The Exorcist

  Here Karras had turned over on his bed, despondent; feeling somehow unworthy; incompetent; rejected. It stung. Unreasonably, it stung. Then, finally, sleep flowed into his emptiness, filling in the niches and cracks in his heart.

  Then again the waking ring of his telephone, Chris calling to inform him of Regan’s sudden frenzy. Back at the house, he checked Regan’s pulse. It was strong. He gave her Librium, then gave it again. And again. Finally, he made his way to the kitchen, slumping down at the breakfast table with Chris. She was reading a book, one of Merrin’s that she’d ordered delivered to the house. “Way over my head,” she told Karras softly; and yet she looked touched and deeply moved. “But there’s some of it so beautiful—so great.” She flipped back through pages to a passage she had marked, and handed the book across the table to Karras.

  “Here, take a look. Ever read it?”

  “I dunno. Let me see.”

  Karras took the book and began to read:

  We have familiar experience of the order, the constancy, the perpetual renovation of the material world which surrounds us. Frail and transitory as is every part of it, restless and migratory as are its elements, still it abides. It is bound together by a law of permanence, and though it is ever dying, it is ever coming to life again. Dissolution does but give birth to fresh modes of organization, and one death is the parent of a thousand lives. Each hour, as it comes, is but a testimony how fleeting, yet how secure, how certain, is the great whole. It is like an image on the waters, which is ever the same, though the waters ever flow. The sun sinks to rise again; the day is swallowed up in the gloom of night, to be born out of it, as fresh as if it had never been quenched. Spring passes into summer, and through summer and autumn into winter, only the more surely, by its own ultimate return, to triumph over that grave towards which it resolutely hastened from its first hour. We mourn the blossoms of May because they are to wither; but we know that May is one day to have its revenge upon November, by the revolution of that solemn circle which never stops—which teaches us in our height of hope, ever to be sober, and in our depth of desolation, never to despair.

  “Yes, it’s beautiful,” Karras said softly, and as he poured a cup of coffee for himself, the raging of the demon from upstairs grew louder.

  “Bastard … scum … pious hypocrite!”

  “She used to put a rose on my plate … in the morning … before I’d go to work,” Chris said distantly.

  Karras looked up with a question in his eyes, and Chris answered it: “Regan,” she told him.

  She looked down. “Yeah, that’s right. I forget.”

  “Forget what?”

  “I forget that you’ve never met her.”

  She blew her nose and dabbed at her eyes.

  “Want some brandy in that coffee?”

  “Thanks, no.”

  “Coffee’s flat,” Chris whispered tremulously. “I think I will get some brandy. Excuse me.” She stood up and left the kitchen.

  Karras sat alone and sipped bleakly at his coffee. He felt warm in the sweater that he wore beneath his cassock; felt weak in his failure to have given Chris comfort. Then a memory of childhood shimmered up sadly, a memory of Reggie, his mongrel dog, growing skeletal and dazed in a box in a run-down tenement apartment; Reggie shivering with fever and vomiting while Karras tried covering him with towels, tried to make him drink warm milk, until a neighbor came by, looked at Reggie and, shaking his head, said, “Your dog has distemper. He needed shots right away.” Then dismissal from school one afternoon … to the street … in columns of twos to the corner … his mother there to meet him … unexpected … looking sad … and then pressing a shiny half-dollar piece into his hand … elation … so much money! … then her voice, soft and tender, “Reggie die…”

  He looked down at the steaming, bitter blackness in his cup and felt his hands bare of comfort or of cure.

  “… pious bastard!”

  The demon. Still raging.

  “Your dog needed shots right away.”

  Karras immediately got up and returned to Regan’s bedroom, where he held her while Sharon administered a Librium injection that brought the total dosage up to five hundred milligrams. As Sharon swabbed the needle puncture, preparing to slap a Band-Aid onto it, Karras was staring down at Regan in puzzlement, for the frenzied obscenities spewing from her mouth seemed directed at no one in the room, but rather at someone unseen—or not present.

