After being expelled from the Jehovah’s Witnesses, he began putting on weight rapidly, even though he wasn’t eating any more than usual. Being exceedingly vain about his appearance, he promptly consulted a doctor, only to learn that he was in excellent physical health, other than being about forty pounds overweight. He grew fatter and fatter, so rapidly that his clothes no longer fit him, even ones he’d just bought. More disturbing still, he’d find brand-new shirts and pants he’d never worn split at the seams, or ripped and tattered. JoAnn offered to show us some of this clothing, but I declined.
Hearing about the damaged clothing set off an immediate alarm bell for me, since I’ve seen this happen in many cases I’ve handled. People who are possessed will often find their clothes, bedding, or draperies mysteriously torn up. It’s one of the Devil’s many terror tactics. Frank’s story got even worse: He started seeing horrifying visions of things that the voice said would come to pass, and he began to lose control over his bodily movement, as if something else were controlling him—another hallmark of possession. Finding his life harder and harder to deal with, the dry cleaner found himself filled with rage and pain about being thrown out of the religious group he loved, even though this had happened long ago.
Finally the voice that now ruled his life suddenly turned cruel, telling him that he was a miserable excuse for a man—too stupid and incompetent to handle anything at all without its “help.” That’s when Frank turned to the psychiatrist in fear and despondency, terrified that he was going crazy, only to find that Prozac had no power to heal him. It was then that he finally opened his mind to the possibility that he was possessed and agreed to meet with me.
I spent about two hours probing every detail of this disturbing story, with an occasional question from Keith, and found Frank and JoAnn to be intelligent people who were clearly telling the truth. Not only was there no doubt in my mind that the dry cleaner was possessed by a demonic spirit, but after my investigation, I felt strongly that he was the victim of a curse by someone who wished him ill and used black magic to send evil his way. This, of course, is impossible to prove, since in most cases the victim is unaware that he or she has been cursed and probably doesn’t even know it’s possible. Most people don’t believe in hexes—but you don’t have to believe to be affected by someone else’s malignant intent. As to who cursed him, I suspect that a member of his former religious group felt Frank had somehow done him—or her—wrong.
I wasn’t at all surprised when Frank hotly disputed my theory about what brought the dark force into his life. It’s typical for someone who is under the sway of a demon to resist having any light of understanding thrown on his problems, since these evil spirits can thrive only in darkness. I felt that while a curse may have made him a tempting target to the demonic, it was Frank’s own pride and vanity that ultimately gave the evil spirit a foothold into his soul. Basically, this demon attacked through his weaknesses and preyed on his desires.
To put it another way, it was almost as if Frank were a drug addict: The longer he listened to the voice, the harder it got for him to give it up, even when its words hurt him. Now he’d become totally dependent on it. Yet to a degree, he was still resisting the spirit that had possessed him and had agreed to an exorcism. The question was, could he summon up the will to free himself?
* * *
It was a beautiful day for an exorcism, almost absurdly warm for December in New York. I carefully blessed my car with holy water inside and out, even the tires. Although I consider myself a good driver—as a police officer, I spend forty hours a week behind the wheel of a patrol car—I can’t tell you how many close calls I’ve had driving my own car to exorcisms. Thinking of all the times I barely escaped collisions, sometimes during blinding snowstorms or on roads that had turned to sheets of ice, other times on lovely, sunny days like this, I sprinkled a little extra holy water around, to be on the safe side.
Now I was ready to pick up Joe, who’d volunteered to help—despite his sabbatical from the Work—when I told him that Keith was busy that day. The Warrens’ nephew, John Z., would be joining us at Our Lady of the Rosary Chapel. As my partner and I pulled into the Bridgeport, Connecticut, train station, where the bishop had sent us to pick up Frank and JoAnn and bring them to his church for the exorcism, we said a brief prayer that the ritual would be successful. I always hate having a possessed person in my car, since the satanic spirit inside him might spring a surprise attack at any moment, forcing me to be hypervigilant for any diabolical drama.
