The Dark Sacrament (15 page)

It was going to fall out of favor anyway. By the mid-1970s, few boards were being produced in Ireland and the United Kingdom. Grown-ups and children were making alphabets from pieces of paper instead and using an upturned glass to move between the letters. It would not be until the 1990s that the traditional “talking board” began to make a comeback.

The board had a less stormy history in the United States. From the time it was patented, in 1891, it was popular, both as an aid to divination and as a game. Two world wars helped to stimulate its popularity as a “spirit” medium—understandably when so many young Americans were in deadly danger a long way from home. Parker Brothers bought the patent in 1966, as well as the rights to the name. In the present day, the “official” board is made by Hasbro, Inc., and marketed throughout the world.

With the turn of the millennium, a new generation would come to recognize the Ouija from its recurring appearances on the big screen. Among them was Gary Lyttle. Those who approach his story with the intention of obtaining evidence of falsehood or fraud, however, may well come away empty-handed. Though it is true that Gary
might
have been acquainted with the case of Robbie “Doe,” the boy who inspired
The Exorcist,
it seems unlikely. Book and motion picture date from the 1970s. Nor is it likely that he could have faked what was to follow.

The name “Ouija,” assigned by a man who marketed an early version of the board, was derived from the Moroccan city of Oujda. But it was not long before a different explanation entered the public domain: that the name was a juxtaposition of the French word
oui
and the German
ja,
translating to “yes, yes.” It is a fitting interpretation, for it suggests that each time the board game is played, the participant consents to accept whatever may intrude. And he agrees to accept the consequences of having made the invitation—for good or ill. In so “consenting,” Gary Lyttle unwittingly opened the door to Tyrannus. Now he seems unable to free himself of what appears to be a baleful, subjugating influence. Thus are circuits of dependency created.

The longer this state of affairs is tolerated, the harder it is to dismantle it. Often, when attempts are made by the victim to renege on his former decision and escape the nightmare, tremendous pressure is brought to bear by forces outside or within himself. They frequently take the form of terrifying visions, inner voices, physical torments, and thoughts of death as being the only means of escape.

At the time of
The Dark Sacrament
going to press, Gary appears to have his demons still. He fears them and appears to be in thrall to them—perhaps in the old, literal sense of the word. To be “enthralled” meant to be under the control of another; it was sometimes applied to the victims of witches and sorcerers. In exceptional cases, it was applied to the victims of demons.

No one but Gary has ever seen—or heard—the demon who calls himself Tyrannus. It would be easy to dismiss him as a fig
ment of a youngster's active imagination, an imagination fed on a diet of cheap Hollywood straight-to-video motion pictures. More difficult to dismiss are Gary's seizures, witnessed by members of his immediate family and his doctor. Neither a neurologist nor a Gestalt therapist could find a satisfactory reason for them, either physical or psychological.

There are very disturbing signs that point to a problem of a spiritual nature. Gary has now developed a full-blown hatred for anything sacred. Nothing will induce him to enter a church; he has stopped praying. He suffers from depression and has suicidal thoughts. He attacks those closest to him. He seems “content” to be in the company of his demon, or demons.

Those clergymen involved in the exorcism and deliverance ministries speak with one voice with regard to the amendment of one's life and repentance. “The hardest part for me,” an exorcist tells us, “is that which comes after the exorcism, when I must impress upon the delivered person the need to turn to the Lord for guidance and to lead a better life. Someone who hasn't been brought up with God-centered values really cannot appreciate the importance of prayer and repentance. In that sense, they truly are lost souls. In such circumstances, there is nothing much an exorcist can do.”

“Gary must desire to be delivered of his ‘controllers,'” Father Dominic stresses. “If he chooses to hold on to them, there is little point in prayers said by me or anybody else.” As long as “Tyrannus” holds the reins, he concludes, no other power can intervene.

