Deliver Us from Evil (13 page)

A few months later I was chatting with Ed over the phone. “Hey, Ralph, I got a call from
Sightings
the other day,” he told me. “They want Lorraine and me to look into a case in Washington, D.C.” I knew immediately that it was the same case I'd called him about, but Ed had forgotten our discussion until I reminded him. “You should come too,” he urged.

If what the McKenzie family said on TV was true, then they were in the clutches of a very powerful demon. By the time I reached Washington and stopped at a pay phone to let my wife know I'd arrived safely, the wind was near gale force. Jen is very tough and tried to hide her anxiety, but I was worried too, being so far from home if my own family should need me.

Running through the rain to my car, I saw a large branch crash to the ground on the other side of the street.
Was I nuts to drive two hundred miles through a raging storm to help people I don't even know?
You might think so, but how much crazier is this than risking my life every night on street patrol? Officers a lot tougher and braver than I'll ever be have been killed in the line of duty; young men like Kevin Gillespie, a comrade from the midnight-to-eight shift, who was gunned down by murderous carjackers a few years ago—despite a bulletproof vest. Like me, he was a married man and had small children. His seven-year-old son, Danny, wrote a letter that was read during his father's funeral mass: “I love the police. Someday I will be one.”

Now his green metal locker at the station house stands as a somber memorial, with a plaque reading “In memory of police officer Kevin Gillespie, shield #4503. He made the ultimate sacrifice by giving his life in the line of duty on March 14, 1996.” Below are inscribed two words he often said to me and other officers: “Be safe.”

*   *   *

The children in this D.C. case had suffered the same shattering loss as Kevin's son had. Just three days after they moved into their new home, their dad was diagnosed with inoperable cancer; he died a month later. I didn't feel that the demonic had anything to do with it: It was probably just coincidence, but the number three always figures in these cases.

Their house didn't
look
particularly spooky: It wasn't a drafty old castle or ruined mansion you'd see in the movies, but a very pretty, vine-covered colonial on a quiet suburban street. I didn't detect anything hostile or malignant as I rang the bell.

“Are you the exorcist?” I instantly recognized this thin teenager with huge, haunted eyes as Monique McKenzie, the oldest daughter, from seeing her talk on TV about the unimaginably grotesque horrors they'd endured.

“No, but I'm here to help as best I can,” I assured her, then made small talk with the family, who were all huddled together in the living room. None of them wanted to be alone in that house, even in the middle of the day. While I waited for the Warrens to arrive, I took a walk around the spotless, spacious rooms, to see if I could sense anything out of the ordinary. I knew already that the house had a sinister secret, a sordid past.

According to the family, a policeman had told them that the previous owner of the house was a Satanist. This man's wife worked nights and left their two young sons with their father. Nothing wrong with that, except that he and his satanic coven were sexually molesting the boys. As if that weren't horrible enough, the group began sacrificing living creatures to their god, the Devil. Right in front of the little boys, they slaughtered a frog. Now, some of you may scoff at that, thinking “A frog? Who cares about a frog?”

While killing a frog would be more than enough to terrorize two children, I saw this act for what it was, a practice run for something infinitely worse. Eventually the group allegedly killed a baby. No, it was never proven, but the police detective who investigated was convinced it really did happen. But the law is set up so that if no evidence or body is found, no crime has been committed—which is just what these Satanists counted on. The only people who saw the ritual murder were two kids, and in the eyes of the law, little children don't make good witnesses. The boys told police that the infant was stabbed repeatedly, put into a box, and thrown in a creek down the street. Cops found the box, but no blood or mutilated corpse, so ultimately they had to close the case, after a thorough search failed to turn up a body.

I suspected that these devil-worshippers were what we call “organized Satanists.” Organized Satanists will go to great lengths to hide the bodies of their victims, to avoid detection and prosecution. This is easily done, since these Satanists are often professional people—doctors, lawyers, politicians, men and women who are well off in the money department, or even judges and police officers. So these groups have all sorts of resources at their disposal to evade justice, at least on Earth.

