“I don’t have to tell you anything! You can’t make me tell you anything!” responded the deep male voice. And then more sarcastically, “You are too weak to make me do anything! I own this girl! She is mine! Only mine!”
My skin crawled as I carefully observed the little girl, Karen. Surely it wasn’t her voice? Yet her lips were moving, and the harsh words spewed forth from her mouth. Karen’s crossed-eyes glared back in defiance at Reverend Rogers. They narrowed to hate-filled slits. Her mouth twisted into a sneer. Her stomach rumbled, and a series of explosive belches came forth. A foul odor of rotting flesh permeated the air around us. It was almost impossible to catch a deep breath.
Father John O. Tyson, now pale and shaking, had a medallion of the Sacred Heart of Jesus clasped tightly in his right hand. He began softly murmuring the Lord’s Prayer in Latin: “Pater Noster, qui es in coelis: Sanctificetur nomen tuum: Adveniat regnum tuum: Fiat voluntas tua, sicut in coelo, et in terra. Panem nostrum quotidianum da nobis …”
The stench became unbearable. Father Tyson continued to recite his prayer, Joyce Donaldson, one of the pretty young therapy nurses, was ashen and looked as if she were going to vomit. Peggy Welch and Carol Petersen, the other nurses, simply cried. Their arms encircled Joyce in a futile gesture of consolation and protectiveness. There was an oppressive air of fear and helplessness in the room. The feeling of evil was all encompassing and smothering.
Reverend Rogers ignored the malevolent being’s mocking words and obscene gesticulations. He appeared oblivious to the terrible smells flowing from Karen. “Take one of those pens or pencils and write something for me! I command you in Jesus’ name, to write for me!”
“Go straight to Hell, preacher,” snarled the spirit, who followed this with a fit of mocking laughter, “Why don’t you go straight to Hell! You need not bother me, you no-good bastard! Leave me alone, you son-of-a-bitch!”
Then turning to Father Tyson, Karen offensively raised her middle finger directly at him. Her mouth moved, the voice of the evil entity radically changed and dripped with sarcasm: “Oremus! Oremus! Oremus!”
Father Tyson was thoroughly rocked by these words. Rogers and the others were puzzled. The priest looked around the room and said, “He’s speaking fluent Latin! He seems to be making fun of us. He keeps repeating, ‘Let us pray! Let us pray! Let us pray!’” Karen smirked and shifted her crossed-eyes away from Tyson. She glared at each of us in turn. The masculine voice, now even more sinister, again came forth from her fluttering lips. “Laus tibi (Praise be to Thee), Gloria tibi (Glory be to Thee), Sursum corda (Lift up your hearts).”
Father Tyson groped for his crucifix. This crucifix was special to him, a memento that had a great deal of sentimental value. He had never used it in church services. Therefore, until this very moment, it had remained hanging on one wall of his bedroom. After he had been invited to witness this exorcism, Tyson had strongly felt, for some inexplicable reason, that he must take the crucifix with him. It was to be carried merely as an outward expression of his faith, certainly not to be used in casting out demons.