I grew up in Belfast during the 1970s. There was something far worse than gunmen stalking the streets.

It was tough coming of age in West Belfast during the early 70s, that’s for sure. I’m not making excuses for myself but – like many in my generation – I was caught between a rock and a hard place. I grew up in a working-class Catholic family and like many others we struggled. My old man was a joiner by trade and often couldn’t find work, while my mother worked as a school dinner lady to help pay the bills.

I was the middle child and the only boy. I loved my three sisters but they often did my head in back in the day. All five of us lived in a small, terraced house with an outdoor toilet. Again, that wasn’t unusual for the time. We were poor but so was almost everyone we knew, and we were a tight-knit community. Back then people really did look out for their neighbours.

We lived on a side street off the Catholic Falls Road, only a few hundred yards away from our Protestant neighbours on the Shankill. My parents weren’t political but were avid church goers and insisted that we regularly attended mass at Clonard – every Sunday like clockwork. Nevertheless, we were taught to respect the other community and to never engage in sectarianism.

I actually did have some Protestant friends when I was young. They had it a bit better than us but not much. There were more jobs on the Protestant side but they still lived in small terrace houses like us. We knew they were different from us, but this usually only became an issue when the 12th July came around and the Orange marches took place. That brought out the worst in people and reminded us of the deep divide in our city.

Nevertheless, for all the hardships I had a good early childhood, but everything changed during that fateful summer of 1969. We heard about the trouble on the news, but then the violence was outside of our front door. People we knew were rioting – fighting hand-to-hand in the street and throwing petrol bomb with a wild fury.

The police came down the road in their armoured cars and the loyalist mobs came piling after them, tossing bombs through windows and burning houses as they came. And then the gunfire began – the heavy rattling of machineguns and sharp crack of rifles. I remember the whole family hiding under our kitchen table as the screaming mobs fought tooth and nail on the road outside.

My parents tried to reassure us, but we could tell how scared they were. I reckoned it was only a matter of time before they attacked our home, but the riots ended when the British Army arrived, dividing our two warring communities with barbed wire and bayonets.

Hundreds were forced out of their homes, burnt out and left to retrieve whatever meagre possessions they still had in carts and coal vans.

The riots were horrific but we hoped the army’s arrival would be the end of it. But sadly, the ’69 riots were a mere prelude to the years of bloody conflict to come. The Troubles had begun and our lives would never be the same. I was 12 years old.

So, my formulative years were dominated by the conflict on the streets where I lived – but again, this doesn’t make me unique and does not explain why I’m sharing my story here.
Honestly, I shouldn’t be speaking about this at all. It’s been more than half a century since the events, but there’s still a risk. Both the British government and Irish republican movement could still come after me. But the truth is, I’ve kept this secret for too long and I want to clear my conscience before it’s too late.

So, let me take you back to the violent summer of 1972, when I was a young lad of 15 trying to survive on the perilous streets of West Belfast. After three long years of the Troubles violence had become common place to the extent it was almost normalised. The Army came into our areas heavy-handed, beating and arresting our friends and neighbours and tearing homes apart in their house searches for guns and explosives.

There was trouble almost every time the Brits came in as local youths pelted the troops with bricks and bottles. And then there was the IRA – hooded gunmen who attacked the soldiers with guns and bombs, as both sides turned our area into a warzone. Gun battles on the streets and bombings in the city centre were an almost daily occurrence as the Provos went all out to smash British rule.

Unsurprisingly, the Protestants weren’t too happy about this upsurge in violence and threat to their supremacy. The unionist politicians made firebrand speeches, calling for total war against the IRA and its support base. And meanwhile, loyalist paramilitaries decided to take the law into their own hands, unleashing their rage upon innocent Catholics, shooting them dead on the streets or worse…kidnapping unfortunates and brutally torturing them to death inside their hellish romper rooms.

Yes, it was a very dangerous time, but somehow life went on. I’d managed to avoid the worst of it for those three years. I must give credit to my parents for keeping me on the straight and narrow. They were strict and I often hated them for it, but looking back now I understand why they did it. My mother and father had little interest in politics and when they did vote it was for moderate nationalist candidates.

They had no time for the IRA and condemned their use of violence as deeply sinful and going against Catholic teachings. Some of my friends had joined the Fianna – the IRA’s young wing, but my father warned me in no uncertain terms to stay away from the Provisional’s recruiters. Besides, I was still in school at this point and doing well academically. I had dreams of escaping the violent streets of Belfast and attending university on the mainland. But alas, things didn’t work as I’d hoped.

