The Dark Sacrament (11 page)

Canon Lendrum proved to be a gentle, soft-spoken man, who received Julie with great compassion and understanding, putting her immediately at ease. He arranged to visit her home the following evening—and perform a deliverance. There would be no preamble, no more time wasting; she had suffered enough, and for far too long.

“I thought I'd feel great relief when I heard that,” she says, “but instead I remember this feeling of absolute dread coming over me.”

The canon appeared to read her thoughts. “Don't worry,” he said, “your troubles will soon be over. Have faith. But yes, it most likely
will
step up its activities now that plans are afoot to cast it out.”

Those words proved chillingly correct. On returning home, Julie was assailed by a terrible atmosphere in the house. The foul odor that had become synonymous with Dubois's presence was overpowering. The demon was indeed mustering its forces for the coming battle.

She threw open all the windows and started to clean the house, but the unpleasant smell persisted. Nevertheless, fortified by the canon's words, she determined that she would not be driven out of her home in broad daylight. When she had finished dusting, however, the stench was so overpowering that it made her sick. She rushed outside and retched. It took courage to return indoors. The last chore was the vacuuming.

But Dubois held a card or two in reserve, and was about to play one. Julie suddenly recalled the old dictum
Cleanliness is next to godliness,
and all at once she divined its deeper meaning. Dubois was about to show her its opposite. Before she could finish, the note of the vacuum cleaner changed eerily.

“It began to groan and squeal,” she recalls, “like a trapped animal. It was horrible. I had no choice but to turn it off. When the kids came home from school, I phoned John at the hospital to tell him we'd all be staying with Margaret that night. No way was I going to risk it.”

At eight the following evening, Canon Lendrum arrived at the Neville home, accompanied by two assistants. He remembers the expulsion of the demon that called itself Pierre Dubois as a trying affair.

“Having lived in Julie's house and oppressed her for so long, it felt it had the right to stay put. Always difficult,” he says now, looking back.

We are having tea in the parlor of his south Belfast home. The jovial, octogenarian exorcist is the antithesis of the doleful demon hunter that Hollywood would have us believe is the norm. His spirited demeanor and optimism belie years of having fought and routed the darkest of foes.

“When these things manifest themselves,” he continues, “they should be stamped out as soon as possible. The longer a person waits, the more entrenched the malignancy, and then the harder it is to shift.”

The canon describes his encounter, beginning from the moment he arrived at the Neville house. When he entered, the oppressive presence was almost palpable.

“It was worse than I thought,” he says. “There was a very peculiar atmosphere in the house. I suppose I would describe it as ‘hostile.' The smell of burning and the coldness were very strong, especially on the stairs and in Julie's bedroom. But one's faith never wavers in a situation like that. The power of the Lord is always present.”

Julie, her husband, and Gordon gathered in the living room for the ceremony. Brief introductions were made. It could begin.

Canon Lendrum donned his surplice and laid out on a table the sacred objects for the celebration of the Eucharist: a simple cross on a stand, the Communion paten, a chalice, two candles in silver holders, and a bottle of holy water.

“I hear the private confession of those who live in the house,” the canon explains, “before the service begins. This is a very important part of the ritual. If anyone declines—and most especially the person who is being oppressed—it generally means that they have
something to hide, and in all likelihood the exorcism will not be successful. In my experience, a severely demonized person will find the act of repentance very difficult, if not intolerable, and from their behavior you very quickly come to realize you're dealing with the exorcism of an individual, as opposed to a home.”

“Thankfully, that was not the case with Julie,” he continues. “She had been oppressed by that demon and suffered it so long that she was more than eager to be rid of it. She willingly rejected all associations with Ouija and the occult, and recommitted her life to the Lord.”

Once Julie had formally, and in the presence of witnesses, rededicated herself to Jesus, Canon Lendrum was ready for the service of the Eucharist.

The group arranged themselves on a row of chairs facing a makeshift altar. The assistants sat on either side of Julie, with John and Gordon flanking them. The canon extended his hands over the Holy Book, and read from Luke's Gospel.

“The seventy returned again with joy, saying, ‘Lord, even the demons are subject to us in your name.' And he said to them, ‘I saw Satan fall like lightning from heaven. Behold, I have given you authority to trample on serpents and scorpions, and over all the power of the enemy; and nothing shall hurt you.'”

