Authors: Ralph Sarchie
Max was never quite the same after that. He wasn’t the best-behaved dog to begin with, but after being terrorized and knocked around by a diabolical force, he grew wilder and wilder. He became increasingly destructive and once leapt through our sunroom window in a berserk frenzy. There was blood and glass everywhere, that’s how wild and uncontrollable he’d become. Despite all the trouble he caused, I loved that dog, and immediately took him to the vet to be stitched up.
His barking became almost incessant—except for one peculiar occasion where, like the dog in the Sherlock Holmes mystery, Max did nothing in the night. It was around three o’clock in the morning, and I’d long since kissed my wife and daughter good-bye as they slept, as I always did before going to work, never knowing if I would ever see them again. Jen woke up to the sound of the kitchen door rattling, as if someone were trying to break in. Thinking it might be the dog, scratching to go out and do his business, she got up and saw Max asleep on Christina’s bed.
The noise got louder, and she peeked into the kitchen to see what was the matter. Fear poured through her when she saw the door shaking violently. As fast as a heavily pregnant woman can run, she ran to the cordless phone. Just then the kitchen light dimmed—and she realized that whatever was battering on the door wasn’t a human. Holding the phone receiver like a talisman, she ran back to the bedroom and was about to call me when the pounding abruptly stopped. What struck me about this story was Max’s behavior—this animal usually barked like mad if so much as a leaf dropped in the yard, and suddenly he can’t summon the energy to get up and give even one woof? He must have remembered what happened the last time he was visited by the demonic!
* * *
When I reached Frank and JoAnn’s building, I saw Keith approaching it with a confident cop swagger. I knew he was a brave man, but had I really done enough to prepare him for dealing with beings so evil that they think nothing of beating up your dog or terrorizing your pregnant wife, just to get even with you? I hoped he’d followed my instructions about getting into a state of grace.
The condo was on the twentieth floor of a beautiful building that looked out at the Verrazano Narrows Bridge. The view was spectacular on this clear winter night, with the lights on the bridge sparkling in the distance. I was struck by the contrast between this lovely setting and the dark, purposeful evil that had brought us here. I told Keith we were about to meet a man who in his lucid moments hated Catholics and while under the sway of the demonic hated humanity.
“Remember that we could be dealing with a very powerful spirit that doesn’t want anyone around who give its victim hope,” I said. “Hope is a very dangerous thing to the demonic.”
“Will we know if Frank is possessed?” Keith wondered.
“At this point, consider him a suspect,” I explained. “Although it’s hard to tell at first if you’re speaking to the person or the demon, eventually the true nature of the beast will show through, if he’s possessed.”
We rode the elevator up to the condo. As JoAnn had warned me, it
was
a mess. Although the rooms were generously sized, this was clearly a couple who never threw anything out. The living room was extremely cluttered: Piles of books, old newspapers, and papers were everywhere. Judging by the number of take-out cartons and dirty plates lying around, Frank and JoAnn lived mainly on Chinese food and didn’t spend much time doing the dishes. Seeing the poor state of hygiene in this home—and several cockroaches—we both declined JoAnn’s offer of coffee.
Among the vast array of objects that filled the living room were numerous photographs of Frank. Even though he wasn’t a particularly handsome man, variations of his toothy grin could be seen on just about every wall, with an occasional shot of JoAnn, a thin blonde of about thirty, with bags under her eyes, rumpled clothing, and a sloppy ponytail. Her husband was rather overweight but very elegantly dressed in a cashmere sports jacket and navy blue pants that probably cost ten times as much as my entire outfit. As he shook my hand, I noticed his fingernails were not only neatly manicured but had a coat of clear polish on them.
The dapper drycleaner, who was a bit
too
dapper for the tastes of working-class cops like Keith and me, was in his mid-thirties and had no kids. Soon after high school he’d joined the Jehovah’s Witnesses, a group that puts an enormous emphasis on Bible study. Soon he could recite biblical passages all night long. The trouble started about eight years ago, when Frank was reading one of the numerous publications this group puts out and distributes door-to-door in the hope of finding converts. “All of a sudden,” he said, “I heard a voice inside my head saying that I was ‘a chosen one.’”
