The Dark Sacrament Page 6

  Aunt Breda’s crucifix, which he had placed in the bedroom, was obviously doing its work.

  His optimism was short-lived; Nan Sal was to return. This time, she did not wait until the house was dark and silent before making her presence known. Nor did she choose the bedroom.

  Joe was adamant that the first apparition had been a figment of Heather’s imagination. He was still skeptical.

  “I’ll believe it when I see it myself,” he had told her.

  It was Friday, March 6. The couple were on the couch watching television. They might never have known about the presence of their “visitor” had Rip not alerted them. The dog was dozing on the hearthrug when, without warning, he leaped to his feet. He began barking furiously.

  Joe and Heather turned. In the corner, partially lit by the standard lamp, stood the figure of an old woman. Nan Sal. Heather saw that she was wearing the same blue gown. Her hands were extended in a beckoning gesture and she wore the same fixed grin as before.

  The grin was not a mirthful one; it seemed utterly malevolent. Heather was terrified. Joe was speechless, his skepticism melting away like snow in a skillet. But he recovered quickly. He stood up.

  “Get out of here!” he shouted at the apparition. “Get out! We don’t want you here!” They were the first words that came into his head.

  But nothing happened. The old woman still stood grinning balefully. Heather was howling with terror. Joe tried again. “For Christ’s sake, get out!” he cried.

  At that, the visitant raised its hands to its throat and made the throttling gesture that had so frightened Heather. As before, it slowly disappeared.

  Joe switched on the light. Rip was whining, ears back, his tail between his legs. He seemed to be staring at the place where the apparition had been. Joe found himself staring, too, trying to come to terms with what he had just seen.

  He heard a gurgling noise. Heather was still on the couch; she had her back to him, and her shoulders were shaking. She seemed to be having some kind of fit.

  “Heather?”

  She did not respond. The gurgling grew louder. Joe came around to the front of the couch. He could not believe what he was seeing: it was the most macabre sight he had ever witnessed. Heather’s eyes were bulging; in the light from the standing lamp he could see that her face was discolored. She was choking. Joe saw the cause. There, “as clear as day,” was a hand, fastened about her throat. But it was not Heather’s. It was an aged, wizened hand where Heather’s should have been, and it was trying to choke the life out of her. The hand ended at the wrist in a frilled blue cuff and wore a brass ring on the middle finger.

  Joe was petrified. He was witnessing the inconceivable. His rational mind told him it was nonsense, that such things did not happen. Yet he could not doubt the evidence of his eyes. Heather was under attack. Her face had turned purple under the hand’s murderous grip and her eyes had swiveled in her head, so that only the whites were visible. She was gasping for breath. He had to act.

  Overcoming his revulsion, he seized the grisly hand. It was cold to the touch and seemed immensely strong, the tendons and muscles feeling like nylon ropes. As he tried to free her, Heather grasped his shoulder with her “other” hand, the normal one. He heard her attempting to call out his name.

  He was frantic. But even as he struggled, he was registering yet another impossibility.

  “It was that other hand,” he says. “I knew Heather was trying to help me. She’d gripped my shoulder and was squeezing. But it wasn’t her hand. It was like someone with long fingernails. It felt like eagle talons digging into my flesh. But I knew that Heather’s nails were bitten to the quick. Always had been. She was one of these nervous people who are forever biting their nails.”

  Using both hands, and all the strength he could muster, he managed at last to break the hold. As he did so, he felt “a warm sensation” beneath his grip, as the phantom hand relaxed. “When I looked again,” Joe says, “it was Heather’s hand I was holding on to. Her real hand.”

  Heather was free. She collapsed onto the rug, choking and coughing, and gasping for air. Later she would confess that she never felt closer to death than she did that evening.

  “Are you all right, honey?” Joe asked, bending over her.

  She could only nod.

  “We’re leaving,” he said. “Right now! We’re getting out of here.”

  But Nan Sal had not finished with them. At that moment they heard footsteps overhead, followed by their bedroom door opening.

