Grip on the City

I n the early 1970s, I am just a boy when I find myself standing inside a five-point star—a pentagram—drawn on the floor with chalk. Black candles burn on every point of the star, the room lights are dim, and a faint smell of sulfur hangs in the air. The foul scent grows thicker … stronger by the passing second.

The séance begins. Chanting witches and warlocks begin humming louder when the presence of Hell enters the room. What appear to be large, slow-rolling cotton balls are really thick, tumbling white waves of fog creeping along the floor, making a trail toward a throne where someone of high rank would only dare to sit.

I’m offered an object that resembles a blade to cut my finger with, so I can sign my name to a satanic contract in blood. The ceremony is going smoothly until I show reluctance to pierce my skin with the dagger’s sharp edge. A swift, harsh slap across the face motivates me to pierce my skin—the contract is signed.

My life would be comprised of sadistic ceremonies and hideous crimes until the day I would meet the true Lord and Savior.

They call me Willie Mo’, but my real name is Willie James Moore. I was born from a mother whose addiction to drugs caused me problems in my early life. At birth, I was an underweight baby who suffered withdrawal symptoms. I cried all the time as an infant and never sat still as a toddler. My mother’s drug use led to my attention deficit disorder as a preschool child.

Thanks to a certain spirit, I became a really naughty kid. I was so aggravating that my own momma rejected me at an early age. Instinctively, I knew she didn’t like me, so I would purposely do things to piss her off. Even though she whipped my butt good, I would still lash back at my momma the best way I could. At that young age, I could do nothing but cry for endless hours while constantly getting into mischief. My mother could get no rest unless I was asleep. I knew it and exploited every opportunity to pester my no-good mammy. This was pretty good progress considering I was just an innocent child. Little did I know there was an evil force behind the scene molding my character.

Maybe if I had known better, I would have treated my mother better. To her defense, she was a victim of the streets too. I don’t know much about her life, but I heard she, Cynthia was her name, fell in love with a man who deceived her. The so-called lover was nothing but a pimping wolf pretending to be a devoted lover. That hustler played his hand smoothly using drugs to turn my mother into a prostitute that stalked the streets day and night searching for the next opportunity to get high. Like any young, naive female hustling the streets for drugs, she eventually gave birth to an unwanted baby boy, me.

I grew up in the city where most people believe witchcraft and voodoo is something those southern folks like to practice. You know, people in the city are too smart to mess around with that Johnny-the-conqueror-root stuff. That’s a big mistake! Such ignorance is the reason the craft flourishes so well in the city—it’s the same reason why I thrived in darkness.

Due to the circumstances in which I was born, I became an unusual child. Oftentimes, I could be found all alone playing without supervision, and naturally so, a child left alone is a child in trouble.

Trouble came to me in the form of an old man, Mr. Levy. There was something within me that attracted him, a hidden power that scratched at the surface of my soul yearning to be released, crying to the one who could draw it out. Levy was the ideal man for the job; the job was ideal for the old man.

I can’t ever recall a time of being without Mr. Levy; it seems that he has always been in my life. I believe he got in good with my mother by providing all the money needed to buy drugs without her having to sell her body on the streets on a daily basis. Whatever he did, Levy won my mother’s favor and even gained legal custody of me, which kept other family members from interfering in my life. Cynthia neither knew what was going on behind closed doors with me, nor allowed it to concern her. My mother had drugs, and the old man had me—a fair exchange is no robbery, I suppose.

All my memories of Mr. Levy are the same. He was always a quiet man who kept himself busy with cooking and chanting. As a kid, I never knew why he cooked so much food, nor did I understand why we almost never ate the things he prepared. Visitors would always come by the house to pick up the concoctions he created. Some of these dishes emanated a savoring aroma that would rouse my appetite. Other dishes smelled horribly foul and took several days, sometimes a week or so, before the odor finally cleared the kitchen.

Though he seldom left the house, Mr. Levy worked for someone, but he never discussed his business with me, and I instinctively knew better than to ask.

As I mentioned before, my memories of the old man are mostly the same. He’s always been that skinny old guy of average height for a man with no hair on his shiny bald head. His smutty black skin and hazel eyes makes for an exotic look. I never knew how old this toothless man was, for none of us ever celebrated birthdays. From the little bit of time I did spend in public school, I learned from the other kids and parents that my Levy was a weird man. For instance, no matter how cold the temperature, the old man was always sweating. He also carried on conversations with himself too, but I always referred to it as chanting. Though his behavior seemed odd to others, it was normal to me. I suppose that both of us were a bit detached from mainstream society, which explains why I never got along with my peers and school teachers.

What most people didn’t know is that Mr. Levy is into the craft. The old man is a teacher of the dark arts, and I was his superb student. The elder exposed me to things that brought me spiritual powers. He took me to special places and introduced me to people who also took interest in my development. Some of these places were located in the affluent parts of town while others were deep in the slums where cops seldom went. I saw all races and religions of people at the occult gatherings. It’s astonishing to see how evil occupies every level of society.

Mr. Levy oversaw every aspect of my training which, for the most part, always went fine except for one thing: I didn’t like human sacrifices. From where this distaste for killing came, I never knew. According to Levy, it was the prayers of my Christian grandmother that caused me to be stubborn. He said the woman’s prayers to the Heavenly Father would hinder the rituals, making it impossible for me to participate in the sacrifices. This angered the old man to the point of wanting to rid the Earth of my grandmother, but somehow he was always powerless in his efforts to outright harm the woman. Still, this never stopped Levy from attacking the church she attended—he even taught me how to do it.