I believe it was Trotsky who said – ‘You may not be interested in war, but war is interested in you.’ And bloody hell, he was right.

I remember it was a Saturday afternoon, not long before the short-lived ceasefire, followed by the carnage of Bloody Friday and the massive invasion of nationalist areas by the Army during Operation Motorman. But on that particular afternoon there was a brief respite in the violence, and we savoured the opportunity to enjoy the sunshine and relative peace.

I was out with my best mate Sean – well, I thought he was my friend at the time, but sadly I was mistaken. On that day we were messing about, kicking a football against a wall in the back alley behind my home street, dreaming of one day playing in the Cup Final or some nonsense like that. It was a time of innocence, but this was the day my childhood effectively ended.

I had just scored a ‘goal’ past Sean, smashing the ball between the painted posts on the red brick wall and shouting in celebration while my friend groaned in frustration.

That’s when we heard it – the loud rat-a-tat of machinegun fire. This wasn’t unusual but it still made us jump as the gunfire was unsettling close. Sean and I instinctively ducked into cover behind the bins as we heard more gunshots and men shouting in both English and Irish accents. A moment later, a man ran down the alleyway towards us.

He was about six foot tall and wore denim jeans, a black bomber jacket and had a balaclava covering his face, with crude eye holes cut out so he could see. I felt fear when I looked to his gloved hands and saw that he carried a Thompson submachinegun.

We stood frozen to the spot, watching on as the gunman removed his mask to reveal his face. To my surprise I recognised the man as Maccers, a young lad from the next street along – only a few years older than Sean and I, but already a leading member of the local IRA unit…a gunman with a fearsome reputation for street violence and sniper attacks on the Army.

The tommy gun in his hands was still smoking from its barrel, indicating that he’d just carried out a shooting. Maccers sprinted up to me and – to my utter shock and horror – shoved the submachinegun into my shaking hands. I looked up, silently pleading for mercy but seeing nothing but stern, uncompromising eyes staring back at me.

“Take it!” Maccers cried, his spittle hitting me in my face. “Take the gun and hide it. Do it now for fuck’s sake! If the Brits catch me with it I’ll get 10 years!”

I knew right then that I was caught between a rock and a hard place. If I refused to take the gun and Maccers got lifted, word would get back to his IRA comrades and there would surely be repercussions. On the other hand, if I did take the gun and the Brits caught me, then I would be the one going to prison. I had only seconds to think and so made a snap decision.
“Okay.” I said, awkwardly taking hold of the cold metal weapon and almost dropping the gun due to its heavy weight.

“Good man,” Maccers said with a wink, “I’ll come back for it in a few days.”

And then he ran, tearing along the alleyway and soon disappearing from sight. I looked to Sean in shocked confusion. Not a word was said, but in an instant we both darted to the back door leading to the small courtyard at the rear of my house, slamming the wooden door shut behind us. We’d done so just in the nick of time, as a moment later we heard the heavy stomping of boots on the asphalt and shouts in a variety of different English accents.
“Army, halt! Stop you Mick bastard!”

I was terrified that the soldiers would kick open my back door and catch us red-handed, but thankfully they continued charging down the alleyway in pursuit of Maccers.

I breathed a deep sigh of relief, looking to Sean as he mouthed – “Fucking hell, that was close!”

I didn’t swear much as my parents wouldn’t tolerate bad language, but my friend’s words seemed appropriate given the situation.

“What are you going to do with it?” Sean asked.

I shook my head, trying to work through my panic and think. “My ma’s got some old potato sacks in the kitchen cupboard. I’ll wrap the gun up in one of those and hide it under the toilet. No one will find it there.”

“Fair play.” Sean answered in apparent agreement.

I began to calm down after all the excitement. I was still as scared as hell to be fair, but my rational brain told me this was an unfortunate one-off event. I thought Maccers or one of his comrades would come back for the tommy gun within a day or two and that would be the end of it. But of course, I was wrong. I’d been dragged into the violence against my will, and there was no way back.

Days passed and no-one came for the gun. I heard rumours that Maccers was on the run so had no idea if or when I would see him again. My fear was palpable as all the possible scenarios went through my head.

I was unable to sleep at night, lying on my hard mattress in my tiny box room, twisting and turning as I struggled to control my breathing. I felt a terrible darkness coming over me during the early hours, a primal terror which threatened to overcome me. This was the beginning of the living nightmare, as the entity made its initial advances upon me, but I didn’t realise this until much later. My biggest fear at this point was that my parents would find the gun hidden under our toilet. But, as it turned out, this was the least of my concerns.
I was walking home from school on the Wednesday afternoon, passing by the security cordon on the edge of the city centre, constructed in an attempt to keep the bombers at bay. I drew suspicious glares from the troops manning the barricade, young men in helmets and flak jackets, carrying SLRs and scanning the street and the crowds nervously, expecting an attack at any time.

