Demon Child
The Exorcism of John's Sister
Brandon Wood
Copyright 2011 by Brandon Wood
Smashwords Edition
“Why do Catholics pray to saints?” Father Malloy smiled at the question, raising an inquisitive brow at the young man—he looked to be about seventeen or eighteen, and seemed mature for his age, though he did slouch in his chair and avoid eye contact, instead looking out the window at the beautiful, sunny day outside, clearly uninterested in the question he had just asked. “I mean, why not just pray directly to God?”
“Were you raised in a church?” Father Malloy said, assuming the young man who had withheld his name to be some sort of Baptist. What intrigued the Father more was that the young man was here at all. He had thus far asked a series of questions challenging the Catholic faith but had asked them all in the same, bored tone, as if the answers didn't matter. As if the questions didn't matter, either. Why was he here? Father Malloy silently prayed for guidance.
“Church of Christ,” the young man said, locking eyes with the priest for the first time since their meeting a half hour ago.
It had been Father Malloy's experience that children raised in a church as doctrinally challenged as the Church of Christ either became rabid members of the sect themselves or left at adulthood with a bad taste for religion in general. This young man seemed to be the latter by the way he narrowed his blue eyes suspiciously at the priest. “Did members of your church ask for prayer?” the Father asked, careful not to disparage the Church of Christ, even if he did have less than positive views on the denomination. “Or did your church have a prayer chain or some such thing? A way for members to know about the struggle of others in the church?”
“Sure,” the young man said, diverting his gaze back the window. “I see where you're going with this.” The young man was incredibly intelligent—he had certainly kept Father Malloy on his toes during the course of conversation—but difficult to reach. “Praying to the saints is like asking a member of your church to pray for you, right? Is that what you were going to say?”
“That is correct,” Father Malloy said in what he hoped was an encouraging, but not patronizing, tone. “We ask the saints to intercede on our behalf much as members of your church ask to be prayed for.”
“It still seems different, somehow,” the young man said offhandedly, and something in his voice made Father Malloy wonder if, perhaps, he wasn't bored, but instead was worried, preoccupied by something.
“While I am happy to continue answering any questions you may have about the Roman Catholic Church,” Father Malloy began, running his fingers through wispy gray hair that made him appear older than his forty-three years of life, “I cannot help but feel that you are here for a different reason. Is there something troubling you?” Over the years, Father Malloy had practiced at patience, a virtue that he had seemingly been born without. With years of practice and the help of scripture, he had refined the virtue almost to an art, and it was easy now for him to sit in silence, a warm smile on his smooth face—the years had grayed his hair, but left surprisingly few wrinkles—as he waited for the young man to reveal the true purpose of his visit.
“My parents think that my little sister is possessed,” the young man said, meeting Father Malloy's eyes with a fervent, focused look of his own. Already the priest could tell that he was protective of his younger sibling. “I don't believe in any of that. No offense, but I don't really believe in any of this.” The young man looked at the religious memorabilia that dotted the room, fixating on a large, simple cross that hung on the wall behind Father Malloy.
“No offense taken,” the priest said, gesturing for the young man to continue.
“Everything I say to you is confidential, right?” The young man locked eyes with Father Malloy and didn't blink until the priest responded.
“Our conversation is between me and you,” the priest said, “and God.” He smiled, hoping to reassure the young man that he could share what was troubling him.
“I don't believe that she's possessed,” he said slowly, carefully choosing his words. The priest could tell that the young man was conflicted, that he was struggling internally with something. But then the young man closed his eyes and sighed and when he opened his eyes again, Father Malloy could tell that he had reached a decision. “I'm worried, though, about how my parents are treating my sister. I should call Child Protective Services, but I don't want her removed from the home. My parents have always been great to me, and to her; it's just that they really believe that she's possessed by a demon. I'm hoping that you can talk to them so that they authorities don't have to be involved.”
“If they truly are abusing the child,” the priest said, able to maintain his composure only from years of practice and from having heard much worse from congregants, “then I feel that it is my duty to aid in the removal of the child from that environment.”
“They're not abusing her,” the young man replied angrily, obviously offended by the mere suggestion. His jaw loosened after the outburst and he continued in a softer tone. “It's just that they keep her locked in her room. They still feed her and take care of her. And they never hit her. I would never let them.” It was clear that the young man cared deeply for his sister, and the priest was relieved, feeling that the situation was less urgent. The child was, seemingly, in no real danger. Perhaps all it would take to remedy the situation was a simple, calm conversation with the girl's parents.