At an exorcism a few years ago, I was sitting with the possessed woman and her husband in a pew, getting ready for the ritual, when the woman suddenly lunged at her husband, grabbed him around the neck, and started choking him. I slammed both my knees into the pew as I hastily leapt up to rescue him, while the other assistants showered the three of us with holy water. Just as I’ve often done on the street with deranged, drugged up, or violent criminals, I quickly subdued her. We stopped the murderous assault, immediately put her in arm and leg restraints, and began the exorcism.
To make matters worse, the ritual proved so long and exhausting that the bishop decided to finish it the next day, at the woman’s home. As soon as he walked in, she sprang from the sofa at a dead run, clearly determined to strangle him. You’d think it was Superbowl Sunday, the way three of us tackled her right there on her living room rug. That stopped the demon’s physical attack, and the exorcism proceeded as planned.
My body went on red alert when I saw Frank and JoAnn get off the train. Frank didn’t look too dangerous, however: He was even more impeccably dressed than before—except that his designer sweater was definitely a size or two larger than the clothes I’d seen him in then. His wife was wearing a rumpled green sweatsuit with a stain on the sleeve. Both wore anxious, serious expressions and had little to say.
Leaving the parking lot, my Ford Thunderbird was suddenly jolted violently. I looked back and saw that another car had hit us, but miraculously, no one was hurt. Was it the supernatural—or just an incompetent suburban driver? Since neither car was damaged, we continued on our way to the church. I hoped that the ritual would be successful and not violent. Since each exorcism is different, I couldn’t help but feel apprehensive, not knowing how this particular demon might attack. The one constant in our Work is that battling the Devil is extremely taxing to the mind, body, and spirit—and puts you at risk of all sorts of dangers.
Although I was now driving extracautiously, as we entered the driveway of Our Lady of the Rosary Chapel, where Frank’s ritual was to be held, apparently I wasn’t being careful enough and narrowly missed having a head-on collision with the Mother Superior. Seeing her in her traditional black habit, staring at me in astonishment through her car window, I couldn’t help thinking Boy, would I have gotten the ruler for that one, as I did so many times as a boy in parochial school! I can’t believe I almost hit a nun!
Once we were safely inside the church, I finally felt calm and at peace, despite the battle that lay ahead. JoAnn remarked on the beauty of the church. Although I’d seen it hundreds of times before, my spirit was still refreshed by the sight of this peaceful chapel and the room-sized rosary that surrounds the chapel’s pews, attaching to the figure of Christ on the cross that hangs behind the altar.
Frank was clearly nervous. Like most possessed people at exorcisms, he had no idea what to expect. None of us did, really, since each exorcism is different. I told them why we would be strapping him into a chair but didn’t go into any details about the ceremony. It’s not important for the exorcee to know anything about the prayers: They are for the evil spirit hiding inside, which is well aware of what will be taking place shortly.
“How long is this going to take?” Frank asked.
“As long as Bishop McKenna feels it should.”
Joe and I began to set up for the exorcism, while the bishop spoke privately with Frank. We placed a sturdy wooden chair in front of the altar and readied the restraints. JoAnn sat in a s
ide pew, looking extremely pale and distraught. I went over and talked to her but could give no guarantees about the outcome. “It’s up to the bishop and ultimately, to God now,” I told her. “But Frank also has a hand in it, because if he continues to view the demon as part of his life, forcing it to leave will be very hard.”
She squeezed my hand and thanked me for everything I’d done. “If it weren’t for you, my husband wouldn’t be here at this church right now,” she said.
Joe and I secured Frank firmly to a chair, using wrist restraints and a nylon strap around his chest to keep him from injuring himself—or others—should the exorcism turn violent. Wearing his black cassock, white surplice, and purple stole, the bishop glided silently into the chapel. After being in places that are so oppressive with evil, I appreciated this house of God more each time I came here.
But battle was imminent, and we began to prepare, stocking up on our supplies: having the bishop bless salt, incense, and saints’ medals; filling five-gallon jugs with holy water; and saying prayers for our families, who waited for us at home, that the good Lord would protect them during this exorcism. Then we said more prayers to keep us strong for what was to come and for the ritual to succeed.