The tension, fear and hatred was always present on the streets of Belfast at that time. This deadly atmosphere had almost become normalised after three years, but of course it was anything but.

I was walking through Corn Market when I got lifted. It was the police who detained me rather than the army, as a dark blue armoured land rover pulled up on the pavement beside me. Two uniformed constables jumped out, their guns holstered as they approached me. The lead officer – a burly man with a thick moustache – spoke to me in a booming Ulster accent.

“Come on son, you know the drill.”

The two constables proceeded to roughly frisk me, supposedly searching for weapons or explosives. I didn’t resist. Searches like this were routine and I was subjected to them on a regular basis. I wasn’t carrying any contraband on me so expected to be released without further comment, but instead the moustached constable nodded towards the rear door of the land rover.

“The Sergeant wants a word with you son. In there.”

I experienced a moment of raw panic, glancing over my shoulder in search of an escape route.

“Come on son, don’t be doing anything stupid. The Sarge just wants to talk.”

My panicked brain quickly went through my options, but I soon realised I had none. The policemen had been as respectful as I could expect – they hadn’t threatened me or used any sectarian slurs – but still, going into the back of a land rover rarely ended well.

Nevertheless, I doubted I would be able to outrun the peelers and so I reluctantly did as I was told.

I shakingly climbed into the back of the heavily armoured vehicle, jumping as the heavy door was slammed shut behind me. A single figure sat in the rear of the car – a heavy-set, middle-aged man wearing a beige trench coat along with a scruffy shirt and tie. He sported an unkempt beard and glared down on me with intense eyes. To my surprise he held out his hand for me to shake and he addressed me by my name. This was the moment I knew I was fucked, because it meant this wasn’t a random arrest – the police had deliberately targeted me.

“My name is Sergeant Johnston,” the policeman said, speaking in a gruff and deep voice. “I work for the RUC’s Special Branch. Do you know what that is?”

“Yes.” I answered with a gulp, a cold chill running through me.

The Special Branch was notorious in my community as their main responsibility was gathering intelligence to combat terrorism, and that meant running informers.

Johnston nodded his head in satisfaction at my answer. “Good, that’s good. This will save us a lot of time. Let’s get down to brass tacks son.”

I watched nervously as he deftly reached into his coat pocket and removed a polaroid photograph which he held up to the light so I could see. My heart froze when I saw the image before me – it was the tommy gun lying upon the unwrapped potato sack and sitting on the ground outside of our back door. My dark secret had been discovered.

I was left speechless, looking to Sergeant Johnston with fear and guilt in my heart as I waited for him to speak.

“We know you hid the submachinegun for the IRA. I had the boys take this photo earlier today. Right now, we have a platoon of soldiers ready to move onto your street and raid your house. They’ll find the gun and bullets back in the spot where you hid it. You and your whole family will be arrested. Possession of an illegal firearm is a serious offence, particularly if we slap an ‘intent to endanger life’ charge on top of it. You’re looking at five to ten years in prison.”

“But it wasn’t my fault!” I cried out rather pathetically, “I had no choice!”

Sergeant Johnston held up his hand to silence me. “It’s all right son. I’m here to help. There’s another option. I call off the raid and the Provos pick up the gun as planned. They’ll be grateful to you, and you’ll volunteer to do other wee jobs for them – delivering packages and messages…that sort of thing. We’ll meet up regular somewhere like this – far away from your street and where nobody will see us. You’ll tell me what you’ve seen and what’s happening in your area. Wee tips to help us build up a picture…to help us save lives. We’ll even pay you a few quid for your trouble. Some money to help out your family.”

I felt sick, hardly believing what I was hearing.

“You want me to become a tout?” I cried.

The police sergeant seemed angered by my outburst, speaking his next words through clenched teeth.

“I want you to help stop terrorists from committing shootings and bombings. You’ll be safe as long as you act smart. It will never get back to the IRA. And besides, what other choice do you have? Do you want to go to college and get out of this hellhole, or would you rather spend the next few years in a cage?”

My head was spinning by this point as my whole world had been turned upside down in a matter of minutes. Sadly, I knew Johnston had me over a barrel. I would have to do as he said.

“Okay,” I finally answered, “What do you want me to do?”

Johnston smiled, slapping me on the back as he said – “Good lad! Let’s get you to work.”