“I would be more than willing to go to your home and speak with your parents,” the priest said, leaning forward and placing his clasped hands on the old—but sturdy—wooden desk. “Why, though, do you wish for me to go? Why not ask the pastor,” the priest paused on the word, unsure if Churches of Christ called their religious heads pastors, “of your church?”
“We haven't gone to church in years,” the young man said. “And Catholics have the most experience with exorcisms, right? I just think that it will be more effective to have a Catholic priest tell them that my sister isn't possessed.”
“Possession is a rare occurrence and I have never dealt with a case myself.” Father Malloy wasn't even sure that he believed in demon possession. At least, he didn't believe that God allowed demons to enter people in current times. “I can, however, check out the situation and talk to your parents. Perhaps all they need is some spiritual guidance.”
“Thank you, Father Malloy” the young man said, his shoulders instantly relaxing as if the priest had already remedied the situation. “My name's John, by the way. John Horne.”
Father Malloy smiled when John introduced himself, showing that he trusted the priest, if only as an authority on what he already didn't believe in. Still, it was a start. If nothing else, Father Malloy would be able to help a family in crisis. At best, perhaps God would soften John's heart and lead him back to the Church. “Nice to meet you, John. Here's my number,” he slid a slip of paper to John, “so that you can call me when it would be most convenient for me to visit your family.” Father Malloy wanted to leave John with a sense that he was in control of the situation, that he decided when the priest would be allowed into his home. It seemed to relax the young man even further.
“Thank you,” John said, sounding sincerely relieved. “Thank you so much.”
* * *
Father Malloy removed the keys to his beat up truck—donated by a church member; there were few Catholics in his area of rural Tennessee, but they were dedicated and gave what they could—and stepped out onto the gravel driveway, wiping sweat from his brow. Summer was in full swing, and the humidity of the past week wasn't helping matters.
“Father Malloy!” John called from the porch of the old house that was fashioned after the Antebellum style, “Welcome!” Two adults whom Father Malloy assumed to be John's parents sat in rocking chairs on the porch and the priest felt that John's welcome was not shared by his parents. Still, the fact that they allowed the priest to come was a good sign. When he had spoken to them over the phone, they had sounded skeptical, but above that, they had sounded terrified. It had taken much convincing on the priest's part to get here; John's parents hadn't sounded optimistic that he would be able to help.
“Good to see you again, John,” Father Malloy said, removing his straw hat that was a running joke in town. In his experience of hats, however, the straw one best shaded his face from the beating sun while still allowing the occasional cooling breeze to flow through. “And you must be this young man's parents,” he said, offering his hand to the still seated adults.
“I'm John Senior,” the man said, ignoring the priest's proffered hand, “but everyone calls me Big John.” The man was tall and built, was around the same age as the priest but the years had been kinder, so it was easy to see the nickname's origin.
“And I'm Kathy,” said the woman who looked far too young to have two children, especially one of John's age. She rose from her chair and shook the priest's hand, shooting a reproachful look at her husband. “You'll have to forgive my husband; we've been pretty stressed lately and he's skeptical of having you be here. But he's normally not so rude.” She shot him another look that was intended to make him blush, but the husband merely smiled, standing and shaking the priest's hand.
“I do appreciate you taking the time to come out here,” Big John said. “Like my wife said, we've both just been real nervous lately, and neither of us is getting our hopes up.”
“I understand,” Father Malloy said.
“My,” Kathy said, “is it hot out here or what? Come on inside; I've got some fresh lemonade if you'd like some.”
“There's some coffee in there, too,” Big John said, “if you drink coffee. I'm not sure: can priests drink coffee?” Big John had a puzzled look on his face, and his cheeks were slightly flushed, as if he was embarrassed. Even though Father Malloy hadn't yet met John's little sister, he couldn't help but feel that everything would work out fine. Such a strong family could make it through whatever was going on with their youngest child.
“Priests can indeed drink coffee,” Father Malloy said with a gentle, amused laugh, “but I don't personally drink the stuff. Leaves me jittery.”
“John,” Kathy said, as only a mother can say her child's name, “could you go check on the horses while me and your dad talk to Father Malloy?”
“Sure,” John said with the same warm smile of his parents. The Hornes were a functional family: Father Malloy had seen enough dysfunctional ones to know that the Hornes loved and supported each other—an increasingly rare occurrence, in Father Malloy's experience anyway. “Thanks again,” John whispered to Father Malloy. With a reassuring smile for his parents, John left the porch.