Finally it was time for the exorcism.
In Latin, the bishop recited the Litany of the Saints; calling upon each and every one of them to help free this man from the evil spirit. I sat next to Frank, watching his face intently. For the first half hour, there was no reaction at all. The pretense was very strong in this exorcism. Sometimes a demon shows itself quickly, and other times it hides for quite a while.
Either way, as an assistant, my job was to be ready for any sign of its presence, whether a strange movement from Frank or an indication that he was in pain. During exorcisms, certain areas of the body are most likely to be affected—usually the head or stomach, but occasionally the back. These major chakra, or power, points, often serve as portals of entry for the demonic. Sometimes the person will be shivering as if it’s below zero in the church, even in summer; other people go into a seemingly comatose state or just sit there as if they are watching a movie.
Alert for any clue that the demon was being forced to come forward, I monitored Frank’s breathing, facial expressions, and movements, aware of even the slightest quiver in his skin. I was intent on all the sounds of the church and watching all the assistants for signs they were being affected, just as they were watching me. I was also keeping an eye on JoAnn, imagining how hard it must be to sit to the side and see a loved one going through this when she was powerless to help him. If possible, I don’t let family members assist in an exorcism, because I don’t know if they are in a state of grace. If they are not, they might become possessed themselves, either briefly or long enough to need an exorcism of their own. They are also extremely emotionally involved in the case and can be targeted for that reason, since the demonic are drawn by negative emotions.
As the ritual progressed, the bishop asked Frank how he was feeling. “I’m okay,” the dry cleaner replied, “but I feel that the voice inside me is scared. It is talking to me and saying all kinds of things.”
The bishop continued the exorcism. “Demon, I command you in the name of Jesus Christ to come forth!”
Suddenly I saw Frank’s breathing change from slow and rhythmic to rapid and shallow. I could tell at once that the demon was present. Even in this holy place, there was an unmistakable, overpowering sense of evil. The dry cleaner’s face tensed up and he began to blink very rapidly, as I felt a subtle drop in the temperature of the church. His eyes widened as if he were seeing some threat that was invisible to me and darted from side to side, looking for an escape. His face took on an expression of hatred and fear, loathing and terror.
Frank reminded me of the criminally insane that I’ve taken off the street as a cop: all wrapped up in restraints and powerless to do anything as we load them into the bus (cop slang for an ambulance) for a trip to the psych ward. This demon didn’t want to be here, but through the providence of God, it had no choice. I’ve seen facial expressions as strange and frightening as Frank’s before, but not what he did next: His entire body began to shudder in stiff, jerky, decidedly unnatural motions.
He opened his mouth and spoke in a voice that sounded much like his own, except deeper and full of scorn. “I don’t want to be here. Who do you people think you are?” The question was obviously rhetorical, and we didn’t dignify it with a reply. We all knew that the demon had been forced to come forward and was now here for the battle. Breakpoint was here.
“Evil spirit, tell me your name, in the name of our Lord, Jesus Christ!” thundered the bishop, touching Frank with a relic of the True Cross.
The mocking laughter that issued from Frank’s lips wasn’t the least bit convincing. Even though it was sneering, the satanic power was suffering agonies worse than the fires of Hell. It didn’t want to leave; it had to be compelled and commanded to depart in Jesus’ name. This battle was taking place in a little church in Connecticut but also was being fought on another plane of existence, a spiritual plane older than man; this battle has been raging since before the creation of humanity. This mental, physical, and spiritual struggle was a battle that we humans are caught up in whether we believe or not.
I had a hunch about this demon because of the manner in which it had gotten hold of Frank. Since it snared him through his intellect and spirituality, I suspected that was how it would respond during the exorcism, rather than with physical brutality.
The bishop’s dark eyes narrowed into a piercing stare. “Demon, what brought you into this man?”
The voice deepened. “I’m not talking to you. I hate you people!”