  He dismissed it. “I’ll be back,” he told Sharon.

  Concerned about Chris, he went down to the kitchen, where again he found her sitting alone at the table. She was pouring brandy into her coffee. “Are you sure you wouldn’t like some, Father?” she asked him.

  Shaking his head, he came over to the table, where he sat down wearily and lowered his face into his hands on propped elbows; heard the porcelain clicks of a spoon stirring coffee. “Have you talked to her father?” he asked.

  “Yes, he called,” Chris said. “He wanted to talk to Rags.”

  “And what did you tell him?”

  “I told him she was out at a party.”

  Silence. Karras heard no more clicks. He looked up and saw Chris staring up at the ceiling. And then he noticed it too: the shouting of obscenities above had ceased.

  “I guess the Librium took hold,” he said gratefully.

  Chiming of the doorbell. Karras glanced toward the sound, then at Chris, who met his look of surmise with a questioning, apprehensive lifting of an eyebrow. Kinderman?

  Seconds ticked by as they sat and listened. No one was coming to answer; Willie was resting in her room and Sharon and Karl were still upstairs. Tense, Chris abruptly got up from the table and went to the living room, where, kneeling on a sofa, she parted a curtain and peered furtively through the window at her caller. No, not Kinderman. Thank God! It was a tall old man in a threadbare black raincoat and black felt hat, his head bowed patiently in the rain as at his side he was gripping a black valise. For an instant, a silvery buckle gleamed in streetlamp glow as the bag shifted slightly in his grip. Who on earth is that?

  Another doorbell chime.

  Puzzled, Chris got down off the sofa and walked to the entry hall. She opened the front door slightly, squinting out into darkness as a fine mist of rain brushed across her eyes. The man’s hat brim obscured his face. “Yes, hello; can I help you?”

  “Mrs. MacNeil?” came a voice from the shadows, gentle and refined, yet as full as a harvest.

  As the stranger reached up to remove his hat, Chris was nodding her head, and then suddenly she was looking into eyes that overwhelmed her: that shone with intelligence and kindly understanding, with serenity that poured from them into her being like the waters of a warm and healing river whose source was both in him and yet somehow beyond him; whose flow was contained and yet headlong and endless.

  “I’m Father Lankester Merrin,” he said.

  For a moment Chris stared blankly at the lean and ascetic face, at the sculptured cheekbones polished like soapstone; then quickly she flung wide the door. “Oh my gosh, please come in! Oh, come in! Gee, I’m … Honestly! I don’t know where my…”

  He entered and she closed the door.

  “I mean, I didn’t expect you until tomorrow!” Chris finished.

  “Yes, I know,” she heard him saying.

  As she turned around to face him, she saw him standing with his head angled sideways, glancing upward, as if he were listening—no, more like feeling, she thought—for some presence out of sight; for some distant vibration that was known and familiar. Puzzled, Chris studied him. His skin seemed weathered by a sun that shone elsewhere, somewhere remote from her time and her place.

  What’s he doing?

  “Can I take that bag for you, Father?”

  “It’s all right,” he said softly. Still feeling. Still probing. “It’s like part of my arm: very old … very battered.” He looked down with a warm, tired smile in his eyes. “I’m accustomed to the weight. Is Father Karras here?”
br />   “Yes, he is. He’s in the kitchen. Have you had any dinner, Father Merrin?”

  Merrin did not answer. Instead, he flicked his glance upward at the sound of a door being opened. “Yes, I had some on the train.”

  “Are you sure you wouldn’t like something else?”

  No answer. Then the sound of the door being closed. Merrin’s warm gaze came back to Chris. “No, thank you,” he said. “You’re very kind.”

  Still flustered, “Gee, all of this rain,” Chris babbled. “If I’d known you were coming, I could have met you at the station.”

  “It’s all right.”

  “Did you have to wait long for a cab?”

  “A few minutes.”

  “I’ll take that, Father!”

  Karl. He’d descended the stairs very quickly and now slipped the bag from the priest’s easy grip and took it down the hall.