The demon made itself known to me that very night. I think it had always been there, circling on the periphery and waiting for its opportunity to break through into the mortal realm. Somehow it was connected to me and fed off my pain and fear. So, after my encounter with Sergeant Johnston, this monster was ready to feast.

I’d excused myself from dinner by feigning illness and going to bed early. I couldn’t face my parents and sisters after what had happened and I doubted I would have been able to eat, as my stomach was in knots.

I had trouble sleeping but must have eventually dropped off due to sheer exhaustion. I remember waking suddenly in the middle of the night. Often I would be awoken by explosions during the night, but on this occasion the city was quiet. Nevertheless, I felt a raw panic surging through me as I opened my eyes and struggled to breathe. I tried to sit up in my bed but to my horror discovered that I couldn’t move.

My entire body was paralysed from the neck down and I’d become an impotent prisoner inside of my own body. I tried to open my mouth and cry out for help but could produce no sound. My family were only yards away but had no idea I was in danger. But what had done this to me?

My terror only increased when I realised I wasn’t alone in the room. I turned my head ever so slightly, looking through the blackness to see a dark figure standing in the corner glaring down upon me.

My heart beat fast in my chest as I looked upon my captor. I couldn’t see his face or make out any of his features, only seeing a shadow in the shape of a man. I knew straight away that the intruder wasn’t a mortal man however, thinking back to my Catholic upbringing – the scriptures…warnings of demons and dark spirits. Evil beings that walked the Earth.
He didn’t speak to me directly. In fact, I don’t believe he even had a mouth. Nevertheless, the beast was inside my head and I could hear his foul words – talk of death and suffering, of terrible evils beyond my comprehension. And then he stopped feeding words into my head and instead showed me images – terrors still to come, as all my shame, guilt and fear spilled out.

Suddenly I found myself in my home street during daylight hours, my hands cuffed behind my back as I watched a platoon of heavily armed soldiers and policemen breaking into my house, smashing up my family home and dragging my parents and sisters out as they executed a heavy-handed arrest. My father glared at me as they led him out and shoved him into the back of a waiting land rover. His look was one of disappointment and reproach, and I couldn’t meet his gaze for more than a few seconds.

I knew this wasn’t real – it was merely a false reality shown to me by the demon, but the intense guilt and shame I experienced was genuine, and it almost broke me.

I heard the monster’s vile cackling in my head and realised it was taking a perverse satisfaction from my suffering, growing ever stronger from my pain. I feared the beast would destroy me right there and then but instead it left, disappearing as suddenly as it had arrived and leaving me alone in my dark bedroom.

To my immense relief I regained control of my body and shot up on my bed, dripping with a cold sweat as I scanned the room in a panic, making sure that the beast had really left. I had survived my first encounter with the demon but somehow I knew it would be back for more.

Everything looks better in the daylight and I was greatly relieved to see the first glimmers of sunshine at dusk. I rationalised the events during the night, telling myself I’d suffered from a vivid nightmare brought on by the trauma of my situation. But of course, I was still trapped in a deadly web, stuck between the RUC and IRA.

Nevertheless, the situation played out pretty much as Johnston had predicted. I was approached on the street the next day by a mean-faced teenager I hadn’t seen before. He told me to wait in the back alley and have the ‘package’ ready. I did as I was told, shaking with nerves as I held the heavy weapon in both hands.

Thankfully the young Provo soon arrived and grabbed the gun from my trembling hands. He gave me a further order before departing, saying – “Maccers wants to see you. Come to the club at 6.”

And then he left.

The club in question was an unlicensed shebeen run by the IRA and not far from where I lived. I retched on my way there, my nerves shot. I had to compose myself before entering the bar, my nostrils suddenly filled with the stench of tobacco smoke and stale alcohol. I soon found Maccers sitting at the bar, drinking from a pint of Guinness and puffing on a cigarette.

He smiled when he saw me approach.

“Here he is! The man of the hour! Take a stool and I’ll buy you a pint.”

Technically I was too young to drink and my parents certainly wouldn’t have approved, but I didn’t dare to refuse Maccers and could use the stout to calm my nerves.

Maccers slapped me on my shoulder as I took a sip and he continued to sing my praises.
“You did well son. Saved my skin, that’s for sure. The republican movement owes you a debt.”

I nodded my head, taking another gulp before I forced out my next words.

“I want to do more…to help the cause.”

I met Maccers gaze and saw a change in his expression. For a terrifying moment I thought he was onto me. But instead he turned around to face a third man who sat in a booth facing the bar, silently listening in on our conversation.

