Four Nights With The Devil

  FOUR NIGHTS

  WITH THE DEVIL

  A TRUE STORY OF DELIVERANCE FROM EVIL

  PETER HOCKLEY

  FOUR NIGHTS WITH THE DEVIL

  Copyright © Peter Hockley 2013

  The right of Peter Hockley to be identified as author of this work

  has been asserted by him in accordance with the

  Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, reprinted or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the author.

  Scriptures marked KJV are taken from the Authorised, King James Version Crown Copyright.

  Scriptures marked NIV are taken from the NEW INTERNATIONAL VERSION. Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984 by International Bible Society.

  Cover design by Harry Strachan.

  Contact the author at: peterhockley@yahoo.com

  Some names have been changed to protect the privacy of certain individuals in this story.

  Dedication

  For my wife, with love for all you’ve done.

  Contents

  Foreword

  Introduction

  Chapter One: The Game Winning Shot

  Chapter Two: The Dream

  Chapter Three: Lost

  Chapter Four: Heathen

  Chapter Five: Searching

  Chapter Six: Broken

  Chapter Seven: Mirage

  Chapter Eight: The Book

  Chapter Nine: Conversation with “God”

  Chapter Ten: Revelations

  Chapter Eleven: The Voice

  Chapter Twelve: Fear and Torment

  Chapter Thirteen: Trust Me

  Chapter Fourteen: The Confession

  Chapter Fifteen: The Name of Jesus

  Chapter Sixteen: The Face of Evil

  Chapter Seventeen: Deliverance

  Chapter Eighteen: Saved

  Chapter Nineteen: Victory

  Chapter Twenty: The Calling

  Chapter Twenty One: From Darkness to Light

  Salvation

  Acknowledgments

  Foreword

  It is my pleasure to write this introduction to Peter’s story. When he first came to Oxford Bible Church, less than a month after the events described in this book, I had no idea what he had just been through. It is one of the most exciting testimonies I have heard in over thirty years of being a Christian. The video that we taped when he shared it in church became our best-selling recording, because of the drama of the story and the compelling way Peter relives it as he speaks. One is left in no doubt that this is truly what he went through.

  I am so glad Peter took the time to put this into print because there is so much to learn from his experiences. There are the subtle disguises of evil that try and trap us in their web of deception. There is the love of God reaching out to a lost soul, who is seeking the truth among the philosophies all around him. Then there is the power of God reaching down to deliver him just in time, changing his deep darkness into bright light.

  This testimony shows the power of Christ to totally turn a life around. For me, the genuine proof that what Peter went through was real is his changed life since then. He truly loves the Lord who saved him, and I thank God for his continuing growth as a Christian since then. Let Peter’s story inspire your faith in what God can do in your life!

  Derek Walker

  Senior Pastor, Oxford Bible Church

  Introduction

  This is a true story. Not imagination, fabrication or exaggeration, the events in this book happened precisely as I describe them. Over four winter nights in December 2002, the devil came to me.

  My reasons for telling this story are two-fold.

  First, as a warning: The devil exists. He has tricked the world into believing he doesn’t, but – invisible to man’s natural senses – satan prowls the earth like a raging lion, seeking to pervert, corrupt and ultimately destroy the human soul. Fascination with the occult, obsession with demons and dark supernatural forces and interest in all forms of spirituality – both good and evil – has probably never been greater in our highly secular and “enlightened” age. Countless TV shows, a glut of horror movies and endless dark-fantasy novels have saturated our culture with stories and images of vampires, ghouls, witches and evil spirits, and the collective appetite of our society – lusting after these macabre tales – shows no sign of being satiated yet.

  Lucifer has become popcorn entertainment.

  From the success of The X-Files in the nineties and the worldwide popularity of the Harry Potter series, to the more recent fame of the Twilight vampire saga, the television show True Blood and high-grossing, scary movies like Drag Me To Hell, it seems our hunger to explore the dark realm of the supernatural only grows stronger. But is there any truth behind the fiction? Is it all harmless imagination and story-telling or do the legends, novels and films have any basis in reality? Many today would say no and my voice was once a part of that sceptical chorus. My viewpoint changed forever following four extraordinary days of spiritual occurrences that culminated in one frightening night.

  This is a true account of those terrifying moments and is a word of caution for those who gaze curiously through the window of spirituality and who wander playfully through the garden of the occult, unafraid and unaware of the malicious eyes that track your every move.

  My other reason for writing this book is to encourage. For those who are as I once was – lost, desperate, living without hope, bereft of joy and absent all peace – this book explores the pain and disappointment of my own struggle to find meaning to my existence, a reason for my life and the journey to happiness and delight found in the least likely place a man like me would ever look. Someone asked me why this experience happened to me and for that I have no answer other than to say that God alone knows. I guess it had to happen to someone.