  “We’ve put a bed in the study for you, Father.” Chris was fidgeting. “It’s really very comfortable and I thought you’d like the privacy. I’ll show you where it is.” She’d started moving, then stopped. “Or would you like to say hello to Father Karras?”

  “I should like to see your daughter first.”

  “Right now, you mean, Father?” Chris said doubtfully.

  Merrin glanced upward again with that air of distant attentiveness. “Yes, now,” he said. “I think now.”

  “Gee, I’m sure she’s asleep.”

  “I think not.”

  “Well, if—”

  Suddenly, Chris flinched at a sound from above, at the voice of the demon. Booming and yet muffled, croaking, like an amplified premature burial, it called out “Merriiiiinnnnnn!” And then the massive and shiveringly hollow jolt of a single sledgehammer blow against the bedroom wall.

  “God almighty!” Chris breathed out as she clutched a pale hand against her chest. Stunned, she looked at Merrin. The priest hadn’t moved. He was still staring upward, intense and yet serene, and in his eyes there was not even a hint of surprise. It was more, Chris thought, like recognition.

  Another blow shook the walls.

  “Merriiiiinnnnnnnnnn!”

  The Jesuit moved slowly forward, oblivious of Chris, who was gaping in wonder; of Karl, stepping lithe and incredulous from the study; of Karras, emerging bewildered from the kitchen while the nightmarish poundings and croakings continued. Merrin went calmly up the staircase, a slender hand like alabaster sliding upward on the banister. Karras came up beside Chris, and together they watched from below as Merrin entered Regan’s bedroom and closed the door behind him. For a time there was silence. Then abruptly the demon laughed hideously and Merrin swiftly exited the room, closed the door, then moved quickly down the hall while behind him the bedroom door opened again and Sharon poked her head out, staring after him with an odd expression on her face.

  Merrin descended the staircase rapidly and put out his hand to the waiting Karras.

  “Father Karras!”

  “Hello, Father.”

  Merrin had clasped Karras’s hand in both of his; he was squeezing it, searching the younger priest’s face with a look of gravity and concern, while upstairs the hideous laughter turned to vicious obscenities directed at Merrin. “You look terribly tired,” Merrin said. “Are you tired?”

  “No.”

  “Good. Do you have your raincoat here with you?”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “Well, then here, take mine,” said the gray-haired Jesuit, un-buttoning the rain-sprinkled coat. “I should like you to go to the residence, Damien, and gather up a cassock for myself, two surplices, a purple stole, some holy water and two copies of The Roman Ritual, the large one.” He handed his raincoat to the puzzled Karras. “I believe we should begin.”

  Karras frowned. “You mean now? Right away?”

  “Yes, I think so.”

  “Don’t you want to hear the background of the case first?”

  “Why?”

  Karras realized that he had no answer. He averted his gaze from those disconcerting eyes. “Right, Father,” he said. He was slipping on the raincoat and turning away. “I’ll go and get them.”

  Karl made a dash across the room, got ahead of Karras and pulled the front door open for him. They exchanged brief glances, and then Karras stepped out into the rainy night. Merrin glanced back to Chris. “I should have asked you. You don’t mind if we begin right away?”

  She’d been watching him, glowing with relief at the sense of decision and direction and command sweeping into the house like sun-drenched day. “No, I’m glad,” she said gratefully. “But you must be so tired, Father Merrin.”

  The old priest saw her anxious gaze flicking upward toward the raging of the demon. “Would you like a cup of coffee?” she was asking in a voice that was insistent and faintly pleading. “It’s hot and fresh-made. Wouldn’t you like some?”

  Merrin saw the hands lightly clasping and unclasping; the deep caverns of her eyes. “Yes, I would,” he said warmly. “Thank you.” Something heavy had been gently brushed aside; told to wait. “If you’re sure it’s no trouble.”

  Chris led him to the kitchen and soon he was leaning against the stove with a mug of black coffee in his hands. Chris picked up a liquor bottle. “Want some brandy in it, Father?” she asked him.

