When I was a kid my very Catholic grandmother told me she had a Demon in her house. He walked up and down the stairs at night, gave her terrible violent nightmares and broke the neck of her cat.
Of course now I was terrified to go walk those creaky narrow stairs, the same ones the Demon walked, up to the bedroom where I was to sleep at night. Alone.
I would put up a big fuss about sleeping in that room alone. My grandmother told me not to worry, that the statue of Mary would protect me. Also to sleep with a bible under my pillow and pray, and I would be alright.
It must have worked, mostly, because I did not levitate off the bed, the cross on the wall did not swing upside down, and I didn’t have bouts where I was speaking only in Latin.
But I did dream about that damn statue. Mary would come to life, that snake curling around her feet, and speak to me. I never could make out what she said. Finally when she was done she would shake, fall to the floor and shatter.
To this day, religious symbols and statues hold some sick twisted fascination with me, although I won’t allow any in my house. They freak me the fuck out, and I’m done with having conversations with Mary.