And his parents immediately turned to the priest, ushering him inside and locking the door behind them. “I know this sounds crazy,” Big John said, glancing nervously up the stairs, “but our daughter really is possessed.”
“Possession was rare even in Biblical times,” Father Malloy began to say before he was caught off by Kathy.
“Just spend a minute alone with her,” she said, grabbing hold of the priest's arm and gripping tightly, fervently. “We're good parents,” she said as she began to choke up, tears welling in her green eyes that made her seem younger than she was, “and we haven't hurt her. We would never hurt her.” The conviction in her tone made it hard to believe that they had ever been abusive to either child. “We never have hurt her. But we know something's wrong, and we aim to fix it. No demon is taking my baby.” Her tears were replaced by a hard, determined set to her eyes that she narrowed, glaring up the stairs.
“Of course I will spend some time with her,” Father Malloy said, beginning to feel nervous. Something was definitely amiss in this household and he couldn't accept that it was the parents. He wasn't so naïve as to think that he couldn't be fooled—there had been the Hinkerson boy, after all, and during the boy's funeral Father Malloy had vowed never again to believe the parents over the child—but something about this family, this house, felt off in a way that he had never before experienced. “Shall we?” the priest said, gesturing up the stairs and suppressing a shudder.
At the top of the stairs, there was a long hallway with what appeared to the master bedroom at the end. Kathy placed her hand on the doorknob to the first room they came to, hands trembling. “I have to warn you,” she said, voice as shaky as her hands, “the demon is smart as a whip and will say anything to get what it wants. Be prepared to have your faith and sanity tested.”
“We finally decided to let you come because the demon screamed that it didn't want you here,” Big John said, placing a hand on his wife's shoulder. “So we're hopeful that you'll be able to do something to save our baby.”
Kathy turned the doorknob without waiting for the priest's response. Father Malloy took a deep breath and offered up a quick prayer, mentally steeling himself for the worst as the door creaked open on old hinges.
The three adults entered the dark room—the shades were drawn and the lights were off, though some sunlight peeked through, eerily illuminating the large bed that served as the only piece of furniture—and the door slammed shut behind them, spooking Father Malloy. He took a deep breath and told himself that the door had shut on its own accord because it was old and heavy. There was nothing to be afraid of.
On the large bed sat a small child, a toddler of about two or three. She had long, curly brown hair that fell in waves around her small, pale face, framing her rosy cheeks and big, blue eyes, the same color as her brother's. She smiled when she saw the priest, but said nothing.
“Save the act,” Big John said, his voice booming in a way that cast his nickname in a new light. “He knows what you are.”
“What am I?” the child asked in a sweet, soft voice, each word sounding deliberate as was common with children still learning the language. She giggled and continued to sit on the bed, smiling at Father Malloy.
“This is our daughter, Lily,” Kathy said, voice still shaking. Though there was a strength to her tone that hadn't been there before. However scared Kathy was, Father Malloy could tell that her resolve at saving her child was stronger. “Well, this is what's left of her.” Tears began to slide silently down her cheeks, but her voice was strong as she directed her full attention to the child. “You will not have my daughter forever, do you understand me?”
The child—Lily, a pretty name for a pretty girl who seemed entirely normal for her age—giggled, as if it was all a game. “I go play?” she asked, standing on the bed and looking at the drawn windows.
“Maybe we are crazy,” Big John said to his wife in a whisper. “After all, we're the only ones who ever see the demon come out.”
“You know that ain't true,” Kathy said, glaring at the child. “Quit the crap, demon. Doesn't the priest frighten you?”
Father Malloy began to sweat, from nerves or the heat, he couldn't tell. The general anxiety that he had been feeling since stepping into the house was increasing with each second he spent in the room. At first, he had been frightened that perhaps there was something wrong with the child. Now, he was concerned that his instincts about the parents could be wrong. Whispering a prayer, he pulled his rosary from his neck and approached the child, planning on placing it around her neck—she would need the Lord's protection, if the parents truly were as insane as they seemed. “See?” said Father Malloy once he had placed the rosary on Lily. “There is nothing to fear. Surely a demon would not be able to stand having the sign of the cross touching its skin.” Father Malloy had never invested any time studying exorcisms, but he believed that signs of the faith would ward off evil. His office was littered with religious memorabilia for that very reason.