The little gift store was about halfway along a line of shops, sandwiched between a fashion boutique and an upscale bakery. Stephanie Rooney, a petite twenty-four-year-old, had not noticed it before; her trips to Derry rarely brought her to that part of town. She was curious. She was also fired up by the acquisitive passion of the new homemaker, never letting pass an opportunity to add to her growing collection of bric-a-brac. She pushed open the door. She was half-expecting the jangle of an old-fashioned shop bell—it was that kind of place—and was delighted instead by the melodious tinkling of what could only have been Tibetan wind chimes.

The store's interior was heavy with cinnamon, vanilla, apple, lavender, and a myriad of other luscious scents. Stephanie hardly noticed them at first because there was so much to please the eye. There were statuettes whittled from dark wood, each with the likeness of an African deity; there were elaborate carvings from Southeast Asia showing elephants intertwined with luxuriant foliage. She marveled at crystals and hefted small Chinese spheres that seemed to hum with esoteric music.

Then the burlap bags caught her eye.

They were ten in number, and each was no bigger than a grocery bag. Each was unfurled to reveal its contents of wooden marbles, smaller than ping-pong balls. As Stephanie drew closer to the bags,
she realized that the scents that had so delighted her emanated not from potpourri, as she first thought, but from those curious little wooden balls.

“They're a popular line,” the assistant told her. “Especially the strawberry. I have them all over the place at home.”

Stephanie picked one up and held it under her nostrils.

“They're divine,” she said.

“Buy ten, get two free,” the girl told her. “I forgot to put the sign up this morning.”

“In that case I'll take a dozen of the strawberry,” said Stephanie, counting them into a tiny wicker basket provided for that purpose. She brought them to the counter.

“Hmm, you've got thirteen here,” the assistant said with a smile.

“Oh, right. Sorry.”

“Oh, don't worry about it. Sure we won't quibble over one extra. You can have it for luck. Isn't that what they say—thirteen, lucky for some?”

“Thanks very much,” said Stephanie. She fished in her purse for some small change. “Yes, we can all use a bit of luck, can't we?”

She was still musing on luck and its many and varied interpretations as she emerged from the little gift store. Stephanie considered herself a very lucky woman at that time, on Tuesday, September 16, 2003. The sun shone brightly on the city of Derry, and the carefree post-office assistant was enjoying a free afternoon. She was happy. Just six months married and already occupying a brand new home (or “desirable residence,” as her mother called it) on the outskirts of town, she felt that life could not get much better.

Her priorities had shifted since she and Declan had moved into 8 Cedar Close, Dungiven. There had been a time when much of her income went to clothes, makeup, and evenings out; now all her spare cash went toward making her new home as cozy and attractive as possible. She thought a bowl of the scented balls would look pretty on the hearth and create a lovely perfumed atmosphere in the living
room. It was, after all, the room where she and her husband spent much of their leisure time.

She found a porcelain bowl, a half-forgotten wedding gift from a young niece, dusted it off, and arranged the scented balls. She placed them on the living room hearth, stood back, shut her eyes, and reveled in their fragrance. Their magic, she thought, was working already.

Declan noticed the wonderful scent as soon as he came home. He thought his wife was baking a strawberry pie or making a dessert of some kind, until she explained about her little purchase and brought him into the front room. He nodded his approval.

“Hmm, that's odd,” said Stephanie, puzzled. Three of the scented balls were lying loose on the hearth. “I put them all in the bowl. I know I did.”

She shook her head, scooped up the stray balls, and held them out for Declan to savor. “Smells good enough to eat,” he said. “Now, what's for supper? I'm starving.”

But how, Stephanie was asking herself, did the scented balls get out of the bowl? They had no children, no pets. She thought of mice and shuddered. But logic told her that one did not, as a rule, find mice in new houses. In the country, perhaps, but not here in town. Bemused, she replaced the balls and followed Declan into the kitchen.

“I'm still wondering about the wooden balls,” she said later. “How could they leave the bowl all by themselves? How could they do that?”