As if drawing a gun, Bishop McKenna held up a cross. “Demon, begone!”
Now speaking in a low, almost inaudible tone, the evil spirit retorted, “I don’t want to be here anymore. I’m sick of you! Stop talking!”
Touching Frank with a holy relic, the bishop asked, “Am I bothering you, demon?” A veteran of over one hundred exorcisms, Bishop McKenna knew better than to fall into the trap of quarreling with evil spirits, since giving them any sort of recognition can be dangerous. The goal isn’t to beat these demons in a battle of wits, which could tempt even the most devout exorcist into the very sins of pride and vanity that had led to Frank’s possession. Instead, the priest must maintain a humble attitude, remembering that his only power to defeat the Devil comes from serving God’s will, not his own charismatic gifts.
The reply sounded like a petulant three-year-old. “You’re stupid and everything about this place is stupid! Stupid, stupid, stupid! I’m not telling you anything!” Here again I felt the demon was simply making malicious mischief, by encouraging us to think, in our conceit, that we must be a lot smarter than such a seemingly childish entity—a very dangerous thought to entertain.
“We can’t believe you anyway, demon,” the holy man snapped back, draping a black rosary around Frank’s neck and dousing him with holy water.
The evil spirit let out a taunting laugh. “You people don’t make sense. Why are you here?”
“Because we believe in God!” retorted John, the Warrens’ nephew, provoked past control.
The bishop ignored the interruption and continued his fierce interrogation: “Don’t you believe in God, Devil? Where did you come from?”
“If I tell you the truth, you wouldn’t believe me. I came because I wanted to. You can’t find me because I’m not here.”
Touching Frank again, first with a holy relic, then replacing the black rosary with a white one, the bishop never broke eye contact as he steadily intoned the Roman Ritual of Exorcism.
“Stop! Stop! Stop talking!” the demon shrieked. Frank’s head and shoulder jerked in a more intense robotic tic, as if the evil spirit were trying to shrug off the torture it must be suffering. The exorcism was proceeding just as I anticipated—a lot of head games, but no rough stuff so far, thank God.
“What keeps you in
this man? Answer me in the name of Jesus Christ! Who cursed him?”
That evoked a defiant outburst. “I won’t tell you. What you’re doing is not working,” the diabolical force repeated over and over. The torrent of words stopped for a moment, then Frank’s eyes began blinking much more rapidly, and his lips moved again. “I cursed him because he was too good, so very good. I had to have him make a wrong decision.”
Bishop McKenna had heard enough of this nonsense. It was Frank’s vanity—not his virtue—that had allowed the demon to possess him. The priest held up a crucifix and made the sign of the cross over Frank’s body. “With the help of God, I’m commanding you to go out of him, Devil!”
The demon’s remarks became increasingly incoherent: “What are you? If I stay here, it’s because I want to! Stop talking.… I won’t do it.… Stupid people.… I won’t do anything.…” The words became quieter and quieter until I found myself straining to hear them. This can be a distraction technique satanic forces use to break an exorcist’s concentration. If so, it didn’t work, since the bishop never wavered in his recitation of the ritual. Acknowledging defeat, the deep, contemptuous voice finally sputtered to a halt.
The priest’s voice remained firm and steady as he finished the ritual, touching Frank repeatedly with relics, making the sign of the cross over and over, and giving many sprinkles of holy water. I could see Frank’s breathing slowly return to normal, and the shuddering stopped.
Although the demon had been banished for the moment, all of us sensed that the war wasn’t won yet: Frank wasn’t free. When I spoke to him afterward, I could see that he was still confused about the true nature of the demonic spirit possessing him and still didn’t grasp how warped his religious experiences really were. The demon was causing so much pain in his life but, at the same time, was giving him what he believed to be special insight into God. In his own mind Frank became more important than God. His aim was to know the divine plan, but he had no reverence for God. That’s what this demon gave Frank: not a sense of hope and love that true religious experience brings, but a twisted sense of cold “understanding” that had no real meaning.
Deliver Us from Evil Page 27