The canon joined his hands and bowed his head in silent prayer. The participants did likewise.

It had been raining steadily for most of that winter afternoon. Now the wind was up. It could be heard whistling and sighing at the window. Julie was reminded of a similar winter's evening all those years ago—an evening when a much happier but gullible young woman had placed her finger on a glass and allowed something unclean to intrude upon her life. She shivered at the memory and at what might lie ahead. Would the demon Dubois put up a fight, make her suffer further? Or would this kind man of God be able to drive the horror from her life for good?

Canon Lendrum blessed the bread and wine, and distributed them among the participants.

The Eucharist is an intrinsic part of an exorcism, the canon explains. Every Eucharist is a proclamation of the death and resurrection of Jesus. It therefore celebrates his absolute, complete, and total victory over Satan.

He returned to the altar and, extending his hands over the Holy Book, gazed heavenward. “Strengthened and refreshed by the Body and Blood of Christ, we are now ready to exercise the authority and power of Jesus Christ against whatever evil is disturbing this place.”

The wind blew more fiercely at the window. It seemed to shriek and howl like a demented animal. Julie was reminded of the groaning sounds she heard coming from the vacuum cleaner the day before.

“But, strangely enough, when I heard it I wasn't afraid,” she recalls. “I knew that God was in the room and I felt totally safe.”

“We rejoice in your great love,” the canon's voice rang out with confidence, “and in the victory of your son Jesus Christ over sin, death, and hell. We pray you send angels to gather to this place any spirits that may have been active here.”

Overhead the lightbulb flickered, then dimmed. John kept his head bowed, too afraid to look up. Gordon, on seeing his father's response, likewise buried his face in his hands. Of the three, Julie was the one who remained calm. She sat with her hands folded in her lap, gazing serenely at the cross upon the altar.

“Spirit, I address you now in the name and with the authority of Jesus Christ,” Canon Lendrum continued undeterred. “I have power to bind you and power to release you. I—”

The light went out. The room was in darkness, save for the candles on the altar. “I command you to go immediately to the place that Jesus has—”

Slowly, the door was opening. Gordon and John looked wildly about the room. On seeing that the others did not share their consternation, they bowed their heads again, a little embarrassed.

Canon Lendrum waited. One of the assistants went and shut the door. “I command you to go immediately to the place that Jesus has appointed for you!”

The wind stepped up its howling. The window blew open. Strangely enough, the candles did not die. Again, the assistant rose; he secured the sash. “You will go and you will not return to this place again ever. The angels appointed by God will take you to your own place and there you will remain.”

The exorcist paused and bowed his head again. As he did so, the wailing at the window began to subside. The presence was departing. He spread his hands and gazed upward. “Father, we thank you that this spirit is now leaving and going to where you want it to be.”

The light in the room flickered into life again. John and Gordon looked up with relief. They seemed no longer afraid. “We ask you to cleanse this house from all defilement, that it may become, for those who dwell here, a house of peace.”

The canon sprinkled holy water at different points in the room. His voice was gentle, no longer that of the scourge of demons. “Send your angels to guard this house and protect those who dwell here. Unite them in love and draw them to yourself, so that they may rejoice in you as their Savior and Lord forever.”

Even before Canon Lendrum had ceased praying, the atmosphere in the room was changing. An air of dread and danger was giving way to peace.

The service ended with the Lord's Prayer and prayers of thanksgiving. Afterward, the canon requested that the others remain kneeling while he and Julie went from room to room and he blessed the house.

Holy water is important to every exorcism. It is symbolic of baptism and the three benefits Jesus promises through its use: forgiveness of sins, defense against the wickedness of Satan, and the gift of divine protection.

“There was a strange thing when the reverend was blessing the kitchen,” Julie recalls. “We discovered that the window above the sink was open. I was really uneasy when I saw it because I knew for certain I'd locked it. It was the same window that blew open all
those years ago when me and the children were messing with the Ouija and Dubois told me to go and close it.”

So what was the canon's reaction?

Julie smiles. “When I saw it I nearly jumped out of my skin, but he didn't even flinch. He just smiled and went and closed it again, and said something that really made me laugh: ‘Well, that's the end of
him,
Julie. Pierre Dubois has left the building.'”

