Hostage to the Devil

by Malachi Martin

  The unpossessed, the normal person, is aware of the self he is only when it is reflected in another person or in things other than himself. And, without ever realizing it, when we perceive ourselves reflected in someone else or in objects other than ourselves, we instinctively compare that reflection of the self with an ideal measure we have formed but which we usually leave unspoken, even unthought. It is, however, ever present to us when we make comparisons of ourselves. This is the third, the hidden third, necessary for all comparison between two things. To be self-aware is to be able to compare our selves with the reflection and with the ideal measure.

  The possessed has no such awareness. For in the state of possession, the self-consciousness and self-awareness of the possessed becomes absolute solitude. There is no hidden third, no ideal. Metaphorically speaking, in possession a mirror is held up in which the self of the possessed sees only itself in itself in itself in itself and so on in an infinitely receding number of self-containing, self-mirroring images, with no end in sight. And this awareness is, by definition, complete and unending solitude.

  For those near Richard/Rita—his office colleagues, his immediate family, the few friends he had made in the immediate neighborhood of Tanglewood, there was a marked change in him dating from June 1971 onward. Their memories of this change are unanimous and date from about the time of the Black Mass—of which they knew nothing, of course.

  Richard/Rita now always wore male clothing; but ordinary people, who did not know his story, could not make out exactly whether it was a man or a woman they were meeting in Richard. Then there was the smell, not unpleasant, just pervasive. It has been described by some as “musky,” by others as “faded perfume” such as you get when you open an old chest of drawers, by others still as “a clean animal smell.” It pervaded Lake House, his room at the insurance offices, his car, his clothes, even his handwritten letters. People always found it distinctive; some found it repulsive. It varied in strength.

  Finally there were his peculiar fits. His normally deep-blue eyes would take on a greenish hue. Some hidden glow or luminescence emphasized the down of his face, neck, arms, hands, and legs, so that he looked sort of furry; but when you looked closely, you saw only skin. He spoke very little, mainly single words and at an extremely slow pace, accompanied by a combination of chuckles, grunts, snorts, twisting of his eyebrows, and mouth grimaces that contorted his lips around his teeth. Yet it was the indescribably roughened tone or timbre of his voice that disturbed people the most during his fits.

  At first sporadic through the summer of 1971, these fits increased in frequency, so that by late October they were of daily occurrence. There was then a peculiar fear-causing element in any conversation with Richard/Rita—and his job was 80 percent of a talking nature. When anyone spoke to him, their words seemed to fall into a deep, deep hole and to be lost. They felt he hadn’t heard or that, if he had, there was no communication between them. Then, as they were giving up or trying again by repeating what they had said, he spoke either in single words or in a series of disconnected words. They made sense and, most of the time, gave an answer. But they seemed to come from far in the distance, from the bottomless depth of that hole into which their words had fallen. Impersonal, uncommunicative of any personality, unwarm, at that stage Richard/Rita reminded some people of the humanly unresponsive effect a tape recording gave them.

  People quickly learned that his responses and conversation always made sense. Indeed, they were highly intelligent and relevant. His business judgment was better than ever before. But always the freakish atmosphere communicated by the tone of his voice disturbed them. This, together with an almost overnight suspicion in his colleagues that “wherever Richard/Rita is, there is always trouble,” finally brought his dismissal from work and caused him to lose his friends one by one.

  The “trouble” was eerie. At first, it affected mainly his life at the insurance office. But gradually it affected anyone who contacted him even fleetingly—the delivery boys from the grocer, druggist, and dry cleaners, his cleaning woman, the laundry woman, his gardener. Once it got to a policeman who gave him a traffic ticket. And eventually it affected each member of his family who visited him. The “trouble” was strictly reminiscent of what happened at the Tower of Babel in the Bible story. Men and women who had known each other for years and had worked together intimately for substantial periods of time suddenly started to misunderstand each other and to wrangle and quarrel. To some onlookers of such “trouble,” it seemed as if what one person said was heard backwards by another person, i.e., with exactly the contrary meaning that the speaker intended. The “trouble” affected only those talking and dealing with each other. But once any onlooker got between the disputants—entered their “atmosphere,” so to speak—he or she was also affected by the “trouble”; and there was an additional source of babel and confusion and wrangling.