He was an older man wearing a brown suit and peaked cap whilst nursing a glass of whiskey. His expression was deadly serious and I could tell that Maccers deferred to him. The older man didn’t speak but merely nodded his head, and this was the only approval Maccers needed.

“Good man,” he said whilst shaking my hand, “the movement can always use new volunteers. We’ll be in touch.”

And so that was the beginning of my double life. The IRA had me running errands, delivering packages and messages to safe houses and drinking dens, and once a week I met with Johnston and reported what I’d seen and heard. I hated keeping this terrible secret from my family and lived in constant fear of being found out.

I’d become an informer or ‘tout’ in Belfast vernacular. This was just about the worst thing you could be in my community. Even those who opposed violence still didn’t co-operate with the police or the Brits. If my treachery was discovered…well, let’s just say that my young age wouldn’t save me.

The nights were the worst. I continued to tell myself that the demon was simply a figment of my imagination, but as time went on, I felt less sure. The dark entity didn’t appear before me for many nights, but I always felt its presence and feared the beast was merely biding his – or its – time.

I reached breaking point after one tense encounter with Sergeant Johnston in the back of his parked car off Royal Avenue. Something had been playing on my mind for a while and so I forced myself to ask the question, even though I wasn’t sure I wanted to hear the answer.
“How did you know where the gun was hidden?” I enquired sheepishly, thinking back to the incident that had started me down this dangerous path. Johnston snorted before responding.
“Come on son. You’re a smart lad. Who knew about the gun, other than you and Maccers?”
My heart sank as the painful truth was confirmed.

“Sean,” I muttered, “the bastard sold me out.”

“I’m afraid so son,” Johnston replied, “the wee hallion got caught breaking into houses. He didn’t hesitate in giving you up to save his own skin. That wee shite isn’t your friend.”

That night I was consumed with anger and pain as the confirmation of my best friend’s betrayal hit home, and I was on the brink of losing all my faith in humanity, hardly caring whether I lived or died. It was then – while I was at my lowest point – that the demon returned, ready and eager to feast on my negative emotions and exploit my greatest fears to push me to breaking point.

It began as before, with me waking in the early hours and finding myself paralysed, unable to move an inch and completely at my captor’s mercy. I turned my head to face the beast, descending into a state of absolute dread as I cast my eyes upon its dark form. As before, it appeared as a black shadow in the shape of a man. But somehow the creature seemed larger and stronger than before, towering over me like a God dominating a mere mortal.
I didn’t even resist as it entered my head and filled my mind with horrific images, and then it spoke.

“SEE YOUR FUTURE. SEE YOUR DEATH.” boomed the unholy voice.

Suddenly I found myself in the middle of the Falls Road with chaos and anarchy all around me. I soon realised I was in the midst of a riot, unwisely standing in the middle of a pack of local youngsters as they attacked a line of soldiers blocking off the road ahead. The troops held shields to protect themselves from a barrage of bricks and rocks as the teenagers unleashed their rage upon them.

All of a sudden, a long-haired kid stepped forward with fire in his hands, tossing a lit petrol bomb towards the Army lines. The bomb exploded against the line of shields, forcing the soldiers back as they fought the flames. The rioters cried out in triumph at their small victory, but then a soldier moved into the front, the shield line temporarily breaking to allow him to drop down on one knee and fire.

The rubber bullet tore through the air at great speed. I saw it coming but had no time to react. It hit me square in my head, resulting in a blinding pain as I fell backwards, landing heavily on the asphalt…and then everything went black.

I found myself in another nightmare. My whole body hurt and I could not move, soon discovering I was tightly bound to a chair. I opened my swollen eyes and bore witness to my horrific surroundings. I was tied up in a windowless back room – a tattered Union Jack hanging on the wall and a group of half-a-dozen thuggish men standing before me.

All stank of alcohol, their muscular arms adorned with loyalist tattoos and their faces screwed up with pure hatred. They snarled, swore and laughed sadistically as the advanced upon me, savagely beating me with fists and snooker cues. I felt every painful blow, screaming out for mercy but finding none.

I was close to passing out when they finally stopped beating me. I hoped they’d had enough and would let me go, but then their leader – a huge man with a deep scar across his face – smiled cruelly as he withdrew a rusty butcher’s knife. I screamed as the blade cut into my skin…the pain so great that I lost consciousness.

Another place and time. It was cold and wet, the sun rising on the grey horizon. I was half naked and down on my knees in a muddy bog, my hands bound behind my back as I looked to a hole dug in front of me. To my horror, I realised this was my own grave.

