The Demonologist: The Extraordinary Career of Ed and Lorraine Warren (22 page)

In the meantime, Vicky’s car had already suffered three flat tires, so Pete bought her a new set of radials. On Tuesday, March 19, in the locked garage, one of her new radial tires went flat. It seemed to have been slit with a knife.

That third week of March the phenomena began to intensify. After nightfall, something again began to pound on the Beckford house from outside. The hard,
ka-boom
type wallops came in series of threes, hitting with so much force they shook the house. Naturally Pete went out to investigate, but there was nothing to be seen. At least a dozen times that week, he and Eric went outside with flashlights, vainly trying to find the source of the pounding.

As the third week wore on, sharp, jarring raps were heard inside the house as well. This quickly upgraded in power, until the sound was like that of a grown person beating on the walls. When the family went to bed, the random poundings and scratchings continued. Around midnight, the sound of boards being torn off the walls could be heard throughout the small ranch house.

The weekend of March 20 and 21, the pressure valves on the steam radiators somehow became unscrewed, spewing hot water all over the walls and carpets. Pete’s first inclination was to blame Vicky or Eric, but they weren’t home when it happened. Puzzled, yet upset, he methodically replaced the radiator cylinders, but every few hours they came loose again, inflicting more water damage. Finally, he turned off the heat in the basement.

Meanwhile, the pounding was becoming more frequent—and intense. Rather than relax that weekend, Pete Beckford, a man with twenty-three years’ experience in machine design, nearly tore his house apart looking for the source of the noises. After wasting a whole Sunday, he gave up. The next morning, desperate for peace and quiet, Pete capitulated and called both a furnace repairman and a plumber.

The furnace repairman arrived early in the morning on Tuesday, the fourth week of March, and declared the furnace to be in perfect working order. But he too heard the pounding noises and ultimately spent some nineteen hours in the Beckford house trying to stop the intermittent poundings. In the end, all he could tell Pete and Sharon was that “the sounds
are not
being caused by the furnace.”

On Wednesday, the plumber came to examine the radiators. Pete was at work at his manufacturing plant, but Sharon explained that every day one or two pressure valves would unscrew themselves, spewing out steam and hot water. She also told him about the poundings on the walls and the nocturnal scratchings.

The plumber tested for pressure leaks, but the radiators were also in perfect working order. As a precaution, he replaced the old valves with new ones, cinching them down with all his strength. Yet strangely, no sooner did he move on, than the new cylinder would be found lying on the floor beside the radiator. After testing and repairing the radiators two full times, he finally put the old cylinders back on. He then packed up his tools and said to Sharon Beckford: “Lady, you got yourself a problem!”

That same week, another of Vicky’s new tires was slashed with a knife, although the car was parked inside the locked garage as usual. However, flat tires had become insignificant compared to the turmoil going on inside the house. Each day—particularly after sunset—the poundings on the house and walls grew louder and louder. The percussive blows often went on for hours on end into the night Pictures and decorations fell off the walls from the force of the impact.

Valiantly, the Beckfords tried to cope with the unreasonable problem by going out to dinner, milling through shopping malls, or frequenting drive-in movies that could keep them away as late as possible. Though the family’s early attempts to avoid the ruckus provided some temporary respite, what had happened so far was really only a prelude to the pandemonium that was in store.

On Sunday, March 31, yet another knife hole appeared in one of Vicky’s new radials. This was the sixth time a tire had been cut or gone flat; it was also the last time she would have tire problems. Because that night, the unexplainable vandalism of the past month transformed itself into overt supernatural activity.

Around ten o’clock that Sunday night, with the unstoppable pounding going on, Pete and Sharon were watching television in their bedroom, the quietest place in the house. Eric and Vicky, afraid to be by themselves, sat on the floor nearby. Suddenly the lights went off and on by themselves three times in succession; then the television set went dead. As it did, the Beckfords watched as the heavy wooden bedroom dresser eerily began to levitate a few inches off the floor.