  Incidents of this kind took place always and only where Richard/Rita was present physically. He seemed to be highly amused at the whole thing, but he himself never got caught by the “trouble.”

  The “trouble” also affected those writing or typing in his presence: they wrote or typed the opposite of what they meant, or it turned out to be complete nonsense. And all incidents of the “trouble” cumulatively pointed too strongly in Richard/Rita’s direction to be explained in complete disconnection from him.

  When there was no fit of any kind and no “trouble,” Richard/Rita’s accustomed sweetness of character and affability came to the fore. The change at those moments was almost shocking.

  It was some time before Richard/Rita realized why he had lost friends, why he found people turning away from him, and why he became unpopular in his office.

  In the last days of October he was fired. His brother, Bert, came in to see him. Then Bert went and talked with his immediate boss. From what Bert learned from him and from others in Tanglewood, joined to his own impressions, he concluded that his brother needed psychiatric care. But Richard/Rita’s behavior then became a hide-and-go-seek game. Whenever he visited the psychiatrist, he was absolutely normal; and the psychiatrist could find nothing wrong or sick about him, no matter what diagnostic means he used. Indeed, the psychiatrist concluded that Richard/Rita’s dismissal from the office was based on the boss’s repulsion of Richard/Rita as a transsexual; and he advised Richard/Rita to sue for damages and reinstatement in his job.

  But matters took another turn when Bert and Jasper came and stayed with him for a long weekend. Richard/Rita had several fits. And the “trouble” was again very evident. Now, in his calm moments, Richard/Rita talked to them frankly and pathetically. He had begun to know in a dim and fragmentary way something of the drastic changes in him.

  His brothers stayed on at his house, determined to get to the bottom of it all. Richard willingly underwent a complete physical checkup. The results were negative. Further psychiatric examinations were equally fruitless.

  Bert and Jasper together with Richard/Rita decided to ask the local Lutheran pastor for some advice. He diagnosed Richard/Rita as a soul who had neglected God and prayer. When the pastor’s counseling was of no avail, they called on the local rabbi. This man, a very saintly person, consented to read some prayers in Richard/Rita’s presence. He also read some texts of the Talmud and explained them to the three brothers.

  The following days, there was no change in Richard/Rita’s general condition. They then decided to call on the local Roman Catholic pastor. The three of them walked over to see Father Byrnes, who already knew Richard/Rita by name and sight. He listened to them, but threw cold water on any expectations of concrete help. It wasn’t because they were non-Catholics, he explained apologetically, and he sounded sincere to them. But he didn’t know what to do. Sure, he would include Richard/Rita in his prayers. But, they shouldn’t forget, so had the others. And what good had all that done? It didn’t seem enough. Father Byrnes concluded. Bert took Father Byrnes aside and pleaded with him: his brother was ill in some p
eculiar way. Doctors and psychiatrists had given up on him. Didn’t Father Byrnes know some Catholic priest who might help?

  “Call me tomorrow, after midday,” Father Byrnes answered. He had just remembered Father Gerald and his great common sense.

  THE GIRL-FIXER

  The morning of the exorcism Richard/Rita rose early, bathed, washed his hair, carefully sprayed himself with deodorant, and applied his favorite perfume to neck, breasts, wrists, and behind his ears. He put on a pair of dark blue slacks, a red turtleneck sweater, and loose sandals. His long black hair was brushed and combed in a simple manner. He wore no makeup or jewelry.

  When he was dressed, he went out and fed the ducks in the pond, walked around for a while, then returned in time to greet Gerald’s assistants at the door.

  Partly because his two brothers were assistants, it was almost like a group of intimate friends gathering for a reunion or for the celebration of a very private event. Richard/Rita collaborated laughingly and pleasantly, making coffee, arranging the room for the rite of Exorcism, and in general was very apologetic and apparently appreciative of the “inconvenience being given,” as he said repeatedly. For the exorcism, Richard/Rita’s bedroom had been chosen by Gerald after some discussion, and mainly because it seemed to be the place Richard/Rita wanted most to avoid.

