screamed and cursed at each other, perfectly distracted for what would leave a moment of control for Beor.

He saw his chance and took it.

With every last ounce of strength he could find, Beor ran.

He ran toward the sea, his eyes wide and crazed, his heart pounding too loud to hear any more voices, his mind, bordering on hope, searching to find someone who carried enough power to help him die.

_____

27 When Jesus stepped ashore, he was met by a demon-possessed man from the town. For a long time this man had not worn clothes or lived in a house, but had lived in the tombs. 28 When he saw Jesus, he cried out and fell at his feet, shouting at the top of his voice, “What do you want with me, Jesus, Son of the Most High God? I beg you, don’t torture me!” 29 For Jesus had commanded the impure spirit to come out of the man. Many times it had seized him, and though he was chained hand and foot and kept under guard, he had broken his chains and had been driven by the demon into solitary places.

30 Jesus asked him, “What is your name?”

“Legion,” he replied, because many demons had gone into him. 31 And they begged Jesus repeatedly not to order them to go into the Abyss.

32 A large herd of pigs was feeding there on the hillside. The demons begged Jesus to let them go into the pigs, and he gave them permission. 33 When the demons came out of the man, they went into the pigs, and the herd rushed down the steep bank into the lake and was drowned.

Luke 8:27-33

Author’s note: Hi there. If you have read this far, thank you! Hats off to you for sticking through the doggie-death part. It was awful, but sadly, I witnessed a similar scene when I was about 8 or 9 years old.

It involved an older girl and a puppy I loved dearly.

Maybe one day I will share more of God’s deliverance from that season.

But for now, I want to leave you with this thought from personal experience: while demonic influence is real, it is no challenge to Jesus. The Bible shows that he does not shy away from it. So while you don’t have to chase it, you don’t have to fear it either. He has made provision for your victory.

Lastly, there is much to say of creative license that cannot be covered in a simple note, and there is great risk involved when connecting a piece of fiction back to the Word of God. If you know me, you know that this is not a task I take lightly, as I will answer to Him for every word I say— or publish.

If your spirit disagreed with any part of this story, that’s fine! I ask that you pray for me. And I’m not just saying that. Actually, truly pray. You have that obligation as a child of God.

If you found yourself stirred to sympathy for Beor, that’s wonderful! Pray for the Beors of the world, and ask God to go ahead of you as you find them. There are many, and they are keeping an eye out for the power coming by sea.

- J. Puri