At a little after ten that evening, the exorcist and his assistants took their leave. All were conscious of a prolonged battle having ended, an evil firmly routed.

It was over.

The demon—the entity that complained of being tired of wandering and was in need of rest, the entity that had been to South Africa and was not wanted there, that had come to a town in County Antrim and for fifteen years held to ransom the life of a vulnerable, God-fearing woman—that terrible entity had finally departed.

One wonders where it went afterward, if it had indeed obeyed the command of the exorcist and returned to its “own place.” Or if, once loose again, it felt free to roam. If perhaps, at some later date, another poor, unsuspecting individual, whether by chance or design, placed a planchette on a Ouija board—or a finger on an upturned glass—and in so doing gave refuge to the demon that called itself Dubois.

When Gary Lyttle was ten years old, he met the Devil. To be sure, the Devil did not introduce himself as such, and the boy was too young to recognize him for what he was. Satan, the fallen angel of Revelation, is believed to come in many guises, assuming many names. Most churchmen hold that the Devil, the Adversary, presides over a host of lesser demons, and that each demon has its own diabolical attributes, its own means of corrupting souls. Whatever the truth, the following is an account of how an evil entity appears to have gained a foothold in a young boy's life.

Gary lives in a sleepy town in County Donegal. Not much happens there, which is no bad thing. There are no murders, rapes, or random acts of cruelty and mayhem. Senior citizens do not feel threatened, and the police are rarely called upon to investigate serious crime. The other side of the coin is that the town has little to offer an adolescent boy who craves excitement in his life.

In the spring of 2004, Gary was making his way home from school. As usual, he took a shortcut that follows an unpaved footpath, cutting under a bridge and leading along a small river, before joining another road. The path is in frequent use—by schoolchildren, young lovers, and the occasional angler trying his luck at the bream and carp that can still be found in the river, despite the light pollution generated by a chemical plant some four miles upstream.

Gary does not know why he chose to venture away from his customary route homeward, but had the distinct impression that something was “telling” him to leave the track and inspect a sandy patch of earth and undergrowth. There were objects strewn there, many unfamiliar. The fifth-grader thought at once of “treasure.” Not treasure in the sense of booty, though—more the sort that enriches a boy's imagination. But a quick examination told him that he had chanced upon an illicit waste dump. It was not unlike the rubbish to be found in much of rural Ireland: broken household appliances, old shoes, items of clothing, and other detritus dumped by the inconsiderate. Somebody had buried the lot, but it seemed that another had tried to dig it all up again. It might also have been a scavenging dog, lured by an odor still clinging to a cooking utensil. Gary was disappointed.

Until, that is, his eye was drawn to what appeared to be a large rectangle of wood—a slim panel—half buried in the ground. He shrugged off his schoolbag and hunkered down to inspect his find. He frowned. It resembled some kind of household ornament, a picture done on wood. But it might equally well be a board game, he thought—one of the old-fashioned kind he had seen in a friend's house. He tugged at the panel and it came loose.

Gary was thrilled. It was a Ouija board. This he knew because he had seen them in movies. He recognized it by the arrangement of numerals and letters, the words yes and no. It seemed to be very old and was decorated with engravings. There was a sun and a moon, both drawn “with funny faces.” At the bottom of the board, to the left and right of the word goodbye, were “dark ladies.” “There were two black babies floating behind them,” Gary says, “and angels with wings.”

The boy is unclear as to what happened when he pulled the board free of the earth. He claims that something “flew up in the air.” But the object refused to obey the laws of physics; instead of falling to earth at once like a tossed stone, it remained suspended in the air for a few moments before floating gently down and settling on the board.

The object turned out to be the planchette, or pointer, belonging to the Ouija. It was made of the same wood as the board and shaped like a triangle with rounded apexes. There was a circle of clear glass in the center. Gary picked it up and wiped away the soil.

He returned his attention to the Ouija board, laying it flat on the ground. Carefully, he cleaned it of all traces of dirt, intending to bring it home with him in his schoolbag—if it would fit, that is. He glanced about him. He was alone by the river. By this time, all the other stragglers from school had disappeared; there was no sign even of a hopeful angler.

