Nightmare Stories

The Travelers

2005-04-27T08:02:00.000-07:00

One of the parishioners shared this with me after Mass, Sunday. Her husband has been ill for awhile and is quite elderly. Twice now he has called for his wife, around 3 AM or so.

The first time she answered his call, he asked, "Do you see her?"

"Who?" she responded.

He continued, "There's a woman in the house, I did not see her face, but she has long hair and a poke-a-dot dress."

She became concerned that they might have an intruder in the home. Since he was in ill health, it fell to her to check. She went to all the rooms, even opening closets, with a skillet in hand if she needed it. There was no one. All the lights were on. The windows and doors were shut and locked. No one except themselves was in the small trailer home.

He must have been dreaming, she thought.

Another night it happened again. She answered his call.

"Are you okay?" she asked. "What is it?"

"Don't you see her?" he queried.

"See who?" she answered.

"Her!" he responded. Pointing he said, "Right there, she is standing right next to you."

"I see no one," the distressed woman answered.

"She is still wearing the yellow poke-a-dot dress. She has long hair, too. Are you sure you don't see her?"

Increasingly worried, she assured him, "J---, there is no one there."

"But I see her, all the same," he pleaded, "except for her face which is strangely blurred."

His doctor was called and the poor wife suspects that he is not getting enough oxygen. However, what makes the case increasingly peculiar is that his sisters and parents, prior to their passing, also reported strange people, invisible to the eyes of others, passing through their homes. The doctor himself said that he could not find any immediate medical cause for the sightings and then shared something in a personal way with her about such things. He explained that back in his home country, somewhere in Asia or India, the dying often reported strangers moving about around them. It was also not the first time that, as a doctor, he had heard about them from critically ill patients. He said that among the lore he had inherited, they were called "the travelers".

Could it be that there is a supernatural explanation for this? The old man was a fallen away Catholic. Could these be angelic spirits or those of ancesters trying to get him to make amends with God before leaving this world?

2005-04-05T17:15:00.000-07:00

Not a Story, But Cloning is Scary!

Haunted by Our Choices

2005-03-27T05:30:00.000-08:00

I made this somewhat uncharitable picture some years ago as an addition to the now usurped GEHENNA PAGE on Tripod. Certainly, I would not want to judge former Vice President Gore and/or the ultimate salvation of anyone, however every true believer should still fear God. I apologize for any unjust offence. This picture is still scary because it reminds us that famous celebrities, influential politicians, and others are not infallible guides of truth or witness. Indeed, you and I may also be quite wrong about some of our assumptions. This is particularly true for Catholics who dissent against Scripture and Church teaching.

I can be the friendliest guy you know, but just being nice will not save me. We are called to comform our minds and hearts to Christ's.

Like so many Southern politicians, Vice President Gore flipped political sides. His wife was a leader in the movement to place warning labels on explict music and other media. Later, when her husband ran with Clinton on the ticket, she apologized to the entertainment and music industry. They were both solidly pro-life. But, when the tides of fashion seemed to go the other way, they became die-hard pro-abortionists and supporters for Planned Parenthood. Nevertheless, they still claim to be religious and Christian? They have to live with their decisions, as we all must.

Can we remain Christian and be pro-abortion or pro-choice? I leave the question with you.

Okay, I know, some of you might be thinking, what has this to do with scary stories. Well, if we would think about the issue of abortion, here is one for you.

You may all have heard about or seen that fellow on television who claims the ability to communicate with the dead. Supposedly he has a Catholic background, but his business has problematical elements for the Church. However, what is interesting is that he is not the first who has claimed such an ability to see the dead. Even some of the saints claimed similar abilities, although the dead were always interpreted as souls in Purgatory seeking our prayers and penances on their behalf.

What many people do not know is that the media and the powers that be (usually the ones that make money) have silenced a side to the business that you might find quite disturbing. There is one such counselor who helps people who are suffering strange ailments or grieving, by disclosing that they are literally being haunted by the dead. Others cannot see them, however he claims to be able to do so.

One woman came to him with a whole assortment of physical and emotional problems. The counselor asked her, "Are you married?"

She answered, "No."

He staired around her and asked, "Did you ever lose a baby?"

She became nervous, but simply said, "No, I have never had a child."

He became very serious, as if he did not know what to say next. The stumbled over his words, but he asked all the same, "Um, did you ever have an abortion?"

She stared in disbelief. How did he know? "Yes," she replied.

He continued, "Seven abortions?"

She began to cry. Yes, it was true. "How do you know?" she asked. "I have told no one. Recently I wanted to get pregnant, but the doctor said there was too much scar tissue. How did you know?"

The counselor then began to denote some of the facts. "You had one, maybe fifteen years ago, a series of abortions in-between, and maybe one just a few years ago. Is this right?"

She could not believe her ears. Yes, she confirmed everything he said. But still, how did he know this about her. Most of the men with whom she had been intimate had never been told.

He told her about his spiritual ability, and detailed what he saw. Standing beside her was a teenage girl with an baby in her arms. Smaller children stood on either side of her, boys and girls.

He explained to her that they where the ghosts of the children she had aborted. Each and every one of them was linked to her as their mother. They had matured on the other side just as they would have in this world had they not been terminated.

Until now, she had never thought of them as real people. It was all just so much tissue or like a tumor, or so the clinic people and technicians told her. But, there was a part of her that had suspected the truth for a long time. She cried tears now, not just for herself, but for what she had cost them.

A Mass was held for healing. As the priest was offering the prayer of consecration, the counselor saw the children get up and leave their mother's side. As the service progressed they moved toward the Church doors and disappeared. No doubt they had felt free to go completely into the hands of God. During the service she named them. It was this they had wanted all along, for their mother to claim them as her own.

We should all remember that a child who dies, no matter if after birth or in the womb, is called to an eternal destiny. Aborted children have immortal souls and in their innocence reach out to God while also spiritually tied to their earthly mothers and fathers. Part of the pain of judgment may even begin in this life but will certainly be realized in the next when selfish parents and murdered children will stand together before Christ. Others who have been enablers or passive to this terrible sin will also have much for which they will be held accountable. The woman in this story was haunted by something she could not face and it had an impact upon her physical and emotional health. The Gospel of Life is both one of judgment and of divine mercy. This woman found forgiveness and healing.

Monster in the Parish

2005-03-27T05:18:00.000-08:00

Holy Spirit Church

There is at least one monster in the woods behind Holy Spirit Church. It has abandoned two derelict cars on the property. Like a dragon, the creature probably breathes flame. It set a car on fire that mistakenly trespassed upon the parish roadway. While the pastor slept, firemen worked deligently to control it and most of the wreckage was removed. Ashes and grease marred the melted blacktop at the entrance of the parking lot. We never did find out the ownership. The police never told us anything more about it, we only hope that there was no one inside. The thing with no name also leaves tons of debris on the grounds, everything from old tires and lumber to metal piping and an engine. It must be a party animal because we sometimes find small empty bottles of liquor and other nasty things besides.

It may be a siren too, since young people seemed drawn to the woods, riding their dirt bikes. Later there is the sound of music, or noise that pretends to be such, and the echo of laughter. Some people take short-cuts through the forest. I do not recommend this. It makes for a truly dangerous journey.

The beast is a thief. The previous pastor lamented the breakin and robbery of marble holy water fonts shaped like angels. No doubt they now adorn the yard of some foul and haggard monstrosity that fears neither God nor man. It is also a murderer. How many times you ask? We cannot begin to guess. Cars go crashing in front of the Parish House. People walking never come home. One Sunday morning a police detective told me that they had found a dead body on church land. They suggested that he was walking Ritchie Road at night, a dangerous road for sure, that has taken at least five lives since my arrival. In this case, the man had been thrown from the road and into the bordering trees of the parish woods. We never learned his name but we prayed for his soul.

"Disappeared, we suspect he was the latest victim of the monster."

Two vultures, also known as turkey-buzzards by the locals, keep vigil on the church tower. Six feet across from wing tip to wing tip, these birds which we have nicknamed Hickey and Lori, frighten the ladies, but are courageous sentinels of the real demon or demons in the woods. They see and hear everything. They can smell death.

The monster apparently seduces souls too. Families and children who once came to church suddenly disappear. Values are distorted. Sporting events or just sleeping is deemed a higher value than Godly worship. Young people who seemed committed to Christ one day, are resistant to the message of the Gospel the next. I suspect the creature is a dragon, like the serpent of old that tempted our first parents. It may be invisible to the eye, but preying upon the weak of faith with detrimental results that are all too visible. It does not like our work here in Forestville. The roof has been ripped, requiring numerous repairs. Water has entered the foundation of the Parish house and mud our chapel-- but our true foundation in Christ remains unassailed. Trees that have stood for years have been scorched by lightning bolts and then felled by wind. Our parish sign was struck a terribly blow and twisted badly-- but it remains standing-- a sign to all that we are still here.

Yes, there is a monster here, but God is on our side and we do not fear.

The Fortune Teller

2005-03-27T04:58:00.000-08:00

An Intriguing Figure of Light

I was in the small chapel reading my breviary when the doorbell rang. It was Saturday and the child scheduled to work at the desk had failed to come that afternoon. I opened the door to a young girl who looked to be in her late teens. She was visibly shaken over something.

"Father, Father!" she cried, "You've got to come!"

"Come where?" I asked.

"Madame Hilda has sent me for you. She says that it is absolutely urgent. You have to come!" she pleaded.

"Calm down. Who is Madame Hilda?"

"She is a gypsy, Father-- just down the street on Wisconsin between the Sears and the bookstore. Please Father come!"

"What would she want to see me for?"

"She was reading someone's palms and she was disturbed by what she saw. After that she double checked what she read by consulting the tarot cards. 'There is a great wickedness afoot!' she said. 'Get the priest at once!' she yelled. I come get you. Please come Father."

"She must know that the Church frowns upon such things. Superstition violates the commandment against having false gods."

"Very sorry Father, but please come. Only you can help us now. That is what she says, 'Only the priest can help-- run girl run!'"

"I don't know about this. I have a busy schedule. I can't be trampling down to listen to some mumbo jumbo. Tell her to come here."

"All right Father, I will run."

"No, she has a phone doesn't she?"

"Yes, Father."

"Then give her a call," I suggested.

She hastily used the phone. The poor girl looked incredibly agitated as she waited for the receiver on the other end to be lifted. Then like a cannon ball, she started, "Madame, (pause), yes this is Judy-- yes I got the priest-- he wants you to come here. He won't . Uh huh, yeah, just here he says. Yes. Okay I'll wait for you."

Hanging up the receiver, she turned to me and said, "Madame told me that she will race up here. She has no car and it may take a few minutes."

I showed her back to the parlor.

"Do you have any real idea why this is so urgent?"

She answered, "All I know Father is that I have never seen Madame so worried before. She actually turned white. A customer had come in, an elderly gentleman whom I had not seen before. He paid her up front like Madame demands and he sat for his reading. Madame began to shake as she started. I guess something did not feel right. She then got her cards and read some off to him. After that, she had him wait in the room while she gave me instructions to get you. More than that I do not know."

"Thanks, Judy isn't it?"

"Yes Father."

I tried to make small talk but she was not the kind of young woman who spoke freely. We waited. Ten minutes passed-- then fourteen-- then thirty-- and finally forty-five minutes. The gypsy failed to appear.

"Something must be wrong Father. Please can we go see?"

There was a dire urgency in her voice. I felt sorry for the girl following what was probably a charlatan.

"Well, we can take a look down the street. Maybe she got lost and entered the church instead of the rectory?"

People had been known to do that, as if priests lived under the kneelers or something? She was not in the church. We walked down past the library, that is when we heard the sirens. A police car was already on the scene and an ambulance was screaming down the avenue.

"Oh my God!" cried Judy. "It is Madame! That's her dress! She's lying in the street. Oh my God!"

The girl ran to where the body lied prostrate, surrounded by bystanders. I hurried my pace. It was not a pretty sight. A large vehicle must have run her down. Blood soaked the ground. An elderly woman near the mailbox on the road was vomiting uncontrollably. All Judy could do was cry.

"Don't look anymore, dear." She came to my arms and I held her face to myself, away from the corpse. The young girl trembled so, would she ever get over this experience?

I prayed to myself and whispered quietly, "Rest in peace."

Late that night, the beeper went off and I called the answering service. They left me a message from Judy Mason saying that it was urgent that I call her back that night. I rang the number and after the very first ring the phone was picked up, "Yes," there followed a pause.

"This is Father Jenson returning a call for Judy . . ."

I was cut short.

"Oh Father, thank God you called back."

"What's up Judy? Are you feeling any better? You had a pretty bad time of it today." I kept to myself the guilt I felt for having the gypsy try to come to the rectory.

"Father, when I got myself back together a little bit, I returned to the parlor. The man who had been with Madame was gone but the chair he had been sitting in was upset. Next to it was a crushed piece of paper with a message in Madame's writing. She sometimes took notes of her readings. I thought you might want to know what was on it.

"Sure, dear, what was on it?"

"You'll need a piece of paper."

"One minute," I responded. I stumbled for my glasses and a piece of scrap. I found a copy of one of my old homilies, scrap enough, and brought it to the phone.

"Go ahead," I announced.

"She drew a picture on it, Father. It has these three lines, one above the other. The top one which loops upward, as in the lines in the hand, is unbroken. The second is the same. The third stops about halfway and there she has drawn a small circle with horns on it. After that, the line continues. Father, these lines refer to the creases in one's palm. I've never seen in her notes before a circle with horns on it. It frightens me."

"Just take it easy. Is there anything else?"

"Yes Father, there are some words where she usually remarks about the tarot cards. But it is not right."

"What do you mean?" I inquired.

"The handwriting, it doesn't look like hers. Written in red ink, the words make no sense to me."

"What are they?"

"I don't understand them Father, let me spell them out for you." She did so. A chill went up my spine.

"What does it mean, Father?" she asked.

I responded, "Don't worry about it dear. But tell me, did Madame know Latin?"

"No, I don't think so Father, is that what it is?"

"Yeah," I said, "Just a saying. Stay away from the parlor and give yourself some time to get over this, okay?"

"All right Father, thank you."

"Try to get a good night's rest, God bless."

"Good night, Father. Will you take care of things?"

"Sure," I stuttered, "I'll take care of things." Was I lying? Like what the heck could I do?

I hanged the phone up and looked at the diagram and words which I had copied from the girl's description. I began to wonder if I would be able to go back to sleep? What strange words, and in Latin no less, "Daemones vobiscum." It was literally an invocation for evil spirits. God forbid such a thing! Blessed be God thrice holy.

People who get involved with the occult not only invite spiritual evil into their lives but deranged and sometimes dangerous people. Madame's old house (with gables) was torn down not longe after the incident and a yuppie restaurant put up in its place.

"I sure hope you made that mad story up!"

These days people talk frequently about having the "spirit". I often wonder what spirit? Is it the spirit of the world which cannot satisfy the longings of the human heart and mind? Is it the nebulous spirit so often cited as an excuse for the dismantling of the Church after Vatican II. Is it the spirit of an ancient naturalistic paganism revisited? Or, is it the Holy Spirit. Instead of demons, may the Holy Spirit make his abode with us, granting us a share in divine life and leading us in the truth which Jesus came into the world to proclaim.

I have become increasingly forgetful over the years, and for the life of me cannot remember the incidents that inspired this story. This in itself is unusual and I cannot attest to this story although I do recall the house on Wisconsin Avenue. It was a beautiful thing that was demolished overnight, no doubt to prevent injunctions from the Historical Society. This story was found among my papers, but I suspect that it is more fiction than fact. I have included it at this site although I have never used it in my story telling sessions.--Fr. Joe

Substituted Souls

2005-03-26T22:01:00.000-08:00

The following is a submission for this site and should in no way be taken as something that the owner of this site believes or speculates about.

"I'm glad you did not tell us this story, it is definitely fake!"

(He used to be such a nice young man, why such a change?)

The reason I am making this submission has to do with my little brother. Nothing has happened to him, and yet, he is gone. I see him all the time, but it is not him. It has not been him for a very long time. Sometimes I wonder if I am still the same person. Is it all madness or have I happened by the most terrible secret of all?

Many years ago I read a report about it. I tried to find it to refresh my memory, but it has long been lost or destroyed. The whole business upset me terribly. The very thought of it was madness and I could not reconcile it with my deep-seated Christian faith. The report contended that spirits or souls in the ether were seeking to substitute themselves for the souls normally animating human bodies. They desperately wanted to feel and escape the limbo state of helplessness that summarized their existence. The author of the report cited drastic personality changes in others as his first inference that something peculiar was happening.

My first thought was that this paralleled demonic possession; however, there were interesting differences. While the human soul and personality is suppressed by a demonic spirit in possession, it is still present although usually asleep during moments of demonic emergence. This other phenomena substituted the human soul entirely, thrusting it out in the the vacuum left by the invader. The memories of the prior occupant would quickly become that of the usurping spirit. After a short while, the new spirit animating the body would even largely forget its prior disembodied status and assume fully its new mode of existence.

The researcher found, with backing from high sources, that the best time to query the invader was shortly after it took acquisition. Sometimes the subjects proved affected my life trauma and emotional distress. Personality aberrations were not the result of spiritual invasion but regular human problems. However, a select few, with no contact with one another, started painting a cohesive picture of a slow but comprehensive takeover.

While we were oblivious to their existence, they were very much aware of ours. They watch us all the time. They know only two sensations, cold and another that is hard to put into words. They were perpetually envious of our ability to move and manipulate things. These spiritual things find themselves utterly helpless. Their immobility is akin to a person being locked so tightly in a box that he cannot move. Of course, for them, there is no body to move. Even the cold they feel has less to do with temperature as it does with energy. They find that sources of heat and especially power sources in vogue today, provide an intersection between our world and theirs. As we surround ourselves with cell phones, computers, even light bulbs, we are creating a pathway for them to mentally traverse. It also provides a portal for the discarded souls of prior owners. These souls in turn, although among the most helpless, begin to plot their return to the world of men.

