The beautiful side of evil free download

February 14, History. An edition of The beautiful side of evil Written in English — pages. The beautiful side of evil , Harvest House Publishers. Libraries near you: WorldCat. The beautiful side of evil First published in Subjects Occultism , Parapsychology , Psychic surgery , Christian converts , Christian life , Biography. Edition Notes Bibliography: p. Genre Biography. Classifications Dewey Decimal Class One demon convinced her that he was Jesus, and she thought she was doing all of these things for the Christ of the Bible.

Pdf book attached below and a great message from Johanna. I do not want you to have fellowship with demons… 1 Corinthians Johanna Michaelsen is a noted author, researcher, lecturer and authority on the occult.

Her internationally best-selling autobiography, The Beautiful Side of Evil, tells the story of her involvement with the occult, yoga, and Silva Mind Control.

She left the occult 30 years ago and has dedicated her service to Jesus Christ warning others about the dangerously deceptive practices that are sweeping our nation—and our churches.

But the prophet Ezekiel gives insight to this once anointed angel. Son of man, take up a lamentation upon the king of Tyrus, and say unto him, Thus saith the Lord GOD; Thou sealest up the sum, full of wisdom, and perfect in beauty.

Thou hast been in Eden the garden of God; every precious stone [was] thy covering, the sardius, topaz, and the diamond, the beryl, the onyx, and the jasper, the sapphire, the emerald, and the carbuncle, and gold: the workmanship of thy tabrets and of thy pipes was prepared in thee in the day that thou wast created.

Add another edition? Copy and paste this code into your Wikipedia page. Need help? The beautiful side of evil Johanna Michaelsen. Donate this book to the Internet Archive library. If you own this book, you can mail it to our address below. Borrow Listen. Want to Read. Delete Note Save Note. Could it be that even in death there was no peace?

I thought there would be peace. I'm alone, and so afraid. I opened my eyes and turned my head. Damon was still lying on his grave. Then his eyes flew open and he sat up, slowly, stood and without a word turned to leave the place of death. We found our way back to Graham Hall. It was an hour before dawn and we were both coming down from the drug.

The heavy cape slid off his shoulders. Ex hausted, drained of energy and emotion, I sat on the stairs beside him. Then, after a pause, "Why, Damon, why all of this?

You've built a for tress around yourself. In the four months you've been here no one seems to have really gotten to know you. That's the way I've wanted it. All kinds of strange stories are going around about you, do you know that? Peo ple think you're out of your mind. You've even got some of the guys in tech believing you're a priestess from another planet and have strange powers.

So Kevan told me. I don't know sometimes, Damon. I know some think I'm insane-or on the very edge at least, I've seen it in their faces when they look at me. You know, sometimes I find myself smiling at their blind ness, their gullibility, cunning and plotting how I can best make use of that belief.

And suddenly I stop, frightened by my own deviousness. I really feel as though I don't belong in this world, as though I had been created for another dimension, a sparkling, radiant world where I could fly and soar into the air with my people and serve upon the altar of my God. Do you ever have the feel ing you're not really part of your body, that you were. There is more beyond this life, Damon. There are spirit beings all around us. I can see them, hear them. I feel when they are near calling to me-but sometimes I'm so afraid of them.

There is an awful evil which comes among them sometimes. They've come to me ever since I was little. They are there, Damon, others have seen them with me, heard them. But Tiresias and my Little People. Perhaps I've been so lonely my own mind has created them.

I'm so frightened sometimes, Damon. Oh, God, if I could only find peace within myself. His face was composed, but his eyes reflected a soul-trapped and screaming-searching frantically for the soothing, heal ing waters of peace-searching with no real hope of ever finding what couldn't long be lived without. I recognized the look. It was my own. In April I decided to adopt a snake. I made this momentous decision while I was still nursing several badly bruised ribs acquired by falling off the stage at Ford's Theater in Washington D.

We had entered the American College Theater Festival months before with an unusual production of an old German play called Woyzeck. Our show was selected one of the ten best out of colleges all over the country, a fact which gave us the honor of perform ing at Ford's Theater.

Opening night the lights dimmed on cue at the end of the fourth scene and then unexpectedly blacked out. I got turned around in the darkness and walked straight off the end of the stage. Somehow I landed on the only flat unit in the orchestra pit.

