Hostage To The Devil

by Неизвестный

  Then joined to the Adriatic by six canals, it was the only city outside Rome empowered to strike its own coins. The capital of a strategically and economically vital province, it was famous for its theater and its religious festivals, its celebration of mysteries, and its curative waters. It was the meeting place of Roman emperors, popes, synods; residence of its own patriarch; prized by German and Austrian kings; fought for by Slovenes, Huns, Avars, Greeks, Franks, English, Danes.

  Now Aquileia is an obscure little farming community off the beaten track, a forgotten and inconsequential village not shown on general maps, and described by sardonic clerics in Rome as “a cathedral with some streets attached to it.”

  Carl's party drove directly to the cathedral; they had made arrangements with the guardian. As they got to the door, the student assistants began the “experiment.” Donna started the movie camera, and Bill started the tape recorder. All was set. Every one of them was tense and expectant. A certain air of happy quest descended on them.

  Their course now was to enter the cathedral, walk down its central nave, turn right at the sanctuary, and descend into the ruins of the fourth-century chapel.

  Carl's behavior changed the moment he stepped out of the limousine. He was no longer smiling and relaxed. He had that “look” his associates had come to know so well—his eyes heavy-lidded and almost closed, the head lifted, hands hanging by his sides, and on his face a special glow of absorption and reverence they had come to associate with his “trances.” There were hints of ecstasy and happiness at the corners of his mouth. The utter calm of rapture seemed to descend on him: his forehead and cheeks were utterly smooth, free of wrinkles and lines, as if the skin were suddenly made young again or drawn tight by an invisible hand.

  But the general expression of his whole face was abstracted and bloodless. There was no hint of a personal expression, no indication of a word about to be pronounced or of a passion about to erupt, neither confidence nor fear, neither welcome nor hope of welcome, neither compassion nor expectation of compassion.

  And around the eyes, in a way none of his associates and students could ever explain, there was what they had come to call the “twist”—some crookedness, some wry misshapenness, as if the natural contours of skull, forehead, eyes, and ears had been splayed out of kilter by some superhuman force residing in him temporarily with tremendous and awe-full power. It was ungainly and uncomely but accepted by those around him as inevitable. Carl always referred to it as “my divine suffering.” For his theory—or rather his belief—was that during psychic trances a human being with an “open soul,” as he used to phrase it, was “taken over,” was “possessed” by the superhuman. The merely physical frame of that human being was overwhelmed-suffered, in that sense—by the inrush of silent divinity. The thin wall of reality separating the divine and the human was temporarily breached, and the human was “marinated” in the divine.

  Now all waited. Carl had to move and talk. There must be no outside interruption, no external stimulus. The minutes ticked by. They still had not moved from the entrance. Carl's lips moved, but there was no audible sound. Then he shifted his stance, turning slowly in a half-circle, first toward the sea six miles away, then in the direction of Venice in a southwesterly direction. As he turned, he had a questioning expression on his face. He seemed to be waiting.

  They heard scraps of words and sentences: “. . . the fourth canal. . . Via Postumia. . . must have the integral number of. . .”

  But his voice sank to a whisper and died away completely by the time he was facing in the direction of Venice. On his face, there was now a look of thunder and bitterness. His lips were working furiously as if in heated argument or commentary. But they heard nothing. Again he turned around, to face the cathedral door.

  “Now 0800,” recorded Norman. “Carl is moving into the cathedral. His right hand is raised in salute, palm turned outward.”

  Carl's face was calm again. His lips had ceased to move. They entered a great golden-brown sea of silence, sunlight, and color arched over by the stone ribs of a roof that curved and soared away out of sight.

  Then Carl headed straight down the no-foot nave. Sixty-five feet wide, the floor was one, whole ocean of mosaics flanked by solid columns on either side; it ended in a semidomed apse where the high altar stood. The sun's rays were pouring in through the nave windows and slanting down upon the expanse with dovetailing shafts of light and shadow. Dust shimmered in paths of light, flecking the air with colors of the mosaics and the surrounding walls, red, yellow, ochre, purple, orange, green.