I could see his delight at being so honored. In a slightly patronizing tone, he explained that one of his religion’s beliefs is that certain people are selected by God to become leaders and teachers. Frank was convinced that this message came from God and offered a biblical passage to prove it. “As the Good Book says in John 16:13, ‘When he comes, however, being the spirit of truth he will guide you to all truth. He will not speak on his own, but will speak what he hears, and will announce to you the things to come.’”
I, however, felt this voice was anything but holy. Frank described it as a deep male baritone, not unlike his own voice, and said it began forecasting events that later came true. For example, it told him that a friend of his was pregnant. “The voice even predicted that she’d have a boy,” the drycleaner added. “And that was before she’d even told anybody she was expecting!”
After that, Frank found that when he’d meditate on the Bible, his mind seemed to open up and he could understand its passages perfectly. This filled him with pride rather than a reverence for God—definitely a sign that he was under the influence of a demon. By feeding his ego, the fiend was gradually luring him away from righteousness and into the sin of pride.
Over time, Frank began to trust the voice more and more, eventually reaching a point where he’d do nothing without its approval. This went on for several years, until his life abruptly took an upsetting twist. It seemed that the other people in his group didn’t share his view that he was a “chosen one,” turned against him, and actually kicked him out of their group. In a bitter tone, Frank quoted another biblical passage: “‘Yet for all this they sinned still more and believed not in his wonders … though their hearts were not steadfast towards him, nor were they faithful to his covenant. Yet he, being merciful, destroyed them not; often he turned back his anger and let none of his wrath be roused. He remembered that they were flesh, a passing breath that returns not.’”
I took his ouster from the Jehovah’s Witnesses as further evidence of diabolical influence, since I’ve seen time and time again how the demonic lead people down a path of isolation, to make them more vulnerable to possession. The evil spirit’s goal was clear: to separate Frank from his support system so it could more effectively break down his will.
That’s when he noticed that he wasn’t just hearing the voice in his mind: It now spoke out loud, as if somebody nearby were talking to him. Frank refused to see that he was heading further and further in the wrong direction: Even during the interview, he quoted the Bible constantly, making it difficult for us to get the information we needed to help him. When Keith asked what kind of religious upbringing Frank had, the drycleaner’s answer, if you want to call it one, was this passage from Ecclesiastes: “‘Remember your Creator in the days of your youth, before the evil days to come and the years approach of which you will say, I have no pleasure in them before the sun is darkened.’” Understandably, Keith didn’t pursue this line of questioning.
Later in the interview, I saw Frank swell with pride at what he thought were clever interpretations of certain passages. He even went so far as to tell me how the demonic work according to the Scriptures, yet he refused to see how twisted this was. Instead, he arrogantly informed me that he had such “respect” for God and His authority that he refused to listen to anybody else. Never once, however, did he speak of “love” for God.
After being expelled from the Jehovah’s Witnesses, he began putting on weight rapidly, even though he wasn’t eating any more than usual. Being exceedingly vain about his appearance, he promptly consulted a doctor, only to learn that he was in excellent physical health, other than being about forty pounds overweight. He grew fatter and fatter, so rapidly that his clothes no longer fit him, even ones he’d just bought. More disturbing still, he’d find brand-new shirts and pants he’d never worn split at the seams, or ripped and tattered. JoAnn offered to show us some of this clothing, but I declined.
Hearing about the damaged clothing set off an immediate alarm bell for me, since I’ve seen this happen in many cases I’ve handled. People who are possessed will often find their clothes, bedding, or draperies mysteriously torn up. It’s one of the Devil’s many terror tactics. Frank’s story got even worse: He started seeing horrifying visions of things that the voice said would come to pass, and he began to lose control over his bodily movement, as if something else were controlling him—another hallmark of possession. Finding his life harder and harder to deal with, the dry-cleaner found himself filled with rage and pain about being thrown out of the religious group he loved, even though this had happened long ago.
