The Sarah Chapters

PREISS / SARAH CHAPTERS / 1 The Sarah Chapters Jacques Preiss Copyright© 2007 Jacques Preiss First published 2008 by Emagin Down Under in New Zealand and USA by arrangement with www.Lulu.com A division of Overberg Blue Crane Limited 32 Joseph Banks Drive Whitby, Wellington, 5024 New Zealand Jacques Preiss asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser. All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. PREISS / SARAH CHAPTERS / 3 ISBN Hardback 978-0-473-13162-3 ISBN Paperback 978-0-473-13163-0 ISBN e- Book 978-0-473-13164-7 Printed and bound in the USA by www.Lulu.com For my wife and my four beautiful sons, thank you for always believing in me. PREISS / SARAH CHAPTERS / 1 The Sarah Chapters Foreword In 1986, around the time when Stephen King wrote his best seller IT, a now-forgotten little girl called Theresa appeared on our television screens. She told a chilling story of abuse, rape, occult 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 suspected of being real; as real as the nine o’ clock news and scarier than the white-faced Michael Myers from the old Halloween flicks. 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 name 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 is that many stories of SRA were later proved to be fabricated. 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 stories that rang true; true above all for the victims. Not all could be attributed to mass hysteria or false or implanted memories. Not all could be dismissed as hoaxes. These cases and their very real victims raise awkward questions. Questions like why so many people and organizations spend so much time, effort and money to discredit the victims of child abuse? Why does an entire organization (the False Memory Syndrome Foundation) have to exist in order to prove the memories of child abuse victims to be false? Why does the FBI find it necessary to have someone on its payroll for the last twenty years to dispel Satanic Ritual Abuse 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 and gigabytes of data dedicated to dispelling the evidence of the innocents as imaginings 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. And even if we challenge the contents of that box, we cannot deny that children are abused by adults; in the most horrific ways; every day. It is for those children that Sarah stands up and raises her voice. Now may be time to raise yours too. 2 JACQUES PREISS PREISS / SARAH CHAPTERS / 3 PART ONE They sacrificed their sons and their daughters to demons. They shed innocent blood, the blood of their sons and daughters, whom they sacrificed to the idols of Canaan, and the land was desecrated by their blood. They defiled themselves by what they did; by their deeds, they prostituted themselves. Bible, NIV, Psalm 106:37-39 CHAPTER ONE It was hellish dark in the closet and so quiet, you could hear a pin drop. To the little blonde girl sitting on the broom closet floor, it felt like an aeon has slipped away since the door slammed shut so hard that the whole little house rattled in its coat of flaky paint, though not more than fifteen minutes could have passed. Yet she remained frozen in the same spot where she had flung herself with force a 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 she held them tightly 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?” As she broke down and cried, she pummelled the threadbare blue-grey carpet covering the wooden floor desperately 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 Davey, giving him space to move and to breathe. The toddler 4 JACQUES PREISS PREISS / SARAH CHAPTERS / 5 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 Butch, before Butch, it was Earl, before Earl, 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 in the valley down below. 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 lounge 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. ******************* Later, Glenda stood on the porch with a cigarette clutched between the ginger- coloured fag-fingers of her left hand. Smoke trailed through the still afternoon air. Muggy weather, her mother would have called it. Oppressive, stifling and windless air, that left your skin hot and sticky. Days like this made her long for the coast and a fresh cool wind blowing in over the waves, course sand crunching beneath her bare feet, gently rasping away at the thick skin of her heels, the result of too many sandal-days.

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