  For three-quarters of the nave the little group walked solemnly and steadily over that magic flooring teeming with designs of garlands, birds, animals, fish, ancient Romans, all glowing with deep tints and sophisticated forms.

  Carl made only one detour: when he reached a particular medallion set in the floor, he paused. His lips were moving again: “. . . weakness. . . to prefer death to strength. . . prostituting humility of this weak. . .” Then in staccato repetition under his breath he uttered the old Roman words for Rome's cruel strength: “Virtus, virtus, virtus, virtus. . .”

  Norman glanced at the medallion. “Carl is circling this mosaic of the Good Shepherd,” he recorded.

  Carl's own voice tapered off with whispered tones of disgust: “. . . braying donkey. . . Alexander's god. . . a braying donkey. . .”

  After this, Carl walked on calmly until he reached a broad mosaic band beyond which they saw a composite picture of the sea. The ancient artists had depicted boats, fishermen, fish of all sizes, sea serpents, dolphins, and a recurrent theme: Jonah, the Old Testament figure, in the mouth of a whale.

  Carl's behavior became erratic at this point, and his face again mirrored anger together with confusion and contempt. He drew back with a low hiss of breath, his body almost crouching. Then he bobbed his head from side to side, as if seeking an exit between dangerous thorns.

  Norman recorded, his voice stumbling as he followed Carl's changing course. “Carl is moving to the left. Slowly. . . now to the center, now to the right-no, he is moving leftwards again, stepping on a Jonah medallion.” Then in an aside to Donna, who was still filming all of Carl's movements, “Move over in front of him, Donna, move up front, please.” Donna did so.

  Painfully, with sudden stops and cautious steps, Carl made his way up to the steps of the sanctuary. As Donna directed the camera at him, his eyes were wide open and blazing with an anger Donna had never seen in them. “Carl is turning back,” Norman continued to record. “He is going toward the tunnel door.” This tunnel led down to the fourth-century chapel over which the present cathedral was built in the eleventh century.

  Donna was the first to reach the rectangular floor of the ancient chapel. She photographed the arrival of Carl, Norman, and the others. Carl now walked unerringly forward, but bowed his head several times as if acknowledging presences the others could not perceive.

  The floor was another elaborate mass of Roman mosaics-pheasants, donkeys, fruits, pastoral figures and scenes, flowers. Carl did not stop until he reached a wide band of orange marble which ran the width of the chapel.

  “Carl is standing at the orange band,” Norman continued his recording. “Beyond it are many geometric designs.”

  After about 30 seconds, Carl's behavior changed. His face lit up. His head was lifted high. Both hands were outstretched. He stepped across the orange band and walked straight to a medallion lying just beyond the geometric designs. This was the spot where the ancient ritual was to be enacted. The medallion showed the Tortoise glaring up at the Rooster.

  Carl's companions gathered around the medallion. Donna stood opposite Carl, the camera directed straight at him. “Carl's hands are joined, palm on palm, at his chest,” Norman whispered into the microphone. “His eyes are closed. This is it.”

  No sooner had Norman said this than Carl opened his arms to full length on either side of him; he raised his head until his eyes were directed upward behind closed lids.
His companions began to hear half words and syllables of that ancient incantation he had come to recite: “. . . aquae viv. . . immortalis. . .”But he seemed to gag or stutter when he reached the word “Christum.” He never fully pronounced it. It came out as “Christ. . . Christ. . . Christ. . .” (rhyming with “grist”). And as he stuttered over that first syllable, his voice got louder and louder, and his breathing became faster and more labored.

  “Here, Bill, take the mike,” Norman said quickly, “but hold it so that we can still catch my comments and his words.” He had been instructed by Carl that, if there were any unforeseen block or difficulty, he was to take Carl lightly by the hand and guide him in on top of the Rooster.