Declan stomped twice with his heel on the kitchen floor. Like that in the living room, it was of pine, beautifully polished; it was brand new, unblemished, without a scratch.

“Y'know, them wooden floors have a spring in them before they get bedded down,” he said. “Probably you walked out of the room in a hurry and the vibration upset the bowl. It's a shallow bowl, light too.”

Stephanie was thoughtful. She wanted to go to the living room at once and test his theory, but something dissuaded her. What if he was wrong? What if the wooden balls had somehow left the bowl
all by themselves? She did not wish to consider this possibility and all that it might imply. She had to see to supper and was looking forward to settling down in front of the television later on. They were showing one of her favorite Johnny Depp movies. That would certainly take her mind off things.

Several days passed and Stephanie thought no more about the scented balls. Her best friend, Michele, was celebrating her twenty-fifth birthday that Saturday, and they were invited. The Rooneys remember that birthday party with absolute clarity, perhaps because the carefree atmosphere and the good time they had that evening contrasted so sharply with what awaited them on their return home.

It was 2:15 a.m. when they arrived back at Cedar Close. Declan went upstairs at once, leaving Stephanie to switch off the standard lamp in the living room. They tended to leave the downstairs lights burning for security reasons, even though burglaries were rare in the neighborhood; it was one of the reasons they had chosen it.

Stephanie was stopped in her tracks. The French traveling clock in its gilt case occupied the central position as usual, flanked left and right by Belleek china harps. But the photographs—the three framed photographs, one of Stephanie and Declan, two of family members—had been turned to face the wall.

“Declan!” she cried, backing toward the door.

He came down the stairs quickly but with some annoyance, his toothbrush still in his hand. “What's the matter?”

Stephanie was pointing at the mantelpiece. He saw that her hand was shaking. He stared in disbelief at the picture frames. There really was no logical explanation. Declan knew that all windows had been firmly secured and doors locked before they left the house. How could the framed pictures have turned themselves around? He was prepared to believe that their footsteps across the new wooden floor might have jolted some of the scented balls free of the porcelain bowl, but this was a phenomenon of a different order.

“Look, we'll talk about it in the morning,” he said gently, trying to reassure Stephanie. “There's always a rational explanation for
these things. Always.” With that, he shut the living-room door and took the added precaution of locking it; they retired to bed.

They were tired. Declan fell asleep almost at once, but Stephanie lay awake for a time. She tried to quell her disquiet by rerunning scenes from the birthday party, smiling again at Michele's awkwardness when she introduced the new man in her life. It helped. Stephanie felt herself drifting off. But, without warning, something jolted her wide awake again.

She sat up. She was sure that she had heard a loud thud from downstairs. It had come from the living room, which lay directly below the bedroom. She shook Declan awake.

“Listen!” she whispered urgently. “I heard something downstairs.”

“What?” He sat up, drowsy. “I locked all the––”

“Shush!” Stephanie was trembling. “The living room.”

They sat in the darkness without speaking. They heard nothing more.

“Look, you only imagined it,” whispered Declan wearily.

“Maybe.”

But, just as they were about to settle down again, they heard it: the unmistakable thud of an object falling from a height.

“Oh, my God!” gasped Stephanie. She switched on the bedside lamp. Declan sprang out of bed.

“Where are you going?”

“Where d'you think?” Declan tried to keep the fear out of his voice. He could see how frightened his wife was becoming. For her sake, he simply had to remain calm and seemingly in control.

“You can't go down there! What if…?”

“—what if it's a burglar? If it's a burglar I'll deal with him.”

He reached into the walk-in closet. He had been putting up shelves and knew instinctively where to find his tools. He picked up a hammer.

“I'm coming with you,” said Stephanie. Despite her fears, she could not allow him to venture downstairs alone. She switched on
the lights. All was quiet; they heard nothing but their own rapid breathing.