Lily began to bat at the rosary beads as any normal, inquisitive child of her age would do. There was nothing out of the ordinary about her. To the priest's surprise, her parents made no moves to come closer to the bed. Instead, they inched back toward the door instinctually.
Father Malloy scooped up the child in his arms and turned to the parents. “Perhaps we should take her outside and let her play?” the priest offered, hoping that the fresh air and sunlight would help everyone in the situation think clearly. There was nothing wrong with the child and locking her in a room was abuse enough, even if it left no bruises or cuts. Father Malloy knew all too well the pain, the terror of being confined to a space. He wouldn't let the same happen to Lily. He would take her outside and calmly explain to the parents that they needed to seek psychiatric help. And he would offer religious counseling for them. Being involved with the Church of Christ had, obviously, left the parents feeling confused and seeing demons around every corner.
“I wanna play!” Lily said with another giggle that assured the priest that she hadn't been locked up too long, that the damage might not be permanent.
“Yes, I think it would be good for you to get some air,” Father Malloy said, trying his best to smile reassuringly at Lily. “You and John can play together while I talk to your parents on the porch. Does that sound like fun?”
“No!” Lily screamed, clawing at the priest's face so viciously and so suddenly that he almost dropped her. Her little hands, balled into fists, crashed into the priest's throat with surprising force and he did drop her on the bed, clutching his windpipe and sucking in ragged breaths.
Big John and Kathy stood by the door, hands intertwined as tears fell from both of their haunted eyes. “The demon is immune even to the power of Christ,” Kathy said in a hoarse whisper.
Father Malloy stumbled away from the child until his back hit a wall. Then he slumped to the floor, still massaging his throat.
“John!” Lily said, her screech sounding so like the cry of a child that Father Malloy began to wonder if perhaps he was just as insane as the parents.
Could it be the house, making him crazy? The house could be possessed, he thought, one of a hundred ideas that raced through his head, matching the pace of his pounding heart.
“No little girl,” Big John said to the priest over Lily's high-pitched wailing, “could hurt a grown man that bad.” He walked over to Father Malloy, ignoring the screaming child, and helped the priest stand, slapping him on the back, forcing a deep gulp of air into his lungs.
Father Malloy didn't want to believe it. Couldn't believe it. But there Lily was on the bed, and such a small child really couldn't have hurt Father Malloy as much as her tiny fists had.
As if reading his thoughts, Lily ceased her cries and sat, smiling at the priest in a way that had nothing childlike about it. “It doesn't matter if you know what I am,” she said, and though her voice matched her tiny frame, the precision to her speech and her tone sounded far too mature for her age. And far too sinister. “John will come and take me away from all of you.” When she grinned, her big eyes didn't seem so innocent any more. Father Malloy shuddered.
“What are you?” Father Malloy asked with a cough, still rubbing his aching neck.
Instead of answering, Lily looked expectantly at the door, little hands clasped in her lap.
“Bring me water, salt, and oil,” Father Malloy said once his breathing had steadied. Father Malloy had never believed in demon possession, but what other explanation was there? This child was evil, and Father Malloy didn't believe in evil children. Besides, no child could be so physically powerful. “Quickly!” Father Malloy said to Kathy. The urgency in his tone shocked her into motion and she left the room in a flash, her dash down the stairs echoing in the otherwise quiet house.
“Why do you need those things?” Big John said to the priest in a whisper, keeping a wary glance on his daughter.
“I'm not sure,” the priest said honestly. He had never studied exorcisms, had never devoted any time to a practice he had been sure he'd never need to know about. “The little I know of exorcisms calls for those three things.” Father Malloy was counting more on the power of prayer than on his ability to throw together an exorcism.
“Should you call in someone more experienced with demons, then?” Big John asked, not at all an unreasonable question. Father Malloy had considered doing just that.
“No,” he said, “God will aid us in this. Our faith must be unshakeable if we are to rid this child of the demon inside of it.” He let his words carry to the child—to the demon; he told himself that it was important for him to make the distinction between Lily and the demon inside of her—and watched in horror as she ripped the rosary from around her neck, snapping the crucifix between fingers that didn't look reliable enough to hold a cup, never mind break the metal of the crucifix.
“John's almost back to the house,” Kathy said, bursting through the door with a jug of water, a salt shaker, and a half-empty bottle of cooking oil. This was not going to be a fancy exorcism, but Christ had been a simple carpenter, after all, so Father Malloy thought that the humble tools of this righteous family would be fitting for such a task.