  Merrin bent his head and looked down into his coffee mug without expression. “Well, the doctors say I shouldn’t,” he said, “but thank God, my will is weak.”

  Chris blinked and stared blankly, unsure of his meaning, until she saw the smile in his eyes as he lifted his head and held out his mug. “Yes, thank you, I will.”

  With a smile, Chris poured the liquor. “What a lovely name you have,” Merrin told her as she did so. “Chris MacNeil. It’s not a stage name?”

  Trickling brandy into her coffee, Chris shook her head. “No, I’m really not Sadie Glutz.”

  “Thank God for that,” murmured Merrin with lowered eyes.

  With a gentle, warm smile, Chris sat down. “And what’s Lankester, Father? So unusual. Were you named after someone?”

  “I think perhaps a cargo ship,” Merrin murmured as he stared off absently. Lifting the coffee mug to his lips, he sipped, then reflected, “Or a bridge. Yes, I suppose it was a bridge.” Turning his gaze to Chris, he looked ruefully amused. “But now ‘Damien,’ ” he said; “how I wish I had a name like that. So lovely.”

  “Where does that come from, Father? That name?”

  “It was the name of a priest who devoted his life to taking care of the lepers on the island of Molokai. He finally caught the disease himself.” Merrin looking aside. “Lovely name,” he said again. “I believe that with a first name like Damien, I might even be content with the last name Glutz.”

  Chris chuckled. She unwound. Felt easier. And for minutes, she and Merrin spoke of homely things, little things. Finally, Sharon appeared in the kitchen, and only then did Merrin move to leave. It was as if he had been waiting for her arrival, for immediately he carried his mug to the sink, rinsed it out and placed it carefully in the dish rack. “That was good; that was just what I wanted,” he said.

  Chris got up and said, “I’ll take you to your room.” Merrin thanked her and followed her to the door of the study, where she told him, “If there’s anything you need, Father, just let me know.”

  He put his hand on her shoulder and as he squeezed it lightly and reassuringly, Chris felt a warmth and a power flowing into her, as well as a feeling of peace and an odd sense of something that felt like—What? she wondered. Safety? Yes, something like that. “You’re very kind,” she said. His eyes smiled. He said, “Thank you.” He removed his hand and as he watched her walk away a sudden tightening of pain seemed to clutch at his face. He entered the study and closed the door. From a pocket of his trousers, he slipped out a tin marked Bayer Aspirin, opened it, extracted a nitroglycerin pill and placed it carefully under his tongue.

  Entering the kitchen, Chris paused by the door and looked over at Sharon. She wa
s standing by the stove, the palm of her hand against the percolator as she waited for the coffee to reheat. Looking troubled, she was staring into space. Concerned, Chris walked over to her and said softly, “Hey, honey, why don’t you get yourself a little bit of rest?”

  For a moment, no response. Then Sharon turned and stared blankly at Chris. “I’m sorry. Did you say something?”

  Chris studied the tightness in her face, the distant look. “What happened up there, Sharon?” she asked.

  “Happened where?”

  “When Father Merrin walked into Regan’s bedroom.”

  “Oh, yes…” Slightly frowning, Sharon shifted her faraway gaze to a point in space between doubt and remembrance. “Yes. It was funny.”

  “Funny?”

  “Strange. They only…” She paused. “Well, they only just stared at each other for a while, and then Regan—that thing—it said…”

  “What?”

  “It said, ‘This time, you’re going to lose.’ ”

  Chris stared at her, waiting. “And then?”

  “That was it,” Sharon answered. “He turned around and walked out of the room.”

  “And how did he look?” Chris asked her.

  “Funny.”

  “Oh, Christ, Sharon, think of some other word!” Chris snapped and was about to say something else when she noticed that Sharon had angled her head up and a little to the side, abstracted, as if she were listening. Following her gaze, Chris heard it too: the silence; the sudden cessation of the raging of the demon; yet something more … something else … and growing.