  Carl was still stuttering: “Christ. . . Christ. . . Christ. . .” Donna at her camera noticed the white foam gathering at the corners of his mouth. Norman reached out to take Carl's right hand in his. “God!” he exclaimed in a loud whisper, “his hand is like ice.”

  Carl was now struggling. He had ceased speaking. He was like a man trying to forge ahead and walk against a strong, buffeting wind. His hand trembled in Norman's, and his whole body vibrated in his effort to push onward, to step on to that Rooster in the mosaic medallion. His lips were drawn back over his teeth in the effort. The skin on his face tightened and whitened; and although he no longer spoke, there started in him a low moan like a man expelling his breath in a vast, heaving attempt to push past an obstacle.

  Norman felt the icy cold entering his own fingers and hand, deadening all feeling there, loosening his grip on Carl.

  The moaning rose in volume, changing to a growling, then increased in volume again until it resembled the shouting of a man through clenched teeth. Norman had let go of Carl's hand by now and was standing back, confused and dazed. The others had drawn back a few steps in apprehension at this unexpected turn of events. Carl was now alone, still facing Donna across that medallion.

  At the height of that peculiar muffled shout from Carl, a change seemed to come over him; and the shock was too much for Donna. Suddenly, it seemed, what had been buffeting Carl closed in around him like an invisible cocoon. Some unseen bonds and wrappings tightened around his entire body, squeezing and narrowing him, binding him in a crunched fashion and bending him down lower and lower to the ground. He seemed to diminish in size. The expression of effort and straining rage on his face was replaced by a look of crushed, broken helplessness, almost of infantility. It was the look of one trying to draw into the smallest possible diameter of his own body.

  Donna still held the camera in operation, but she whispered in panic: “Somebody help me! Please! Quick!” Nobody budged; they could not take their eyes off Carl. He was whining in an up-and-down fashion, as if pain and struggle had emptied him. It was a protest against agony. All this became too much for Donna. The camera slid from her fingers to the floor. And the last shot taken of Carl shows him bending forward, his hands locked tightly across his chest, his head twisted to one side, eyes closed, his tongue between his teeth, and an expression of resignation, defeat, and repose on his face—the same that many have seen on those who have been garroted or drowned. It was an emptied-out look.

  The clattering fall of Donna's camera broke the frozen fascination of the others. Bill and two students finally rushed to help Donna. Norman and the others lifted Carl up. As they did, his body relaxed from its rigid posture and he was carried limp and unconscious out into the open air.

  All were perspiring and shaken. Carl's body was cold. They poured some drops of whisky between his lips, and he began to recover. After a while, he breathed normally and opened his eyes.

  “Carl,” Norman spoke quietly, “Carl, it will be better if we go on to Venice now.”

  A little over a week later, back in New York, Carl was far from all right. Even after a few days rest in Venice and Milan, and the long flight home, Carl was still in a dazed condition that none of his associates could understand. He was no longer the commanding, self-possessed, and self-confident leader he had been. He ate and slept fitfully, talked very little, canceled all his scheduled appointments.

  Carl seemed to be reliving again and again the scene in Aquileia, always in the same way: he muttered and talked, sometimes strode around the house and garden reenacting each step of that disastrous morning. And always, at the crucial moment, he went into the same queer seizure. It was Donna who remarked one day that he seemed to her to be trying to carry the Aquileia incident past that difficult moment at the medallion.

  Finally Norman and Albert called Carl's father in Philadelphia. Carl was taken home. A long rest was prescribed by the family doctor.

  There was no suspicion in anyone's mind that Carl was possessed or in the process of possession, until one night when only Carl and his father were sleeping alone in the big house. His father was suddenly wakened from sleep. Carl stood by his bedside, crying quietly. He spoke very clearly, although not all he said seemed coherent to his father. He evidently wanted help from a priest. He named him: Father Hartney F., who lived in Newark, New Jersey. And Carl wanted his father to call the priest then and there. It was after midnight, but his father was sufficiently alarmed to call the priest. Father was out, his housekeeper said; she would give the message to him when he returned.

