Beware the Night (23 page)

Whirling around and striding toward Greg with the asp (a sprinkler for holy water used in Catholic churches) in hand, the exorcist threw holy water at him and roared, “Be quiet, Devil!”

Incredibly, Greg started to raise his arm in a threatening gesture, despite the sturdy restraints around him. Scott, who had been present during many exorcisms, seized him, and the rest of us piled out of our seats to help. Even with seven large men holding him down, the contractor actually broke out of the straitjacket, stood to his full height, and let out an even more terrifying roar.

The straitjacket was hanging loosely from Greg’s shoulders. After a furious struggle, during which we all marveled at Greg’s inhuman strength, his body suddenly went completely rigid, a frequent occurrence during exorcisms. He became as stiff and heavy as iron, and leaned to the left with such extraordinary force that all eight of us were catapulted in that direction.

The sound of metal ripping flooded the small chapel. Greg was tearing the pew from its moorings, even though it was bolted to the floor. We tried with all our might to push Greg back into his seat, but it was impossible. The bishop gave several vigorous shakes of the asp, sprinkling holy water on Greg in an attempt to subdue the demon.

“In the name of Jesus Christ, be still, Devil!”

The evil spirit grudgingly obeyed, and we soon had Greg back in his seat, firmly under control.

Once during an exorcism of a woman, I had a unidirectional microphone on a ledge behind the pew. After a fierce struggle, she managed to grab the mike. I attempted to pry her fingers off it but couldn’t so I sprinkled some holy water on her hands. She immediately let go. Such is often the power of holy water against the demonic. The bishop continued with the exorcism but had barely finished his first prayer, when Greg stirred gently as if he were waking up. His lips moved.

Instead of a growl, two soft words came out. “It’s gone!” The large man bent over and burst into tears. Through his sobs, he murmured in an awestruck tone. “It’s really gone! I don’t feel it inside me anymore!”

This had to be the shortest exorcism on record: five minutes. To make sure this wasn’t some ruse of the demon to stop the ceremony, the bishop continued with the full ritual. Greg cried throughout, repeating over and over “It’s gone! I’m OK!”

Why did the evil spirit leave so quickly? Although it had been inside this man for many years, it was a low-level demon, a brute that gave up the fight easily. With no strength to stand up to the forces of good, it fled the same way it came, like a thief in the night. I could see the change in this man: His face no longer wore an expression of bewilderment and fear but one of joyous surprise.

It was a very touching scene for all of us. After a quarter of a century, the curse of lycanthropy was finally lifted from this man’s shoulders. Still weeping, Greg thanked us—and God—for his freedom, then ran to embrace his wife. Arm-in-arm, they walked out of the chapel, and I prayed they’d find the happiness that had eluded them for so long.

Outside the church, I asked Lucinda to call me in a few days and let me know how things were going. When she did call, a week later, she was worried. “Greg is very depressed. Do you think this is a sign of anything?”

I told her that was a
normal
reaction. After a person is possessed, he’s never quite the same again. You can’t be touched by evil and go back to the way you were. Just as assistants, Joe and I lose a little piece of our humanity at each exorcism, so you can be damned sure that a demon that has been inside someone for twenty-five years is going to take something with it when it leaves!

While most people do heal in time, it’s common for them to experience posttraumatic stress, just as you would if you were released after a long prison sentence. Your mind can’t help but remember your time in the cell with fear and feel anxious about a future of freedom. It’s a huge adjustment. I wish I knew a therapist I could send people to after an exorcism for religion-based counseling. I’ll always be there for them if they choose to call, but it’s not my policy to reach out to them. I feel it’s best for former victims of possession to think about their ordeal as little as possible for two reasons: They avoid giving the demon recognition that might draw it back into their life and they help themselves move on.

I gave Lucinda my usual prescription for postexorcism depression, which usually fades with time: prayer and a more spiritual lifestyle. She told me they’d started going to church and were praying frequently. I promised to pray for them too. That Christmas my prayers were answered. I received a card from Lucinda, saying “Greg seems to be doing fine. We are attending church regularly and look forward to it every Sunday. Our lives are slowly returning to normal. As you know, this thing was with us for twenty-five years, and I still get very nervous thinking of the terror we survived. Thank God, and Bishop McKenna, that it’s finally over.”