  When all was ready, Richard/Rita sat down with the assistants and waited, sometimes chatting, sometimes praying with them, until Gerald’s car was heard in the driveway. Bert went out, reported to Gerald, then came back and told Richard/Rita to sit or lie down on the couch. But Richard/Rita insisted on waiting for Gerald.

  Gerald entered the bedroom with Father John. Both wore their ceremonial robes. All, including Richard/Rita, knelt down as they recited a prayer to the Holy Spirit. Then, with Richard/Rita still kneeling, the assistants arranged themselves around Gerald. He opened the exorcism with a prayer from the official ritual.

  Richard/Rita interrupted gently and boyishly. “Father Gerald, don’t you think we could hurry all this up? What I really need now is a blessing and everybody’s prayers and good-will wishes.”

  He stood up and shot a radiant, embarrassed smile of charm and gratitude at each one present. Bert’s heart was torn at the sight of his baby brother. Most of them felt embarrassed, much as if—it was Jasper, Richard/Rita’s older brother, who made the remark later—as if they had come to arrest someone for murder and found the supposed murderer and his victim making love instead. Richard/Rita looked very feminine that morning.

  Gerald too was taken aback. His mind raced. Had he made a mistake? Either they had made fools of themselves and of Richard/Rita, or they were victims of a deeper deceit than he had anticipated. But there was no time for reflection or pause. He had to make a decision. The police captain and the teacher were looking at him as if to say: “Let’s get out of here, Father. Let’s leave well enough alone.” But Gerald knew he had to make certain.

  “Fine, Rita,” he said, surprised at his own acting, but smiling nonchalantly. “Let’s do just that. Here, John, give me the holy-water flask. Jasper! Take my prayer book and put it in my briefcase. Bert, please make more coffee. Someone go and telephone the rectory and tell them I shall be back for lunch. Rita, hand me the crucifix from the table beside you, and let’s get on with the blessing.”

  Afterward, when discussing the events of that morning, all agreed that the moment Gerald finished his request to Richard/Rita some sharp change took place in the room. It was a qualitative change, as effective and as abrupt as a complete, instantaneous change in the perfume of the air or in the room temperature. Some of them, not guessing Gerald’s ulterior motive, had started automatically to do what he had asked them before he made his request to Richard/Rita. But the mysterious change in the room as Gerald spoke to Richard/Rita brought them all up sharply. “Like red lights all around me,” said one. “Like a warning bell,” commented another. “An eerie feeling in the nape of my neck,” was the teacher’s description.

  “We knew that suddenly another presence had become palpable to us. We knew it was bad, bad, bad,” declared Bert afterwards.

  They all turned around and looked at Gerald and Richard/Rita. Gerald was standing almost on tiptoe, his request had been so barbed with intent and its impact on Richard/Rita so tangible for him. Richard/Rita had sat down on the couch, a picture of puzzlement. His forehead was a field of furrows. His eyebrows were almost touching in quizzical expression. His mouth was tightly closed, the lower lip clamped over the upper one. All color had drained from his cheeks. They couldn’t see his eyes. He was looking at his lap, where both his hands closed and opened, from fist to open palm, then from open palm to fist, continually, jerkingly, and slowly. Gerald held his own hand up for silence and attention.

  “Rita,” he said softly, “hand me the crucifix.” Tears started to glitter on Richard/Rita’s eyelashes and then ran silently down his face.

  “I want to be left alone. Please”—the voice was feminine and husky and agonizing. Another burst of tears. He sobbed. “It’s all too much—I know none of you understand what has happened to me. Moira does—ask her. But this is all a charade—I need only to be left alone.” More sobbing.

  Gerald looked at Bert. Bert shrugged as if to say: Your decision! Gerald opened his ritual: “In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit, we are here today to pray and ask that in the name of Jesus Christ, the Lord of Heaven and Earth, whatever evil spirit may have entered and possessed this creature of Almighty God’s, Rita O., will obey…”

  The rest was drowned in Richard/Rita’s sobbing. He had turned gently as if wounded or struck, and lay down on the couch, his back to Gerald. They all listened to Richard/Rita, not hearing any more the words Gerald was reading. They could only hear that sobbing, crying voice, wailing and groaning with uncontrollable sorrow, his whole body shaking with each sob, every sound of his voice filtering through his throat and mouth as a terrible reproach to all present.