  Carl's father had just hung up when there occurred one of many peculiar apparent coincidences that marked the case of Carl V. The telephone rang. The man's voice at the other end was level and pleasant. He announced himself as Father F. Yes, he would like to see Carl; that was why he was calling. No, he was not in New Jersey; he was in Philadelphia. No, he had not been contacted by his housekeeper.

  “Mr. V., I must ask you to trust me as a man and as a priest. I have something to say to your son which is for his ears only.” His father looked at Carl, then handed him the telephone. Carl appeared to listen, tears flowing, his face drawn. All he said was “Yes” a few times; then a slow “Tomorrow. All right.” He hung up and, without looking at his father, turned slowly away and left the room.

  Carl spent three weeks in New York with Father F., for a first round of pre-exorcism tests. He was back home by late August. During September and October he commuted frequently from Philadelphia to Newark and New York. At the beginning of November the exorcism began.

  Although there are many in the field of parapsychology who deplore the disappearance of Carl V. from their midst, very few are acquainted with the circumstances in which he finally renounced all research and study of this very modern branch of knowledge. Carl was already a brilliant psychologist when he turned to parapsychology. Many who knew him and his gifts predicted that he was the right man in the right place at the right time doing exactly what needed to be done. They could see the premature termination of Carl's career, therefore, only as unfortunate, a loss to the cause of true humanism.

  Carl was not only very intelligent. He apparently possessed to an eminent degree some psychic gifts that are highly valued nowadays and the object of much research, such powers as telepathy and telekinesis. He found, in addition, a suitable academic location where he could exercise and study those gifts. Within that ambient he was surrounded by men and women of talent, students of ability and acumen. And, to cap his potential, there were two or three major events in his personal life that placed him in a category all by himself.

  There was first a vision he had had as a teenager. There was, too, unexpected support of his general ideas about parapsychology from an unusually reputable quarter with the appearance of Aldous Huxley's book The Doors of Perception in 1954. In addition, Carl himself enjoyed altered states of consciousness at various levels for almost ten years (1962-72). As early as 1965 he began to have constant perceptions of the “aura” surrounding objects—the “non-thing aura,” as he called it. Finally he achieved his first “exaltation” (his own term) in 1969.

  In retrospect, Carl himself now assumes that, while his “exaltation” had a definite psychic character, at its core it was the threshold of diabolic possession.


  But in the meanwhile, what gave a particular cachet to Carl's career was the scrutiny of admiring colleagues who were applying their scientific principles precisely to such phenomena as altered states of consciousness, visions, astral travel, telepathy, telekinesis, reincarnation.

  What added a new dimension in Carl's case and in his own work was the authentically religious bent of his mind. Carl V. did, indeed, set out to find the truth about religion, Christianity, in particular. And the combination of psychic gifts, the extraordinary progress of what seemed to be his personal powers, and his religious leanings all gave him a peculiarly commanding appeal in the late 19605 and early 19708. For in the decadence of organized and institutional religion people had begun to switch their active interest to parapsychology as a possible source of religious knowledge and even of wisdom.

  Indeed, as far as human judgment can go, we can only surmise that Carl should have achieved much in his chosen field if his life had not been upset by diabolic possession and the consequent exorcism.

  There was little that distinguished Carl either from his two brothers or from his school companions during his early childhood. His family had plenty of money and enjoyed considerable influence in their hometown of Philadelphia. The family was Mainline Protestant and worshiped at the Episcopal church. Carl's growing-up was not particularly difficult. No misfortunes or tragedies hit the family. Neither the Depression nor World War II affected it very adversely. Carl did well in school and at sports. He traveled a good deal with his family, visiting Europe, South America, and Hawaii at various times.