Deliver Us from Evil (24 page)

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.

While exorcising a home that's demonically infested is far less arduous than a full-fledged exorcism of a possessed person, I suspect this priest was too unseasoned to handle the case. His flesh was willing—and he showed up, right on time—but his spirit didn't have the special grace that Father Martin so eloquently described. I don't fault him for knowing his limitations or for his cowardice, since it's very dangerous for an inexperienced priest to go up against the demonic, but I do consider him negligent for not reaching out to other clergymen and finding someone who could help his terrified parishioners.

The more interesting question, however, is
what
stopped the priest in his tracks and sent him scurrying back to the safety of his rectory. Why had this particular house become so singularly inhospitable that it repelled even a man of God, and terrorized a family of such devout, unswerving faith as the Salvatores? Nina was firmly convinced that the devil-worshippers in the basement had unleashed satanic forces on her family.

“Nina, I'm still willing to help, but I have a few conditions I'd like you to agree to first,” I told her. “If we come back, it's going to be the last time we'll come because we don't go where we're not wanted. If your family truly wants our help, I want you or Marco to give us written permission to enter your home and do our Work.”

We always make sure to cover ourselves legally in these cases, to limit the possibility of being sued. Hey, the Devil has many avenues of attack—and without being too disrespectful to the legal profession, litigation is certainly one of them. I have heard of many exorcists from all different faiths who ended up in hot water because they didn't cover all the bases or, as we say in the police department, CYA (cover your ass).

Since we'd now covered our asses, and Marco had promised his complete cooperation, I returned a month later with the same team of investigators. We agreed that Joe, Antonio, and I would handle the house, and Rose and Chris would remain outside on the steps, where they felt most comfortable. But when Marco Salvatore answered the door, he looked grim. “My wife's back in the hospital for more tests,” he told us. “I sure hope the doctors know what they're doing, because I'm very worried about her. She's very sick.”

Joe, Antonio, and I looked at each other. Hearing that Nina was so ill gave us added impetus to cast out the demon in her home and put an end to the infestation if at all possible. Marco was also extremely anxious to resolve the problem before his wife got out of the hospital. “I don't want her or the boys frightened any more. I don't think Nina can take too much more of this—and frankly, neither can I. The last few weeks have been a nightmare for us.”

He led us into a rather cluttered and gloomy living room. From the musty odor, I got the feeling he hadn't been doing much housekeeping since his wife got sick. Although it was daytime, heavy brocade drapes blocked most of the light from the windows, and only one lamp was lit, apparently with a 25-watt bulb. I could see damaged plaster on the ceiling where the chandelier that Nina had taken down used to be. The room resembled an antique shop, crammed with old-fashioned mahogany furniture. The armchairs and sofa were upholstered in dark brown velvet and piled with needlepoint pillows. There were also several little tables, some of them covered with crocheted doilies and little knickknacks.

Marco looked quite out of place in this dainty decor, which was what you might expect in an old lady's home. The house, it turned out, was owned by Nina's mother, who had chosen the furnishings. Marco was a rough-and-tumble guy, who'd briefly been a professional boxer and had a battered, Jake LaMotta–like face to prove it. With his rippling muscles and powerful right jab, the former heavyweight feared very little in this world, yet he now feared his own home.

I remembered a story Rose had told me about him. Several months earlier, a mugger had the misfortune of pulling a gun on the ex-boxer in an attempt to relieve him of his hard-earned cash. Even looking down the barrel of a .38-caliber revolver didn't intimidate Marco, who now worked as a nightclub bouncer. He just knocked the mutt out with one well-placed punch to the jaw. Leaving the would-be robber lying in the gutter, he continued on his way. He'd handled it himself, without the police, just as he'd handled every other problem he'd ever been faced with—until now.

I could immediately sense how frustrated this macho guy felt. For all his physical toughness, he was powerless to do anything about the situation he was in now. An evil force had invaded his home, terrorized his wife, and beat up his son. But what good were his quick fists when he was up against an enemy he couldn't even see? This wasn't a problem he could solve with his brawn.

“Did my wife tell you about the fight she had with those Satanists downstairs?” he asked. “They actually tried to recruit my son! And that thing that attacks us on the stairs is their doing, I'm sure of it!” He pounded his fist on the coffee table emphatically.

I told him I'd already heard about these problems, but there was something we wanted to know. “When exactly did your wife first get sick? Was it before or after the confrontation with your neighbors?”

“It was about a week later. I don't know if the argument had anything to do with it, but believe me, having people like this in your house is enough to make anybody sick!” Marco's face darkened even further.

Joe and I suspected that a curse was at the root of this family's problems. If so, it was urgent to learn everything we could. We needed to break the curse, if at all possible. It's conceivable, though very rare, for curses to cause death if the spell isn't broken in time. We wanted to find out how the spell was sent and what kind of black magic was used. The evil arts take many forms, and some covens use an eclectic and highly potent mix of methods. My partner Joe knows all this firsthand, because after taking on a large coven of witches in one of his cases, he became the victim of a curse himself and spent the next three years fighting for his life, as he was struck down by one serious illness after another and was the victim of a near-fatal accident. The only thing that saved him, I believe, was his knowledge of the occult and his strong faith in God.

Curses are typically used to exact revenge. Some magicians attach their evil spells to physical objects that carry the malevolent intention into the victim's home. These are called “contact objects.” Just as a religious medal blessed by a priest has a positive charge of holiness and protection, objects cursed by a sorcerer have the opposite effect. They are repositories for negative energy that acts as a catalyst for demonic infestation. Some particularly fiendish occultists spread evil spells by making seemingly religious objects, such as ceramics or pictures with a Christian motif, then adding something extra: a curse. These artworks are then sold at craft shows to spread the germs of evil to the pious, unsuspecting people who buy them.

In one case, a schoolteacher who also did volunteer work at a Catholic organization fell victim to this satanic scam. While celebrating Christmas with her daughter, she heard a terrible explosion. All the glass on her shower door had shattered—not outward, but inward. She called my partner Joe immediately. He noticed a painting over her bed of Our Lady of Guadeloupe, which was so hauntingly beautiful that he couldn't take his eyes off it—or the magnificent black lacquered frame around it.

Proud of her painting, the teacher told Joe how she'd gotten an incredible bargain on this lovely work at a street fair. Joe admired it with her, marveling at the artist's skill at depicting anatomical details. Suddenly he spotted something extremely unsettling. Everything else was correct, but Our Lady of Guadeloupe, who is normally depicted trampling on a two-horned devil, had no feet! That was the tipoff, he explained. “Sometimes a demon will appear as a saint, or even as Christ, but there's always an imperfection. By
leaving out
the Devil and the Lady's feet, that satanic artist, rather ironically,
revealed
his painting's diabolical intent,” at least to experts like Joe.