  It was enough. They picked up a few belongings, found a bag in the kitchen, and hurried to the front door. Joe fetched Rip’s leash and kept him by his side. They would spend the night with Aunt Breda again. Heather went to the front door.

  The door would not open.

  The knob refused to turn. It was jammed. She thought perhaps the safety was on. It was not. Inexplicably, the lock was stuck. They could not leave.

  “Let me!” Joe yelled.

  It refused to budge. It was as though it was welded shut.

  “Oh, Christ!” he screamed. “What the f*** is going on?”

  From upstairs came the sound of mocking laughter. They turned, terror-stricken. At the top of the stairs stood the grandmother, dressed as before. She was grinning. Then she began to cackle. It was loud, and utterly chilling.

  If the door would not open, they would find another way out, Joe decided. Taking Heather by the hand, he rushed back into the living room. Rip was growling and yelping by turns, terrified. Joe struggled with the window. It had not been opened fully in years.

  “Oh, Jesus, hurry!” Heather pleaded.

  The window yielded at last. Joe forced it up. Rip needed no prompting; he leaped through to freedom. Heather followed. Once out, Joe allowed the frame to drop with a crash. He heard glass shatter; he did not care. They reached the safety of the car.

  On the journey to his aunt’s house, Joe struggled to regain his composure. He was jabbering and swearing and trembling, his mind in turmoil. He could not come to terms with the terrible events. Rip, in the back seat, lay whimpering.

  But Heather was eerily calm. She sat quietly, staring straight ahead. He could not understand it. Was she in shock? They had both experienced unimaginably terrifying events. She had almost died. How, he asked himself, could she be so calm?

  “Heather, are you okay?”

  She did not answer, seemed unaware that he had even spoken.

  “Heather? Honey?”

  She said nothing. Instead, her hands shot out, and latched onto the steering wheel. She was forcing the car toward the wrong side of the road.

  “Heather, what the f*** are you doing?”

  Joe wrestled for control of the wheel—and found he was no match for her strength. Her hands were locked in position, forcing the car on a collision course. The road was treacherous; it had rained heavily for most of the day. Their fighting for control of the wheel was sending the car into a skid.

  Up ahead in the distance, Joe could see the lights of a truck approaching.

  “Heather, let go!”

  He had to stop the car. He knew that if he tried to brake, the car might end up on its roof—or worse. The headlights of the truck were drawing closer.

  “Jesus Christ, Heather, stop it!” he yelled.

  As if by magic, she released her grip on the steering wheel.

  They were in the path of the oncoming truck. The gap was closing rapidly. Joe heard the blaring of twin air horns; six banks of high-intensity headlights flashed, flooding the car with light, half-blinding him. He heard Rip’s frantic barking. And, through all the sound and the fury, he heard something he would never forget. It was the same mocking laughter that had driven them out of their home just minutes before.

  There were four of them in the car now.

  He flung the wheel wildly, sending the car out of the truck’s path, missing it by inches. He saw a tree coming up to meet them. But they avoided it. The car ended up with the front wheels in a ditch.
The truck drove on.

  Joe collapsed over the wheel, sweating and shaking. He was unable to speak. Rip was moaning and scratching at the rear window, desperate to get out. The derisive laughter continued. He looked across at Heather—and froze. She sat with her head thrown back. The cackling was emerging from her throat.

  Joe found his voice. “What…what the f*** are you doing?” he screamed into her face. “You nearly got us killed!”

  She stopped laughing abruptly and turned to look at him for the first time. “Thought we’d have some fun,” she said in a flat voice.

  Joe was horrified.

  “I figured she was in shock,” he explains. “I thought she might be having a seizure or a fit of some kind. All I know is that she wasn’t herself. I didn’t like to do it, but I slapped her hard across the face. Thought that would make her snap out of it.”

  But Heather did not flinch. She was smiling.

  “Fun!” he cried.

  “Yes, fun. Breda’s not at home. She’s in the f***ing church praying her useless prayers. So we’d have been sitting outside her house, twiddling our f***ing thumbs, waiting on the bitch.”