I felt a cold metal barrel against the back of my skull and heard a stone-cold voice in my ear.
“You have been found guilty of treason by the Irish Republican Army.” announced the gunman, “Your sentence is death.”

I sobbed, my whole body shaking uncontrollably as I pleaded for my life. “Please…please don’t do this!”

“May God have mercy on your soul.”

There was an almighty flash and an explosion inside of my skull, my vision fading to red as I collapsed into my shallow grave.

With that I was thrown back to reality, lying frozen on my bed as the shadowy beast leaned over me. It had no eyes, but its hateful glare burnt through me all the same, and I could hear its sick laughter inside my head, even though it had no mouth. It had shown me my worst nightmares and fed off my terror, but still the beast wouldn’t let me go. Why should it, when tormenting me brought it so much pleasure? But for tonight it had satisfied its fiendish appetite, leaving me alone in the dark.

I shot up from my bed, my instinct telling me to scream until I stopped myself, not wishing to wake my family. It couldn’t go on like this. If I didn’t die on the streets, the demon would surely finish me off, draining the life out of me bit by bit. I resolved to speak with Johnston and put an end to all this, although of course it wasn’t that easy.

I recall the conversation I had with my handler at our next meeting, as we sat together in a quiet café in the city centre. I told him everything, describing the demon’s appearance in my bedroom and the terrible visions it had subjected me to. I pleaded for him to release me from my obligation, but of course he thought I was mad, practically laughing in my face.
“You’re losing the plot son. I’ve seen it before. Undercover men start to have nightmares and lose track of what’s real. You need to pull yourself together lad! Play it cool and you’ll be fine, but if you keep acting like this, the Provos will catch you, and you know what that means!”

I didn’t argue with the police sergeant after that. I knew it was pointless. I was on my own – left in a deadly struggle for survival against both men and demons and with no means of fighting back. I honestly didn’t know how it would have ended had it not been for the bizarre occurrences that followed my next meeting with Johnston.

This was when the terrible truth was revealed to me – that of the shadowy links between military intelligence and dark entities from the immortal realm.

When Johnston picked me up in his car that day, I thought we would go through the usual debrief and exchange of money, but this wasn’t the case. I was shocked at my handler’s appearance, his eyes bloodshot and his hair and beard matted and dishevelled. When he spoke I could smell the alcohol on his breath.

The sergeant had always been on the scruffy side for as long as I’d known him, but now he looked strung out and close to the edge. I feared the stresses of the job were getting on top of him.

He started up the engine as soon as I got in, saying – “We’re going for a wee drive son.”
I felt a cold sweat, frightened by this unexpected turn of events.

“Where are we going?” I asked nervously.

There was a lengthy pause before the policeman answered.

“Palace Barracks in Holywood.” he eventually confirmed.

This was a place I’d never been before and his answer didn’t make me feel any better. I remained silent for a moment, looking out the car window and watching the armed troops and bombed out buildings.

“Why?” I asked.

“Can’t tell you. Its classified.”

“Seriously?”

The sergeant shook his head as he continued driving.

“I guess you deserve to know the truth. I’m not happy about this, not one bit. I reported your story to my boss…all the shite about the demon in your bedroom. Should have left it out of my report, but I didn’t. Next thing I know they’re asking me to bring you in. There’s some English prick who wants to meet you…”

“An Englishman?” I interjected, losing my patience. “Who is he? What does he want with me?”

“Don’t know. Some toff called Stanley Black. No-one can tell me who the arsehole works for…MI5 or MI6 maybe. They just told me to bring you to the barracks so he can talk to you. That’s all I know son…”

I felt light-headed and sick to my stomach.

“Please don’t take me there. I want to go home.” I pleaded.

“There’s no choice son,” he answered solemnly, “Don’t worry, I’ll look after you.”

His words brought me some small comfort but I was still extremely anxious and my instincts told me this wouldn’t end well.

We entered the barracks through the security gate, directed by the sentries to the basement below the main building, where we descended down the stairs as a heavy door was shut behind us. We were met by a stern-faced military policeman wearing a red beret and with a sub-machinegun slung over his shoulder. He opened a steel shutter door and motioned for us to enter.

Inside sat a middle-aged man with neat dark hair and piercing eyes, dressed in an immaculate pin-stripe suit. He smiled amicably, exerting an almost snake-like charm as he held out his hand and spoke to me in a clipped, upper-class English accent.

“Good afternoon young man, it’s a pleasure to meet you. Thank you so much for coming.”
I reluctantly shook his hand, wondering what the hell he was going on about. He was trying to put me at ease I suppose, but why?