Aghast, they watched as the loaded dresser—six feet long, weighing some two-hundred-and-fifty pounds—began violently twisting back and forth. Perfume and cosmetic bottles fell over and dropped to the floor and broke. The dresser was then set down. A moment later, however, one of the drawers slid open. The drawer hovered for a second, then slammed forcefully shut. Soon, all the drawers were slamming in and out by themselves.

As the Beckfords sat frozen in terror, the drawers came to rest Promptly, a heavy chair, laden with folded clothes, lifted some three feet off the floor, tilted on its side, dumped the clothes, and then fell on top of the linen with a heavy thud. Next, one after the other, pictures lifted from their hooks, drifted away from the wall and then floated in a circle around the room.

“My God,” Sharon cried out, “what have we done to deserve this?” With that, the bedboards fell to the floor. The double bed, with Pete and Sharon on top of it, collapsed. The pictures then dropped to the floor, and all activity ceased.

Later that night after cleaning up the mess, the Beckfords tried to go to sleep. When the lights were turned off, however, they heard the sound of a kitten mewing in the spare bedroom. Minutes later, the sound transmuted into that of a crying baby. Pete wanted to check out the room, but common sense told him to stay away. The ever-present scratching sounds changed into ripping and tearing noises. Again the sound of planks being torn off the walls was heard; indeed, it seemed as though the whole house was being dismantled.

Poundings picked up on the roof and the outside of the house, which then transferred themselves to the inside walls. Over the course of an hour, the poundings made their way up the hallway, then ominously stopped. All of a sudden, sharp, jarring raps sounded on Pete and Sharon’s headboard; as though the headboard was being hit with a hammer. Pete and Sharon jumped out of bed, but the noise continued. At one point, Pete counted eighteen continuous bangs on the wooden headboard.

As fear permeated the house, the activity grew even more powerful and intense. When furniture was heard to fall over
in
the living room, Pete was about to investigate when a bloodcurdling scream came from Vicky’s bedroom.

“Something was here!” the girl said in a breathless panic.

“Something was
in this room
with me!”

On April Fools’ Day, it rained rocks! The rocks descended right out of the blue sky, pelted the Beckfords’ roof, and rolled off onto the lawn. Terrified when one of the rocks crashed through the back window, Sharon Beckford telephoned her husband at work. Fatigued from the night before, Pete told her to call the police and said he would be home right away.

By the time Pete Beckford got home, the police were on the scene, also watching the incredible spectacle of stones falling out of the sky onto the trim ranch house. The stones fell for about one hour, in all, then stopped. Desperate, Pete asked the police what to do. “Call a priest,” they suggested.

How could a priest help? Pete wondered. There was nothing “religious” about their predicament

Pete Beckford stayed home the rest of the day. That night, when the sun went down furniture and objects in the house began levitating in the air in full view of everyone. Some of the items dropped to the floor while others were slammed up against the walls. This terrible, insidious activity went on all night long. The best the Beckfords could do was stay out of the way, because some of the objects seemed to be thrown directly
at
them.

The next morning, with the house a shambles, Pete was exasperated enough to take the policeman’s suggestion. Being Roman Catholic, he telephoned the rectory of the local Catholic church and spoke with the priest who was on duty. Furniture in the house was levitating, Pete explained; expensive objects were being thrown down and broken; poundings and scratchings and other frightful noises went on all night; stones had even fallen on the house! The priest took the Beckfords’ address and promised to be there within an hour.

The disturbance came to an abrupt halt when the priest arrived, but Pete escorted him around the house nonetheless. Stepping over the breakage and overturned furniture, the priest’s only assessment was that someone in the house was “disturbed” and Pete had better call a psychiatrist. The clergyman then left, whereupon the poundings and levitations started up anew.

Tormented and confused, Pete went into work late that day. Fully exasperated, he decided to go ahead and confide in the one man he trusted and respected: his supervisor. In a glass-enclosed cubicle, Pete explained why there were so many absences on his previously excellent attendance record. For the better part of an hour, Pete disclosed the whole bizarre story to the man. The supervisor believed Pete and wanted to help, but he had no idea how he could be of assistance. He did, however, recall the name of some people whom he’d heard speaking on the radio. “Their name is Warren, I believe: I remember them saying that some- times only a blessed object placed in a home will stop weird goings-on. I don’t know how to get hold of these people, but I do think they’re your best bet.”