  “What?” Joe had never heard her talk about his aunt that way. “How could you know what Aunt Breda was doing? We didn’t have time to call her.”

  “I know everything. They show me.” She cocked her head to one side in an unnerving way. “She dropped her f***ing rosary beads on the bus, so she’ll be in a bloody flap when we get there.”

  “Oh, my God. What’s got into you?”

  “Exciting, isn’t it? They’re telling me now when you’re going to die.” She said it with a smile—a wide, ugly grin. Yet the rest of the face remained immobile; the forehead and cheeks were drawn taut, the eyes wide open and staring.

  “Wouldn’t you like to know?” she continued. The voice was challenging. It did not belong to Heather.

  Joe was stunned. He tried to speak, but the words would not come.

  “Shall I tell you?” she said tauntingly. The mouth twisted into a contemptuous smirk. “When you’re going to die?”

  Still he could not speak. His jaw seemed paralyzed.

  Jesus, help me! The phrase rose out of nowhere in his consciousness. Jesus, help me. He struggled to free his voice. He succeeded.

  “Jesus, help me!” he cried, pressing his temples and shutting his eyes tight against the nightmare that was not a nightmare.

  It was as though a spell had been broken. Rip stopped whining. There was a deathly silence. Joe opened his eyes. He was afraid—afraid to clap eyes on who it might be in the passenger seat.

  “Heather,” he ventured, hoping that the sound of her name might bring about her “return.” Slowly, carefully he allowed himself to look her way.

  She was sitting bolt upright, staring through the windshield at the dark, wet hedge.

  “The bitch is back now,” she said, half to herself, “so we can go.”

  With that, she left the car. Joe heard a heavy thud at the rear and felt the vehicle lurch. He buried his face in his hands and began to weep. Wild thoughts were assailing him.

  “I think I believed at that moment that Heather was going to kill me,” Joe recalls. “She’d just told me that she knew when I was going to die. If someone was going to kill you, wouldn’t they know that—the moment of your death?”

  He desperately wanted to flee from the car, but sheer terror had drained him of all energy. He could not move. There was no escape. He could only wait and pray.

  “Jesus, help me!” he sobbed over and over. “Jesus, help me!”

  He heard the passenger door open.

  Someone was climbing in beside him. A hand shook his shoulder. “What happened? Joe, why have we stopped?”

  He looked into Heather’s concerned face. The real Heather had returned. The car was no longer wedged in the ditch. Miraculously, it had righted itself and was now on the grass shoulder, facing in the right direction.

  “What happened?” Heather asked again, growing anxious.

  Joe stared at her in disbelief. She seemed totally unaware of the havoc she had just caused.

  “Joe, you’re scaring me.” She started to cry. “What on earth happened?”

  “I—I don’t know,” he managed to say. “I think…we…skidded.” His mouth was dry. His head ached. He was drenched in sweat.

  “I must have blacked out. Did I?” Heather asked. “I don’t remember a thing.”

  “Yes…yes, you did.”

  He got the engine running. He had barely the strength to maneuver the car back onto the road again.

  They drove the rest of the way in silence. When, at last, they arrived at his aunt’s house, Joe prayed that he would find her at home, watching television or something. He wanted so desperately for her to be there. Don’t let me hear you took the bus, he thought, over and over; anything but the bus.

  He rang the doorbell. Breda answered; she was wearing her hat and overcoat. Joe’s heart sank.

  “Gosh, you’re in luck,” she said. “I’ve just come in from Mass.”

  He knew that her parish church was a ten-minute walk away. No bus needed.

  Joe wondered if they might stay with her again for a few days. She seemed to take it in stride. She made them coffee. She could see how upset her nephew was. She made small talk.

  “Would you believe it?” she said with a rueful smile. “I lost my rosary on the bus. Isn’t that just like me?”

  Joe felt as though he were losing his mind. He stared in disbelief at Heather, but Heather was nodding sympathetically.

