The Ghost Chronicles (12 page)

I poked my head through his open office door and said, “Good evening, Father, can I talk with you for a moment?”

“Hello Ron,” he said with a warm smile. “Come on in. What can I do for you?”

I entered the room and stood in front of his rich mahogany desk. “I need your help, Father.”

“Glad to help,” he said, smiling. “What’s this all about?”

“I’m going to an exorcism, and I need your blessing,” I blurted out.

“Exorcism,” he said, as his smile disappeared. “What do you mean ‘exorcism’?”

“I was contacted by this woman from Boston asking for help, so I called a Franciscan monk that I know, and he’s going to perform an exorcism on her—tonight.”

“Franciscan,” he said, as if it were a dirty word. “What do you know about this Franciscan?”

“I’ve known him for a while; he’s a designated exorcist for the Franciscan order.”

“This is serious, Ron. The Church doesn’t take this lightly. How do you know he’s authorized to do this? Have you checked with the Bishop?”

“I know him, Father. I believe him,” I said, ignoring his questions.

He stood up and walked around to the front of the desk. “You know there’s a lot that has to be done before an exorcism can be performed. You have to be evaluated by a medical doctor, a psychiatrist, a sociologist, and you have to go before a panel. This all takes time. As I said earlier, the Church doesn’t take this lightly.”

“I know in my heart I’m doing the right thing and I want—no, I need—your blessing.”

“Very well, Ron, if I can’t talk you out of it, it is the least I can do,” he said with a frown. He made his way across the soft carpet to the desk. Opening a drawer, he removed a purple stole and a small bottle, and returned to my side. He kissed the dark purple cloth and placed it around his broad shoulders. Sketching a cross
in the air with his fingers, he uttered a short prayer. He tilted the bottle, moistened his finger, and anointed my forehead. He began to recite the Our Father as I joined in. An instant later it was over.

Despite his earlier dissuasion, any doubts that I had were gone. I felt stronger, confident, and almost invincible. Like I’d explained to Father, I knew in my heart I was doing the right thing. I stood up, thanked him for his blessing, and headed toward the door. As I reached the door, his voice stopped me. I turned to hear him say, “Good luck, Ron, and may God be with you.”

“Thank you, Father, but if I have God’s blessing, I need no luck.” I hurried away to pick up Maureen.

I was pleased and a bit surprised that Maureen had relented and agreed to join us. As she got in the car, I asked, “How you doing? You all right?”

“Yes. Let’s just get going before I change my mind.”

“Did you bring your scapular like Brian recommended?”

“Yes. It’s right here.” She reached beneath her shirt and slid out a piece of cloth protected by clear plastic, hanging on a dark green ribbon. “It was my father’s. My mother gave it to me when he died.” With the last of her words, she closed her hand around the devotional artifact and squeezed tightly.

“I’m wearing my scapula and exorcism medal. See here.” I slid the medal out from the confines of my Ghost Project shirt
to demonstrate. Being the devout Catholic I am and trying to comfort her, I asked, “Do you realize the significance of wearing a scapular?”

She didn’t answer, but stared out into the sea of cars as we traveled down Route 93 to 128.

“It’s solely of spiritual nature,” I said. “A sign of the wearer’s readiness to serve.” I waited for a moment to see if she was paying attention. When she returned a blank stare, I said, “A defender in the service of God and for the protection of the Blessed Mary.”

She gave me a small smile. “Ron, I’ll be fine.”

Not more than twenty minutes later Brian was in the car.

“So, Maureen,” Brian said, “I hear you’ve been having dreams too.”

“Yes.” Maureen was usually more talkative than this. She hadn’t said more than five words to me since I’d picked her up from her house.

“Since we last spoke, how is Brenda doing?” Brian asked me.

I usually don’t like to tell Maureen the details until after an investigation, so she doesn’t go in with any biases. However, since this was an exorcism, and we were there to assist, I decided to tell all.

“Like I said earlier, for the past five years she’s been dealing with something unseen wreaking havoc in her life. Doors opening of their own accord, electrical outlets destroyed, the jets to her gas oven turning on by themselves, and so forth.” I glanced in the rearview mirror at Maureen, her face still blank, revealing nothing, as she stared straight ahead. “Brian, she went to the church for help, but they told her to seek psychological help.”

Brian asked. “What about her dog? You had also said that it was affecting her pet? I’m wondering if you’d heard anything more.”

I smiled inwardly. Brian was an animal lover through and through. “Brenda said that her dog, for some unexplainable reason, starts whining uncontrollably, like he’s in pain.”

“Not to worry. He’ll be fine,” Brian said. “I have a little something for him too.”

Maureen broke her silence. “Ron, I know you don’t like to share details of the case, afraid that I’ll go in with a preconceived notion, but if you don’t mind…This once I’d like to hear what’s really going on. Is there anything else that you haven’t said?”

Maureen was right; I hadn’t told her everything. She prefers to be kept in the dark as much as I like to withhold the details, so the fact that she was asking for more information told me she was still feeling nervous. I couldn’t blame her. I’d never attended an exorcism either.

I said, “After the church turned Brenda away, she did a little research into ghosts and asked a friend to help her. They ‘smudged’ the condo. That’s when things went from bad to worse.”

“Two weeks ago, after they smudged and her friend left the house, Brenda was attacked.” I took a moment to gather my words. But no matter how much I tried to soften the story, it was no use. “She was up in her bedroom on the second floor. When her dog started whining for no reason, she went to investigate. She’d barely stepped down onto the first floor landing when a spindle hit her. It had worked its way free from the second floor banister, flown down the stairs of its own accord, and struck her in the back of the head. Panicked, fearing she was not alone, she ran from room to room looking for intruders. But no one was there.”