If I had gone several inches in either direction I would have tripped over a footlight and landed on the edge of some open unit which quite possibly would have killed me. As it was, the fall knocked my breath out. The pain on my right side was paralyzing, so I simply lay there for about fifteen minutes wondering if I could be seen from the front rows.

I hoped not. All the critics were in the front rows. When I had caught my breath, I pulled myself back on stage during another scene change and finished the show. Several years later I saw a newspaper article which mentioned that many performers had suffered strange accidents on that stage, especially in the path Booth had followed in his attempted escape after Lincoln's assassination.

Where I had fallen was directly in the path shown on their diagram. Mama flew in from Mexico to take care of me. I don't know how I would have made it through that time without her. There was no more comforting hand in the world to me than my mother's. After several weeks I was able to fend for myself again and she returned to Mexico.

That was when I decided to adopt a snake not as a replacement for my mother, I hasten to add. Besides, rehearsing Cleopatra's death scene for acting class without the benefit of an asp seemed futile.

And Professor Benecroft said live props were always helpful. Oddly enough, Barney's Animal Kingdom pet store was fresh out of asps. They did, however, have a beguiling South American baby boa. He was only 19 inches long and had the loveliest pattern on his back, so I named him Quetzalcoatl and took him home around my neck. On the way to my dorm I ran into Adam.

He was en thralled with my new pet and immediately proceeded to the workshop. After almost two hours of sawing and hammering, he presented the creature with a wooden cage.

It had a leather shoulder strap so I could carry him with me, and a screen on one side so he could look out. It was fully equipped with a little tub of water and tree branch. Reactions to m y pet were varied.

H e was either im mediately accepted and cuddled or, more frequently, greeted with short shrieks of ghastly recognition-as,. The days were still cold so, as usual, I let the thing wrap himself around my neck to keep warm. In the middle of the conversation she stopped to ad mire my necklace. Quetzalcoatl lifted his head and flicked his little tongue at her. The ensuing scream turned heads halfway across campus. My rendition of Cleopatra improved not at all with the acquisition of the baby boa, but it did start a fad on campus that lasted several months.

More important to me, however, Quetzalcoatl was something alive to care for and love. Many, I know, will refuse to believe this, but boas have lovely personalities-well, South American boas anyway.

Central American boas have ticks and bite. Over a period of weeks he learned to recognize my scent with his flicking tongue and would make his way across my desk to wrap himself around my arm-something he did for no one else. Of course there may have been no one else he wanted to throttle, either. Granted, a snake was a far cry from my first choice for a pet. I would infinitely have preferred a fluffy kit ten, but I never would have gotten away with a cat in the dorm.

I suspected, correctly, that the girls would be somewhat less inclined to reveal the presence of a pet snake to the housemother for fear the thing would perhaps, somehow, appear under their pillow one night. I also fancied Quetzalcoatl offered me some modicum of protection. You see, word had gotten out- I'm sure I don't know how-that the bite of this boa, unlike that of all others, was endowed with poison. I soon was given wide berth on my late night wanderings.

The summer of found me desperately trying to put together a theater course I could take. I needed to add several extra credits required by the University of North Carolina, but I didn't want to stay in the States to get them.

So, Mother and I went to the University of the Americas in Cholula, Puebla, a town of crumbling pyramids and churches which was located at the foot of two awesome snowcapped volcanos. The depressing saga of that summer like my ballet fiasco of earlier days is best left untold. Not unex pectedly, in light of my last college transfer, the theater courses offered in Cholula were suddenly cancelled due to technical difficulties beyond their control-the teacher quit.

The long and short of it is that at the end of the term, with the help of my parents and a wonderful lady soon dubbed "Mama" Clarine Furrow, I produced, directed, and starred in a public performance of Miss Julie in ex change for the needed credits. Considering most of the cast had either defected to go sightseeing or had gotten themselves arrested for various and sundry ridiculous reasons, the show was really not half-bad-except perhaps for the scene in which Daddy tried to create the illusion of "gaily dancing peasants" all by himself.

Finally the summer was over and I hadn't jumped in to a volcano. My first night back in Chapel Hill, I hur ried out to collect a small bouquet of leaves and flowers to give to Professor Koch.