Now, all this is conjecture—and it's perfectly possible that no baby was ever murdered. Either way, the police had enough probable cause to lock their animal of a dad up for child abuse—and get him away from both society and his own flesh and blood. What he'd done, however, was wicked enough to draw one of the evil spirits that prowl this world—seeking the doom of souls—and turn another innocent family into the Devil's prey.

I checked the entire first floor, then made my way to the basement. At the bottom of the stairs was Monique's room: a typical girl's bedroom, with everything frilly and nice. I wandered into other areas of the basement, which was very large and divided into several rooms. The main one had a television and a bar in the corner, and was as immaculate as the rest of the house. Off to the side was a laundry room. As soon as I entered, I stopped dead in my tracks, gripped by an overpowering dread. The atmosphere of menace was so overpowering that every hair on my head stood on end. I got the hell out of there, fast.

You can sense evil: Your whole body responds to it. The demonic know how to create the maximum amount of terror in each person, because they know your weaknesses. In this case, the room was just an ordinary laundry room in appearance, but the feeling of terror and hatred was overpowering. I'm not psychic like Brother Andrew, but most of the time I
can
sense the presence of the demonic: It's an unnatural feeling that assaults your senses. A lot of people describe it as an eerie or creepy feeling that something is very wrong.

Later in the investigation, I learned the police detective had told the family that this was the room used by the satanic coven. I didn't need anybody to tell
me
that: Something in that room had already put my entire body on red alert. My adrenaline pumping, I hurried out of the basement but was drawn again to the bedroom by the stairs, which now reeked of a sickeningly sweet perfume. Upstairs, I asked Monique if she or anyone else had just been down there.

She said no, then got very excited when I mentioned the heavy scent in her room. In a triumphant tone, as if this were all the proof anyone would need to believe the horrors in her house were real, she said, “You smelled it too? That happens to us all the time!”

I was touched by her obvious sincerity—and felt certain that this was not a case of infestation, but of
oppression
, the second phase of the demonic M.O. The fiendish objective of this stage is to literally scare people out of their wits with a bombardment of unbearably frightening phenomena designed to dehumanize the demonic's hapless targets, until they can no longer fight off the evil spirit that is trying to possess them. Oppression is infestation multiplied by a thousand: Where there were formerly little scratchings or tappings, you now have deafening poundings that literally shake the entire house. No longer is one person singled out for supernatural assaults; the whole family is affected. Phase two of the diabolical strategy goes well beyond instilling doubt and fear in a single family member; the entire house feels hostile to all who enter.

Infestation is an external assault: It causes physical phenomena as the demonic manipulate objects. Oppression has two parts: While the outward manifestations continue and intensify, there's also a more sinister aspect that's not visible to the eye. Infestation affects the physical house; oppression goes beyond and “haunts” those who live there. No one escapes the torments. Oppression is an all-out assault on the senses that makes terror a constant companion in the very place where you expect to feel safest: your home. Sleep becomes virtually impossible. Large, potentially dangerous objects, like washing machines or refrigerators, may be lifted up and flung at you by invisible hands. Not only will footsteps be heard, but they'll walk right by the people in the house, brushing your body with a chill that's colder than cold.

Then, just as it seems that things can't possibly get any worse, they do. Your loved ones are assaulted even when they leave the home. The car seems to develop a mind of its own, causing accidents and harrowing close calls. Horrifying phenomena start occurring at work—if you have the strength to go to your job at all. The people in your house suffer the physical fury of the infernal force: They may be slapped, punched, scratched, bitten, knocked to the ground, burned, or battered with flying objects. Should your family try to flee, the demonic assailant will stick to you like a second shadow and raise unholy havoc wherever you go. Your relatives cease to exist as distinct individuals within this hell on Earth—instead, your entire being is constantly fighting a desperate battle for survival.