It has also been suggested that the body is vulnerable to foreign invasion during "out-of-body" experiences. People have experienced these in certain forms of meditation and in near death events.

Are the interlopers the souls of the dead? One researcher seemed to think so. He argued that because certain residual memories were retained, this spiritual invasion was often confused with the eastern fallacy of reincarnation. In days past, the energy required for transfer would have come through fire, static electricity, and lightening. What was rare has become readily available in contemporary society, signally a wholesale invasion of our dimension.

It was only at the end of his life that he remarked that he had been duped. He claimed that the replacement spirits were not human souls at all. Tests, which he never explained, revealed that the human psyche was too weak to make such a transfer. Rather, he contended that the invaders were carrying residual memories from previous victims. As their hosts died, the process started all over again. He theorized that human souls were relegated to the worst possible hell-- unable to stop or warn others about the psychic invasion.

Friends noticed that the doctor had a radical personality change after an accident with a shorted plug to a lamp. He gave up his studies, divorced his wife, and went into early retirement.

My response to the postulate of this submission is that, as the author suspects, it is incompatible with the Christian faith as we know it. Therefore, while it makes for a scary post, it is my opinion that it CANNOT be true. Changes in personality may be do to many factors, particularly physical or emotional trauma. We may not like to face it, but people also change. The Scriptures and the rituals of the Church admit to demonic influence and even possession; but, the substitution of such entities for the human soul is ridiculous. Hypnotic regression and hypnosis only reveal what the mind, conscious or unconscious believes, regardless of the actual truth value. People can be very much deceived. Fantasy lives can seek to make an impact upon real life. Further, demonic spirits are regarded by tradition as perpetual liars. They can pretend to be dead loved ones or even benevolent saints like Our Lady. The test is simple. If it affirms Christian faith and morals, it can be trusted. Otherwise, it is the evil one in disquise. In any case, while we might ask the intercession of a saint, seeking two-way dialogue with the dead is a forbidden form of communication. That is why the superstitious practice of mediums is condemned by the Church. It might only be play-acting; but why take the terrible chance that some dark spirit might take us up on our invitation for communication? Our fellowship is with Christ, not with demons. Catholic faith would grant that we should pray for the dead, just as the Jews once did in ancient Palestine. But, that is where our intervention should end. What the author here is suggesting is just an occult version of the science fiction theme found in Invasion of the Body Snatchers. People are just people. We are corporeal-spiritual composites; that is at the core of human personhood. It is with death that the soul and body is separated. Christ has promised us a share in his resurrected and glorified state. The dead will rise.

What Became of Helen?

2005-03-26T21:49:00.000-08:00

My Sister Helen

This is my sister, Helen. Taken a number of years ago, this picture shows her when she was still young and single. Now she is an old married woman. The background is the wall of a cave, Laray Caverns in Virginia. She went along with her brothers, Joe and John, our friend and "adopted" kin, Jim, and her old boyfriend (removed by special effects from all pictures) and now rumored lost somewhere in a Hell Dimension for which we have no name.

We suspected that she was under alien brain control. Her hair sometimes became purple, thinned, and even had glitter-like dandruff falling from it. It is possible that she sprayed her hair with funky chemicals to do this, but the idea seemed too far fetched to believe. No, alien brain control seemed more likely. This would have explained her girlish fascination for Michael Jackson. Of course, a lot of girls liked him in those days, something most of us guys could not figure out. I mean, his one great love song was to a rat in the movies. You remember, Ben! However, since he has removed his terrestrial disguises and shows his alien features to all, the spell seems broken.

She now prefers middle-aged, red-headed men, with a healthy paunch-- namely her husband superhero, Lord and Master, Patrick.

CRAZY WOMAN & THE EMPTY PEOPLE

2004-10-02T11:10:00.000-07:00

I Found This Bar Lady Funny

The phone rang on the local line.

"Yes," I answered.

"Oh Father, there is a woman down here who wants to speak to a priest. I know it is Father Burley's duty day but he has gone out for a swim."

"I'll be right down."

"Thanks Father."

I looked into the parlor before I walked inside. Oh no. It was going to be another one of those days. This woman had her head covered in a scarf, pinned up as in a 1960's beehive hairdo. Her skirt went to her ankles and she wore a heavy blandish looking long coat. Despite the heat inside, she kept the coat tightly wrapped around her.

"Hello, I'm Father Jenkins, how can I help you?"

I closed the door behind me.

"Hello Father, I am so happy you were willing to let me speak to you. It is as I told the woman in the office, a most dire emergency."

"I hope I can help."

"I hope so too. Father, do you believe in the supernatural?"

Oh God, I thought, not more craziness. "What do you mean?"

"Do you believe that there are people who have given themselves over to the evil one-- witches and warlocks?"

"I suppose there are people sick enough to lower themselves to such roles."

"Father, you don't know how glad I am to hear you are open to the fact that there are such people, because there are. What I am going to tell you is very strange; but please, hear me out before you make any decision. I have had a hard time getting anyone to listen to me."

"Well, I can give you a few minutes."

"Thank you again, Father. Recently I received a call from my son's school telling me that he was ill and to come for him. He had evidently passed out in school and they wanted me to take him to a doctor. When I arrived, he seemed all recovered. They insisted that he see a doctor so I said I would take him to our family physician. However, even though they had called me, they would not let me take my own son. They had called an ambulance and the attendants insisted that they take my son to the hospital. I said that would not be necessary and that I would drive him to his doctor. Again, they refused me this right and they called the police on me. When the police came they handcuffed me and took me to the police station. I said to them, 'Why won't you let me have my son? Who are you? What do you want with him?' They talked quietly to one another and laughed at me. 'Darn it,' I said, 'I'm the child's mother, you can't do this!' The ambulance attendant and the policeman looked at me and in perfect unison said, '[Expletive Deleted] you, he's ours now. So be quiet.' The policeman hit me in the mouth. He said that he didn't, but he did. They took my son away. My husband came to get me out the station. We are separated. He was mean to me. He said the boy would be staying with him for a while and that I was to mind my own business. I said to him the same thing I said to the policeman. 'Who are you?' I knew my husband, even though we were separated, he could never be harsh to me. I could not help but feel that this could not be my husband. I know it sounds crazy. But, he was always such a kind and gentle man. He cursed me and left. I cried myself silly. Walking out of the station, I noticed people outside staring at me. They remained motionless and simply stared as I walked down the street. After that day, I noticed other strange people, too. They are all over this city. They look like the rest of us, but they are not. Have you noticed it?"

"I can't say I have."

"You have to look. They stand on the street, and that's all. They don't move, not even a finger, for the longest periods of time. All they do is stare. That's not natural, is it Father?"

"No, I guess not." I had to humor this woman.

"I have had a long time interest in the occult and I think I know what the problem is. I think the witches are plotting some sort of takeover. They are doing something to the people, changing them. They've gotten to my husband, and now my son. I know they've got my son because I called him on the phone and he answered-- when he heard my voice, he hung up. But, before he did so he whispered, 'Why did you let them take me?' Oh, I forgot to tell you, when the police had me, the one who arrested me took his hands and made gestures over me, like this."

She took her hands and wiggling her fingers, waved them in the air in my direction.

She continued, "I am sure they were putting a spell over me. I blessed myself to break it. Over and over again, I blessed myself. Father, I am afraid but I believe we have to fight them. Remember the Lord's words, 'I come not to bring peace but a sword.' We have to take a sword to them. Their takeover must be stopped!"

"Well," I interjected, "I think you're taking that phrase out of context." Was she intending to do people physical harm?

"How else can they be stopped? No one will listen."

"I think the best way to fight evil is through good. Do you go to church?"

"Once in a while."

"Well, if you are not going regularly to church, then evil has already won."

"I'm not Catholic."

"What are you?" I asked.

"Greek Orthodox."

"Certainly they have a valid Eucharist. That is the greatest weapon against evil."

"That's fine Father, but not enough."

"It is plenty. Yes it is. Why did you not go to one of your own priests first?"

"He is one of them. He refused to listen to me. I am afraid of him. At the divine liturgy, he mixed some kind of slime into the mixture of the precious body and blood. I am sure that there is some kind of sacrilege going on. There are many priests and bishops already invaded by Satan. Our Lady of Fatima prophesied as much."

"I don't know about that. I still contend that you go to the Eucharist often, instead of planning violence upon others. Seek rather to love and forgive them."

"But Father!"

"Look, that was even the response of Christ on the Cross. He died forgiving his murderers. We, as his disciples, can do no less. If you distrust these people you have mentioned, then pray that God will liberate both them and you from evil."

"Father, you ask too much."

"If you refuse to go to Mass, and if there are any truths to your claims, then they are already victorious."

There was an knock at the door.

"Yes," I invited.

"Father, it is time for your dinner," informed the secretary.

"Thank you, Carol."

"I will have to end our discussion, now. Remember what I said."

"Father, if you'd only come with me, I could show you the people on the street."

"Pray for them," I responded.

"Father, the policeman took my crucifix away from me and bent it. He said it was a weapon. Unless he was working for Satan, why then would he call the Cross a weapon?"

"Pray for him, too."

"All right Father, thank you for listening. God bless you. I'll find some way to fight them."

"You have a way. Go to church!"

She left. I closed the external door. She was still talking. God, where did you get them and why did you always have to send them to me? That was my sentiment when she left, but later I had to admit to myself that I had seen something of the recent strangeness about the people on the street. But I passed it off. I had other things to think about and to do.

"That was a lame story, I am far scarier!"

People want to make the world a better place. But, the world remains very much a sinful place of violence, lust, and greed. How can those who have lost their way possibly lead others on the path to true and lasting happiness, a goal which can only be satisfied in God? They cannot. The true course, still largely untried, is for people of Christian faith to live out their fidelity to God and to the divine mysteries, his sacraments. Our Lord brings the kingdom through his very own person; he is the one who conquers sin and overcomes death.

THE OLD MAN NEXT DOOR

2004-10-02T11:03:00.000-07:00

If Men Could Be Statues

We were playing in the front yard when it happened. The old man from across the street leaped over the fence and ran into the house. Grandma let out a big yell. Mom joined her.

"What do you think you're doing, just invading someone's house like this!" my mother shouted.

Defensive for my family, even though I was only a small child, I entered the house and stood by the door in the living room.

The man had locked himself in the bathroom.

"Come out of there! This is not your home!" demanded mother. Grandma kept screaming incoherently.

Eventually he did come out and sat in the rocking chair in the living room. He began to rock back forth like a man out of control.

"Please, please, don't let them put me away!" cried the old man. "I'm not crazy, they don't have to do this! Please don't ley them put me away! My family doesn't want me anymore!"

Creak, creak, creak, went the wooden chair, back and forth. I had never seen someone rock in the chair with their whole body shaking in quick unison with it. Back and forth he moved.

He continued to beg and plead. His two granddaughters rushed over, but were only able to convince him to return to their property when the police came. He wept like a baby, so deep was his anguish.

I was too little to appreciate all the dynamics of what was going on. However, I sympathized with the elderly gentleman. I knew I would not want to be forced to leave my home and locked away. As it turned out, the family had concluded that he was senile and felt compelled to have him institutionalized. A truck came later that day with men in uniforms who took him. He had always seemed like a nice, even if eccentric, old man. I never saw him again.

As the sun began to set, I noticed by the fence a dark object which proved to be the old man's wallet. My father sent me across the street to give it to his family. I think the adults in my family were all a bit upset at what had happened and did not want to talk to the man's relatives.

I gave them the wallet and noticed many people in the small house. They were talking about who would get what. They were talking about his things. I did not stay long, I had liked the two ladies who were there, but my relationship to the one who most insisted on this treatment of the old man was never close again.
A day or so passed before I overheard my parents speaking again about our former neighbor. It turned out that he had no sooner been institutionalized that he killed himself. Eventually, what was left of his family moved away, I guess the house reminded them that they had a part to play in what happened. I felt guilty too, even though I knew that there was nothing we could have done for him.

One night I awoke having to go to the toilet. I rose from my bed and was walking to the bathroom when I heard a rapid creaking sound. Was someone else awake? It was coming from the living room. I walked into the darkened room and immediately saw the source of the sound. The rocking chair was moving back and forth in the same frantic pattern I had seen with the old man. But this time the old man was not in the chair, no one was.

I ran back to my bed and tried to sleep. The next morning the house was in turmoil. It seemed that mother and a few of my siblings had also noticed the rocking chair moving on its own accord. It even seemed to pause and respond to conversation. The fearful phenomenon eventually became an accepted oddity in our house. Every day from about midnight to six in the morning, the chair would rock. It did so until the day the chair broke and we replaced it with a heavy recliner. We had our fill of rocking chairs.

Holy Spirit Church's Resident Ghost Secretary

Everything to which we cling in this world will ultimately be stripped away from us. We need to make Jesus our one great treasure and view heaven as our true lasting home.

A Story for Children: Johnny Be Bad

2004-10-02T10:42:00.000-07:00

Remember when you used to be afraid of the dark and you were told that there was nothing in the dark that was not there in the light, well . . .

we were wrong!

"This should be a cute bedtime story for the kiddies."

Welcome my young friends,

I am so glad that you happened by. It is the month of October and you know what that means, yes, it is the spooky season of Halloween, boo! Muhahaha! Of course, it is much more as well. It is actually a very special time for Christians. Just take a peak at some of the various memorials and feasts: St. Therese of the Child Jesus (Oct. 1), Guardian Angels (Oct. 2), St. Francis of Assisi (Oct. 4), Our Lady of the Rosary (Oct. 7), St. Teresa of Jesus (Oct. 15), St. Margaret Mary Alacoque (Oct. 16), St. Luke (Oct. 18), Sts. Isaac Jogues and John de Brebeuf (Oct. 19), St. John of Capestrano (Oct. 23), and Sts. Simon and Jude (Oct. 28). I know you are looking forward to your Halloween parties and/or trick-or-treating and scary movies. You all must know what November 1 is, right? Uhhuh, it is ALL SAINTS day. Ol' Hallows Eve or Halloween comes on the prior evening. We recall Mary and the saints of heaven, asking them to pray with us, and setting our hopes upon joining them one day. They are wonderful models for us. Nov. 2 is ALL SOULS. This day the priest says three Masses for the dead and can wear either white, purple, or black vestments. We pray for the souls in purgatory and all those still on their journey to God.

And that is the lead to our story, "Johnny Be Bad." Some say there is no such thing as a "bad" boy or girl, only children who do bad things. Maybe, but maybe not? For the sake of our story, let us say that Johnny was a bad boy. No he didn't kill anyone. He was too smart to touch drugs or alcohol. And he rarely used nasty words; but, he was a bad boy all the same. He would rush to do his homework at breakfast or on the bus to school. Many times his parents had to remind him to be faithful to household chores. But worst of all, come Sunday morning, he did not want to go to church.

"Come on, Johnny," said his mother, "you should be dressed and yet you haven't even showered!"

"Oh mom," he said, "do I have to go? Church is sooo boring, all the priest does is talk and talk and talk."

"Now listen here young man," she responded, "you know full well that Mass is a lot more than talk. You go to church to worship God."

Shrugging his shoulders and heading to the bathroom, he answered back, "Forget it, I'm not going to win this argument, I can tell that already," and then, under his breath, "I get nothing out of it."

"What did you say?" Mrs. Nagle asked. "You look at me when we are talking about something serious." His mom spinned him around, "Young man, as long as you are under our roof, you will go to church, and what's more, you will like it, hear me?"

"Yes, mam," he answered, looking at the floor, "I hear you."

They went to church and Johnny sat, stood, and knelt in all the right places. But his mind was somewhere else. Halloween was coming up and he was fantasizing about all the candy he was going to get this year. Yes, sir, it was sure going to be sweet.

That is how Johnny was, thinking always about himself instead of considering others or even what was due God. His younger sister loved Johnny very much, although he was frequently quite mean to her. He found teasing her to be an irresistible temptation.

One night, before retiring to bed, she entered his room and asked him, "Johnny, will you help me with my "Our Father" prayer, I keep messing it up."

"Huh, I already said my prayers, go ask mom."

"Oh, okay," she said disappointedly.

A few moments later little Cathy and their mother entered the room. "Johnny, I was helping Cathy with her prayers and she told me that you had already done yours."

"Yeah," he said, "I did them a long time ago."

"Like when?" she inquired, "you were watching television all evening. You know I want you doing the rosary."

"I did it, I just pray faster than you guys, listen," and then like a machine gun he rattled, "helmarfullgracethalordizwitdee . . . .That is how I always do it."

"His mother stood there staring. "What am I going to do with you?" She shook her head and left.

Halloween came and Johnny was all dressed in his skeleton custume. He had calculated that if he ran he could triple the houses he reached the previous year. It was a good thing his mother had consented to allow him to go without her usual escort. "I'm too old for that now, the other guys will think I am a sissy."

"Are you sure you don't want to walk with me and Cathy?" asked his mother.

"Mom, pleeease," he begged, and raced out the door.

It was a particularly dark Halloween evening. While there are warnings every year about reflective clothing and large enough eye slits to see through, many outfits violate these safety rules for the sake of realism. Johnny's outfit was just such one of these. He panted as he ran from house to house. He was going to set a record. Down the block he went and into the next one. He was coming around the turn when he met his undoing.

Mrs. Nagle and her husband Ted were just becoming worried about Johnny's tardiness when there was a knock at the door. She and Cathy had been back a good hour. She leaped to answer the door. She felt her world come crashing down when she saw who was there.

"My name is Officer Bundy and I am sorry that I must bring some tragic news to you. You have a son named John Jr.?"

"Yes," she stuttered, "we do."

"I am afraid he was in an accident tonight."

"Oh no, oh no," she covered her face in her hands.

"How bad is it?" asked his father, "what hospital is he in?"

The officer paused, searching for words he knew would not suffice. "He isn't in a hospital, he was hit by a car and died immediately from the head trauma."

The next few days and weeks and months saw many tears. The worst possible thing that could happen to parents had happened. They had lost a child.