“John!” Lily—the demon—screamed again, the smile on her face starkly contrasting the desperate plea in her voice. This demon was manipulative, and plainly wanted John to take her away from them.
“We can't let John in here,” Father Malloy said, closing the door and locking it. “The demon wants John to take it away from us; we cannot let it.” Father Malloy's mind was racing as he wracked his brain for every scrap of information he did know about demon possession. The more he thought about it the topic, though, the more he realized that most of his “knowledge” on the subject came from popular culture, mostly exorcism movies—during his training as a priest, he had skipped the section of the Ritual manual that detailed exorcisms. The only fact he knew from the Church was that water, salt, and oil could be used to rid a child of the taint of original sin before a baptism. Most priests considered the baptism itself to be sufficiently cleansing, but Father Malloy remembered one of his mentors engaging in the practice of pre-cleansing congregants.
“John will get in here no matter what you do,” the demon said, quietly smiling as she waited for her rescue.
“What do you want us to do?” Kathy said, handing the supplies to Father Malloy.
“Hold her down,” Father Malloy said, setting the supplies at the foot of the bed. Big John and Kathy stood on either side of the bed, restraining Lily's arms. The demon made no attempt to resist.
“Good,” Father Malloy said, popping the top to the jug of water. “Pray.” He kept his command simple. God knew what they were dealing with. God wanted this child freed of whatever possessed her.
Father Malloy cupped his hand and poured water into it, dropping the water onto Lily's forehead. The demon screeched in an all-too human fashion, but Lily's eyes remained fixated on the door, a mischievous glee painted in her big blue eyes.
Kathy was holding down Lily's left arm and stroking the child's hair, tears welling in the corners of her eyes. Her jaw was set in a way that assured the priest that she would not falter.
Father Malloy splashed more water on the child's forehead. He could hear the door open downstairs and heard John yell “Lily!” The demon screamed, but less audibly than before, in a more convincing, childlike fashion. For whatever reason, the demon continued to want John to fall for its ruse.
“John!” the demon screamed, looking at the locked door and ignoring her parents who were holding her down, ignoring the priest who continued to splash water on the child, unsure what he was doing.
“What are you doing to her?” John said. He shouted obscenities through the door when he jiggled the door handle and discovered that it was locked. “Open the door!” he said. The desperation in John's voice made Father Malloy shutter but he closed his eyes and prayed for guidance, continuing to splash Lily with water from the jug.
A splash of water, a pinch of salt. These were Father Malloy's weapons against the demon that inhabited the child who lay screaming on the bed, tears falling freely from her big, round eyes that were so wide with terror that the priest began to lose his resolve. One look at Lily's parents and Father Malloy snapped back to the task at hand and unscrewed the bottle of cooking oil.
“Lily!” John screamed her name over and over again, his shouts growing more frantic, the pounding on the door growing louder to Father Malloy's ears. Sweat was pouring down the priest's face and out of the corner of his eye he could see that Big John was sweating just as profusely. Was the room getting hotter? It seemed that way but Father Malloy suspected that it was just his nerves, shaken by the incessant screaming of the child that looked so innocent and helpless on the bed. A thin smile tugged the edges of Lily's lips and Father Malloy knew that he must keep going, even though he wasn't sure what he was doing, even though the child kicked as she screamed until her voice sounded raw.
The more that Father Malloy alternated between sprinkling water, salt, and oil on the demon-possessed child, the less that he felt like a priest. Another splash of water. Water, the substance Jesus turned into wine, his first miracle, the priest thought. Or water signifying the baptism of Christ. He could find significance in the oil—oil was mentioned numerous times in the Bible—and salt featured prominently in the Old Testament, but what about these substances was holy? As water and oil dripped onto the screaming child, Father Malloy felt more like he was doing witchcraft than anything sacred or holy. The mystical aspects of religion had never interested him; it had been the social activism of the Church that had drawn him to it. Frustrated, but unsure what else to do, he sprinkled more salt and prayed.
Something about the situation seemed wrong to Father Malloy and he could feel the wrongness mulling in the back of his mind. Nothing was adding up: he didn't feel like he was accomplishing anything with the exorcism and the way the demon had revealed itself to the priest nagged at Father Malloy. What had set it off? He had been preparing to take it outside to see John; wasn't that what it wanted?