Chapter Nine

Dabblers in the Damned

T
WO OF MY
investigations took place in the same neighborhood in Queens, and involved people who literally had neighbors from Hell—of both human and inhuman varieties. This middle-class area, which was within walking distance of the apartment my family and I lived in at the time, is home to hard-working people of many ethnic backgrounds, predominately Italian, Irish, German, Jewish, and Hispanic. The tree-lined streets have a mix of small apartment buildings and two- or three-family homes.

In the first case, a family of four was plunged into life-threatening danger after they rented the basement apartment in their home to the wrong people. The new tenants
looked
respectable enough: The husband and wife were gray-haired financial planners in their fifties, who lived with their grown children. But, as Nina and Marco Salvatore soon discovered, this well-dressed family, who frequently entertained groups of equally well-dressed guests, had an unsuspected dark side: They turned out to be practicing Satanists.

The father of this family also had a cocaine problem—and a disturbing habit. While hopped up on his favorite substance, this middle-aged man liked to head over to an Episcopal chapel down the street. He wasn’t there to repent of his sins. Instead, he often stood outside and shouted profanities, invoking Satan’s name. Cops were called about this several times. Each time they told him to shut up and go home, which he obediently did. This strange behavior isn’t typical of serious Satanists, since they usually
avoid
drawing attention to themselves. But then again, embracing evil isn’t exactly normal behavior to begin with.

Shouting blasphemies outside a church wasn’t this couple’s only offense. They actually attempted to draw the Salvatores’ fourteen-year-old son, Andrew, into their coven, much to the horror of Nina and Marco, who were devout Catholics. Even that, however, wasn’t nearly as upsetting as what happened after the boy emphatically rejected the Satanists’ overtures and Nina told them that if they ever bothered her son again, she’d have them arrested.

Soon after, the Salvatores were afflicted by a horrifying ordeal. The wife was friendly with one of my students, Rose, and called her. “There’s something evil in my house,” Nina said. “We’re all really scared. Do you think the people you’re working with can help us?”

Nina explained that time and time again, she and her family would get the flesh-crawling sensation that somebody was creeping up behind them on the stairs in their home, yet when they’d whirl around, no one was there. The unseen intruder would often give them an unexpected shove, causing several near-accidents. Although the pushing occurred mainly on the stairs leading up to the second floor, it was felt throughout the house. Even the Salvatores’ cats were affected by this, as animals so often are when the demonic is present; they began to avoid certain areas of the home, no matter how much they were coaxed to enter them.

By the sound of it, this was a classic case of demonic infestation that was growing more dangerous by the minute. The family’s oldest son, Andrew, was almost killed on the stairs. He had almost reached the second floor when he felt a violent shove against his shins. His legs were knocked out from under him, and he went crashing down the wooden stairs feet first. His body slammed against one step after another, each collision inflicting fresh, agonizing pain.

Finally he landed at the bottom of the stairwell, striking his head so hard against the wall that his vision blurred. Too stunned to shout and too hurt to move, the schoolboy lay helplessly, waiting for the next blow. Like most kids his age, he’d believed himself immortal, but now he felt like easy prey.
Was he going to be killed right here on his own steps, without ever seeing his Mom and Dad again?
The six-foot-tall, powerfully built teenager was so terrified that all he could do was cower and cry.
He didn’t want to die!

As minutes passed and no new assault came, his tears stopped. Grateful to be alive, he timidly wiggled his fingers and then his toes. Miraculously, he wasn’t maimed or paralyzed. One ankle was badly sprained, and he was covered with large purple bruises. Blood trickled from his hairline, and when he touched the enormously swollen cut, the pain was excruciating. Staring at the red, bloody smudges on his fingertips, the teenager recovered his voice—and screamed.

Nina heard his shouts and ran to help. She was such a tiny woman that it was hard to imagine how she’d given birth to this huge son, but with a mother’s fierce determination, she half carried and half dragged Andrew into the living room, then forced back tears of her own at the sight of his injuries. After bandaging him up, and making sure no bones were broken, this God-fearing woman knelt on the floor to pray. Deep in her soul, she already knew her son’s fall was no accident.