  So here is my testimony. I can only tell the story – honestly and true to the events that occurred. What happens thereafter is up to you. Regardless of your opinion going in and your conclusion at the end, I hope you enjoy Four Nights with the Devil and I pray that God will use this effort to speak to your heart and minister to your spirit. I thank you sincerely for taking the time to read it.

  God bless you,

  Peter

  Note: Throughout this testimony, satan has been spelled without a capital “S”. Grammatical rules aside, the devil shall receive no glory whatsoever in this writing.

  Chapter One : The Game Winning Shot

  Five weeks premature and clearly keen to get going with life, I was born in June 1981, in the city of Oxford, where my grandparents had moved from Kent during the Second World War. Though I was an only child to a single mother I still grew up in a huge family. My mother, Shirley, was the youngest of fourteen. By the time she arrived, Mum’s eldest siblings were already marrying and having children of their own. Consequently my family is enormous, with an intricate network of aunts, uncles and innumerable cousins, two and three times removed. I am convinced that having thirteen older brothers and sisters is what made Mum only have one child herself. I remember once having to produce a family tree for a project at school. There was just no paper large enough to draw it on, so my mum and I ended up creating the tree on the reverse side of a roll of wallpaper. There were giggles and gasps, and eyes popped wide open in the classroom on the day I gave my presentation. It took at least three other students to help me hold up the unrolled history of my family.

  Despite the enormity of our number not one of my relatives went to church. I recall there was a distant aunt who was said to be “spiritual” – whatever that meant – but we rar
ely saw her anyway. The only time anybody in the Hockley family stepped inside the House of God was for christenings, weddings and funerals, or as Mum called them, “the hatches, matches and dispatches”. I never liked being in church even for those and wondered why we bothered christening the babies we did in the first place, since no one actually believed the religious stuff. Was it to keep up appearances, maybe, or just an excuse to have the party that came afterwards?

  At middle school, from the age of nine to thirteen, every Christmas, the teachers took the children to an old church next door to the school to sing carols. The school meant it to be a fun occasion. From the reaction of most of us kids you would think they had thrown us into a torture chamber. All afternoon we fidgeted, misbehaved and virtually climbed the walls to try and escape. Two hours of boredom felt more like two days and when it was all over we rushed for the exit faster than if the building was on fire. In the course of the school year it was carol singing day that I dreaded most.

  At home, the only time God’s name was ever mentioned was when either my mother or one of her sisters was swearing. Those ladies could curse with the best of them. On one occasion I remember hearing my mum joke that she was glad to be going to hell because, “at least it’s nice and warm down there.”

  By the time I pressed rather awkwardly into my teenage years I was certain that religion was a waste of time. To me, God was a figment of men’s imagination. Prayers were a crutch for weak people who couldn’t cope with life and, as far as I was concerned, were a futile waste of time because there wasn’t any white-bearded old man listening in the sky anyway.

  I thought going to church was a pointless exercise and from my experience of the hatches, matches and dispatches, churches were painfully dull places to be anyway. They were cold, smelly old buildings, playing dreary old music with hymns that no one knew the words to, though everyone still mumbled along embarrassingly as if they did. As for the priests and vicars, they all talked with the same tired, droning voice – it seemed like even they wanted to be somewhere else. Christianity looked like a religion full of self-righteous hypocrites, who sang about a very far away Jesus for an hour on Sunday before they went off and sinned for the rest of the week. The expression “born again” meant nothing to me either, though the impression I got was that born again Christians were even crazier than the normal ones. I didn’t know any born again Christians personally, though I occasionally came across a newspaper article about an ex-alcoholic, ex-drug addict, ex-bank robber or some other ex-crook who was now said to be “born again” – but what did that mean? I imagined only that these addicts and crooks now sang about a very far away Jesus for an hour on Sunday, before they went off and sinned for the rest of the week.

  There was only one passion in my life and it wasn’t religion or church but the game of basketball. I didn’t take up the sport until I was almost fifteen, when the local council erected a single basketball hoop in a nearby park and one Saturday afternoon my best friend, David and I, bored out of our minds, decided to try it out. We didn’t even own a basketball and had to make do with David’s football instead. However we were hooked right away and spent the rest of the day at the park.

  There was something about getting the football into the net that produced a euphoria I had never experienced before. Every time I watched the ball leave my hands, sail through the air and fall into the basket there was a feeling of success and triumph that was intensely addictive. From that afternoon basketball was my whole world. A love affair began that lasted the rest of my adolescence.

  The park was the place where you could always find me and while I was there I felt completely free from the hassle and worry of teenage life. I only wished I could stay at the court forever because somewhere deep inside of me was a rumbling of discontent. Even at such a young age a genuine disappointment with life was slowly setting in.