We all silently took this in for a minute, then Brian said, “Like I thought, Ron. This is the real deal.”

* * *

As we stepped out of Ron’s car, I stood, mouth open, staring at the tall, dark building in front of me. “That’s Brenda’s place?” I stammered.

“I think so. Why?” Ron asked as he squinted, holding up a small piece of paper in the yellow light of the streetlamp. “Yup. That’s the one.”

My breathing quickened; I nearly choked. “That—that’s the house from my dream.”

As if not hearing me, Ron and Brian scurried to the front door. Still stunned, I stood gaping at the house, until the sound of their voices carried from across the street.

Ron gazed over his shoulder. “You coming or what?”

I struggled to move. I shuddered as the odd sensation that I had experienced this before chilled me to the bone. Fixated on Ron’s voice, I forced myself to move.

I stepped up behind Ron and Brian just as Ron pressed the button to the doorbell.

The bell rang and rang, one continuous ring, not shutting off. The front door flew open. With it, the intense ringing grew louder, deafening, almost ear piercing. A tall woman stood in the open doorway. She raised her hand to her forehead. “You must be Ron.” When she stepped into the light, I noticed her thick, shoulderlength, blonde hair and cringed. My heart skipped a beat. The little hairs at the base of my neck stood at attention. This was getting way too freaky. She was a living image of the woman in my dream.

Raising her voice to be heard clearly above the constant shrill of the doorbell, she said, “It’s him. He does this all the time. Hurry. Please—come in.”

“Brenda, I’m Brian,” he said. “Please, show me where the doorbell is.”

We hurried after Brenda. Within moments we were staring at the doorbell mechanism.

Brian dropped his brown leather duffel bag on the kitchen table. Retrieving a vial of holy water, he moistened his right thumb. Hurrying over to the doorbell, he made the sign of the cross. The second he did, the sound stopped.

“Brian, you rock. That’s so cool,” Ron said, as Brenda and I looked on in amazement.

Brian grinned. “In light of what just happened, I’d like to get this show on the road.” He reached into his leather bag once again, this time pulling out his 35mm camera.

“Why do you have all that stuff on your camera?” Brenda asked, referring to the extra protection Brian had attached.

Brian held up the black Nikon camera. “I put this
stuff
on here to protect the camera. Before I started using it, the batteries would drain, the shutter would freeze, and more often than not, the film would be ruined. Now it’s protected. See here,” he said, pointing to the brown wooden beads wrapped around the camera, “I have rosary beads. I bless it with holy water, and more importantly, I have a photo of the Shroud of Turin, because evil cannot look upon the face of God.”

Ron placed his own duffel bag on the kitchen table next to Brian’s and began to rummage through it in search of his 35mm camera and EMF meter.

As we waited for Ron to ready himself, Brenda gestured to the small, white stove in the corner of the kitchen. “Did Ron tell you what happened here?”

“No,” I replied, my anxiety growing.

“One night, while making supper, I wrapped a couple of russets in tin foil and placed them on the center rack in the oven. Exhausted after a trying day at the hospital, I rested on the couch while they baked. I guess I fell asleep, because I was awakened by the shriek of the smoke alarm. I ran into the kitchen and there was smoke billowing out of the oven. Quickly opening the door, I discovered the potatoes were no longer on the center rack. In fact, they were no longer in tin foil. Somehow they ended up on
the bottom of the stove, on the heating element. They were on fire.” She sighed heavily. “This is the kind of stuff that I’ve been plagued with. I haven’t added it all up yet, but if I had to guess, it would be thousands of dollars in damages.” Eyes watering and voice cracking, she continued, “Please, do you really think you can help me? I’m at my wits’ end. I don’t know how much more I can take.”

Brian drew nearer, placing a hand on her shoulder. “Not to worry, this isn’t my first exorcism. It’ll be okay.”

Ron and I followed Brenda and Brian up a set of stairs. When we reached the second floor landing, I began to sense a heavy energy. The feeling of nervous apprehension swam over me, but it was difficult to tell where it was coming from.
Was I picking up on the entity? Or was it my own fears?
Movement out of the corner of my eye caught my attention. I looked to see Brian raising his 35mm camera; he quickly snapped a shot to our left. It was the same direction from which I’d felt the first surge of energy.
I guess it wasn’t my own fear, after all.
Somehow, that thought didn’t make me feel any better.

Brian turned to look at me with raised eyebrows. “Maureen, what are you getting?”

I gave him my first impression of the energy. “It’s intense, anxious. But I feel that whatever is here is dogging us.”

“Not anymore.” Brian darted off. Chasing the entity, he ran from room to room, snapping shot after shot.

An infrared photo taken by Brian the Monk of the entity attempting to escape his camera.

As I stood in the hallway at the top of the stairs, a surge of raw, cold energy, originating from the bedroom off to the far left, the one Brian was now in, whisked through me and descended the stairs. Brian, in hot pursuit, quickly exited the bedroom and ran toward me.

“Maureen, did you feel anything out here?” Before I had a chance to respond, pain-filled moans emanated from below us on the first floor. Brenda, who lived alone with her dog, reacted like a mother hearing her child crying in the middle of the night and hurried down the oak stairs to the first floor. “Oh no. It’s after Duke again!” she screamed.

We scurried down the stairs to find Duke, Brenda’s dog, whimpering. The black Russian terrier cowered in the corner, shaking uncontrollably.