  “…and that whatever ill-effects the evil spirit has caused in Rita,” Gerald wound up, “may be cleansed and purified by the Grace of the Lord, Jesus.” Gerald concluded the first prayer.

  At this mention of the name of Jesus, Richard/Rita stiffened and turned flat on his back. His face was not a picture of tears and sorrow as they all had expected, but a writhing mass of hate, fear, and disgust.

  “Take your Jesus and his filthy crucifix and his stinking holy water and his withered priest and get out of my house.” Both his arms were stretched out at this point, the palms toward Gerald, warding off his stare. “Take ’em out of here. I want to be alone.”

  Gerald saw Bert starting to go forward. “Bert!” he said sharply, “stay where you are—just one moment.” Bert stopped.

  “Bert, save me from this lousy Catholic priest and his hocus-pocus. Bert! Bert! Help me!” Bert started forward again. This time, John, the younger priest, touched Bert on the arm: “Give Gerald one more moment, Bert,” he whispered, “just one more moment. We’ve got to be sure.”

  “Bert!” continued Richard/Rita sobbingly, “I was supremely happy until he started at me. It’s all a mistake. I’m a woman, Bert. I’m a woman. Like your Marcia [Bert’s wife]. Like Moira. Like Mummy. Like Julie [Bert’s secretary]. See!”—and Richard/Rita tore down the zipper of his slacks and opened the top button: “See! I’ve got pubic hair and a cunt just like Marcia. Look, Bert! Come and feel it! It’s hot and wet. I can hold you, Bert, I can hold you now better than Julie. Remember we used to masturbate together in bed as kids? Now you can enter me. Help me, Bert. I’ll be yours if you do!”

  Bert fell back ashen-faced. Gerald reached forward, took the crucifix, held it up in front of Richard/Rita.

  “Rita, all will be well. We will leave you alone. Only now you have to do what you did a few days ago in the rectory.” When Richard/Rita had come with Bert and Jasper to see him, he had laid his right hand on a crucifix Gerald always kept on his desk and said: “By this, I swear, Father Gerald: I
want to be whole and entire and right with God.” All the time this ability of Richard/Rita to touch the crucifix had given great encouragement to Gerald. It meant that the possession of Richard/Rita was an incomplete process as yet. Except in its advanced stages, possession varies in its effects and characteristics.

  But now Richard/Rita lay down on the couch, legs spread, hands resting on his groin. They waited. His chest rose and fell as if he were sleeping. Outside, the weather had turned dark. The wind was rising, shaking the trees around the house with an irregular whining sound.

  Then Richard/Rita’s mouth opened and after what seemed minutes they heard him speak, but with another voice. It was throaty, rasping, slow, indistinguishable as to sex—it could have been female or male. It was like the voice of some very elderly people—a hint of falsetto, a trace of bass, but weary and ponderous, requiring effort.

  “I know you’re supposed to be a virgin, Father Gerald. What would you know of woman—or of man, for that matter?”

  Gerald decided to break in. “Tell us who you are.”

  Richard/Rita was silent a moment; then he spoke as if in a joke. “Who I am? Why, Rita, of course. Who else? Stupid!”

  “If you are Rita whom we know, sit up, and take this crucifix.”

  “Rita doesn’t want to. Nah!”

  “Why then are you sulking, Rita? Why not sit up and talk like an ordinary human being with us?”

  “Because…because…because I am not ordinary. Listen!” Richard/Rita’s head turned toward the shuttered windows. His eyes fluttered as if looking at a passing scene. His head turned back. “I am not ordinary.”

  Gerald had his ritual book opened again and was about to start the next part of the exorcism when a new thought suddenly occurred to him: if he was merely speaking to Richard/Rita, wouldn’t he be missing the point of the exorcism? And couldn’t Richard/Rita, or whatever evil spirit possessed him at that moment, carry off a magnificent deception—pretend, in fact, to cooperate? No! He had to break down the facade, if facade there was. Gerald was groping blindly to the truth of Father Conor’s analysis without having had the benefit of Conor’s instruction. Cold experience was his hard teacher that day.