Thanksgiving and Christmas that year would be drained of joy for the Nagle family. Cathy prayed and prayed, all the time wondering if God heard the prayers of little girls. One day, toward the end of November, she was playing on the front yard swing. She looked up in the sky and thought, "I guess Johnny is somewhere up there in heaven."

All of a sudden a cloud seem to take shape and she heard a voice. It was the likeness and voice of Johnny. "Cathy, Cathy, can you hear me."

"I'm scared, are you a ghost?" she asked.

"You can hear me, thank goodness!" he exclaimed.

"Johnny it is you, it is you, let me get mommy!"

"No, there is no time," he said, " and they would only see a cloud. It is to you I have come."

"Johnny, you look funny, there are red bumps on your face, like you got measles."

"I do have measles, but not the kind you can get. I made myself sick by my sins. I did not love God as I should. So I must suffer in purgatory. It is like a hospital for sick souls. My worst sins were not wanting to go to Mass and saying my prayers too fast."

"Does it hurt, Johnny?" she asked with deep concern.

"Yeah, but it is getting better," he said, "that is why I am talking to you, it gets better every time you pray for me."

Cathy returned, "Then I will pray for you all the time, I will never stop praying for you."

"You'll do that for me, Cathy, after all I failed to do for you and all the teasing?" he asked.

"You're my brother, Johnny, I love you."

"I love you too Cathy, I love you too."

And with those words he faded from view and dear Cathy kept her promise.

I guess poor Johnny was a ghost. My father told me this story when I was a little boy. It had been told to him as a child in the 1920's. Did it really happen? I do not know. But there is a lot we can learn from it. We need to pray for our dead friends and family. Do not presume they are in heaven. Only those who are made perfect live in heaven as saints. Johnny and all other poor souls are still on their journey to heaven. The fire of God's love purifies them and refashions them ever more and more into the likeness of Jesus. The saints experience the fire of God's love as a cool breeze. All others encounter it as a burning heat, ever so HOT. I suppose those who hate God are distracted from their eternal loss by this flame. It is a sign of both divine justice and mercy. Those in purgatory know the flame not simply as punishment but as medicine. It heals them and makes them whole according to God's plan. This notion of purgatory is where Catholics see the possibility of ghosts. They simply want our prayers. We are bonded to them as a family. Families help one another. We can take great confidence that the head of this family is God our Father. He has given us Jesus as our elder brother who has gone ahead of us into eternal life.

Johnny might have been bad, but he was still good enough to claim purgatory. If we are really good and suffer much for the Gospel, we might go straight to heaven. Our hope in heaven rests upon the blessed assurance of Christ's mediation and self-offering to the Father. Remember to pray every day for departed loved ones. If they are already in heaven then God will apply the graces from those prayers to poor souls who have no one to pray for them.

Peace and blessings,
Fr. Joe

UNWELCOME VISITOR

2004-10-02T10:31:00.000-07:00

What's Behind Me (with Candy)?

I was about five years old. We had not been long in the new house, well, the house was actually old, but it was new to us. I was the oldest child of what would later be a home for seven children, five boys and two girls. My imagination would prove vivid throughout the years; however, I will suggest that the story I am going to relate is more than simply a child's fantasy.

I had a best friend who always played with me in the evenings. We would spend time on the kitchen floor. Often he would sit atop a large sack of potatoes my mother placed near the kitchen door, just below the table. It was a lot of fun playing with him. Despite my age, he always seemed to understand my speech. He was a funny sort of fellow. I saw nothing strange about him, not for a long time, anyway.

We generally got along. Although sometimes he would mess the kitchen up and my mother would blame me. I must admit, that angered me somewhat, but what was I to do. He was physically smaller than myself, but seemed infinitely smarter. Mother never seemed to take any interest in him. Indeed, everybody seemed to ignore him but me. I just sort of accepted that as a matter of course.

As time went on, he began to confide secrets to me. They seemed disturbing, even though my child's mind had trouble grasping them. However, the tidings of one evening in particular still linger with me. Maybe it was a sign that I was growing up? But one night, he did not seem like quite the friend I really wanted. He would not go into the other rooms to play, only the kitchen. A circus program with Don Ameche was on the television (NBC) in the living room and I wanted to watch it with my mother and father. He refused to budge. Mother walked in and out of the kitchen, and still he remained frozen. She virtually walked through him. I looked at my friend more closely. That was it, I thought in a moment of insight, no one besides myself could see him. Years later I would read that such a phenomenon is often categorized as an imaginary friend. However, I would contend that in this case, he was something real. Again, remember I was only slightly removed from diapers. My cognitive abilities at this point of my life were just awakening. Nevertheless, what awakened in me that evening was an element of fear.

The light of the kitchen seemed almost too bright. Every line and feature of my so-called friend was clearly defined. He was only a couple of feet tall. He seemed to float when he jumped off the potato sack. He always wore a neat black suit. He was quite the proper little man. His hair was cut in pointed bangs across the front of his forehead. And his smile-- that I shall never forget-- was like that of Alice's cat in Wonderland-- a large grin from ear to ear. The features of his face were often frozen, as if he was wearing a mask. That night he was annoyed with me and suggested that I do something to the detriment of my parents. What it was, I can no longer remember, for the fright stole the idea from my mind. He was no friend at all. He was a liar. His smile was pasted on his face like a hideous disguise. I raced from the room as he laughed at me. I jumped upon the sofa-bed and clung close to my mother. She held me as I cried.

As I reflected upon this creature in later years, I wondered why he refused to leave the kitchen. The answer was literally staring me in the face. My parents were very devout Roman Catholics. Almost every room had crucifixes and religious pictures. The living room had both the Immaculate Heart of Mary and the Sacred Heart of Jesus on the wall. It is my supposition that this thing, no less than demonic, could not enter the rooms because of these sacramentals. The kitchen was the only room without them. This omission has long since been remedied.

Sometimes at night, as the years went by, I thought I could hear "it" whispering to me in the darkness. I would close my eyes and say my prayers until I fell asleep. My asthma could be quite bad, and often when I had nocturnal attacks I would awaken with a start, unable to breathe, and catch just a hint of his laughter-- coming from the attic, or a closet, or under the bed, or outside the window, or from the inside of the walls.

However, there were no major incidents again until my teenaged years. I was taking an art correspondence course. I was sitting on the floor of my bedroom, using the seat of a chair for a table. My assignment was to draw birds. It was darkening outside, but there was still some light. The corner of my eye caught a glimmer of movement from the window on my right. I tried to make it out without looking directly at it. Oh my goodness. It was him-- after all these years-- peering inside my room from outside, his head right up to the screen. I pretended not to see him, got up by turning to the opposite wall, and went to the living room. My father was watching Mutual of Omaha's Wild Kingdom on the television. "Dad, there's something, ah someone, outside, looking into window. Come and see."

My Dad was alerted that someone was trespassing on our property. He got up and moved to the front door. Then he saw it. The living room windows consisted of multiple panes covering the side and front wall of the house. "What the hell is that!" my father exclaimed. There it was, that same face from my early childhood. His face had no aged a day. The staring eyes, the strangely cut hair, and the plastered grin-- it was all there. But this time, my father also saw him. His face and upper body seemed to float before the window, along the side and then the front. There was no up and down motion as one makes when walking. My father raced to the door to confront it. I backed off. He opened the door, but nothing was there.

My father was the first to impress upon me that this thing was a demon from hell. He was certain that it had come in an attempt to upset certain plans that God had for me. I laughed this part of his explanation away. However, the resurgence of bizarre happenings which accompanied my decision to enter the seminary would collaborate his opinion.

"I think I see the little man, oh no!"

My father told me that if it should come back, I should laugh at it. He considered the demonic to be pathetic. According to tradition, while the devil might make fun of us, he himself, cannot stand to be mocked. We need to consecrate our homes and our hearts to God. This is the sure way to ward off the presence of evil.

SOMETHING STRANGE IN THE HOUSE

2004-10-02T10:18:00.000-07:00

Father John Lubey, the Healing Priest

The healing service was a wonderful success. The priest who offered the Mass was a holy old man filled with the Spirit of God. He admitted that he had not chosen this particular ministry, it had chosen him; or better yet, God had called him to it.

Fr. John Lubey told me this story a number of years ago prior to a healing Mass he was celebrating. I remember that evening clearly because my ailing father would attend Mass in a church for the last time that night. Ironically, although my father would linger several years as an invalid, Fr. Lubey preceded my father into eternity by a few months. They were dear friends.

Many years earlier it had all started with a blessing after Sunday services. A woman was wheeled over to him crippled by arthritic disintegration of a hip. X-rays had shown the hip bone to be virtually destroyed. She was in great pain. He offered a special prayer over her and gave a blessing. He thought little of it, until he saw the woman again two weeks later, walking into his church. He could not believe his eyes. She informed him that the pain had gone away almost as soon as he had blessed her. When she went back to the doctor a few days later, new X-rays were taken. She brought them to show him. Where before there was no hip at all, there was now a perfectly sound one. The news spread. His special mission as a healer had started. To this day he has always insisted that every priest is a healer. Like I said, he was a holy man, humbled by God's use of him.

He warned those coming up at the end of Mass that they might fall backward in the utter peace of sleeping in the Spirit. He laid hands upon their heads and prayed; sure enough, like dominoes, the people were caught by spotters and gently placed on the floor. After a few moments, most would get up to be replaced by others in line. It was quite a sight.

The night had gone long, but he would never turn anyone away. This particularly evening a woman, somewhat insistent, addressed him after most others had left.

"Father, I need your help terribly. Feeling the peace of Christ here tonight makes me even more concerned about going home," she stammered.

"What is it child?" he asked with real concern in his voice.

"It's our house. Since we moved in a few months ago, things have just not been right. We've all had sore throats of which we cannot get rid. There are constant accidents involving the children, some of which have meant injuries slow to heal. I often suffer from nausea."

The old priest interrupted, "Dear, I hear what you are saying, but what can I do other than what I have done tonight?"

"Oh Father, you don't know the half of it. You've blessed me and my family, but I want you to bless my house," she said.

"I am an old man, it is hard for me to get around and I no longer drive. Your parish priest could do this for you," he suggested.

"Please Father, I want you. We are so very afraid. The nightmares are unbearable. And then there are the noises and invisible footsteps. Objects suddenly lost and found in rooms where you know you did not take them. Our holy pictures refuse to hang straight on the wall. Sometimes the most awful smells come out of nowhere. Father, there is something evil in my house, and I am desperately afraid. The freedom I have felt from it tonight, makes me all the more concerned about going home."

The old priest listened. She did not seem like a crazy woman. Her family standing nearby collaborated her story. Each of them was convinced that there was something bad, or as one of their children said, something nasty in the house.

The healer appointed by God had no other choice. "Okay," he said, "I will come."

Age and poor eyesight required that they drive him to the house. The route was a long one, taking him to the opposite end of the archdiocese, down into St. Mary's County, MD. The house was large and looked quite old. Located in a rural area, there were many nearby farms and a military installation.

The sun had gone down on what had been a long hot day. The priest of God followed the family into the house. All were quiet. No sooner had he entered, did he feel a bit queasy in his stomach. He was too much an old veteran of spiritual combat to be upset by the stories he had heard. No, this upset was caused by something else-- something unseen-- a presence-- in the house. He only said a few words and motioned for a glass of water. He offered a benediction over it and then took the glass, dipping his fingers into it and sprinkling the water as he blessed the rooms of the house.

He did the kitchen-- the dining room-- the living room-- the various bedrooms-- even the bathrooms and closets. A definite scratching noise could be heard as he entered each apartment of the home which would dissipate with the echoing of his prayers. The family followed him ever so closely, almost tripping over each other as they used the old man as a shield against the unwanted presence. He turned his direction to the basement and descended the stairs. Becoming suddenly quite dizzy, he grabbed tightly to the banister.

"Are you all right, Father?" spoke the woman of the house, more than a little bit alarmed.

"Um, just give me a minute," he replied, and then he continued his dissent. The children stayed upstairs. The priest noted this as another sign of something below. Children often have a special sense of such things invisible to adults. Note that little ones are often afraid of the dark. Perhaps adults are too quick to assert, "There's nothing in the dark that isn't there in the light"?

The cleric sprinkled the water with earnest and implored a blessing upon the house and all its inhabitants. The temperature of the room became colder. There was still something here-- something fighting to stay. But he had blessed the entire house, or had he? He looked around. Lost in the shadows of one side of the basement he spied a square of wood with a lock upon it. He looked closer-- yes, he was right, it was a door-- about half the height of a regular door.

"What's in there?" he inquired.

"Well I'll be," said the husband and father of the home, "I never noticed that before. I have no idea what's in there."

"The trouble is coming from here," observed the priest, "break the padlock."

A hammer was found and the lock was hit several times before it gave. The old priest asked and was given help opening the door. As the door opened, the temperature dropped even more and a vapor of air arose from the room lost in darkness. Their nostrils were assaulted by a sickly sweet smell which quickly became foul.

"It stinks," said the woman.

The priest stooped over to look inside. "It smells of something worse than our noses can detect. But it's too dark to see very far. We need a flashlight."

Several were brought down from upstairs. The priest kept vigil at the hatchway to a dark reality. He was tired. Younger men should be at such work. But alas, he thought, "Not my will but thine be done."

He entered the secret room. His breath left his mouth as a cloud. There was more than a chill in the air, this small room was freezing. The walls had been painted a blackish red. There was a desk and a chair. Upon the desk were books dealing with witchcraft and the occult arts. Upon the floor were stacks of old pornographic magazines. The place was utterly unclean.

He poured the water around the room and offered a blessing upon the cubicle. The scratching sounds they had heard upstairs sounded like a canon blast in the basement. Asking the others to help him, they picked up the materials around the room to destroy them. However, they found that they could not tear the pages no matter how hard they tugged.

"Quick! He said, "Get me a box!"

They put all the books and magazines in a large box and took it outside into the front yard. Since it was a farming area, he concluded they would get into little trouble for burning the stuff.

They made an area for the fire and lit a match. The fire went out. They tried again. The same thing happened.

The priest turned to the adults, "Do you have any gasoline?" he asked.

"We have some for the lawnmower, I'll go get it," said the head of the house.

The fuel was poured all over the books and magazines. A match was truck. The fire started very small but as the priest prayed the flame grew and blossomed. The pages kept trying to escape the flames and a few had to be chased and returned to the inferno. May the demon or demons here, thought the old holy man, leave this family alone and return to the everlasting flames of hell.
After all the materials had been consumed, including the desk and chair, the priest returned to the basement room. He blessed it again and consecrated the home to the Sacred Heart, leaving a picture of this depiction of Jesus in the subterranean room. The cold vanished and peace came to their house and to its family.

"There's something strange in my house, too-- my sisters!"

This story was told to me by the priest himself who was involved. It reminds us of the infestation of sin and the efficacy of the power of Jesus in the Church to exorcize it.

SPECTRES IN THE RECTORY

2004-10-02T09:22:00.000-07:00

St. Mary's, the Haunted Rectory

While surfing the Internet, I noted that someone had already placed online the old ghost story about St. Patrick's rectory in Washington, D.C. However, there are many other such tales. I want to chronicle the peculiar happenings in two parishes both bearing the name, St. Mary's. The exact location of the first I will not specify any further than to note that both churches are in the Archdiocese of Washington, D.C. The second is located in Upper Marlboro, Maryland.

The initial story, if I recall correctly, was relayed to me by the late Bishop Lyons. The record goes something like this. The two priests had just finished dinner when they entered the living room to watch television. However, they never turned on the set. Toward the middle of the room a bright blue pillar of light was suspended in the air. One of the priests dared to touch it and retrieved his fingers frozen cold at the tips. Curious. Both reasonable men, not liable to panic, they sat down and watched the thing. Did it rotate? Move? It was hard to tell.

Upstairs they could hear the music of a piano playing. But, there was no piano upstairs. The mystery deepened. What was going on here? Eventually the light disappeared. However, from time to time they could still hear the piano music coming from an unused room upstairs. Attempts to record the sounds and to photograph the image were made, but the results have never been made known.
The news spread throughout the parish about the strange phenomenon. An elderly black woman related to the priests that the rectory was once a house for a well-to-do family. As a young girl she assisted with the housekeeping chores. The family had one daughter who tragically died very young. Hours on end she would practice the piano in the very room from which they heard the music. Suspecting that her ghost was restless, Mass was said and prayers were offered for her release from purgatory.

Turning to the second story, it all happened about three years ago, probably in 1995. I had been fighting a terrible cold and was having difficulty sleeping. (Usually I slumber like the dead!) I tossed-and-turned but had finally gotten the pillow just right. Then I clearly heard the downstairs doorbell ringing. Great! Now what? And it was 3:00 in the morning! But maybe it was an emergency, I would have to go down. I threw on some clothes and headed for the stairs.

As I started my descent I could hear the voices of a couple of men talking to each other. Ah, the pastor had gotten downstairs first, "What's up guys?" I asked.

Silence.

That was strange. I looked between the rails of the stairs and could make out two elderly men standing in front of the radiator and lamp. One looked a little bit like the pastor, but something was wrong. I straightened up and went down a few more steps. They were gone. Oh boy, maybe I had interrupted burglars?

"I know you're here!" I cried, "Come on out!" I fought the impulse to run. There was no escaping my responsibility to the parish. I kept calling out and stretching slowly around doors, turning on lights. Soon the whole house was lit and I was still alone.

I had seen them plain as day. The one I had at first thought was the pastor looked somehow older. He wore a tan shirt. Neither figure was dressed in priestly garb. They both wore brown pants. They were audibly talking although I had failed to make it out. Where were they? The doors and all the windows were locked.