  “The bus driver was very good,” Breda was saying. “He took my phone number and said he’d ring me if he found them. They were from Lourdes, you see, so God willing someone finds them and turns them in.”

  “God willing,” Heather repeated kindly. “Don’t worry, Breda, I’m sure they’ll turn up. Won’t they, Joe?” She looked to him for confirmation.

  “Well, you…You’d bloody well know, Heather, wouldn’t you?” He was dazed by the unreality of the moment. “You would bloody know!”

  They stared at him in astonishment. Aunt Breda put a hand to her heart.

  “Joe! What’s got into you?”

  “Maybe you should ask her that!” He pointed a trembling finger at Heather. “I know what I need: a bloody drink, and to get as far away from her as possible!”

  He left the house. He needed to be alone with his thoughts. Heather needed help; they both did.

  The next day, at Joe’s insistence, Heather went to see her doctor. After speaking to her at length, he took Joe aside. The man confessed his bafflement; what he heard from Heather made no sense.

  Joe told him everything he knew. He thought that the doctor would laugh, accuse him and Heather of wasting his time with superstitious nonsense. He did not. He advised something few medical practitioners would even consider in the circumstances. He recommended that Heather go and see a Christian minister.

  There was a good man he knew—the best man in the “profession” of deliverance. They would have to travel, though: Canon William H. Lendrum lived eighty miles away, in Belfast.

  An appointment was made and, on a spring evening in 1992, Heather Mitchelson and Joe Kilmartin presented themselves at the home of the canon. He introduced them to his two assistants, and the exorcism began. The canon expected it would be no more arduous than celebrating a Eucharist….

  We are sitting in the living room of Canon William Lendrum’s Belfast home as he relates the details of Heather Mitchelson’s case.

  At age eighty-two, he can look back over an astonishing four decades of battling demons and other paranormal entities. During those decades, he tells us, he came upon few cases of actual possession. Heather’s was the exception rather than the rule.

  Yet he has witnessed an ever-increasing call on his ministry in recent years, and expresses a wish that the church hierarchy would take a more robust approach to exorcism.

  “People are a little afraid of this subje
ct,” he says. “They don’t wish to be reminded of the ugly side of life, the more frightening side. They believe that by bringing such things into the open they leave themselves vulnerable. They don’t seem to realize that not confronting these things gives the Devil free rein to do as he chooses.”

  He recalls Heather Mitchelson with fondness. He was gratified that he could—if only for a time, as events would show—liberate a young woman who had fallen foul of so much evil, yet had battled through.

  “When Heather came round after the exorcism, she remembered nothing,” he says. “This is a common occurrence. The demon can take over the entire consciousness, you see. I knew I wasn’t speaking to Heather throughout it all. Afterwards, she said she felt ‘beautiful and clean’ within, but ‘empty’ as well, as if something had been taken away from inside of her. The change in her was extraordinary; her whole demeanor, even her voice, was different. I prayed over her and she rededicated her life to Jesus.”

  We wonder if Heather was possessed by her dead relatives or by evil spirits. The canon has firm opinions on this. “I’m inclined to believe that the dead don’t come back for any good reason, but that evil spirits can masquerade as the dead,” he says. “Roman Catholicism holds that souls in purgatory might return to ask for prayers, and that’s another view. There is the distinct possibility, in Heather’s case, that the uncle and grandmother were both demonized in their lifetimes. I think that it was highly likely. There was no emphasis on a prayer life as far as I’m aware, and therefore no defense against evil. That is not a judgment, but simply a statement of fact.”

  Canon Lendrum is quick to point out that an exorcism will be effective only as long as the person who receives it keeps his or her part of the bargain. That is how he sees it: as a bargain. When people are exorcised, they make a pact with God, as it were, that they will remain “on the straight and narrow.”

  “You know, the most difficult part for me is not the exorcism itself,” he says. “The most difficult part is encouraging a person who has never been religious to return to the Lord after their deliverance. Heather was one such person.