“Please take a seat.” Mr Black said, whilst pointing me towards the table and chairs in the middle of the room. “Would you like a soft drink or cup of tea?”

I shook my head in the negative, reluctantly sitting down.

“You are excused Sergeant Johnston,” Black said curtly, whilst casting a disparaging look towards the policeman. “Please wait outside until we’re finished.”

The sergeant didn’t look happy but he left the room nonetheless, leaving me to the mercies of the enigmatic Stanley Black. The Englishman sat on the seat across from me, retaining his friendly pretence as he continued to talk.

“Well young man, I imagine you’re wondering what you’re doing here? I won’t beat about the bush. I’m not interested in the work you’ve done for Sergeant Johnston. That sort of thing is a bit below my pay grade. What does interest me is your experiences with the supernatural entity. You know what I’m talking about, don’t you? The shadow that visits you at night?”

I nodded my head, my anxiety levels increasing as I feared where this was going.

“Why don’t you tell me about it?” he prompted.

I took a deep breath before beginning my story. Mr Black listened with great interest, occasionally stopping me to ask for clarification or additional details. I felt drained by the time I’d finished telling my dark tale, but my interrogator was clearly very excited.

“Fascinating, absolutely fascinating.” he exclaimed, “As you can probably tell, I have a special interest in paranormal events such as yours. I want to tell you lad, you are special. In my experience there are very few people able to connect with the other side in the way you have done.”

I shook my head in disbelief, hardly believing what I was hearing. If the hell I was living through was special, then I yearned to be normal.

“I know you’re scared, my boy.” Mr Black continued; his intense eyes entirely focussed upon me. “But I’m here to help you. This next part won’t be easy, but it must be done.”

I didn’t have time to respond as suddenly the door to the interrogation room swung open and the burly MP from before marched inside, slamming the door shut behind him. I heard Johnston shouting and banging on the other side of the door and realised they’d locked the policeman out. And in that moment I panicked, realising I was in grave danger.

I jumped up from my chair but was instantly grabbed by the soldier and roughly manhandled to a second door, leading to an adjoined room. I kicked, screamed and swore but the guard was too strong for me, bundling me through the doorway where fresh horrors awaited.

The second room was larger than the first. There was a mirror at the far end, which I guessed was a two-way set up for observation. There were no table or chairs inside however – but instead a medical gurney firmly secured to the floor and complete with leather straps. I looked to the gurney in horror, also seeing a medical attendant standing diligently beside it, wearing scrubs and a surgical mask and looking upon me with dark, emotionless eyes.

I continued to fight as the guard dragged me towards the waiting gurney. He was assisted by the medical man and between them they held me down, securing me to the bed. I was now at the mercy of Black’s men.

“What are you going to do to me?” I cried in a panic, as the fear almost overwhelmed me.
They didn’t answer.

The guard left the room by yet another door, securing and locking it behind him. Meanwhile, the attendant waited patiently until I heard a muffled voice through a speaker mounted to the ceiling. I recognised Stanley Black’s voice, realising he was directing events from behind the glass.

“You may proceed in your own time doctor.”

I swore I could see a wicked glint in the doctor’s cold eyes as he withdrew a syringe from his pocket and searched for a vein in my bound arm.

“You should try to relax. This will go easier if you’re calm.” he said.

I reacted with pure fury, spitting out my angry response – “Fuck you!”

The vile doctor merely smirked before saying – “Suit yourself.”

And then he stuck the needle into my right arm. To this day I don’t know what they injected me with. God only knows what was in that hellish concoction. I remember feeling woozy almost straight away, having a strange sensation like I was slipping out of my own body. I must have lost consciousness for a time as everything went black.

I can’t say how long I was out for, but when I reopened my eyes he was there. The demon – the shadow beast – was standing in the corner of the room, its dark shape illuminated by the artificial lights.

I gasped in horror as I looked upon the monster in disbelief. I’d never seen it before in the light – but its form had not changed. The beast had no mouth, no eyes…no physical features whatsoever. It was simply a shadow shaped like a man. But despite its lack of expression, I could tell the demon was furious.

I turned to the doctor and saw the sheer terror in his eyes when he saw the demon. Whatever Mr Black had told him, clearly it was a lie. He screamed and broke, running to the door and frantically trying to work the handle, only to discover he was locked in.

The doctor banged his fists against the metal door, screaming – “Dear God! Let me out! Let me out damn you!”

But it was already too late. The shadow monster unleashed a hellish, banshee-like wail – so loud and high-pitched that I feared it would burst my eardrums. And then it charged with all the fury in hell – tearing across the room at lightning speed and surrounding the doctor within its dark form.