Photographs I would later see identified one of the figures as possibly a former pastor. Nothing could be discovered about the identity of the other. It should be noted that there is a plaque in the church on the same property with the rectory. It reads, "Beneath this church rests all that is mortal of Daniel Carroll Digges." He died in 1860 and when they built the new church about a hundred years ago they could not find his body for re-internment. Thus, they left the sign to his resting place. Somewhere, in the dirt basement of the church, or under the rectory is his grave. May he rest in peace. The only certainty about the figures was that they were spirits. I have since prayed for them, especially since the house has exhibited other peculiarities. Sometimes there have been audible footsteps when no one else was in the house, sounds of water flowing, and one night I also discerned a visible mist struggling to take shape near the door to the dining room. I have even witnessed doors slamming by their own volition. When the pastor went on a vacation to see a priest friend, I was again awakened at about the same time of night by the doorbell. Refusing to budge from bed, the night would be filled with the sounds of slamming doors, footsteps, and just a general ruckus. The morning found the rectory cat at the top step peering timidly through the stairwell rails toward the radiator where I had first seen the ghosts. I still catch her from time to time staring in that direction. Does she see something the rest of us do not?

Plans are in the works to have the old rectory torn down and a new one built in the near future.

After his resurrection, the Lord tries to stem the fear of his apostles by asserting that they might touch him and that a ghost does not have flesh and blood as he does. May all our beloved dead be judged mercifully and restored body and soul. Dead does not mean gone forever.

PIGGY

2004-10-02T09:16:00.000-07:00

That is Some Pig!

The source contributor for this story must remain anonymous.

The weather had turned cold and the days had grown short. We spent a lot more time indoors. I suppose that is why we noticed it. When the weather was good we were out more. The sitter had remarked that little Peggy was imaginative, but no one thought anything peculiar about it. We should have watched her more. Maybe we could have stopped it from happening? Now, I don't know what we will do.

Peggy was five years old and a pretty girl with brownish-gold curls. She loved to be held. She had all sorts of dolls in her room, some larger than she was. Cartoons were her favorite television programs, particularly those with Porky Pig. Sometimes she would even try to talk like him. We thought it was cute. Then she started making oinking sounds. She made them all the time. It became downright irritating.

One night we heard a crashing in the master bedroom. Susan and I ran to see what had happened. We found an angel statue that Susan had prized smashed upon the floor. Peggy sat next to the many fragments. "Peggy! Look at what you have done!" shouted my wife.

Peggy looked at us with those beautiful blue eyes of hers and told us a boldfaced lie. "I didn't do it, mommy."

"Then who did?" responded Susan. It was not a real question, we all knew who did it. My wife stood there with her hands on her hips and waited for an answer. Peggy looked away from her and mumbled something. "What did you say?" asked my wife.

"It wasn't me, mommy, it was Porky Pig." I started to chuckle, but Susan did not think it was funny. She sent the girl straight to her room. I tried to get her to soften her tone, after all, Peggy was just a baby, but Susan loved her things and she remained upset for quite a while.

It wasn't long after that, that Susan noticed someone had gone through her things. It was not hard to figure out who. Again the little girl blamed Porky Pig but the use of her mom's expensive perfume and lipstick was a dead giveaway. Peggy seemed to become more reclusive and spent more time playing with her dolls in her room.

One evening, when I was returning from the bathroom, I heard sounds coming from Peggy's room. I had come down with the flu and the medication made it hard to find my feet. Nevertheless, I paused to listen. It was late. My little girl should be sleeping, not playing with her dolls. The glow of her night light shown under the door. Peggy's voice was little more than a whispher. "Yes, yes, but mommy would not like that. You know I like you, you're my friend. Can I go with you some other time?"

It was a strange dialogue for a little girl playing. Usually, it was all about cookie time and tea and making up little songs. Then, my flesh prickled. I heard a heavy breathing, like that of a man. There was another voice, slurred and masculine. "You're my friend too, come with me. I have an endless supply of candy, ice cream, and toys. They wont miss you. I'm the one who loves you."

Oh my goodness, there was an intruder in the house! I burst through the door ready to kill anyone who threatened my baby. "Get away from her!" I screamed.

My little Peggy turned her head toward me with her eyes wide in astonishment. I froze in pure horror. There on top of the bed with Peggy was a monstrous pig, like the hogs you would find on a farm. It turned its head and grimmaced at me with a vile hatred in its eyes. It squealed loudly into my face as I pulled my daughter off the bed. Its breath stank and there looked to be dry blood on its short tusks. I felt for sure it was going to follow and attack, but I was able to get to the door and slam it. My heart was beating out of my chest. I started toward the master bedroom to awaken my wife.

"Are you all right?" I asked Peggy. I became disoriented. Where was my bedroom? The door to Peggy's room was openning. The pig was coming out. It was going to get us. No, I would not let that happen. I looked into my little girl's sweet face. I screamed and dropped her. Her small body clothed in pajamas was still there, but under her curls was the face of pig.

"Oink, oink, oink," she muttered. Everything went black.

When I returned to consciousness, I was back in my bed with my wife beside me. The alarm clock was going off. It was morning. My experience the night before had been a dream. I was relieved, but troubled by how real it all had seemed.

I thought that would be that, but no luck. Susan called me at work. She sounded frightened and desperate. "What's wrong?" I asked.

"Honey, you've got to come home now! I am calling you from the cell phone in the front yard. We're afraid to go back in the house."

"What's going on?"

"You're going to think I am crazy," said Susan, "but I saw something that I can't explain. I heard Peggy playing with her ball at the top of the stairs. The next thing I know, there is a crash. The ball hit the stand at the end wall where you turn to go down the stairs. It knocked over the frame with the family picture in it. There was glass on the floor and I was afraid Peggy would cut herself. Sure enough she held out one of her fingers and there was a drop of blood on it where a glass splinter had cut her.

"It hurts, mommy," she cried.

"You'll be okay, baby, here let me kiss it." I reached down and kissed her finger. Looking up, I saw it peeking at me at the edge of her bedroom doorway. Worse, it saw me looking at it. It immediately disappeared back into her room."

"What did?" I stammered.

"It is the craziest thing, but I know what I saw. It was a pig." Hearing that, I raced home.

We investigated the house thoroughly, but there was no sign of anything out of the ordinary. We tried to talk to little Peggy, but all she would make were oinking sounds. She would move her head and look at us as if it were ordinary speech. The whole business was infuriating. My wife and I convinced ourselves that we were both working too hard. Susan wasn't feeling well and there was no telling how the medicine I was taking was affecting my own mind.

A child counselor was called in but she could not help us with Peggy. All she would make now, were pig sounds. Do you want some milk? "Oink, oink." Put your toys away. "Oink, oink" Good night, sweetheart. "Oink, oink."

One day I came home and found a priest there. Peggy had started going back to church and had mentoned our troubles to the pastor. He suggested that he could bless our home. While I am not much of a believer, it certainly could not hurt.

After dinner the priest performed the ritual blessing and sprinkled the house with holy water. When he came to Peggy's room, she went into a fit. She threw things and "oinked" repeatedly at him while twisting up her nose. The sound seemed to come from deep in her throat. Our little girl was normally so well behaved. This business was embarassing and troubling. She literally attacked the priest, and my wife and I had to tear her off him. She squealed and oinked. The priest was taken aback. My little girl had pressed her face within an inch of his and emitted a painfully high squeal. His eyes met hers and he stared back for a few moments. Then, he turned and left the room.

While Susan attempted to get Peggy back under control, I apologized to the priest downstairs. He put up his hand and stopped me.

"You don't understand," he whispered, I come from a large family and I know what misbehaving kids are about. This is something else."

"What do you mean? "I asked.

"It was when she came after me and I looked into her eyes, instead of seeing my own reflection there I saw something else, the face of a monstrous grinning pig."

"Charlotte's Web will never be the same."

This post seems a bit far fetched but it makes for a cool scary story. Maybe some kids spend far too much time watching television and even "Porky Pig" cartoons than learning their prayers and our wonderful stories of faith? By the way, the pig is a demonic symbol going back to ancient times. We recall the swine herd into which Christ sent the demons that had possessed a boy. The pig was unclean, according to Jewish law, but even the swine could not stand the foulness of devils and so they rushed to drown themselves.

FACE IN THE MIRROR

2004-10-02T09:02:00.000-07:00

The Littlest Angel

Mike had been ever so close to his mother. They were more like best buddies than mother and son. He felt he could tell her anything. And, as for understanding, well, what other mother would let her son bring home thirty turtles of various sizes and fill the backyard with them? It was quite a strange site, especially the large one about thirty pounds that would snap at people and chase them around the yard. Some of them were not too slow either. Mike loved his turtles, but he loved his mother far more. He had a good relationship with his father, but his mother knew his soul. When he grew up, and got rid of the turtles in a local park forest, the faith and spirituality that was hers had been transmitted to him. Eventually it would lead him to a seminary where he would discern God's calling in his life.

As I said, Mike loved his mother. Her illness and the weakness it precipitated deeply worried him. She was still a young woman, only in her early forties. But, the doctors said the cancer was bad. She had surgery. She had radiation and chemical therapy. Nevertheless, she wasted away. He helped her to pick a black wig to cover the loss of her beautiful hair. Eventually the cancer overwhelmed her and she died. Mike was devastated.

Mike constantly prayed for her soul and that he and his father might endure the deep pain of this loss. He began to attend weekday Mass and regularly went to confession. Instead of becoming angry with God, her death seemed to draw him closer to the Lord. His mother had suffered terribly toward the end, if this final penance prepared her for heaven, then he wanted to insure that when his time came he would see her again in the company of the Lord.

One evening, while brushing his teeth in the bathroom, his casual glance at the mirror over the sink panicked him into immediate alertness. He dropped his brush and spat into the sink.

"Oh my goodness!" he clamored.

He looked intently into the mirror. It was gone. Had he seen it? For a moment he felt sure he had seen his mother looking into the mirror from behind his bent shoulder. She was wearing the house dress that she favored and that fluffy black wig that saved her vanity. No, it must have been his imagination, there was nothing there. He looked around, yes, he was alone.

He rinsed his mouth out with water and then catching a movement in the mirror of something behind him, he jumped to confront it. Again, there was nothing behind him. However, when he looked back into the mirror, an image was still reflected there. He froze. His breath became heavy.

The figure was again dressed precisely like his departed mother and with the wig carelessly thrown upon the head. But, the face-- the face was not his mother's-- it was that of a grotesque clown-- silently laughing and peering at him with almost reptilian eyes. He thought he was going to pass out. What was this thing? He surveyed the room and still could spy nothing peculiar, except in the mirror. He moved from the bathroom, keeping his eyes upon the reflection. The thing followed him, first with its eyes and then with the turning of its head. As he entered the living room his frightful experience was perpetuated by the reflection of the clown in the glass of pictures on the wall and upon the dark blank screen of the television.

This thing could not be his mother. His mother was a saint. But, why would this creature dress like her and even wear her wig? He knelt down to pray, fearful and yet also struggling still with the agony of loss. That is how his father found him when he returned from work.

Mike called the parish priest, a wonderful man who would encourage him to study for the priesthood, and who became a second father to him.

"What do you think, Father?" asked Mike in the rectory.

"It was not your mother," he spoke with absolute confidence.

"Then what is it?" the young man asked.

After a brief prayer, the priest continued. "I cannot say for sure, it is possible that your own grieving conjured it up. However, I suspect something more sinister. The devil attacks us where we are the weakest. Right now, the loss of your mother is very painful to you. She gave you your faith and taught you to pray. And yet, God has taken her away from you. I think what you saw was demonic. The devil seeks to mock your mother and the faith she gave you. Clowns are always frightening to little children. It is in itself a symbol that is directly the opposite to the comfort and security given by a mother. He seeks to make fun of her while also mocking you and your faith. He would love to have you give in to despair, but don't you give him the satisfaction. If he thinks he is so funny, then laugh at him. Laugh at his pathetic antics and his empty promises."

Mike went home, and sure enough, the figure reappeared in the mirror.

"I'm not afraid of you. You're not my mother!" he shouted. Then he forced himself to laugh at the evil clown. Indeed, to show that it did not bother him, he went on to brush his teeth and made faces at the monstrous caricature of something human. The clown did not like it. Instead of a laughing face, it put on a grimacing scowl. Even its eyes were pressed down in fiery anger. To add damage to insult, Mike traced the sign of the cross on the mirror and said a quick Hail Mary. The image vanished, not to reappear.

"Mirror, mirror on the wall . . . ."

Ultimately, the joke is on Satan, even if it is not funny. As with any who hate God and chose evil, it only leads to frustration and alienation. If we walk with the Lord, neither fear nor despair should be our lot. Jesus has promised never to abandon us, even unto the end of the world.

INDIAN POOKA

2004-10-02T08:50:00.000-07:00

Joe E. Brown & Harvey the Pooka

The most famous pooka on stage and in film was the giant rabbit HARVEY. Although immortalized by Jimmy Stewart as a movie and television special, the lead part was played frequently in the theater by Joe E. Brown.

The local in-house number rang on the telephone. Now what? I had said Mass at 6:45 AM, but was still half asleep. Who would want me before 9:00 in the morning? I picked up the phone.

"Yes, this is Father Jenkins," I said.

"Oh Father, I am so sorry to ring your room this early but there is a young woman and her child to see you downstairs," stated the secretary.

"Do you know what she wants?" I asked.

"No Father, she said she simply had to talk to a priest. Monsignor is having his oatmeal."

"Okay, I'll come down. For God's sake don't take the boss away from his breakfast. It could be a tough enough day as it is."

"I got you Father. I'll put her in the first parlor.

Thanks."

I walked into my bathroom and placed my head under the sink. The cold water felt good. Why was it that my sleep always resembled a coma? I did not stay up all that late.

Maybe my natural state was asleep and the waking moments only short interludes to make sure the machine stayed fueled up?

I put on my shirt but had to fumble around for the collar tab. I received two extra collars with every clerical shirt I bought. Now, I could only find one and this morning not even that. I swear I think gremlins play around with my things while I am out or unconscious. I found a spare collar on the floor next to a white sock which was more hole than sock. I went downstairs.

I had a couple of dollars in my pocket if this should be what I thought it was. It was hard to believe the number of women with a child who had come to our door in dire straights, often with the same story. Every one of them seemed to have a broken car and was traveling to North Carolina or Florida. Any relatives? No, not around here, we're only traveling through you see. Oh, my poor baby. We slept in the cold car last night. You're hungry, aren't you dear. As soon as her tears came out and the big eyes of the kid zeroed in on you, you knew you were hooked. Sometimes I wondered if priesthood was not synonymous with sucker.

I opened the parlor door and entered. Immediately, I recognized them. This woman was regularly at church with her son, maybe four years old. She even came on weekdays. I wondered what was up?

"Hi, Father Jenkins. I am sorry to come unannounced but there was something I felt I had to talk to a priest about," she said.

"Sure, what's the problem?" I queried. She seemed nervous about something. She was wringing her hands.

"I am almost afraid to tell you. You might think I am crazy. As a matter of fact, I am not sure about the whole thing at all."

"Just tell me," I said, "and we'll go from there. We can keep it private and I won't make swift judgments. Okay?"

"All right." She hesitated. "I visit this elderly woman in my spare time at the Washington Home. She is a very religious Episcopalian woman. I pray and read the Scriptures for her. We have very nice visits. I had been seeing her for almost a year when she told me something which has greatly upset me. I am afraid to go back."

"How come?" I wondered. "What happened?"

"I noticed one day as I was talking to her that she was looking past me, toward the wall. I turned around, but no one was there. I asked her about it and she said that she would rather not talk about it. I let it go, but I became more and more aware of her staring at a particular spot in the room. I become obsessed with watching where she was looking. Always, her eyes seemed to stare into the same empty space. It was getting on my nerves, so I confronted her again with it. She told me this time what it was about. I almost wish I had not asked."

"What did she say?" I was genuinely interested now.

"I cannot recall the actual word she called it, but whatever it was, it appeared as an Indian."

"What did?" I asked.

"The thing she was looking at, the thing I could not see, was an Indian."

I promised her I would not make swift judgments. I kept my mouth closed. However, I began to imagine hearing eerie music in the background and Rod Sterling inviting me into the Twilight Zone. I continued to listen.

"You'll have to explain," I nudged.

"She told me that when she was young her great uncle died. Standing with her parents at his deathbed, she overheard him telling her parents that he was giving this spectre or ghost to the child. There was some argument, but his health was so bad, that they let it pass. At the funeral a few days later, she noticed a tall Indian, very much like the wooden ones in cigar stores, standing next to the grave.

He stood absolutely motionless. When she mentioned what she saw to her parents, her mother and father looked at each other with concerned expressions but refused to speak about it right then. After the funeral they turned to leave; however, she noticed that the Indian was following her. It has done so til today. No one else can see it. She was very frightened but her parents later told her that it could not hurt her. This thing or familiar had been passed on in the family for many generations, so many in fact that its origin was shrouded in their gypsy ancestry. She was warned never to recognize his presence or to call upon him. If she did, he would be compelled to do her bidding, expressed or repressed, for the rest of her life. They can do the most awful things. Many years have passed, over half a century, and in all that time, she has never once spoken to him. She knows full well how dire the consequences might then become for others as well as for her own immortal soul."

I paused before responding. This lady speaking to me was no looney. She was a responsible and surprisingly pious parishioner, the kind of which we wished we had more.

"That's quite some story, do you believe it?" I asked.

"Well, she is a nice woman father; but I thought maybe her years may have clouded things a little bit for her. At least I hoped so, the whole thing gave me the shivers. I tried my best to forget it. I thought I had until Tuesday."

She began to wring her hands again. "I did not tell anyone about the story she gave me, not even my husband. You are the first I have told. But, now someone else knows. You see, Tuesday I took my little boy over with me to cheer her up. She really likes children. Tommy told her a story and she gave him a piece of candy. That is all that happened."

"So what's the problem?" I inquired.

"On the way to the car, Tommy looked up to me and asked me, 'Mommy, who is the Indian?'"

I froze. It was the kind of chill we got as children when we were alone in a room and suddenly someone cut off the lights.

I tried to put the incident out of my mind. The day would be too busy for me to get caught up in hocus-pocus mumbo-jumbo. There had to be a logical explanation for the incident. Maybe the child overheard them earlier? Or, maybe she discussed it with her husband and the child was told something by the father? Maybe it was just coincidence? No, I guess that last possibility would not wash.