She intoned the reassuring words of the Lord’s Prayer but had to stop when she got to “Deliver us from evil.” The heavy brass chandelier overhead was swinging wildly from side to side. When she interrupted her prayer to stare, the light ceased arcing back and forth, but immediately resumed its careening if she even thought about saying an “Our Father” or “Hail Mary.” Finding it hard to believe such a thing could be happening in her own living room, she tried an experiment. Even though she felt a bit foolish, she moved to the bedroom and began praying again, peeking through the door to see what the light fixture would do.

Like the divining rods used to locate water underground, the chandelier immediately reacted to the holy words, shaking back and forth hard enough to dislodge plaster from the ceiling. Still refusing to believe the evidence she had just seen, Nina went into another room and repeated the test. The light smacked against the ceiling, showering glass from several shattered crystals. Feeling both scared and silly, Nina took the light down, afraid it might break free of its moorings and kill someone. That’s what this family was living with: the overwhelming sense that something hostile had invaded their home and was out for their blood!

To find out more, Joe and I prepared for an investigation, and went over to the house with Antonio, who was wearing his usual military camouflage, Rose, and her son Chris. When we arrived at the two-story brownstone, we waited outside for Nina to come out. Instead her two sons came downstairs, looking extremely distraught.

“Mom’s in the hospital,” Andrew announced in the sullen tone of a troubled teenager, then went back in the house, leaving us standing on the stoop. The younger boy, who was about six, remained at the door, staring at us.

We didn’t have to be psychic to sense that we weren’t welcome in that house, either by the humans or the satanic trespasser. Since Nina wasn’t there to authorize our activities, and Marco wasn’t around to invite us in, we left. Joe and I are of the belief that if
you
have a problem and ask us to look into it, then aren’t home when we come or change your mind, hey, that’s fine with us. Good-bye and good luck! Naturally we were sorry that Nina was sick and prayed for her recovery, but if her family didn’t want us, we had other things to do.

When you’re dealing with the demonic and you’re a threat to them, you encounter obstacles in most of your cases, so we weren’t all that surprised. A few weeks later Nina’s health rallied a bit, and she called again, still anxious for our help. After apologizing profusely for her son’s rudeness when we came to her house, she told me what happened when they asked their parish priest to bless their home.

Unfortunately, the man of God couldn’t come for several days, she said. “While we were waiting, we started finding broken stuff around our home. We have several locks on our door, but somehow somebody—or something—kept getting in and destroying our possessions, no matter how carefully we stored them.”

True, these were only things, but the effect of having her family heirlooms, wedding china, vacation souvenirs, and other irreplaceable mementos vandalized was devastatingly demoralizing. The invader was strolling through the family’s most intimate spaces and violating them. Each shattered teacup or ripped baby photo sent the same chilling warning:
You’re not safe in your home, because I can get you where you live, any time I want, and destroy you. And there’s not a damned thing you can do to stop me!

Amid the chaos of these attacks, there was only one thing keeping Nina and her family sane: The priest was coming. Each day she’d sweep up the debris of yet another family treasure, she said. “We were counting the days because it was so hard to wait. We were going out of our minds with fear.”

At last the much-anticipated day arrived, and the young priest rang the downstairs bell. Nina eagerly invited him in, but the man of God stopped just short of the vestibule as if he’d run into an invisible wall. In an angry tone, she added, “He mumbled an apology and said he just couldn’t stay in my house another minute. Then he turned around and walked away—without a word! Can you believe that?”

I could see that Nina was quite upset and wanted my reaction. What could I say? Exorcism isn’t for everybody, or every clergyman. Father Martin always said the ritual is rarely entrusted to a recently ordained priest and is usually reserved for priests of mature years. Dazzling intellectual brilliance or sophistication isn’t required, nor is a scholarly background. The best exorcists, he added, are singularly
lacking
in imagination, but rich in moral and religious judgment. The priest shouldn’t have to work hard to develop these qualities; they should be traits that come to him naturally, from his earliest years.