Gingerly Declan turned the key to the living-room door. In one deft movement he flung it wide; Stephanie threw the light switch. They stood in the doorway, staring in astonishment. The traveling clock and the china harps lay on the hearth rug. On the mantelpiece, the three framed photographs, which Stephanie had righted not an hour before, were again reversed.

A locked room. There was no sign of forced entry, no sign at all that anybody had been and gone—only the items arranged so bizarrely. The fright the couple experienced in those moments can only be guessed at. Fifteen minutes later they were dressed and in Declan's car. They would go to his mother's house. Remaining in Cedar Close that night was unthinkable.

The following day, Sunday, following a fitful night's sleep, the couple returned to their home. It was around noon. Everything was as they had left it, and for the remainder of the day they experienced no further disturbance. Encouraged by this—after all, it might well have been an isolated incident—they stayed the night. On Monday morning each left for work as usual.

But Declan's newfound optimism was shattered that evening on his return home. He usually arrived about six; on this occasion he was much earlier. He turned the key in the front door and let himself in.

The living room seemed in order: the framed photographs were in their customary places on the mantelpiece, as was the traveling clock. On closer inspection, however, Declan noticed something amiss. He checked his wristwatch. It was four thirty, but the clock read a quarter after three. Odd, he thought. The clock was new and always accurate. Of course, it was entirely possible that the battery had run down.

But the clock was ticking very audibly and not missing a stroke, as far as he could tell. The battery could not be at fault. Puzzled, he set the time and went to check on the other clocks in the house. To his astonishment, he found that each one read a quarter after
three—and all, like the traveling clock, were still ticking. With a mounting sense of unease, he reset them all and returned to the living room.

The travel clock had reverted to three fifteen.

Now Declan was filled with disquiet. Of one thing he was certain: he would say nothing about the clocks to Stephanie. If she noticed them, so be it. Her car was in the shop that day, and he had promised to collect her from work. He had an hour to kill.

An hour. He was thinking of time again, and thinking of time caused him to look at his wristwatch—and the clocks. He was going crazy; he could not stay in the house. He still had time for a beer. He felt he could use one.

They got back to Cedar Close a little after 6 p.m. Declan need not have worried. All the clocks were showing the correct time again. Thank God for that, he thought. With any luck that would be the end of the latest mystery. He kept quiet about the clocks.

All returned to normal—or so it seemed. Later that same evening, however, it was the turn of the scented wooden balls again. Declan recalls that he was lulled into a false sense of security; the house seemed more peaceful than ever. The street was silent. No sounds intruded from outside. After supper, they settled down to watch some television before going to bed. Stephanie dimmed the lights in the living room and they sprawled, as they always did, on the big couch.

But no sooner had Declan poured himself a beer than they heard a loud, sharp report on the floor directly behind them, followed by the sound a rolling marble makes. It was one of the wooden balls from the hearth.

Stephanie was startled, though still not persuaded that something unnatural was taking place in her home. Looking back now, she admits she was in denial. “I thought right away that Declan was messing around. I don't know; he has a sense of humor, likes a laugh. I thought: it would be easy for him to put one of the wooden balls in his pocket; then, while we were watching TV, he could throw it over his shoulder. The room was dark and I wouldn't see him doing it.”

But one look at her husband's face was enough; he was as frightened as she was. An unknown agency had tossed the ball.

“We're getting out of here,” Declan announced.

They left immediately and again spent the night at the home of Declan's mother. They did not know it then, but this pattern of staying overnight with relatives would soon become routine. Whenever they returned to Cedar Close, something would happen to drive them out again.

“The house,” Stephanie says, “was telling us something. At first we thought it wanted to get rid of us. In fact it was drawing attention to itself. It was saying: ‘Look what
I
can do.'”

Much of the paranormal activity was centered on the wooden balls. They would execute maneuvers that left the Rooneys perplexed. At times there seemed to be no design or purpose; they seemed to be acting at random. At other times they had, according to Stephanie, “a mind of their own.”