"Stop already, I'm so scared, I might wet myself!"

Bondage to evil might not merely be a personal struggle. The sins of one generation are often visited upon the next. Just as we might transmit our faith and the life of grace to our children; we can also forget our duty to God and pass on something quite different, even sinister. May we only call upon the name of Jesus as our loving Savior, trusting God alone.

THE HAUNTED APARTMENT

2004-10-02T08:41:00.000-07:00

The Secretary's Face Multiplied

The parish secretary came back to the office after having taken a longer than usual lunch break. She appeared to be visibly shaken and hurried to take a seat behind her desk. She looked at me and I knew instinctively that she wanted to tell me something.

"What is it Carol?" I asked.

She bit her lower lip and paused before answering. "Father, I just had a luncheon engagement with Eileen Scan--- and it has left me unsettled. Poor thing, I have known her for years, it is so hard to see her suffer so."

"What's wrong with her?" I inquired. It was not unusual for the elderly to suffer from one thing or another. The so-called golden years are anything but. They are afflicted by a hosts of debilitating diseases and pain becomes a regular companion in the twilight of life. Compounding this cross is the modern phenomenon of families forgetting their parents and other aged members. It was my hunch that Eileen's struggle was within this framework. I would be proven wrong.

"I don't know if she is crazy or what? All I do know is that she is desperately afraid. She claims her apartment is haunted. She spoke so convincingly that I began to believe her."

"Oh," I said, "well, such fear can be a contagious thing. What exactly is going on?"

Carol game me a run down of the midday events. They had spent much of their lunch in the hallway. The old woman was afraid to stay in her apartment. She said it was filled with mischievous little people. Invisible to everyone else, they mocked her and interrupted her home life. They broke her things, awoke her from sleep, and laughed at her. "Father," added Carol, "I don't know if there is anything you can do, but I am sure that she would love a visit from you."

It only took a few minutes to reach the apartment building in Northwest Washington, D.C. I called ahead to make sure that the old woman expected me. Just as the parish secretary predicted, I found Eileen standing just outside her door in the hallway. She was looking away from her rooms and was biting her nails. The image was pathetic. She was bent over with thinning white hair, wearing a long house dress and slippers.

"Hi, Eileen!" I greeted.

She eagerly turned to me and smiled. "Hello, Father! Thank you for coming to see a poor old woman like me. I am at a lost as to what to do."

"Let's go in, Eileen" I directed.

She hesitated but led me into her apartment. I sat beside her on the couch. There was nothing visually unusual about her residence. The furniture was sparse, although next to the small dinner table was a shelving unit filled with ornate mugs and cookie jars, the kinds which have faces sculptured on them. Considering why I had come, the faces disturbed me. It was as if they followed me with their eyes. Like I had told Carol, fear is contagious.

"So Eileen, what's going on? I hear that you are spending hours in the hall and are afraid to be alone in the apartment."

"I know Father, you probably suspect that I am just an old woman losing her marbles. But, I assure you, I am not. The pixies, at least that is what I call them, they are real and they are making my life a misery."

"What do they look like?" I inquired, humoring her, or trying to convince myself that they were a mere illusion.

She then began to recount the plague of pixies in her apartment. "They are very small, maybe a foot or so in height. Their clothes are quite old fashioned, the kind they wore in the end of the last century. I suspect that they really look like something else, but have made themselves appear as such for me. Sometimes, they merge their faces into those of guests and make facial contortions, playing with people's features. I am sure they do this to frighten me. There's one right there, across the room sitting on the table. He is pointing at you and sneering. Sometimes, at night, they sit on my chest as if trying to smother me. When I try to say my prayers and the rosary, they go into a frenzy, trying to distract me."

A chill went up my spine. This was all a very elaborate business, maybe more so than what any crazy old woman could conjure up. Could it be? Might there be something here?

"Eileen," I said, "I am here to help you. What I will do is bless your apartment and beseech God to keep it free from any evil invasion. Okay?"

"Thank you, Father. Something needs to be done. Oh my," she jumped, "a couple of them are quite agitated right now. One of them is staring at you almost eye to eye. They are not happy."

I took out the ritual book and the holy water sprinkler. A secular world might think what I was about to do was as silly as this old woman's invisible pixies. However, everyone needs some form of faith. Even the scientist sometimes works back from effects to things which the eye cannot see, and maybe not even the microscope. Christians knew the truth of the Gospel by the evidence of the resurrection and the nurturing of his Spirit in the Church throughout the ages. No matter whether it be illness or spiritual combat, I had confidence in Christ and his lordship over all the visible and invisible powers and principalities. I began the prayer.

"Peace be with this house and with all who live here." I had barely uttered these words when a thunderous banging came from the direction of the wall separating the kitchenette from the living room.

"That's them, Father," whispered Eileen.

I continued the prayer and with every blessing and sprinkling of holy water there came another thunderous blast. "Lord Jesus Christ, with Mary and Joseph you formed the Holy Family: remain in this home, that Eileen may know you as her guest and honor you as her head." BANG! "Lord Jesus Christ, through you every dwelling is a temple of holiness: build those who live in this house into the dwelling place of God in the Holy Spirit." BANG! "Lord Jesus Christ, you became flesh of the Virgin Mary: grant that your presence may be known always in this home." BANG! BANG! "Lord Jesus Christ, you appeared to the frightened apostles and said, 'Peace be with you': grant that your abiding peace may remain with Eileen." BANG! BANG! BANG! "Lord, we rejoice in the victory of your Son over death: by rising from the tomb to new life he gives us new hope and promise. Bless all the members of this household and surround them with your protection, that they may find comfort and peace in Jesus Christ, the paschal lamb, who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, forever and ever. Amen." SILENCE.

I looked up from my book toward the old woman. She was smiling.

Several weeks thereafter, because of her declining health, we helped to move dear Eileen to Sacred Heart Catholic nursing home. There she could be properly watched and enjoy the Mass on a regular basis. She was quite happy to make the move. While the problem in her apartment had been successfully treated, the memories of what had happened were still disturbing. Now she could start over with the loving care of the good sisters.

"Great, now every noise I hear tonight will keep me up!"

The Catholic ritual is taken from the BOOK OF BLESSINGS (ICEL, 1989). It may be that only madmen and saints see the dark spirits behind evil; may we find true peace in the Holy Spirit.

HOW TRUE WAS THE EXORCISM STORY?

2004-10-02T08:28:00.000-07:00

Artist's Conception of Devil as the Beast

Sources

Before I begin my comments, it is necessary that I make some clarifications. Unless otherwise noted, the pagination to Allen's work regards his article in Washingtonian Magazine. When his book, Possession became available, this was also read and compared to his previous statements. It is interesting that the backbone of his book was so easily condensed to a periodical format. As for my own principal sources, I had the testimony of an old priest friend of Fr. Hughes (both of whom are now deceased), course notes on demonology from Fr. Edmund J. Fortmann, S.J., and extracts from the exorcist's diary.

Popular Exploitation: Where Do We Really Find Evil?

After reading the sensational article "Possessed," by Thomas B. Allen in June 1993's edition of Washingtonian Magazine, I am sure that many people will be eager to buy the book of the same title released in July. Having read the book, it must be admitted that there are elements to the tale that seem to validate Christian faith in God and in his mercy; however, at the same time I fear that its telling will surrender true religion to mockery and to superstition. No suggestion is made in the article, and none in the book until the very end, that there might still be more to the story than the supernatural. However, even if it should be the case, books and films tend to give more emphasis to the demonic than to the divine. Producers and writers work ever harder to shock their patrons, an audience made increasingly insensitive to violence and to "things that go bump in the night." We want to be entertained and producers of horror films and writers know all too well how to excite the masses with fear and gross happenings. Even the 1973 film, The Exorcist, based on William Peter Blatty's book, opted to highlight vulgar language, eucharistic desecration, obscene gestures, fanciful special effects, and finally the death and failure of the two priests. I would suspect that the battle between good and evil is more frequently invisible to the movie camera and ignored by novelists seeking to sell books. Indeed, just as the Mount Ranier case (as it is often called despite the mislocation) began as one of demonic obsession and only later became possession when the exorcisms were attempted; might a heightened concentration upon this issue similarly endanger people. While it is true that the devil should not become a scapegoat for all human ills, it is almost impossible to believe that he is not involved with the atrocities at home and abroad. In language, popular music, drug experiences, new cult religions, escalating crime, immoral lifestyles, wars and genocide, abortion, euthanasia, etc., Satan is exerting a subtle obsessive influence, numbing consciences and helping to distort values. If people want to be frightened, then here is the real thing of which to be afraid. Most of us, maybe even all of us, are no longer bystanders to the devil's malice, but in every sin, large and small, accomplices. God's grace can turn this around, if we really want Satan exorcised from our society and world.

The Documents: A Number of Contradictions

To add to the confusion, all of the various documents of the case do not collaborate one another. Even the timetable is unreliable. Did the first exorcism begin on March 16 or on February 16? Some press reports said it lasted one month, others two, and still another, three-and-a-half months. Although the records state that the devil departed at 11:00 PM on April 18, 1949, Fr. Nicola told the Evening Star that it was "at precisely 2:15 in the afternoon." Although Allen's article records that the boy's mother picked up a holy water bottle and candles from Fr. Hughes, there is a document that states that it was the father who picked them up. Allen writes that the bottle was "smashed," however, the exorcist's diary in Jesuit hands stated: "The mother took the bottle of holy water home, sprinkled all the rooms, and when she placed the bottle on a shelf, the bottle flew across the room and did not break." Which is it? The diary further says that the word LOUIS appeared on the child's ribs. However, the Lutheran minister testified that they said, GO TO ST. LOUIS, and written upside down. As for the incident in the chair, the Lutheran minister said that while the boy was sitting, it tilted. However, the Jesuits were given this version of the story: "The minister brought him downstairs and tied him in a chair. The chair and boy began to whirl around the room." Which account do we believe, the primary or secondary source? It should be obvious. The Evening Star's staff reporter, Jeremiah O'Leary, mentioned many years after the episode and his breaking story (see pages 197 and 198 of the book), that the boy spoke an unknown language, and that only later did a priest or rabbi recognize words sounding like modern Hebrew. However, he had originally written: "A professor of Oriental languages from Catholic University was called in and he was shocked to discover the words coming from the boy's mouth were in Aramaic, the language spoken in Palestine in Jesus' day." Which versions are we suppose to believe? All accounts state that the boy was 14 years old; however, the diary puts his birth on June 1, 1935, which would have made him only 13. Allen collaborates the younger age in his book. All this is simply to show that a reliability of the facts in this case cannot be maintained and that nothing approaching a consistent scientific investigation is exhibited.

The Root Cause: Hysteria?

Repeated fits and seizures, marks on the boy's skin, wild utterances and obscenities, all these things can have a basis in psychology and medicine. Neurosis can cause many kinds of strange manifestations. Hysteria can be a root cause for such disturbances and has been documented, especially as a conversion reaction, not only in cases of people who thought they were possessed but even among visionaries who claimed to see the Virgin Mary and/or Jesus. Not being an expert in this field, I will leave it to the interested reader to explore the wealth of material in this regard.

The Exorcists: Were They Really Objective?

Thomas B. Allen narrates the story as if there cannot be the slightest doubt that the version given us by media accounts and the journal are authentic. However, without giving offense, one could hardly argue that the testimony of a Jesuit priest would be entirely objective. For instance, the diary takes for granted the occurrences in Washington before the move to Saint Louis, although he never witnessed them, himself. There is no evidence whatsoever to verify flying fruit, the knocking noises from Aunt Tillie, his desk moving around at school, etc. No proof has come down to us from reliable, independent witnesses. (Although it is speculated that there are long lists of witnesses who are Christian believers.) The Washington priest only heard the crashing of the telephone table and the assertion of its destruction from the boy's mother. As for the boy's visions at the end, only he saw them. Can we really take for granted the testimony of a boy, who no doubt like all boys, had a hefty imagination? I think not. The Lutheran minister, as I said before, thought the chest writing was self-inflicted. A cross on the boy's left arm remained for about 45 minutes; however, clinical psychologists tell us of many cases wherein hysteria makes the skin overly sensitive. Many assumptions were made with little support. For example, although the boy and his aunt had played with a ouija board, there is no obvious cause-and-effect relationship between it and the demonic infestation. Although a superstition that violates the decalogue, thousands of children buy such boards as toys with seemingly no ill-effect. The numbers on the boy's chest were later interpreted as possibly the days when evil spirits left the child, if there were more than one. However, this was merely ungrounded speculation.

Conspiracy of Silence?: No, The Facts Were Available

The author, Thomas B. Allen, states: "I now can tell the story because the secret diary of the exorcism came into my hands from the oblivion to which it had been consigned" (p. 45). At the end of the book, he admits that this diary was incomplete and to receiving a complete copy of the document from other sources. Was he really the first critic to read it? No, I suspect that the suspense was hype. Rev. Edmund J. Fortman, S.J. in a 1973 course on Demonology at the Jesuit School of Theology located in Chicago, Illinois, wrote: "Many years later, Blatty managed to obtain the diary written by the exorcist and set about researching his bestselling novel" (p. 8). Indeed, Rev. Fortman, in preparing his course, noted: "In fact, much of our information on the 'real-life exorcism' is drawn from the exorcist's journal and several shorter documents by two Jesuit priests who got their material from a lecture by a priest who assisted the exorcist himself" (p. 8). It was not that the facts were unavailable, but rather, it was thought imprudent to release them. Respecting this, William Peter Blatty chose to author a fiction loosely based on exorcism accounts. In contrast, probably much in the same vein as the semi-documentaries on television, Allen has decided to give us the purportedly authentic version.

It should be highlighted that Allen's style in sticking to the log lends his book an authenticity usually lacking in such works. To some extent this is also a bit of a drawback. While the Washingtonian Magazine article was fast paced; the book is almost tedious with its repetitious narration of possession and exorcism episodes. The boy urinates, breaks wind, spits, hits and grabs, and then the process happens again and again. Having vicariously accompanied the fatigued exorcist, in the last pages the reader is also spent.

Revelations: God's Will or the Evil One's?

I would hope that Allen offered the diary to ecclesiastical authorities or at least had asked for some form of approbation before chronicling the 1949 story. The fact that he interviewed and became friends with the scholastic who held the boy down is not sufficient. Why? First, because the simple changing of names does not eradicate old newspaper reports or property records. Aging neighbors craving the spotlight might violate these people's privacy for a few seconds on the tube. If the book becomes a sensation, the investigative reporters will beseige the matter until its figures come to light. If the subject of the exorcism and his family had wanted the story to be widely told, I am sure that they would have done so themselves. Some things are best forgotten. If the formerly possessed boy, now a man, could not recall what had happened, I pray that a copy of the book does not fall into his hands. Before his death, at about the time the Blatty film was released, the seventy year old Jesuit who had performed the exorcism remarked that he lived in dread of reporters. He was worried that the excitement over the incident could not help but ruin some fine lives. Keeping in touch with them, he asserted, "The boy in the case has grown into a fine man with a lovely wife and children." Second, if the Church was God's vehicle in freeing the boy from evil and in later sealing the records at hand, then in whose commission is the author employed? If he really believes the narrative, then I should think this would cause him no little anxiety. Although I hate being cynical, I cannot help but think that the author is not so much interested in playing the prophet as he is in reaping a profit. Allen admits in his book to being, not a believer, but a doubter and a lapsed Catholic; indeed, despite his pride in having had a Jesuit education, he credits them with his agnosticism. This is like a groom saying that he is in love with a gorgeous bridal gown, but cares nothing for the girl in it. Further, if this is true, then what is his motivation in telling the story? The only thing that comes to mind is that as Blatty discovered, there can be substantial financial rewards for horror stories.

Officials, no doubt, purposely misidentified the location of the boy's home to preserve his anonymity. While Allan accepted the Mount Ranier address on Bunker Hill, the case was actually attributed to Mount Rainier because of the location of St. James Church. This was not uncommon in the past. Catholics identified themselves by their parish. It is unfortunate that some old timers have leaked the true location as a home on 40th Avenue in Cottage City. The investigation should stop here, but I suspect that it will not.

I am certain that New Age enthusiasts will eat it up, not for its faith content, but rather for its concern over devilish spiritual forces and communication with the dead. Coincidentally, Christians, Catholic or not, are traditionally urged against preoccupation with matters like possession and the devil, for fear that such an interest might itself attract demonic interference. Allen accurately informs the reader of this in his book. Further, I can testify as a parish priest, the publicity given such stories draws to our rectory doors an assortment of mentally imbalanced people who think the devil has control over them. After a cheap movie on this topic a few years ago, I recall one bizarre case wherein a man claimed he was possessed by a homosexual demon who lived in his rectum. I prayed over him and suggested that he go home and take a laxative.

Witnesses: Skeptics Close to the Case

As for the Mount Ranier story, the author admits that the psychiatrist (from Georgetown University Hospital) disbelieved in the reported phenomena (reporting that the boy was normal); however, his article, unlike the book, did not offer that the Lutheran minister they consulted was also skeptical and remained so afterwards. Jim Adams of Associated Press interviewed him and noted: "The minister said that he was suspicious of the chest message. It was written upside down on the chest as it would be if the boy wrote it himself." Supposedly, the words "LOUIS" had appeared on his chest. His Aunt Tillie, (a name released to the public, not Harriet as in the POSSESSION book), the one who had introduced him to the ouija board, had passed away in St. Louis eleven days before the mysterious scratching sounds in the house. (Allen notes that she died eleven days after the scratching began.) Allen writes further about the minister, he "believed that he had been in the presence of some colossal force. It did not matter whether that force was a hallucination, an outburst of supernatural powers, evidence of parapsychological activity, or an eruption from some psychological fissure deep within Robbie" (Allen, p. 104). Admittedly a bed and a chair moving, seemingly by their own power is unusual to say the least; however, the minister did see some importance in steering clear of a supernatural interpretation. He speculated that it might have been the result of a type of static electricity or that he might have been hypnotized in some maner. Later he discounted these theories, but resolutely insisted upon a natural explanation, perhaps involving latent and invisible human powers.