  The basketball court was a place of adrenaline and excitement, however leaving it to go home took me back to a world that failed to fulfil the growing desire within my heart for something more. I realised that it was impossible to replicate the joy of scoring a basket in everyday life.

  My hero in those days was Michael Jordan, the greatest basketball player who ever played the game. Jordan’s unique creativity and artistry on the court was such that he left millions of fans, including me, mesmerised and breathless with awe. Every game he sent basketball lovers leaping out of their seats for sheer excitement at what they had witnessed him do. Of all the many skills he was known for, perhaps Jordan’s forte was the ability to score the game winning shot.

  As the game-clock counted down the final seconds of a match, before the horn signalled the end of the contest, the ball would be in Michael Jordan’s hands. Though his team might be losing, down by a point or two, Jordan now took possession of the ball and control of the entire game. He would dribble the ball up the court slowly and carefully, sizing up his opponents and scanning their defence for weak spots. All the while the clock continued its countdown.

  Six seconds remaining. Five...four…

  The defence guarding Jordan – sometimes more than one man – was set, anticipating any move he made. But every time, Jordan would make his move anyway and, every time, he would find a way through.

  Three…two…

  Jordan would take off and release his shot. Long, outstretched arms tried desperately to block the ball but they were always too late. The ball was already on its way to the basket.

  One…

  The size seven Spalding would fall through the net, giving Jordan a winning score and at that moment the horn would sound out.

  Michael Jordan had won the game.

  Opponents who tasted victory only a second earlier now hung their heads in defeat. Teammates ran to celebrate with the hero, as a thousand cameras flashed around the arena and the crowd exploded in wild celebration. Only Jordan, it seemed, remained calm, raising a single clenched fist in triumph but no more than that. Michael Jordan knew that he would score. He knew he was going to win the game.

  On the basketball court in Oxford my friends and I played our games as seriously as if we were alongside Jordan. But our shots were not always as successful as his and I noticed that the same was true about life in the wider world. The clearly observable fact of it left me uneasy. If we were here on this earth for just one lifetime, before disappearing into death and nothingness, why did it seem like more people were in defeat rather than victory? There were some Michael Jordans all right, with their fists raised in triumph, but they were grossly outnumbered by many, many more who looked like those beaten opponents – coming so close to the glory of winning, yet in the end hanging their heads in despair, loss and failure. Right across the world it seemed, for all the game winning shots that were launched into the air, far more than should have been the case, when the final horn sounded, missed.

  Something inside of me was stirring. It was so slight at first it barely registered. I couldn’t put my finger on the problem and explain what it was. The more time passed though the sorrowful feeling only intensified. There was an echo in my soul, a void that nothing in the world around me could fill. It was the sense of being so small and insignificant against the grand scheme of things. The universe was a fast flowing river and my time in it was painfully short before I disappeared and the river rushed on with no memory I had ever existed. I wanted my life to mean something. If there was no higher purpose to my existence, if I was condemned to drift through life without hope, before death carried me away and all remembrance of me vanished forever, where did that leave me? Was my only destiny to miss the game winning shot?

  One night, as the echo in my soul grew louder, I lay down to sleep and in a dream saw terrifying visions unlike anything I had ever before imagined.

  Chapter Two : The Dream

  I am standing in the road outside my house, bathed in warm sunshine. I turn my head and notice a crowd of my family and friends. There is no special occasion, just a gathering of familiar faces and
all of them are happy. There is joking and laughter. I am unable to pick out any specific conversation, though I can sense how glad these loved ones are to be together.

  From the corner of my eye something catches my attention. Dark black clouds in the distance are racing toward us with incredible speed - unnaturally fast. Sunlight is lost behind storm clouds that swarm overhead and spread out to fill the sky. I look at my family. They are laughing, oblivious to the changed atmosphere. I glance at each face in turn but nobody cares about the weather. Why am I the only one aware of the darkness?

  Panic rises.

  Now I hear thunder rumbling – two times, three; it draws nearer with every burst. I look at the crowd again. They all smile and laugh. I am desperate for someone else to see the storm. No one does. Fear takes hold. A sense of foreboding washes over me. Danger is close and I know something terrible is about to happen.

  That very moment the sky explodes and a ferocious bolt of lightning strikes me squarely on the head. I can feel electricity tear its way through my entire being. As lightning rips my body I am blasted off my feet and come down onto the road with a crash. Flat on my back, with my arms and legs outspread, I try moving but my limbs do not respond. I am utterly paralysed.

  Family and friends are screaming and rush to where I lay. I see them looking down at me and attempt to speak, but sound refuses to come. I try blinking but my eyes will not move. Sheer terror is written on every face above me. Distraught voices cry out, “Oh no! Oh my God—he’s dead! Pete is dead!”