The Sarah Chapters
Foreword & Chapter One
Around the time when the King of Horror, Stephen King, wrote his thirteenth best seller, a now-forgotten little girl called Theresa appeared on our television screens. She told a chilling story of abuse, rape, satanic rites and human sacrifice. This came amidst a flood of similar tales that swept across Great Britain, Europe and the United States. The sceptics dubbed it the Satanic Panic and it rang the morbid bells of hell for all that reeked of evil. Pandora’s Box was opened and before it could be shut, thousands of horror stories of Satanic Ritual Abuse flooded from its gaping, bloody jaws. The secret was out. What everyone thought to be old wives tales that kept children indoors after dark, was proved to be real; as real as the nine o’ clock news and scarier than the white-faced Michael Myers from the Halloween flicks.
The truth is that many stories of SRA were later proved to be fabricated or to belong to another genre of abuse, most of the time plain old gratuitous child abuse, if it can ever be called that. It is also true that because of the hype, many people were tried and convicted and were sent to jail and are still in jail today, for crimes they probably did not commit. Yet, amidst the chaos, there were the true horror stories, true above all for the victims. Not all can be attributed to other forms of abuse, mass hysteria, false or implanted memories. Not all can be dismissed by sceptics as hoaxes.
The truth is that Satanic Ritual Abuse is not a new phenomenon, it is not a symptom of the Decadent West, it is an observable fact that is as old as man, as old as the eternal fight between Good and Evil. Evil has been an integral part of this world for as long as Good has inhabited it. It is always there, the opposing force to all things good and you can call it what you like; Satan, the devil, the dark force, a luciferic consciousness, yang, it is all the same thing, always with the same goal in mind and its goal is to destroy good and to create chaos.
The truth also is that the practice of ritual abuse of the innocent has been branded by so-called figures of authority as false, crazy and the result of mass hysteria. Heaven forbid that we, good upstanding citizens of Planet Earth should be associated with anything as nutty as that! Why don’t we just put down this book right now and carry on with what we were doing before we picked it up! If you do, remember to pull down that hood over your eyes lest you see something that does not really exist. I implore you, read, investigate and ask questions! Questions like why so many people and organizations spend so much time, effort and money to discredit the victims of SRA? Why does an entire organization (the False Memory Syndrome Foundation) have to exist in order to prove the memories of SRA victims to be false? Why does the FBI find it necessary to have someone on its payroll for the last twenty years to dispel SRA as a myth? Draw closer that box labelled SRA, take off the lid and look inside. You will find all of these in here. You will find a host of documented cases all with similar stories, similar descriptions and similar allegations. You will also find many reams of paper dedicated to dispelling the evidence of the innocents as fairy tales and hoaxes.
You will find all of those and more and you will find that it is covered by an ominous feeling that all cannot be fantasy. Evil is alive and well on Planet Earth, it exists and beware, the eaters of our children are in our midst.
The Sarah Chapters
It was hellish dark and so quiet, you could hear a pin drop. To her it felt like an aeon has slipped away since the door slammed shut so hard that the whole house rattled in its coat of flaky paint, though not more than fifteen minutes could have passed. Yet she sat frozen in the same spot where she had flung herself with force those few minutes ago, her eyes wide as a possum’s, drinking in every plausible pinhole of light the darkness may offer. The little boy clamped between her legs have long since given up the struggle and the only way she knew he was still alive was the warmness of his breath against her fingers where they were clamped fiercely over his mouth. Hot perspiration on her upper lip mixed with snot and she longed to wipe it away but she dared not let go of him; not until she knew it was safe to do so. Her ears ached from the strain of listening; listening for any sound that would provide a possible report on the status of the situation on the other side of the door. All she heard was silence and more silence, raging like the song of a thousand cicadas in her head. Then, it came; a single sorrowful sob, a solitary suck of air through a wracked throat, a sound so sickening, yet so familiar to Sarah. The sound that provided the required status report, the sound that said, soon, everything will return to normal.
Then suddenly there were more sobs and her mother screamed, “Why me, Mother? What did I do to deserve this?” and she broke down and cried and pummelled the threadbare blue-grey carpet desperately covering the wooden floor with her fists until her sobs subsided, giving way to silence once more. Sarah did not understand those words, as they had nothing to do with the preceding commotion, but she had heard them many times before. Only then did Sarah release her grip on Jamie, giving him space to move and to breathe. The toddler wriggled around and wrapped his arms tightly around Sarah’s neck, crying softly and searching for every little bit of comfort he could find in his sister’s smell. Sarah rose from the cupboard floor, clutching Davey against her body and felt for the doorknob in the darkness. She found it and prayed that Bob would not return too soon. Perhaps he will not return at all and it could be just the three of them again. But instinctively she knew, no sooner will Bob be gone and there will be another. Before Bob, it was Tim, before Tim, it was Raymond, before Raymond, it was the guy who looked like he posed for pictures of the abominable snowman and before him, names and faces convoluted like the rivulets down a mountain side that fed the unstoppable roaring river down below in the valley. For Glenda did not possess the strength to be on her own, not with having to provide for two snot-noses to boot and soon found another man when she lost one. Sarah stepped out of the darkness carrying Davey like a shield and into the mess that a few minutes ago passed as a sitting room. The couch was turned upside down, the small stained and scratched wooden table lay defeated in a corner with a broken leg and the lamp lay broken next to it. There amongst the mess, half-sitting against a faded blue wall with a trail of fresh blood next to her head where her nose struck it, sat Glenda, her eyes as empty as the cupboards in a deserted farmhouse. Sarah did what she always did. She sat beside her mother, cradling the sad woman’s head in her small lap, trailing her fingers though her stringy blonde hair, so like her own, and softly singing the only lullaby she knew.