Then, without warning, as Gary sat innocently gazing at the board, something incredible occurred. He experienced what can only be called “a vision.” In the earth beneath his feet he felt a violent tremor. When it ceased, he heard voices: men and women's voices moaning and shrieking under the ground. Some were crying out. “They were all shouting something like ‘bim eye ah,'” Gary says. “Or it could have been ‘bam eye ah.' I didn't know what it meant.”

The boy was terrified and attempted to get up but instead was thrown back into a sitting position. He was being held captive for a reason. Slowly, the ground in front of him began to open up, and Gary found himself on the rim of an enormous cavernlike space. Down in its depths he saw a throne. There was a figure seated upon it, but Gary insists that “it wasn't the Devil,” that it was an entity that would make itself known to him by and by.

But his attention at that moment was not on the enthroned figure, for from all parts of that great cavern, beings with wings began to rise. He identifies them as “demons.” They were flying up toward him, hundreds of them. Even at that great distance, the boy could make out their eyes; all seemed to be focused on him, as though a signal had been given and all were launching themselves simultaneously into the attack.

It was an apocalyptic vision such as those experienced by mystics throughout history. In 1550, St. Teresa of Ávila (1515–82) recorded a scene displaying many similarities. No one can say with certainty
where such visions emanate from—whether they are a by-product of our upbringing or memories of illustrations seen in sacred books, stained-glass windows, and the like. Or even, in Gary's case, images recalled from straight-to-video horror movies.

The last explanation would be perhaps the most obvious and plausible, were it not rendered null and void by what was to happen later that day. Gary tells how he recovered from his “trance,” seeming to reawaken many minutes later in the same spot. There was no longer a fissure in the earth, no more moans and shrieks from souls in torment. There was only the Ouija board, lying where he had dropped it, amid the illegally dumped household garbage. He picked up his schoolbag and took to his heels, running home as fast as he could.

This is Gary's version of events. He is supposed to have fled the scene, leaving the board behind. But, as his account progresses, so also does the likelihood increase that he either took the Ouija board with him or concealed it by the river.

Gary arrived home in great distress, according to his mother, Jessica. He went upstairs to his room, and when he came down again a half hour later, he was still nervous.

“What's wrong with you?” she asked.

“Nothing.”

“Don't tell me there's nothing, Gary. You're white as a sheet.”

She had a thought. “Were you fighting with somebody? Is that it?” She inspected his face for bruises. It would not be the first time he had come home from school bearing the scars of “battle.” Nothing serious; simply boyish exuberance. “Did somebody pick on you?”

“No. I'm going to do my homework.”

He left the kitchen and she heard him climbing the stairs again. She was shaking her head in resignation when she heard a scream. It was so shrill and so unexpected that she hardly recognized it as having come from her own son.

She found Gary halfway up the stairs. He was gripping the rail as if his fingers were welded to it and staring open-mouthed. She
had never before seen him look so terrified. Kelly, her eight-year-old daughter, was immediately at her side.

“Gary?” she called out.

But Gary seemed unaware of her presence. His eyes were directed at something at the top of the stairs. Whatever it was he was seeing, it was frightening him to such an extent that he could not move.

“What is it, Gary?” she asked again.

But he shook his head, refusing to answer.

His young sister giggled. Gary turned at the sound and fixed the girl with a look that Jessica had never seen before—at least, not in Gary. It was a look that took her back to the bad old days of her failed marriage, when her “differences” with her husband had become truly irreconcilable. It was a look of hatred and contempt, and it had no place on the features of a ten-year-old boy. She hardly recognized her own son.

Jessica is quick to point out that, in the past, Gary never gave her cause for concern. She was forever thankful that he had turned out so well, so “normal.” To meet him is to confirm this seeming normality.

There is very little about Gary's appearance or demeanor that marks him as unorthodox, or even unusual; one could pass him in the street without a second glance. He is of average height, with green eyes and tightly cropped black hair. Already there is the promise of his growing into a handsome and athletic young man. He shares the interests of most seventh-graders. He enjoys football, is developing a liking for rock music, plays computer games, and watches DVDs whenever he can. Of the last, his tastes lean toward science fiction, as well as the gory and macabre—in his own words: “scary movies.” Also in this respect he is no different from so many preteen boys.