Finally the voice that now ruled his life suddenly turned cruel, telling him that he was a miserable excuse for a man—too stupid and incompetent to handle anything at all without its “help.” That’s when Frank turned to the psychiatrist in fear and despondency, terrified that he was going crazy, only to find that Prozac had no power to heal him. It was then that he finally opened his mind to the possibility that he was possessed and agreed to meet with me.
I spent about two hours probing every detail of this disturbing story, with an occasional question from Keith, and found Frank and JoAnn to be intelligent people who were clearly telling the truth. Not only was there no doubt in my mind that the drycleaner was possessed by a demonic spirit, but after my investigation, I felt strongly that he was the victim of a curse by someone who wished him ill and used black magic to send evil his way. This, of course, is impossible to prove, since in most cases the victim is unaware that he or she has been cursed and probably doesn’t even know it’s possible. Most people don’t believe in hexes—but you don’t have to believe to be affected by someone else’s malignant intent. As to who cursed him, I suspect that a member of his former religious group felt Frank had somehow done him—or her—wrong.
I wasn’t at all surprised when Frank hotly disputed my theory about what brought the dark force into his life. It’s typical for someone who is under the sway of a demon to resist having any light of understanding thrown on his problems, since these evil spirits can thrive only in darkness. I felt that while a curse may have made him a tempting target to the demonic, it was Frank’s own pride and vanity that ultimately gave the evil spirit a foothold into his soul. Basically, this demon attacked through his weaknesses and preyed on his desires.
To put it another way, it was almost as if Frank were a drug addict: The longer he listened to the voice, the harder it got for him to give it up, even when its words hurt him. Now he’d become totally dependent on it. Yet to a degree, he was still resisting the spirit that had possessed him and had agreed to an exorcism. The question was, could he summon up the will to free himself?
* * *
It was a beautiful day for an exorcism, almost absurdly warm for December in New York. I carefully blessed my car with holy water inside and out, even the tires. Although I consider myself a good driver—as a police officer, I spend forty hours a week behind the wheel of a patrol car—I can’t tell you how many close calls I’ve had driving my own car to exorcisms. Thinking of all the times I barely escaped collisions, sometimes during blinding snowstorms or on roads that had turned to sheets of ice, other times on lovely, sunny days like this, I sprinkled a little extra holy water around, to be on the safe side.
Now I was ready to pick up Joe, who’d volunteered to help—despite his sabbatical from the Work—when I told him that Keith was busy that day. The Warrens’ nephew, John Z., would be joining us at Our Lady of the Rosary Chapel. As my partner and I pulled into the Bridgeport, Connecticut, train station, where the bishop had sent us to pick up Frank and JoAnn and bring them to his church for the exorcism, we said a brief prayer that the ritual would be successful. I always hate having a possessed person in my car, since the satanic spirit inside him might spring a surprise attack at any moment, forcing me to be hyper-vigilant for any diabolical drama.
At an exorcism a few years ago, I was sitting with the possessed woman and her husband in a pew, getting ready for the ritual, when the woman suddenly lunged at her husband, grabbed him around the neck, and started choking him. I slammed both my knees into the pew as I hastily leapt up to rescue him, while the other assistants showered the three of us with holy water. Just as I’ve often done on the street with deranged, drugged up, or violent criminals, I quickly subdued her. We stopped the murderous assault, immediately put her in arm and leg restraints, and began the exorcism.
To make matters worse, the ritual proved so long and exhausting that the bishop decided to finish it the next day, at the woman’s home. As soon as he walked in, she sprang from the sofa at a dead run, clearly determined to strangle him. You’d think it was Superbowl Sunday, the way three of us tackled her right there on her living room rug. That stopped the demon’s physical attack, and the exorcism proceeded as planned.
My body went on red alert when I saw Frank and JoAnn get off the train. Frank didn’t look too dangerous, however: He was even more impeccably dressed than before—except that his designer sweater was definitely a size or two larger than the clothes I’d seen him in then. His wife was wearing a rumpled green sweatsuit with a stain on the sleeve. Both wore anxious, serious expressions and had little to say.