It was past midnight when I made my way to the theater and unlocked the doors. As usual, I slipped in quickly, locked the doors behind me and groped my way through the dark little lobby to the light switch at the entrance of the auditorium.

There was a soft click as pale lights flooded the stage. I've come back. Here, I've brought you your flowers. Can you hear me? The inner swinging doors of the theater began to thud against the large front panels I had just locked, not the gentle sound which frequently announced the arrival of the professor, but violent, angry, threatening to shatter them into a thousand pieces. Then, as sud denly as it had begun, the banging stopped-dead silence-and then an overpowering presence of evil rushed into the theater and flooded around me.

A voice-low, intense, quivering with rage spoke inside my head. You left me. You've brought me no green thing to place upon my stage. Where were you? I'm sorry, I had to go away for the summer. Don't you remember, I came to say goodbye when I left?

Why are you so angry? I'm sorry, look. Here they are. I left the theater confused and frightened. For almost two weeks I visited the theater only in daylight.

I took a daily offering of green things which I placed beneath the stage, and after a while I sensed he was no longer angry with me. And yet there was no longer that total acceptance of before. Now, sometimes when I would rise and go to the theater in the dead of night or in the early hours before dawn, I was greeted frequently by a barrier, invisible but as solid as though a web of rubber netting had been stretched across the entrance.

I thought this was just temporary. Professor was still upset. He would get over it. Then several months later the final break came. It was during the running of a comedy called The Knack. Kevan was stage manager for the play. I was busy with some obscure experimental show which was rehearsing at Graham Memorial. After my rehearsal I would walk over to Playmakers to watch the last act and help Kevan lock up the theater. Then we would sit by the stage and talk for a while before he would walk me home.

Several nights into the performance, after everyone had left, Kevan flopped his long frame down into a seat in the front row and stretched his legs out on the ledge of the stage. Guess I'm just tired. I stared as Kevan continued speaking. His voice seemed to be coming from very far away. The form of a young soldier in a dark uniform began to materialize.

He couldn't have been more than seventeen or eight een years old. He was huddled on the floor by the wall, his whole body shaken by sobs that were now faintly audible to me. His head turned and he looked straight into my eyes, tears streaming down his face. He was clutching his right hip and suddenly I gasped in pain. Kevan stopped talking and looked at me. Kevan followed my eyes to the point in the aisle where I was staring.

Look at what? There's a young soldier there. He's crying. I can feel the pain in my hip. Don't you see him? Ah , look Jo, I think it's time to go. He needs to say something to me. I remembered Professor's anger towards me and didn't want to be in the theater alone tonight.

I got up to leave. I looked again at the young soldier. As quickly as he had come, he began to fade, his face bit ter, resentful, full of pain. He needed to speak and I had chosen not to stay. I had missed the moment. It was too late. Want to come down with me? Kevan went below while I walked about the stage. There was an old cot on the set and I stretched out on it to rest for a moment.

I felt so tired. A tall pitch-black figure filled the booth. I whirled around on the cot as Kevan's footsteps came running up from beneath the stage. The figure faded and disappeared. I think I saw someone in the light booth.

He gave me a strange look but went up to check. He waved and called down to me from the booth. You've been acting awfully strange lately. Are you sick? Let's go get some coffee," I answered. But I felt cold and afraid. The figure had seemed hostile and threatening. I went back again to the theater the following night though, determined not to be scared away. I went down front as usual to wait for Kevan.

The theater was ominously still. I don't know if it's you trying to frighten me or if someone else has moved in, but it doesn't matter. I belong here too! Then, above me-a rustling sound. A dark hooded form-a hideous, contorted face, gleaming dead white, sprawled down on the grid over my head; enormous long eyes glinted bright shiny green-like the eyes of a wild maddened animal. Dark arms hung. I backed slowly to the wall fighting for breath, my mouth opened in a scream that would not come.

What's the matter? The pressure lifted and air rushed back into my lungs. I saw him. Just then we heard two footsteps on the iron walk-way above us. There is someone up there. I could hear the ringing of his footsteps as he searched the entire area; then he was back, his face white.