For these reasons, Jessica had never considered her elder child “a worry.” She was grateful that he had avoided bad company, had never been in trouble with his teachers; and there had likewise been no visits by police to report a misdemeanor—as was often the case with young boys in their housing development. Gary was turning out
to be a model son; Jessica was proud of him, and not a little proud of herself too, for having done such a fine job in rearing him.

Now he seemed so different; she felt she no longer knew him. She glanced from one child to the other. Without knowing why, she took little Kelly roughly by the hand and rushed her back to the kitchen. Gary had frightened her, filled her with an inexplicable and nameless fear.

The little household fell back into its everyday routine. One week following the incident, Jessica had forgotten it, and Gary seemed to be his old self again. It was with great surprise, then, when Jessica heard the commotion from upstairs.

“Get the f*** out of here, Kelly! Get out or you're dead!”

She hurried up the stairs. On the landing, her younger child stood with tears flowing freely down her cheeks. She was nursing her left arm.

“What on earth…?”

“Gary twisted my arm,” Kelly wailed. “He
hurt
me.”

She found Gary in his room, sitting on his bed with his headphones on. He looked at her without interest. She raised her voice. He seemed to be defying her. She went to the bed. Gary must have sensed her fury because he snatched off the headphones. She could hear faintly the upper registers of a heavy-metal power solo.

“Did you hurt your sister? Did you twist Kelly's arm?”

“No.” More defiance.

“She says you did.” Jessica was unaccustomed to lies from her children. “What's going on, Gary?”

“Nothing.”

She hauled him from the bed and marched him to the landing where Kelly still stood, tearful and nervous.

“Why did you do it?”

“She was annoying me.”

“How, annoying you? She's never annoyed you before.”

This was true. The two got on exceptionally well. The incident was a new development and Jessica did not like it one bit.

“Tell her you're sorry.”

“I'm…er, sorry, Kelly.”

Kelly did not seem convinced. She was looking at her brother with something close to fear.

“Tell her it'll never happen again.”

“It'll-never-happen-again.”

But it did. Two days later Jessica heard another commotion from upstairs, and more wailing from Kelly. This time, Gary had punched her, almost dislodging the last of her baby teeth. It was about to come out anyway, and Kelly was expecting a bigger reward than ever from the tooth fairy. Instead she got
this.

“What has gotten into you?!” Jessica screamed at her son.

As before, he glared at her in defiance. She lost her temper and did something which she seldom had to resort to. She slapped him hard across the face.

What next occurred astonished Jessica. Gary pulled back his fist and made as if to hit her. His face was dark with anger. She was genuinely frightened of him.

But the moment passed quickly. Gary relaxed and seemed to revert to his usual affable self.

It was a false dawn. The next morning at breakfast, Gary suddenly convulsed. In front of his startled mother and sister, he fell from his stool and onto the hard kitchen tiles. His limbs began to jerk violently, writhing and twisting like those of an upturned bug seeking to right itself. Within moments, the fit subsided and the boy went rigid, as though paralyzed; his eyes were staring straight up at the ceiling. He looked terrified.

“Gary!”

Jessica bent over him, cradling his head in the crook of an arm. His eyes were still open and staring; they seemed to be glazed over. She gently slapped his cheek. There was no response.

“Is he dead, Mommy?”

“Run next door to Mrs. Sharkey, will you, Kelly? Ask her to come quick.”

The neighbor was there within seconds and was startled to see Jessica attempting to bring Gary around. There was no change in him.

“Has he fainted?”

“Yes. Can you call Dr. Flynn, Carmel?” Jessica pleaded. “Say it's urgent.”

When the doctor arrived some thirty minutes later, there was still no change in Gary. He was reluctant to move the boy, fearing that any sudden motion might trigger a fresh seizure. At last he removed his stethoscope and turned to Jessica.

“I'll have to send him in for tests, Mrs. Lyttle.”

“What is it? What's wrong with him?”

“I'm afraid I don't know. It could be a mild form of epilepsy, but it's too early to say. We'll know when we get him to the hospital.” He looked at his watch. “My brother-in-law is the neurologist there. I'll call him now and make sure he's there to take the lad as soon as he arrives.”