The Star-Filled Grip

The first time Ruby saw the light, she thought it was a blessing. It arrived on a Tuesday, three weeks after her Aunt Miriam died, flooding her bedroom with a cold radiance that scattered pinpricks of silver across the walls like scattered seeds. The light pulsed, gentle and rhythmic, and when Ruby reached for it, her hand passed through a warmth that felt like a hand holding hers. That night, she dreamed of a wedding—herself in a white gown, a groom whose face she couldn’t see, and children with laughter that sounded like wind chimes. When she woke, the light was still there, hovering by the window, and she felt a presence, warm and reassuring.

For a week, she nurtured that presence. It followed her from room to room, brushing her hair, resting on her shoulder like a loyal pet. She began to talk to it, to thank it for the comfort. Then, one evening, she found a pen in her hand and the presence guided it across a piece of paper. The letters were shaky, unfamiliar, but they formed the name ‘Jesus.’ Ruby wept with joy. She thought her aunt had sent a guardian.

But the name changed. The next night, the pen wrote ‘Lord Jehovah,’ and the pressure felt heavier, more demanding. The light grew brighter, harsher, no longer a gentle glow but a blinding glare that made her eyes water. The presence began to touch her more insistently—stroking her hair, tracing the curve of her right leg, just above the knee. It was no longer a comfort but a claim. Ruby started to feel exhausted, drained, as if something was feeding on her energy.

She sought help. A pastor from a small church down the road, a man named Pastor Elias, listened to her story with a grave face. He read from a worn Bible, his voice trembling. ‘This is not of God,’ he said. ‘It is an incubus, a demon that comes by night and day, clinging to the body.’ He pressed a silver cross into her hands and prayed over her, but the presence only laughed—a sound like scraping metal in her ears—and the light flickered angrily. ‘You cannot bind me with trinkets,’ it seemed to say.

Ruby tried to ignore it, but the touches grew bolder. During the day, she felt it stroke her hair while she worked, and at night, she felt it press against her leg, cold and heavy. She started wearing long sleeves and pants, but the sensation pierced through cloth. She became a prisoner in her own skin, her mind filled with whispers of marriage and dead relatives, of futures that felt like traps.

One evening, in desperation, she researched automatic writing. She learned that it was a way for spirits to communicate through a person’s hand, and that it could be used by demons to deceive. She thought of the light, the sparkles like stars, and realized they had been a lure. She tried to stop, to refuse the pen, but her hand moved on its own, writing a name she didn’t recognize—’Moloch’—and then a date: the day her aunt had died. A chill ran down her spine.

Pastor Elias returned with holy water and anointing oil. He performed a deliverance, commanding the demon to leave in the name of Christ. For a moment, the light dimmed, and Ruby felt a reprieve. But as he left, the light flared again, stronger than before, and she heard a voice, not in her ear but in her mind, whisper, ‘You are mine.’

That night, Ruby woke to find herself pinned to her bed, an invisible weight on her chest. Something was holding her arms down, and she felt two distinct presences: one stroking her hair, the other gripping her right leg above the knee. She tried to scream, but only a whimper came out. The light filled the room, and she saw—or imagined she saw—two dark silhouettes bending over her, their eyes like voids. They whispered to each other in a language she didn’t know, and she felt a terrible intimacy in their touch, as if they were claiming her for a purpose she couldn’t understand.

Days turned into weeks. Ruby stopped going out, stopped answering calls. She became a shell, her eyes hollow, her skin pale. Pastor Elias visited again, but this time, he brought a colleague, a woman with sharp eyes and a no-nonsense demeanor named Silvia. They performed a longer ritual, using salt and scripture. The demons fought back, shaking the room, making the furniture rattle. But when they finally left, the light didn’t vanish; it shrank into a small, iridescent ball that hovered in the corner, pulsing like a malevolent heart.

Silvia looked at Ruby with pity. ‘There are two,’ she said. ‘They have brought others. You are not just a vessel; you are a gateway. They are using you to find a way into this world.’ Ruby felt a cold despair settle over her. She had thought the light was a blessing, and it had turned out to be a trap.

One night, Ruby decided to fight back. She armed herself with a heavy Bible and a can of lighter fluid. She waited until the light was low, until the touches were just a whisper, and then she spoke aloud, ‘I know you are not Jesus. I know you are not Jehovah. You are liars, and I will not let you use me.’ She lit the Bible and threw it into the corner where the light had retreated.

The light exploded into a thousand shards, and for a moment, the room was dark and silent. Ruby felt a release, a lifting of the weight from her chest. She collapsed, gasping, hoping it was over.

But as dawn broke, she saw it again—a faint glow at the foot of her bed, like a single star. And she felt a cold hand stroke her hair, and a finger trace a circle on her right leg. The touch was patient, waiting. Ruby knew then that the star-filled grip was not easily broken. It had attached itself to her for a reason, and it would not let go.

She looked at her reflection in the window and saw a face that no longer looked like her own—thin, hollow, with eyes that held too much fear. The light in the corner pulsed, and Ruby, exhausted, let out a single, quiet sob. The demon—or demons—had won. She was their playground, their toy, and there was no escape.

In the months that followed, Ruby learned to live with the constant touch, the whispers, the dreams. She kept the curtains drawn, and she never spoke of the light. But sometimes, late at night, she would look at her right leg and see faint, star-shaped marks where the demon had held her, and she would wonder if the stars had always been a curse.