Signs: Demonic Activity, Latent Human Powers, or Illness?

In more recent years, various researches have looked into poltergeist activity that included such phenomena as strange sounds and moving objects. Almost always they were connected to the presence of children, especially ones with some emotional upset. As the children got older, the activity most often ceased. Might human beings have latent powers to move objects? I do not know. Some claim to have limited abilities in peering into the minds of others. Certainly, these possibilities, no matter how unlikely, have made the issue of demonic possession much more complicated. Epileptics who were once thought possessed, even in the bible, are today understood as suffering from a physiological ailment. Psychology is acknowledging that mental deviations like various neurosis and hysteria can cause abrupt behavioral and bodily changes. Before concluding that one is being controlled or manipulated by demons, must we not objectively eliminate any of these other possibilities? Yes, I believe so.

Because of a growing skepticism regarding this issue, the ritual for exorcism was revised as early as 1952. The signs of possession, listed on pages 27 and 28 of his book, which once were considered to make a case certain were now only "probable." What are these signs?

1. To speak fluently an unknown language;

2. To reveal distant and occult things; and

3. To manifest powers beyond the nature of one's age or condition.

In the Mount Ranier case, there is no certain manifestation of the last two signs. As for the first, he may have overheard the Latin word, "Dominus," and there is no confirmation that he spoke Aramaic. In the complement to the diary, it is remarked: "The boy would greet the priests with filthy, foul obscenities, fluently answer the exorcist's questions in Latin, a language he had never studied." However, if this is true, it began after the exorcisms had started, it was not an element in the prior deliberation.

Clarifications: What Really Happened?

In Saint Louis, Allen wrote: "Bowdern received permission from Robbie's parents to convert their son to Catholicism" (Allen, p. 107). It is of interest to also know that the boy himself had asked to be baptized. His father had been baptized as a Catholic and some of his local cousins were Catholics as well. Allen narrates that the boy on the way to the church grabbed the steering wheel. "His father and uncle wrestled him away as the car swerved up on the curb and came to a stop against a lamppost. Robbie spun around and seized his mother by the throat" (Allen , p. 107). He further informs us that the boy was pinned down and baptized. The actual record reads:

On the appointed morning he rose, took a shower, ate his usual breakfast and set out for the church in a car driven by his uncle. Just before reaching the church the boy grabbed his uncle by the neck and said: "You s.o.b., you think I am going to be baptized, but you are going to be fooled." The uncle was just able to seize the emergency brake and avert a collision by an inch. It was realized that to baptize the boy in the church would create a scene, so he was taken to the third floor of the rectory, which stands in back of the church but faces Lindell Boulevard. Every time he was asked: "Do you renounce Satan and all his works?" he would go into a rage. Only after several ours of repetition was the boy able to reply: "I do renounce Satan and all his works." Then it required several more hours to get water poured on the boy's head."

Truncating the story somewhat, Allen omits in the article that the family afterwards returned with the boy to Washington, DC. The book corrects this omission. Father Hughes tried to place the boy in a sanitarium or hospital in the Washington-Baltimore area, but none would accept him. Consequently, he was returned to Saint Louis and entered a sanitarium there. It was here that on April 2nd, the first Saturday of the month, a day dedicated to Our Lady of Fatima, the priests finally succeeded in giving the boy holy communion.

Allen noted that numbers appeared on the boy's body in reference to the question to the demon about when it would depart: 4, 8, 10, and 16. A little fact that he did not share was that they were Roman numerals. Also, there is some confusion when he writes in reference to the question of the demon's name: "The answer came etched in blood-flecked lines on Robbie's chest: HELL and SPITE." While admitting that his version seems well attested, there is another record that states, "in answer to the question of his name, the words, "HELL, SPIRIT" appeared in red letters on the boy's chest." This latter version seems to make more sense in regard to the question of identity.

Allen's depiction of the boy's final liberation is faithful, but it might go well to reproduce the actual record:

Suddenly, at 11 p.m., a new voice was heard from the boy; a beautiful, rich, deep bass voice exclaimed: "Satan, Satan, go, NOW, NOW, NOW to the pit where you belong, in the name of the Dominus (the Lord)." That was the word and at that moment the boy felt a tearing sensation in his stomach, relaxed and lay perfectly quiet. He described what has happened. He saw a brilliant figure, visible from the waist up, clothed in a close-fitting white garment which had the appearance of scales; the hair was long and flowing in a wind; the right hand held something like a flaming sword or light pointing downward. It was Saint Michael the Archangel. When he spoke, the evil spirit rebelled against going on until the word "Dominus" was spoken and at this moment the boy felt the tearing sensation in his stomach. Then at some distance down he saw some evil spirits standing at the mouth of a cave from which flames issued. Then the spirits relunctantly withdrew into the cave, the opening closed and across it appeared the word: "Spite." Thus the possession ended.

Summation: Was the Exorcism a Mistake?

In closing, I must admit that I remain a skeptic. After studying this case in depth, Rev. Edmund J. Fortman, S.J. had this to say: ". . . at the risk of being blunt, we have to assert that what began with obsession and poltergeist phenomena was transformed into possession because of the decision to exorcise." Similarly, J. de Tonquedec (1886-1962), a psychologist and the official exorcist of the diocese of Paris for over 20 years, doubted that he ever found a real case. He wrote:

Exorcism is an impressive ceremony, capable of acting effectively on the unconscious of a sick person. The adjurations addressed to the demon, the sprinkling of holy water, the stole passed around the patient's neck, the repeated signs of the cross and so forth, are very capable of creating a diabolical mythomania in word and deed in a psyche already weak. Call the devil and you will see him; or rather not him, but a portrait made of the sick person's idea of him. It is for this reason that certain priests, due to their inconsiderate and imprudent practice of exorcising, create, confirm and encourage the very disorders that they want to surpress.

Is this not what happened in the Mount Ranier case? With the initiation of exorcism, obsession changed to possession. Toward the end, a document states, "Easter Monday, April 18, was the worst day and the exorcists were becoming thoroughly discouraged." Why? The exorcisms are suppose to work, at least to some degree, through the sustained faith of the priest. Consequently, he must be fully aware of his power and authority. Nevertheless, on the most discouraging day, the exorcism succeeded. Rev. Fortman, S.J. notes, "Could it be that the boy noticed such discouragement and decided to end the entire affair which had only been created by his own mind and the minds of those who gave him so much attention?"

BAD DREAMS

2004-10-02T08:14:00.000-07:00

The X FILES Has Nothing On Me

The name for this story is a bit of a misnomer. I am not sure everything I will chronicle here was a dream. More to the point, there is a part of me that is convinced that these nightmarish experiences breached the barrier between dreams and reality. It began in my room at my parent's house. The lights were out. The door was closed. I was resting in bed. There was a chill in the air that seemed to grow suddenly more intense. I heard something and was suddenly gripped by a paralyzing fear. It was little more than a whisper, but it was definitely a voice. My eyes were closed tight. I feigned sleep. I knew that none of the family was in the room. This voice was either imagined in my head or there was something supernatural happening. In either case, I wanted no part of it. I was tired. The whispering voice grew louder and more insistent. It was calling my name.

Drawing out the vowels, it cried out, "Joe-- Joe-- Joe-- Joe-- Joe-- Joe-- You're mine now. Joe-- You're mine now." The voice seemed somehow familiar. Could it be from that imaginary friend I had as a child, a friend who proved himself a foe, causing a small child to run to his mother in fright? I was a teenager now, having just received scholarships and grants for a year to college. I had yet to hear from the vocation director about whether or not I would be accepted into the seminary. That would change my plans a great deal. I felt so unworthy. I doubted they would ever take me. I fell asleep and dreamed. I dreamed of a brick building with a large rectangular tower. The landscape was covered in snow. Where was I? I had never seen this place. My vision shifted. I was suddenly seeing myself in a church. Was I a priest? I was putting on the chasuble and found it too big. Suddenly I was overwhelmed by it. It covered me, buried me under the shimmering green material. I awoke.

Telling no one about the dream, I began to pray. It was all so very disturbing. What did it all mean? Years later I would interpret that night as my own personal struggle over inadequacy. Adding to the complex inner struggle was a spiritual one. It may be somewhat presumptuous, but I think God, or at least one of his messengers, and the devil were wrestling over my soul.

As things would turn out, within two weeks of the end of my summer vacation, the call came from the archdiocese giving me the wonderful news. I had been accepted into the seminary. When I exited my uncle's car at the back door of the seminary building, I stared in utter surprise. The building was precisely the one I had seen in my dream a month earlier-- a place I had never heard about until informed by the vocation director.

I did well in my studies at the college down the hill from the seminary. Although, I must admit that I was a inexperienced and gullible about many things, modest to an unhealthy degree, and unlearned in rituals and things religious. Even serving the Mass caused a degree of unrest. My relationships with the other men tended to be good, although there was one fellow who from day one seemed out to get me. He had much in the way of material things and poked fun at my poverty. He was a Polish boy studying for the Altoona-Johnstown diocese. One day, while we were waiting on the bus at the college for the return trip to the seminary, he maligned me and in an instant of exceptional vulgarity, insulted my mother whom he did not even know. The Franciscan brothers with whom we attended classes looked on with some degree of concern. However, they made no move to correct him. I had had enough.

"Okay, Bob," I said, "I've had enough of this, step outside the bus with me."

"Why?" he inquired, "laughing in short nervous bursts and looking around."

"Because I am going to knock the sh-t out of you." I was amazed at the calmness in my voice. I stood up, ready to go.

"Come on," I directed.

The bus was parked directly before the campus chapel. Oh well, this was still something that had to be done. He was bigger than me, but I would give it my best shot.

He stood up. However, instead of heading for the door he raced to the back of the bus with his hands over his face sobbing like a baby. "I'm going to tell on you!" He cowered in the back. I could not believe this. He was a twenty year old man. Goodness! A Franciscan brother was suddenly patting me on the back, "Good work Joe, it was past time somebody did that." I sat back down. It was no victory. A bloody fight would have been better. I shamed him in front of everyone. The guilt rained down upon me, despite the accolades of others. I was deeply troubled. As it would turn out, this young man would not return to the seminary after Christmas. He moved into one of the dorms on campus and later denied to girls that he had ever been in the seminary.

I had a fitful time trying to sleep. My journal entry for that night, October 18, 1978, details a frightful continuation of the earlier spiritual and emotional battle of several months previous. It reads:

It is about 1:00 AM in the morning. This night has been made difficult by a series of bad dreams; and yet, they seemed more real than the usual nightmare. There are some many features about them, I hardly know where to begin in chronicling them.

I heard voices outside my second-floor window as well as a constant whispering outside my door. There seemed to be no escape from them. They were conniving about something. I think they were after me. Next, I noticed an extremely heavy pounding of water outside my window. The sound seemed to ease me at first. Later, I was unsettled to discover that there had been no rain.

The tormenting dream sequences seemed to last as long as several days. Nevertheless, I had gone to bed at 11:30 PM, only an hour-and-a-half earlier. During parts of my nocturnal experiences, I heard the rhythm of a drum and a hellish chanting, something like, "Beedulah, Beedulah, ahoo, Beedulah". For a while I imagined I was dying. Then I could feel a long dark hand grab me, trying to pull me from the bed, to the floor, to something below the floor (the dark fires below?). I was not sure I could move. I felt the presence of several others in my room-- they were not human, at least not mortal. Looking around, I spotted one of the non-human figures. He had short hair, was white in complexion, and wore a regular shirt and pants. He was rampaging through my room, stealing things. My eyes were heavy, but I forced them fully open. Another presence which seemed friendly was also in the room. However, I did not know him. When I looked at him directly, he vanished and the other character was somehow freed to come at me. He tried to strangle me and I blacked out.

I experienced false awakenings as many as twenty times. I reached out but could not get the lights to work! Men dark as coal seemed to be trying to break through my window. They saw me and joked. They shouted something about the statue of the Virgin Mary in the window, as if it disturbed them. Their language was guttural and broken. It was hard to understand them. Once I remembered awakening and finding the room cast in a very faint light. My desk and walls were blank-- empty-- even the statue of Virgin Mary was missing from the window; this caused me particular concern. I opened the door once and something ran into me, pushing me back into the darkness of my room. There was an intense feeling of being misplaced. Something seemed to be attacking the seminary, looking for me. Gangster-like figures appeared in my room who seemed to move like lightening in their swiftness. I found myself transported to a hall somewhere, perhaps on the abandoned floor? I was talking again to that unfamiliar friend. The gangster men appeared and shot me. I fell unconscious. I found myself in the hallway again. The men reappeared and I ran down the hall. They shot me again-- oh, the pain. I felt every pellet. Oddly, the shots seemed to come from the direction ahead of me, not behind me where it should have come. In the darkness someone tried to fit me into a wooden box, a casket? I begin to pray and they had to cease their efforts. A third time they came. Yes, it all happened again. I "wished" the figure I counted a friend would do something, even if he had to block the bullet. Suddenly he did so.

The worst of the nightmare was a sense of falling. All was darkness. A voice, like a whisper emerged from the abyss below me. It was the same voice I had heard months earlier, "Joe-- Joe-- You're mine now! Joe-- Joe-- You're mine now!" Over and over, the voice spoke these words of doom. I had no doubt that the voice was demonic. My guilt over the incident with Bob earlier in the day rushed upon me. The voice harkened, "Joe-- You're mine now." I felt I would hit bottom at any moment and that it would spell my end. I started to say the Hail Mary. Immediately something reached into my mind and blocked the words. I resorted to repeating the salutation of the prayer, beckoning Mary's assistance. "Hail, Mary! Hail, Mary! Hail, Mary," I must have called out these words fifty times. I felt the evil one's grip loosening. Suddenly, just as I knew I was going to hit bottom, the words of the prayer were returned to me, "Hail, Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee." Along with these words my descent ended and I awakened in my bed.

Was it all just a dream? I awoke drenched in sweat. I reached for the light switch. It was not there. Oh no, was I still dreaming? I fumbled around and turned on my desk lamp. Looking around I notice that my bed had moved across the room. The curtains which I had left opened were now closed. Opening the curtains, I was startled by the statue of the Virgin Mary. I had always kept her looking inward, toward the room. Somehow, the statue had totally turned around and was now staring away from me, toward the window.

Dear Virgin Mary, I love you and your Son, please do not forsake me. Please protect me.

Several times I awoke to find myself in bed. I would count it all as a dream and return to sleep. But, it was still going on, the nightmare continued. These interim periods themselves were filled with foreboding. Even now, I am just recovering from all that has happened. There is pain in my upper body, as if I had been engaged in vigorous exercise. The torment of it all is just now fading. I am afraid. Am I all right now? Is this all finally over? God, I am so tired! I am afraid to turn off the lights-- I could never take more of this, but will the lights on help?

Postscript: When I returned home for the Christmas break I was surprised that my baby sister had not taken over my room as I had expected. She confided with me that she had spent time in the room, but no longer would she enter it at night. My mother collaborated the fact that Helen, in utter panic, had come running out of the room late one evening. Asked why, she answered, "As I was trying to sleep I heard a voice crying out, 'Joe-- Joe-- Joe." Remember, as of that time, I had told no one of my similar experience.

"Pleeeease, make this nightmare night end!"

A shrink would have a field day with this stuff. However, no matter whether it had supernatural implications or was merely the imaginative expressions of a boy's insecurities, there is a lesson to be learned. An abiding and true trust in Mary and Jesus will always be a defense against the demons we create for ourselves and those sent to torment us.

BEDTIME FRIGHT

2004-10-02T08:03:00.000-07:00

My College Seminary in Kentucky

It was in the late 1970's. We were seminarians in a college program located in Kentucky. The school is gone now, but we have many wonderful memories of those days-- and some, not so wonderful.

The school numbered some 140 plus students. While the building was of a pretty good size, many of the lower classmen had roommates. This set the general stage for our story. It was the middle of the night. Everyone in the house had gone to bed. Then it happened.

Many of us were awakened by a racket down the hall and someone screaming. Throwing some clothes on, we went to see what was going on.

"What the hell is it?" someone half-shouted.

"I don't know," answered another half-asleep young man.

We followed the sound to its source. Allan was standing zombified in the middle of the hall, outside his room. When he saw us he began to plead: ""Help! Somebody come quick! Oh my goodness, I don't believe this! Help!"

"Hey Al, pipe down, what's up?" one of the guys said.

A crowd gathered around him. He pointed to the room he shared with Chris. We could hear his roommate having an absolute fit in the room. There was also an almost rhythmic pounding upon the floor. Was he going crazy or something?

Opening the door, we received the surprise of our lives. Chris' bed was levitating in the air, with its various edges hitting the floor with his frantic movement upon the mattress. It was no trick, looking under the errant furniture, there was a definite space between it and the floor. Chris continued to shout. Except for the scraems, his body was utterly petrified. He could not jump off the bed.

Thoughts raced to movies about possessed children and such supernatural experiences. But, this was real. What could be done?

One of the guys shouted, "I'll get the rector!" and disappeared from the room. The bed continued to float.

It was really quite an oddity, not something one sees every day. Chris had always been a bit high-strung. He would never recover from this experience and would always afterward sleep with the lights on and the radio playing. As for myself, it seemed that anxiety over such a thing might only further the devil's ends. We were at the beginning stages of a discernment toward priesthood. A vocation is a fragile thing. Giving this business too great an importance might harm the trust in God vital for one who would be a priest. As providence would have it, Allan would become a priest but Chris would never continue on to be ordained. I suspected this single evening had a part to play in that redirection on Chris' part. He did not have the stuff for spiritual combat. His fear was too real. I wonder sometimes if there might have been a demonic spirit in that room, and that maybe his name was Fear.

The rector came and was as surprised as everybody else. He put his stole on and sprinkled holy water as he read the ritual blessing. Responding to the benediction and command of liberation, the bed lowered to the floor and Chris immediately jumped off.

The rector looked at the bed and then at us. He was like a father to us boys. His words were decisive and dispelled much of our excitement. "Take the bed frame outside and bury it. Burn the rest. It is best to be safe. We'll bring down another bed from supply."