Beck grinned as he saw us. Jo's upset. Take her for some coffee will you? I've still got to lock up. I'm fine now, Beck, thank you. I've got some studying to do anyway. Good night Jo! A car stopped to let us pass. I glanced up as we walked by and froze. The face in the car seemed to become the face I had just seen in the theater. I knew it couldn't be, but my nerves finally reached their snapping point as.

I began to scream. Beck held me a long time as I sobbed, terrified and helpless and broken hearted. Professor hated me. I no longer belonged. Dear, gentle Beck. He seemed to be endowed with some sort of super human patience. At a time when I was most alone, most vulnerable, he stood by and helped me keep a grasp on sanity.

He had been right; I needed him very much now. Even Paula, my roommate, had moved out after leaving me a three page typed letter about how im possibly morbid, inconsiderate, theatrical, and bizarre I was.

I never went into that theater again except to attend classes. I never again took Professor anything living and green. One night several weeks after the final incident in the theater, a number of us gathered in Jack and Adam's room to talk and listen to music. Beck and I were on some drug or other, a gentle kind of non-hallucinatory drug, the second of only four trips.

I felt calm and mellow as I leaned back on his shoulder and waited for the music. We had been promised something different that night, a new rock musical on the life of Jesus called "Jesus Christ, Superstar. Nevertheless, as the drug began to take effect, it seemed to me that I was sud denly there, an active participant in the drama of His life.

There as He was betrayed. There as He was mock ed, and oh, God, as He was beaten with a whip that seemed to cut into my own flesh with every crack. There as His hands and feet were hammered to the cross. For the first time in my life I became acutely, overwhelmingly aware that Jesus had really lived, had really experienced death on a cross.

The first week I had been at Wesleyan, a girl named Nancy shared a little booklet called "The Four Spiritual Laws" with me and I had asked Jesus to become part of my life. For a few months afterwards things seemed better. I always kept my Bible near and often read from the Book of Psalms to quiet my spirit when I felt myself sur rounded by evil. I quickly found, however, that reading the New Testament seemed to precede an especially violent and frightening attack from the be ings around me, so I began to avoid it.

It was my love of God, however, that kept me from actively seeking to develop the psychic powers I knew I had. A voice deep inside me would say, "No, don't, it will hurt God if you do. I was alone. Everyone had left. I found Beck downstairs in the lounge. He had been unable to bear the pain of listening to the suffering of Jesus.

We both decided we must find out more about this Man. We began going to church early Sunday mornings. Several months later, we had an encounter with Deity. We had been at what had inadvertently become an all-night theater troupe party.

The music was mellow, the conversations deep, and no one wanted to go home. Mescaline, pot, and hash flowed freely through the group.

Before dawn Beck and I asked a friend for a ride into town so we could attend the early chapel ser vice. Our request elicited numerous moans and groans and comments of "I don't believe it! We sat in the dimly lit chapel,. With no warning, my heart began to pound and rny eyes filled with tears. I felt suddenly as though the Eye of God, stern and awful, had broken through a cloud and was gazing down at me, at once loving and severe.

Don't you know the harm you're bringing your spirit and body with those drugs? Later, as we walked down the grey, quiet street, Beck took my hand, "God doesn't want us to take drugs again, does He?

It was hard. But even though I still went to the evening gather ings of the Thespian clan, I never touched drugs again. My life-style, on the surface, changed dramatically. An acid-head friend stole a copy of the Jerusalem Bible as a gift for us.

We never did find out from where. Beck and I began to spend long hours reading it aloud to one another. Or, rather, Beck spent the hours reading it out loud to himself.

I soon encouraged him to read instead from Tolkien's Ring Trilogy when we were together. Somehow I couldn't bear to hear the sound of the words from the New Testament for very long. The euphoria I had felt when listening to "Superstar" had become a black depression from which I could see no exit.

I no longer went to the theater, but I still frequented the graveyard and little chapel. Now hardly a night passed when dark figures did not wake me, softly whispering words in a language I couldn't understand,. As I walked at night trees became gruesome, grotesque shapes covered with evil eyes, watching, waiting.

Every time I crossed the street my heart pounded in terror for fear the demons would force some driver's hand to run me down. Thoughts of death and intense rage filled my mind and I covered my journal with passages from Medea, The Bacchae, the Bad Seed, and the tortured poems of Edgar Allen Poe.