I could only look on in horror as the monster literally sucked the life out of the screaming man, his skin turning a deadly shade of white and his face frozen in a macabre death mask as his lifeless body fell to the hard floor.

Its terrible task completed, the demon turned towards me, growing ever stronger as it fed off my terror. I thought this was the end for me, as the last of the fight left my body. But then the door swung open and two men stormed in.

The first was the MP brandishing his Sterling SMG. The second was Sergeant Johnston. He wasn’t meant to be in here, but nobody could stop him. The demon seemed taken aback by the intrusion, retreating to the far corner of the room. The soldier foolishly chased after him as Stanley Black screamed new orders through the speaker.

“Engage! Neutralise the entity!”

The soldier opened fire, spraying his target with bullets. I don’t know what he was thinking as the rounds simply passed through the shadow’s form, slamming into the wall behind it. But his suicidal assault created a distraction.

Johnston ran to my side, frantically working the straps with his shaking hands.

“Don’t look…Don’t look at it…God help us.” he muttered fearfully as he struggled to free me.
Suddenly the gunfire stopped and I heard the guard scream, dropping dead as the shadow overwhelmed him. A second later and the last strap came off, setting me free.

“Fucking run!” Johnston screamed.

I didn’t need to be told twice. We darted for the open door as the demon wailed, chasing after us to finish what it had started. Somehow we made it, Johnston slamming the heavy door shut and turning the key in the lock.

And then he brought me into the control room where Stanley Black stood, watching the carnage through the two-way mirror. We heard the trapped demon screaming in fury, so loudly that all the light bulbs inside shattered, shrouding the interrogation room in darkness.
Mr Black flicked a switch on his control panel and a second later the emergency lights came on. But the demon was gone, having retreated back to its own realm and leaving two dead bodies in its wake.

The cavalry came soon after, as a squad of heavily armed troops arrived and took Johnston and me into custody. They placed us in a holding cell, me still in a state of shock and Johnston in a wild rage. I don’t know how long we were in there for, but eventually Stanley Black came to see us, although he spoke through the slit in the cell door to prevent the furious Johnston from getting him.

“Gentleman, what happened today was a tragedy. But we must make these sacrifices in our quest for discovery.”

“You’re a fucking lunatic!” Johnston screamed, “I won’t let you get away with this!”

“Now now, Sergeant Johnston,” Black said with a coy smile, “Please don’t be rash. You must realise that I know people in the Provisional IRA. I’m sure you wouldn’t want your details falling into their hands…” he paused briefly and looked to me. “And you young man, you wouldn’t want your neighbours to learn you’ve been working for the police, would you? No no gentlemen, I think its in your best interests to forget this ugly incident ever occurred. I would strongly advise you never to speak of this again.”

We both knew right there and then that he had us by the balls. We left the barracks and Johnston drove me home. Neither of us spoke a word until he dropped me off. Before I got out of the car, Johnston put his hand on my arm and said – “I’m sorry I got you into this son. Take care of yourself.”

And that was the last time I ever saw him.

For months after I feared the demon would return to haunt me in the night, but it never did. I guess it found another poor unfortunate to attach itself too. I suppose I should feel some gratitude to Stanley Black for setting me free, although this certainly hadn’t been his objective. But still, I didn’t feel safe as the bloody conflict dragged on.

I left Belfast as soon as I turned eighteen and made a new life for myself away from the war-torn streets of Belfast, but I could never forget what I’d seen and heard during the hellish summer of ‘72.

As for the other participants in this story – unfortunately they all met with violent ends in the years to come. Sean was gunned down in a loyalist drive-by shooting, Maccers died when a bomb he was carrying exploded prematurely, and Sergeant Johnston was ambushed and shot one morning on his way to work. I grieved for all three, feeling they were all victims of a conflict they hadn’t chosen.

Still, part of me feared their violent deaths weren’t a coincidence, and perhaps a shadowy cabal was eliminating the witnesses to the supernatural incident. I thought they would come for me next, but this never happened…And then there was Stanley Black.

I never knew what happened to him – that was until I read an account from a former British officer describing yet another botched experiment in the occult. This is how I learnt of Mr Black’s demise as he was struck down by one of the dark spirits he’d summoned into our world.

I felt a grim satisfaction upon hearing of my torturer’s violent death, but it terrifies me to think of what other horrors were unleashed during those chaotic times and whether they still stalk our mortal realm, waiting for the opportunity to strike. I can only pray that the terrible mistakes of those dark days are never repeated.

Credit: Finn MacCool

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