We did as he said and there were no further such incidents. Well, almost . . .

Why is it that we only give the demonic its due when it does parlor tricks? The fact that people become comfortable living in mortal sin is what is truly frightful. Begone Satan!

CANDLE AGAINST THE DARKNESS

2004-10-02T07:55:00.000-07:00

This personal story was related to me by a dear friend who was a priest for the diocese of Lincoln, Nebraska. Alfred's family had just moved into their new home. It was an old but large house. Everything seemed to be going well until they had their first supper in the dining room. The table was set and the family gathered around it. As was their custom they lit a candle in the center of the table and prepared to say the blessing. However, no sooner had the candle been lit that it rose off the table and threw itself against the door.

Grim Reaper Volunteer for Scary Story Night

Alfred, who was one of the most brilliant minds I had ever known, said that there was some panic at this, but that he observed the phenomenon in a rather matter-of-fact manner. {During five years of engineering college he had received all A's minus one B. He never saw anything other than an A in eight years of philosophy and theology studies.}

His sister verified the story. He lit the candle again, the same thing happened. They tried to eat their dinner, without their customary candle.

Checking with neighbors they discovered something the real estate agent had neglected to tell them. It turned out that a man who had formerly lived in the house had hanged himself by the chandelier directly over where they placed the table. Suicide is a most terrible sin and a crime that directly assaults the Gospel of Life. Traditionally, those who committed suicide were even refused internment in consecrated ground. It was regarded as the ultimate sin against the Holy Spirit which defied repentance and forgiveness. However, as with any mortal sin, the person must know not only that something is seriously wrong, as suicide is, but they must freely and firmly resolve to commit the action. Suicide victims are rarely rational and dispassionate. Often there is mental illness and great emotional distress. These elements impede volition and unduly affect rational processes. Understanding this, most churchmen today leave the matter of one's spiritual state after suicide in the hands of our just, but ever so merciful, God. Thus, in this case it was possible that the soul of the dead man wanted to be remembered in prayer. Of course, if the fellow had indeed gone to hell, then the presence would not have been so much his ghost as a demonic entity. Further complicating matters, demons have been known to mimic or to assume the identities of others, living or dead.

A priest was called to bless the house and the family prayed for the departed man. The strange levitations were ended. Alfred was never able to adequately explain it.

Church practices have long recognized that places can either be sanctified or desecrated by the actions committed there. May we live in such a manner that our presence will bring blessing to those we meet and to those places we go. Places also remind us of people. It may be the dead use this fact as a means of identification for the living to direct their attention and prayers. It should also be warned that some actions may be so foul that they invite a demonic presence which needs to be exorcized.

NOT QUITE ALONE IN THE DARK

2004-10-02T07:46:00.000-07:00

Beware of What Lurks in Shadows

Well, it was a sort of closet. Actually, it was a tiny hallway that connected three rooms. However, things were stored in there and when all the doors were closed, it was quite dark. We would play in the room, myself, Mike, Danny, and Paul. The hard tiles made marbles exceptionally good fun. Sometimes we would play with a flashlight, shining the light upwards over one's face could be ever so scary. We would also play dare games, sitting in the dark and enclosed space, telling scary stories, daring each other to be the first to open a door and run for it. I was quite good at this game.

I recall one in particular . . .

"Hey, Joe, come and play!" I heard my baby brother Paul call.

Okay, I thought, this will be good. He's the easiest one to scare. I entered the closet area and closed the door behind me. Surrounded by pitch darkness, I sat down on the floor and faced my brother.

I started, "Booooo! Muhahaha! I'm coming to get you! Muhahaha!"

"I'm not scared," Paul cried, "now it's mine turn."

"I'm coming to get you!" he parroted.

I interrupted, "Oh come on, try something different."

"Let me finish!" he complained.

"All right, go ahead, give it your best shot."

"I will, I really will" he responded. His voice had taken on a shrill quality. Hum. He was getting better at this. "I'm coming to get you! I'm not your brother! I'm coming to get you! I'm not your brother." His speech entered into an up-and-down sing-song kind of pattern. It was really quite unusual. "I'm coming to get you! I'm not your brother! I'm a demon from hell! I'm not your brother!"

He really was getting good at this. The voice he was using was now nothing like it was usually. I tried to interrupt again.

"Uh, that's pretty good, but it's my try again," I said.

Nevertheless, he did not quit. It was as if he no longer heard me.

"Stop it, I said, it is my turn" I argued.

Still he continued in the peculiar rhythmic speech. "I'm not your brother! I'm a demon from hell! I'm coming to get you!"

I could not believe it, I was actually getting scared. He would not stop, that was unlike him. Paul always listened to me. He voice got louder and he began to hold the vowels longer.

"I'm not your brotheeer, Joooooe! I'm a demon from hell! I'm going to get you! I'm right next to you! Ready to grab you! Take you with me to hell! I'm not your brother! I'm a demon from hell! A demon from hell! From Hell!"

I yelled at him to stop but he wouldn't. I had all I could stand. This was a little too scary and on top of that I had to go to the bathroom. I opened the door. Light poured into the small chamber. I stared at my brother, well I would have, except there was one small problem. He was not there. I had been in the dark space alone. I stared in disbelief and ran to the kitchen where mom was cooking. My brother Paul was eating a cookie. He had been there the whole time. I had been by myself or worse, maybe not? I can still hear the shrill sing-song voice after all these thirty plus years, "I'm not your brother! I'm a demon from hell!"

The darkened space was created by the addition of two rooms upon the house. We had neglected to have that section blessed and there were no holy pictures or crosses in the enclosed space. Maybe this oversight was all the thing that I had encountered needed to violate our home. Or, perhaps it was all the overworked imagination of a young boy?

One night not long after, I recall awakening in the middle of the night and putting my hand out into the hallway beyond my bedroom door. Again, in the darkness there was absolutely no light to see. Everyone was in bed asleep except for me. I dared myself to get over the fear I had experienced in the connector space to the new rooms. There is nothing in the dark that is not there in the light, right? I had to prove it to myself. I could not be a coward. I stretched out my hand as far as my arm could reach. Just as I was ready to dismiss my earlier experience, something grabbed at my finger tips and I quickly withdrew my hand. I shook with fear in my bed. The grownups were wrong. There was SOMETHING IN THE DARK that was not there in the light!

"I can't listen anymore, someone, help me to escape!"

Humanity has always feared the unknown and the perilous, associated with the darkness, and has clung to the light. Many of the dying saints have begged to have a lantern or candle burning by their bedsides so that they might not have to die in the darkness. May we take comfort and courage in the true Light of the World who leads us out of the darkness of sin and death.

ORDER OF THE DEAD

2004-10-02T07:37:00.000-07:00

My Father Back in 1978

It was the mid-1950's. Despite certain reservations, Joseph entered the Trappist monastery in Berryville, Virginia. He was a simple but devout man. Pressing family needs compelled him to quit school when he was in the fifth grade so that he could go out and work. He had labored hard ever since. Now he was nearing 40 and wanted to give a definite direction to his life. The hard life of the monks appealed to him. As for the religious element, that was also firmly grounded in his soul. For a time he functioned as a church sacristan and altar server, earning seventeen dollars a week. Okay, he never made much money, but material things never seemed all that important to him. Among his occupations, he had been a fisherman and crabman, a construction worker, a surveyor's aide, you name the grunt work, he had done it. Faith and work were two vital estimations, at least in his mind, of what made a man.

After a long illness, Joseph A. Jenkins, Sr. passed away on February 24, 2000. The story narrated here was told to us many times over.

The monks took a vow of silence. This was hard but for Joseph there were some definite benefits. His speech always had been impaired by a cleft palate. It took two surgeries to close it and still his words sounded slurred and awkward. The hardest aspect of this new life was meal time. The monks were vegetarians and had to ask for bread or water or whatever, entirely by improvised sign language. While they ate their less than appetizing food, large dogs ate juicy steaks in front of the monks. He began to envy the dogs.

The monks would sing and say their prayers in choir fashion and while processing. Joseph had yet to fully appreciate what it meant to join the "Order of the Dead." This unofficial title conveyed not only the fact that these hermits from society were dead to the world, but as a Catholic monastic brotherhood, they prayed especially for the souls in purgatory. Two events would forcefully bring this home to Joseph.

After a long hot day working in the fields, Joseph was eager for the rest in his cell. He went immediately to sleep but his slumber would not be restful. He found himself looking upon a wall of flame and from the fire he began to see many faces. Wearing monkish hoods, their eyes were red with glowing anguish and their faces were all aflame. Piercing cries of agony and pleading reach him. He abruptly awoke. Sweat covered his skin. He was shaking. Each time he tried to close his eyes or even blink, he could still see them there, on fire-- crying out-- begging him for something.

Fatigued from lack of sleep, he went to see the superior early that morning. "Do you think I'm going crazy?" he asked.

The superior answered with directness, "Joseph, what you saw, we have all seen. They are the souls of your ancestors crying out for prayers so that they might be liberated from the fires of their prison, purgatory. They know that your prayers here can be most beneficial to their release and entrance into heaven."

Joseph accepted the answer readily. It seemed to easily answer the vision he had seen. It had been more than a dream and had remained with him for a short time while awake. He devoted himself even more earnestly to his orations to heaven.

One day while praying alone in the chapel, he heard someone come up next to him and call his name, "Joe." He looked around and there was his Uncle George.

Not desiring to be rude, he spoke, "Uncle George, it is good to see you, but why are you here?"

The old man answered, "Pray for me, Joe, that is all I ask."

Motioning for him to be silent and to return to his prayers, Joseph did just that. Many people came to the monastery for retreats and days of recollection, but it was quite a ways for his dear uncle to come, all the way from Charles County, Maryland. It was nice to see a familiar face. Maybe he could get permission to visit with him later in the day? Yes, that would be good. Uncle George was a good man but he was a haunted one. Many years earlier his only daughter had gotten involved with a young man who took advantage of her. Uncle George was furious. He went over to the man's house and shot him dead. Then he called the police and turned himself in. Rumor had it that his wife, a well-to-do woman, paid the judge off so that Uncle George would not go to prison or worse. He ended up spending a year in a mental health institution and then came home. Those had been days when even society at large took the virtue of a young woman very seriously. Many considered Uncle George a hero, that in his place, they would have done similarly. Uncle George, however, regretted his acting in anger. But, he could not turn back the hands of time. What was done, was done.

Joseph prayed for his family, saying as requested a special prayer for his uncle. He was just going to see the superior when he himself was summoned.

"Joseph," said the superior, "I have some bad news for you. A call just came in that your Uncle George died earlier today. Your family wanted you to know so that you could offer special prayers for him."

Joseph was stunned. If Uncle George was dead, then he had seen his ghost. He explained what had happened to his superior. He nodded in recognition. Had this also happened with the other monks? Joseph would continue to pray for Uncle George.

Eventually, and he attributed the trouble to the dogs eating better than the monks, Joseph discerned that the monastic life was not for him. He left but retold many times over the two interventions of souls for prayer and penance on their behalf. Joseph felt that he had actually assisted in the translation of all his deceased family from purgatory to heaven.

A few years later, Joseph married a young woman and had a family of seven children, the first of whom was placed upon the altar at his baptism by the priest. No doubt responding to a call from heaven, implored by the prayers of this simple man, this son of his would become a priest. I am that priest.

We are bonded with each other in a way that transcends death. Never should we underestimate the power of prayer and sacrifice on the behalf of others. May we never neglect such offerings on the behalf of our beloved dead in purgatory. While their individual salvation is assured, these souls need to be perfected by the fire of God's love and by the intercession of the saints and the Church, the new Israel.

THE GOATMAN OF PRINCE GEORGE'S COUNTY

2004-09-12T13:46:00.000-07:00

Mythical Half-Man, Half-Animal Creatures

PERSONAL REFLECTIONS

Very little information, reliable or otherwise, exists about the legendary Goatman. Scattered newspaper accounts, a recent article in Strange Magazine, and a couple of citations in books about monsters by Daniel Cohen pretty much exhausts the available data. While creatures like Big Foot and the Loch Ness Monster get international attention, the Goatman of Prince George's County has faced massive neglect, forcing his story into eclipse. Maybe the information and reflections here will bring rational thinking to the subject while keeping his legend alive.

Outline

What is the Legend?

Personal Recollections from Forestville-District Heights

What About This Goat Business?

Some Current Testimony

Upper Marlboro, County Seat: Source of the Goatman?

Postscript: Who Are the Real Goatmen?

Other Goatman Sites

What is the Legend?

Often the Goatman of Prince George's County is associated with all the various other so-called "lover's lane" monsters; attacking the parked cars of teenagers doing more than talking about the weather. However, encounters with this creature have included people of all ages and during the most innocent of situations. It is true that he has banged upon automobiles and that people have set their dogs upon him, the latter purportedly with the most tragic of results. He appears exclusively near wooded and rural areas and at night. The mythical elements are quite peculiar and strike fear into the hearts of God-fearing Christians: this satyr-like creature, not unlike the Hellenic deity Pan, is described as being human from the waist up and like a goat from the legs down. While it is said by some that he wears boots, others contend that his feet are actually cloven hooves. Other renditions would say that his face is also goat-like and that he has devilish twisting horns. The popular story about his origin seems rather farfetched. It is said that he was a researcher at a local agricultural research facility who suffered a metamorphosis when an experiment went awry. Now he travels as an outcast to humanity, some say with an ax in hand. This website will debunk something of this story while hopefully offering a more plausible variation.

Personal Recollections from Forestville-District Heights

I well recall the "Goat Man" phenomenon of my childhood. While I can nostalgically reminisce upon this "creature" from the 1960's and early 1970's, at the time it filled me with much anxiety. It took upon itself something of the pallor of a boogeyman, a mysterious figure who might "get us" if we were bad. Such was the message that many parents gave their children. The teenage couples were all excited about this "thing" in the woods, I suppose hoping that a tale of mystery and danger might help their parents forget why they were in the woods, anyway. (As for those in parked cars, they evidently used to agitate the Goatman by flashing their lights upon him. His response was to attack the automobiles.) Did the grownups, themselves, really believe in the existence of this "monster"? Admittedly, a number of them thought there was something strange in the forest, going so far as to hunt it down. However, this was a task often relegated to teenage boys playing a new version of snipe hunting. I suspect that other adults, having taken over the fanciful stories, merely implemented it as but another tool to compel their young ones to behave. The wooded area in Forestville, a name once descriptive of the town, was being developed for suburban housing. An untouched area behind Holly Hills apartments was said to possess a Goatman. Officials of the neighborhood schools, Forestville Elementary and Spalding Junior High, as well as fearful parents, would not hesitate to mention the creature in order to keep us out of the woods. As any student of human nature might guess, this warning made the prospect more tempting. Indeed, as a shortcut, so many kids had detoured through the woods on the way home after school, that a trail of a sorts had been made. It was the kind of passage one might find in a scary fairytale-- winding around through a thick and dark forest. It was a quick adventure and a dare that no one could pass up.

I have to be careful about my memories of those days; they come to me through the prism of a child's mind and feelings. Friends have largely forgotten about the Goatman. But, for some curious reason, the Goatman caught my imagination, and from this vivid land of wonder, it has never entirely escaped. This remained the case, even when more mundane details came to light. Rumor had it that the mysterious figure had been forced into our area by those pursuing him. The county was in the early stages of a transition wherein unchecked construction of homes, businesses, and roads were encroaching upon his habitat. (The rural and farm community of only a few decades ago is almost extinguished, now. Prince George's has become one of the most populous counties in the nation, with all the accompanying regulations, taxes, and laws to match. A creature like the Goatman would be hard pressed to find a home here.) Looking back, it seemed he was an intensely shy individual. Was he ashamed of his appearance? Or, did he just want to be left alone? He would creep from the woods at night scavenging for food, clothing, and any other useful castaways. The Junior High dumpster was repeatedly broken into, as were those behind Penn-Mar Shopping Center. The proximity of these vagabond treasure troves might have been another reason for this wanderer's presence and abode in our location. The stories of mutilated animals were true. Dog's were dismembered, and sometimes with the meatiest parts missing. It is uncertain whether he actually sought out the dogs; more likely, he was defending himself from them. Pets protecting their owners' property and bands of wild canines were known to go after him. If he ate the meat, the question arises, did he cook it? While I cannot utterly contest that he ate raw flesh, there were definite signs of camp fires in the woods. Eventually, some of the old gang around town found his home, little more than a rackety tree house. It was surrounded by animal skins and bones. They lost no time getting out of there. While in Junior High School, officials were forced by parents to search the small forest for the Goatman. Since, as far as I know, he had never killed anyone, they were going to charge him with trespassing. Word was that they found an old hermit who quickly eluded their grasp.

Those woods are almost totally gone now, replaced by houses and condominiums. If he was old then, he must assuredly be dead now. Of course, there is a possibility that he was not the only one given the title, Goatman. The bums and hobos, while being solitary, would sometimes gather for purposes of sharing stories and trade. This became even more the case as they were less welcome into what we consider normal society.

A friend who grew up in the area saw the first incarnation of this web page and admitted quite frankly that this was all news to him. He had no recollection of the Goatman at all, even though he regularly played in the local woods. While I admit to being susceptible to the TALL TALE, these memories of mine grow clearer with every telling of the story. Maybe so many have forgotten the tale because they WANT TO FORGET? Just as stories can be exaggerated or molded into legend or myth, they can also be repressed. Being scared by a boogeyman is one thing, actually believing in him, or worse, encountering him, is something else!

What About This Goat Business?