This is just the
beginning
of oppression. During the initial stage of demonic invasion, the attacks are external: unsettling noises, acts of supernatural vandalism, and malicious mischief. Later on, however, the satanic power turns to savage psychological warfare: Objects vanish before your eyes, you gag as your room fills with a revolting stench of rotting flesh or excrement; and you tremble as hideous wraiths manifest in front of you. Your belongings are not only moved around but are smashed in front of your eyes. The world of nightmares becomes your reality: Not a day goes by without some ghastly new horror.

You—or a family member—experience a degrading change in personality: You may develop an aversion to church and anything sacred. Sinful urges become stronger, more frequent, and all but impossible to resist. Maybe you're plunged into behavior that's both strangely gratifying and unspeakably shameful. In a futile effort to evade the ever-present demon, you may drink to excess, turn to drugs, or try to lose yourself in promiscuous sex, each time giving the diabolical force another foothold into your soul. Or perhaps another family member crumbles under the unendurable stress: A once-loving spouse or child becomes increasingly withdrawn, turns cold and hateful, or is suddenly beset by violent, uncontrollable rages. This person may even experience transient possession—transient because his or her will has not yet broken down enough for full possession to occur. While under the sway of the satanic spirit, he or she may brutally attack family members or inflict horrifying injuries on him- or herself, including suicide.

The demonic are brilliant manipulators and will exploit any moral, emotional, or mental weakness in the humans they prey on. Some specialize in a particular sin, primarily the deadly seven: anger, envy, pride, sloth, gluttony, avarice, and lust. With diabolical ingenuity, these forces of darkness seize on our basest instincts and worst temptations and twist them around into attacks of stunning power and perversity.

*   *   *

By now Ed and Lorraine had arrived, with one of their students from Connecticut. A few minutes later Monique's grandmother, Maggie, who lived nearby, dropped by to lend moral support. As I set up the video camera, the Warrens introduced themselves to the six residents of the house: Claudia, who managed a hotel; her live-in boyfriend, Artie, who worked as a moving man; her fifteen-year-old niece, Jessica; and her three daughters: seventeen-year-old Monique, and thirteen-year-old twins, Carolyn and Marybeth. While you'd expect twins to look alike, all four girls had an uncanny resemblance to each other, like those Russian dolls that open up to reveal smaller and smaller versions of the same figure.

Unlike the young widow, who was blonde and disguised her distress under elaborate makeup, you had to wonder when any of these kids had last pulled a comb through her unruly brown hair, or taken a shower. Of course that's not necessarily abnormal for a teenager, but the expression on their faces was definitely disturbing. I'd seen it dozens of times before on victims of both human and inhuman crimes: a vacant, thousand-yard stare.

To encourage these tortured, traumatized souls to talk, Ed decided to question each of them privately in the family room, while I moved around the house, sometimes escorting family members up and down from the basement and sometimes keeping them company in the kitchen as they awaited their turn.

Monique spoke first, explaining that the trouble began just before her first Christmas without her father—a time when demonic activity typically peaks, because evil spirits are enraged and inflamed by the holiness of the season. There was nothing subtle about the spirit's opening salvo: raucous pounding on her night table, as if an unseen force were sending Morse code messages: three violent thumps, then a series of rhythmic raps. “I thought someone had broken into the house and was going to kill me,” the teenager said in a hollow, expressionless voice. “I broke out in a sweat and was afraid to open my eyes.”

This isn't typical of infestation,
I thought. There was nothing subtle about this.
It seemed that this demon was so powerful that it had skipped right to oppression.

Squirming shyly on the couch, in agonies of teenaged embarrassment at what she was about to reveal, the girl reported that she had heard—and felt—something breathing heavily on her ear as she lay in bed. “In a raspy, decrepit voice that sounded thousands of years old, it said, ‘I want to make love to you!' It scared me so bad I ran to my mother's room for help.”