The conversation did much to bolster Pete Beckford. That evening, he went down to the basement and unpacked an eighteen-inch plaster statue of Saint Anne that Pete hoped would solve the problem. However, no sooner did Pete bring it upstairs than he heard a tremendous commotion downstairs. When he ran down to investigate, he found the recreation room furniture
floating
through the air. To the left, soaps and detergents in the laundry room were also levitating, spilling their contents on the floor. The irrationality of the whole thing overwhelmed Pete. He trudged back upstairs to find the statue missing. Later he found it in the bathroom, beside the toilet

That night, along with all the other intolerable phenomena, shrieks and hellish noises filled the Beckford house. After a search the next morning, the statue of Saint Anne was discovered under the covers of the bed in the spare bedroom.

Before uncovering the statue, however, Pete found obscenities written in pencil on Eric’s bedroom door; the same foul-minded filth one encounters in a public lavatory. Believing Eric might somehow be behind it all, Pete flew into a rage and laid into the teenage boy. But Eric just collapsed into despair and began crying from the bottom of his heart. The boy had done nothing wrong. Pete apologized to his son. Though perplexed, Pete Beckford was slowly becoming aware that for some unexplained reason his whole family had fallen victim to the same thing—whatever it was.

As the first week of April wore on, sleep was impossible. Fed up, Pete decided to move his family out of the house until some solution could be found. Maybe they were just imagining it all, Pete thought, or perhaps by staying away, the “spell” would be broken. Taking toilet articles and a change of clean clothing, the Beckfords went to a nearby motel.

That night at the motel, the Beckfords all slept in the same room for safety. However, they soon learned there was no escape from their troubles. Lights switched themselves on and off. Pictures left the walls, and once more the pounding started up.

The next morning, when the Beckfords came back to their room after breakfast, everything was topsy-turvy. Furniture was tipped over, drawers were pulled out Sheets and clothes, mattresses and box springs were strewn around the room. As they set about straightening up, the manager appeared to say that other guests had complained about the Beckford “children” banging on the walls all night, and the maid had pointed out the ridiculous vandalism to the room.

Pete Beckford took the blame for everything, apologized, and assured the manager that it wouldn’t happen again. But that night, it did; the next day the Beckfords had no choice but to return home.

Saturday, April 6, when Pete opened the front door, the mixture of smells was unbelievable. Rugs and beds were saturated with spilled food, cleaning fluids, liquor, shoe polish, cologne, and perfume. Towels were stuffed
in
the toilets. Furniture in every room was knocked over, some of it broken. Across the walls were scribbled truly demented blasphemies
in
blood-red ink, and obscene accusations against God and Christ It took the Beckfords the rest of the day to clean the walls and put the house back in order.

In particularly violent cases the Warrens have investigated, the most outstanding feature of oppression strategy is this kind of systematic destruction. The aftermath of these invisible vandals’ onslaught is enough to leave an observer dumbstruck with amazement. It truly looks as though a platoon of morons has marched through the house. Wreckage is everywhere. Foul writing is scrawled on the walls. Cherished items and religious objects are singled out for particular besmirchment and ruin. In terms of dollars and cents, it can be very costly to play host to the demonic. Yet why the destruction? Why should these incorporeal entities care about destroying material items?

“These spirits are the essence of cruelty,” says Ed. “If you’ve spent half your life trying to assemble a nice home for your family, then it’s very distressing to stand by and watch $5,000 worth of furniture get trashed in five minutes. Usually many spirits will be responsible for a rampage—and they’ll ruin whatever is worthwhile to you. And you can’t do anything about it. If you try, you’ll either be held back, incapacitated by some invisible force, or else you’re liable to get hit over the head with something. Many times, as in the Beckford case, people aren’t even home when the destruction occurs. They’ll just walk in and find everything they own wrecked, destroyed, or broken. It’s so inconceivable that a non-physical being could cause such damage, that people’s first response is to pick up the phone and call the police, believing their home was ransacked by burglars. Nevertheless, the net effect of the destruction is psychological. The spirit is attempting to penetrate the individual’s will.