Was he a real mutation of a goat and a man? Unless he had suffered some kind of natural mutation, as one might from the womb, I would doubt it. Reason rebels at the notion that any faulty pre-DNA technology brought about this metamorphosis; catastrophic and artificially induced changes in a person's biology frequently precipitate cancer and tend to be terminal. The Beltsville story of an errant scientist at the agricultural center strikes me as contrived, ala a mixture of a mysterious man, hysterical teenagers, and too many Incredible Hulk comic books. The county was once a farming community. Small farms often raised goats for their milk, cheese, and when all else failed, their meat. They were even utilized as natural lawn mowers. Some people domesticated them like pets, although dogs were unlikely to get along well with them-- there is a definite goat smell. Goat skins could be used as a poor man's leather and as a coat. Wearing the skins of an animal, with the accompanying cap of horns or antlers, was seen as a way for the men of the forest to get close to wild prey, like deer. Wild goats, to my knowledge, no longer roam the county.

One elderly person remarked that they had known the figure, not as the Goatman, but as the Coatman. The name changed as the particulars blurred by word of mouth. According to this testimony, and it makes real sense, it resulted from this madman always wearing a long coat of fur, even in the sweltering summers of Southern Maryland.

Current Testimony

A remnant of the legend survives in some people's minds, but increasing numbers of modern day kids have neither an awareness nor an interest in the Goatman saga. The skeptical will say that it is corny or stupid; the gullible, that it has something to do with alien abductions. Nevertheless, a few still have fun with the traditional story. Asking around, a young woman in her twenties told me that she has heard of the Goatman living under Cry Baby Bridge in Brandywine. I had previously heard rumblings of such a character around Baby Lane, near Mill Swamp, a waterway running into Pomokey Creek. Actually, if he was to live anywhere in the county, that would be the place. It still has a remnant of the rural about it and is adjacent to the countryside of neighboring Charles County. The Pomokey Creek area has many poor people. I know of one family who resides there in a shack with wooden crates for a floor and blankets for room dividers. They make a little money selling wood and eat what they can catch. They have no electricity or indoor plumbing. Hidden away on a dirt road in Pomokey, they are the forgotten residents of the county. Their local minister is an anti-Catholic preacher who earned his theological credentials from an uncertified correspondence course. Ignorance and resentment, as well as children robbed of hope, is still liberally bred. Their overriding pride and deep distrust of strangers makes it difficult to help them. (The importance of such an environment near a creek will come to light in my comments about the Upper Marlboro Goatman.)

Upper Marlboro, County Seat: Source of the Goatman?

An article by Mark Opsasnick in Strange Magazine mentions that the Goatman stories "originated with farm families in early 1958 around the Upper Marlboro area of what today is Rt. 202 or Landover Road." I thought I would make some cursory exploration of the oldest testimonies about the so-called Goatman among the members of St. Mary of the Assumption Church in Upper Marlboro, a Catholic community finding its origins in colonial times. The likelihood was that such a creature-man would have emerged from and have been known best by the poorer inhabitants. I turned my search in that direction. Maybe their descendants would have some notion about the oddity's identity? Many of the black slaves and early tenant workers were parishioners here. After the Civil War, while there were some influential parish families among the property owners, many of the poor made this church their own. Immediately, it struck me as curious that Upper Marlboro seemed at the center of the various sightings:

Fletchertown Road in Old Bowie
[Due north of us] It was once heavily forested with Northridge Community Park still remaining. Newstop and Horsepen streams are near and branch out from the Patuxent River.

Lottsford Road in Mitchelleville
[Northwest of us] On the other side of Watkins Regional Park from us, it includes the remnant forest, Western Branch Stream Valley Park and several golf courses. It is intersected by Bald Hill and Western branches on one side and Southwest branch from the Patuxent on the other.

National Agricultural Research Center in Beltsville
[Northwest of us] This is still a somewhat rural and farming area, with a stream running into Indian Creek It encloses Alter Pond, Beaverdam Creek, Indian Creek, Little Paint Branch Stream out of Little Paint Branch Park, etc. Adjacent is the Nasa Goddard Space Flight Center.

Patuxent Wildlife Research Center in Laurel
[Northwest of us] A portion of the Patuxent River actually flows through here. It remains a substantial natural wilderness.

Walker Mill Road/Forestville-Ritchie Road
[West of us] One could follow the Southwest Branch stream right into this area. It includes Walker Mill Regional Park and on the other side, near Forestville proper, the Suitland Bog Conservation Area and stream.

Tucker Road in Clinton
[Southwest of us] Henson Creek can be followed into Henson Stream Valley Park.

Brown Station Road in Upper Marlboro
[Immediate area] An assortment of farms and woods dot the landscape. Cabin, Back, Turkey, and other branch streams intersect it. It is not far from Rt. 202 (Largo Road), Southwest Stream Valley Park, and Watkins Regional Park.

Note that all of these areas still have at least some residual rural flavor, usually reduced to a park, and that in past days, were accessible by a waterway. Upper Marlboro is a place of convergence for many streams and canals. These particulars are important as they help to collaborate some of the history about the man or men behind the Goatman legend uncovered in Upper Marlboro.

One of the parishioners of St. Mary's recalls a man named Dominic But--- whom he thinks was the source of these Goatman stories. He lived on Leeland Road, an area still quite rural and housing many rustic characters. He would close up his house from Spring to Fall and go trapping for turtles. Principally, he would look for the crocodile turtle so much in evidence in the state. It is a monstrous water turtle, with ridges along its tail. The beast looks something like a dragon with a shell on its back. They can also grow quite large, as much as 15 to 25 pounds. I myself have seen them in School House Pond down the street from the church. Man-made canals, creeks, and streams crisscross the Upper Marlboro area, feeding into the Patuxent River. Water levels sometimes flood the local bridges. Patuxent Park River is also a feature of the area within parish boundaries. The turtle population, no longer actively pursued, has become a nuisance to local fishermen, snaring their lines. Dominic would have followed these waterways in search of turtles. Indeed, the Collington and East branches (streams) passed near his home. He tended to move westward to find turtles, perhaps because the water was murkier in that direction-- the kind the turtles liked best. He would also go quite a way south, but as he got older, his treks shortened. Along the muddy banks the turtles would bury their eggs; he would collect them for human consumption, an acquired taste, for sure.

He was quite a character. Most certainly he wore some sort of head-dressing as protection against the elements. Nature could have easily provided the horns for a cap. Of course, all sorts of head-gear could have been mistaken for something bizarre in the cover of darkness. During the time he was out, he would live totally off the land. He wore furs and carried other gear on his person. He would not cut his hair, which grew quite long. Because of the dirt and hair, you would be hard-pressed to testify to his African American ancestry. He was a trader. While he traveled, he would occasionally ask permission to stay in barns. Knowing how his appearance was offensive, he never asked to enter a house. While he probably carried a hatchet, if not a complete ax, it is known that he carried a long stick with a nail at one end. This was his most valuable tool. He would use it to probe for turtles in the muddy water. He could determine from the bubbles which side was the head and which was the tail. The last thing anyone ever wanted to do was to reach for one of these creatures on the head side. Their mouths are very powerful and dangerous. He was known to reach into the mud past his shoulder to drag the heaviest of turtles out of the water. He would then take the turtle and trade for things he needed. If someone wanted him to prepare the turtle, he would gut it as one might do a fish. As one who has eaten turtle, I can testify that the meat is quite good; however, the process of extracting it from the shell is a bit gross. Because of its primitive nervous system, the turtle can run around without its head and the heart will continue beating for a while after it has been detached from the rest of the reptilian flesh. As a boy, I can remember my mother with an ax, chopping the head off a turtle. Then my brothers and I had to chase the headless body as it sought to get away. Yum yum!

You can well imagine what this hairy man, dressed strangely, and caked in mud must have looked like. He functioned this way faithfully from the 1930's to the mid-1950's. After the war, people began to settle in the county who were more circumspect about trespassers and unfamiliar with the ways of men like Dominic. They went into a panic when they saw him and unleashed their dogs upon him. The civility he and his kind knew had been replaced by a fear and loathing-- the ultimate in bad manners and intolerance. The last thing they wanted was to trade with this man trespassing on their property with a bucket or inverted shell full of turtle guts. They probably did not give him time to explain what he was offering. Confrontations became so bad that he was reduced to traveling public roads at night. That is where the teenagers come into the picture.

His family line, still found locally, has sometimes suffered from skin diseases which rob the features of pigment. There may even have been some albinism. It is a major presumption, but if such was the case for Dominic, then much would be explained regarding glimpses of a milky complection and the care he took to avoid direct exposure to the sun. Further, the legendary red eyes would find a logical explanation since this is the natural appearance of eyes lacking pigmentation.

I am told that one of his favorite areas to work was down on Brandywine Road, a place where maybe his family and compatriots continued their line of work for many years. Particularly, the area was in the direction of Baden in what is today Cedarville State Park. It still allows hunting within designated areas. Several waterways penetrate this forest, but Dominic preferred Zekiah Swamp Run. If I wanted to find a modern day Goatman, that is where I would start my search. Who knows, maybe they still carry goats with them for milk and cheese? After all, it is a lot easier than toting a cow through the brush and mud. Plus, it will eat anything.

There were similar persons often confused with Dominic and who may have lived a parallel type of life. One was named Joe Car---. Another was George Tay---. He also refused to cut his hair and would wear a long green army surplus jacket. He wore this coat even during the humid hot summers. I am told he would bring an alarm clock to Mass and would make a racket if the pastor went too long. People laughed about it and tolerated him. Such people made life interesting. Maybe that is why the legend of the Goatman has endured? My feeble reflection does not exhaust the mystery. That is probably for the best. Too many things today are easily explained away. Instead of being bothered, maybe we should find joy in the search itself and nurture awe toward the world of wonder God has given us?

"Last known victim of the Goat Man."

Postscript: Who Are the "Real" Goatmen?

My faith mandates that I make a qualification to these remarks. I would argue that such creatures do exist and that they are truly monsters of the worse possible sort. They are not restricted to Prince George's County; indeed, they co-exist with us as a secret society. These goatmen, and I must quicken to add, goatwomen, do not possess horns-- at least none that we can see-- but still they are kin to Satan. Unlike the local fables, they are not the end-product of either science or nature, but of supernature. They constitute that other city which has been repudiated throughout the centuries and most brilliantly discussed by St. Augustine of Hippo. It is a legion which lies to itself and to all others. Their allegiance is only to themselves, and then only when it is profitable and/or pleasurable. They have no immediate concern for judgments against them, but are a parasitical hedonistic community enraptured by proximate goods and ends. Unlike the poor old men who were harassed for their peculiarities, and who were really a threat to no one; these other goatpeople are all murderers. True to the mythic symbolism of the horned goat, they are the ultimate manipulators. Well-versed with pretense, they have stifled genuine charity both in their hearts and in their daily operation. They become more and more beasts, and less and less human. Compounding the problem, they are all plagued carriers of a lethal contagion called sin-- a poison which if left untreated, results in the death of souls.

"But when the Son of Man shall come in his majesty, and all the angels with him, then he will sit on the throne of his glory; and before him will be gathered all the nations, and he will separate them one from another, as the shepherd separates the sheep from the GOATS; and he will set the sheep on his right hand, but the GOATS on the left.

"Then the king will say to those on his right hand, 'Come, blessed of my Father, take possession of the kingdom prepared for you from the foundation of the world; for I was hungry and you gave me to eat; I was thirsty and you gave me to drink; I was a stranger and you took me in; naked and you covered me; sick and you visited me; I was in prison and you came to me.' Then the just will answer him, saying, 'Lord, when did we see thee hungry, and feed thee; or thirsty, and give thee drink? And when did we see thee a stranger, and take thee in; or naked, and clothe thee? Or when did we see thee sick, or in prison, and come to thee?' And answering the king will say to them, 'Amen I say to you, as long as you did it for one of these, the least of my brethren, you did it for me.'

"Then he will say to those (GOATS) on his left hand, 'Depart from me, accursed ones, into the everlasting fire which was prepared for the devil and his angels. For I was hungry, and you did not give me to eat; I was thirsty and you gave me no drink; I was a stranger and you did not take me in; naked, and you did not clothe me; sick, and in prison, and you did not visit me.' Then they also will answer and say, 'Lord, when did we see thee hungry, or thirsty, or a stranger, or naked, or sick, or in prison, and did not minister to thee? Then he will answer them, saying, 'Amen I say to you, as long as you did not do it for one of these least ones, you did not do it for me.' And these will go into everlasting punishment, but the just into everlasting life." (Matthew 25:31-46)

A Revision of the Challoner-Rheims Version, 1943 Confraternity of Christian Doctrine

Other Goatman Sites

Goatman - An artist's rendering of the mythical creature.

Goatman Legend - An artist's rendering of the mythical creature.

Gruesome Goatman Close to Clinton - Sighted in Clinton Maryland?

Goatman Legend in Washington City Paper -A newspaper article placed online.

Famed Goatman in Washington Post - Big time article for the goatman.

Recommended: Strange Magazine Issue #14, Fall 1994, pp. 18-21. Author: Mark Opsasnick. ISSN 0894-8968.

Information Assembled April 2, 1998.

LAST RITES ON A WINTRY NIGHT

2004-09-12T10:05:00.000-07:00

Priest Gives Last Rites

Catholic Ghost Story from Southern Maryland

The priest was happy to have a fire burning. It was a cold winter night and it felt good to be settled in for the evening. His small parish in Charles County, Maryland, was a good one with simple but hardworking and faithful people. True, the area was a bit remote from the rest of the Archdiocese, but that had a positive side as well. However, such sentiments were left unexplored and never expressed. The wind howled outside like a woman's cry, and it was ever so dark. Peaceful, that was what this assignment was, like a perpetual retreat. The Catholic cleric counted himself fortunate. He opened his breviary to say his prayers before going to sleep. He had barely begun when there was a knock at the door. Perhaps it was just the branch of a tree? Knock, knock. No, there it was again-- who could it be at this late hour of night?

Throwing on his cassock he went to the door and opened it. "Yes, can I help you?" said the pastor, somewhat irritated at the interruption.

"Father, you have to come quickly, my father is dying!" cried a young teenage boy. "You have to come quickly, he needs the last sacraments!"

The priest became immediately alert. He grabbed his coat and kit and ran out the door with the boy. Journeying to the house, he noted that the boy was only dressed in a flimsy shirt and shorts. He was even barefoot. No doubt the boy had run out to get him at a moment's notice, thinking only of his father. He put his coat over the pale cold skin of the child. "Goodness, boy, if you're not careful you'll catch pneumonia yourself!"

"I'll be okay, Father. The main thing is that you take care of my old man. He meant to contact you before this, but, well, he never thought his health would go so quickly. We don't have a phone so I ran to get you."

"You're telling me that you ran all this way to get me? You're quite some boy. But rest and warm yourself now," replied the concerned priest. The boy pointed the way and the priest made good time to their home.

Upon arriving, the priest jumped out and ran into the house. If the fellow was as bad as the boy made out, there was no time to lose. Sure enough, there he was, lying in bed and quite sick. The priest heard his Confession, anointed him, and gave him holy communion-- it would be his last.

Sitting alongside the old man, for that was assuredly what he was, the priest began to chat with him. "Ah, I see you have a picture here of your son," said the priest picking up a photograph near the man's bedside.

"Oh yes, Father, that's my boy," returned the old man.

The priest added, "You must be proud to have a son like that, running all the way from here to the rectory for the priest."

"What Father? What do you mean?" he asked.

"Your boy, rushing half-naked to get me to insure you would receive the Last Rites-- that was quite a feat."

"But Father," said the old man pointing to the picture, "my boy has been dead these eighteen years, it was summer and he drowned."

This story was told and retold to me many times by my father. It is a wonderful testimony of the value of the sacraments and the bond of love which transcends the grave.

AN EXORCISM STORY

2004-09-12T09:40:00.000-07:00

Picture of an Oriental Demon

The Mount Rainier (Cottage City) Maryland Case

THE NEWS BREAKS

The Washington Post article in 1949 proclaims, "Priest Frees 14-Year-Old Boy Reported Held in Devil's Grip." Almost immediately the story was picked up by the other news services and magazines. Who would think that such a thing could still happen, and in all places, modern-day America? The story has been told and retold.

Unable to get access to archdiocesan records, William Peter Blatty produced his fictionalized account that resulted in a blockbuster movie of 1974. One priest lamented at the time, "It is tragic that the devil should prove so popular with people when they seem so disinterested in God." The conclusion of the film was most lamentable in that the young priest exchanges his body for that of the child as a host to the demon and then throws himself from the window. If the story had been true, one could logically contend that the devil was really after the priest the entire time. In other words, the devil really won and the rituals and intercession of the Catholic Church were proven impotent. Fortunately, such portrayals are restricted to the movies and the real story shows that the power of Christ and of his Church can still vanquish the demonic.

HOW IT REALLY STARTED

Unlike the movie, the story surrounded a young boy who was born June 1, 1935. He and his parents lived just outside Washington, D.C. in Cottage City, not far from Mount Rainier, Maryland. (Some sources claim a popular Mount Ranier location as the site of the boy's home. The house at this location has has been torn down and a dance studio is now on the site. The diary gives the Cottage City location, instead. I do not feel it appropriate to give the full address. However, since Catholics in the past identified themselves by their parishes, we might still call this the Mount Ranier Case. The boy converted to the Catholic faith and claimed St. James parish as his own in Mount Ranier.) The first signs of trouble started on January 15, 1949. He was thirteen years old. While his parents were out that evening, he and his grandmother heard a dripping sound in the house. It only lasted for a brief period and then a picture of Jesus on the wall began to shake as if something had bumped into it. When his parents had returned home, a definite scratching noise could be heard under the floorboards next to his grandmother's bed. This sound of scratching was repeated each night from about 7:00 PM until midnight. Logically, the family figured that there must be a rodent problem. An exterminator was called. However, despite taking up the floorboards and wall panels to spread poison, the sound did not cease. Indeed, the disturbing noises became worse.

Some ten days afterwards the noises ceased and all believed the rodent to be dead. Nevertheless, the boy was under the impression that he could still hear the scratching noises. Three days later the sound became audible to the rest of the family again.

The exorcist writes: "When the sound became audible again, it was no longer in the upstairs bedroom but had moved downstairs to the boy's bedroom. It was heard as the sound of squeaking shoes along the bed and was heard only at night when the boy went to bed. The squeaking sound continued for six nights, on the sixth night scratching again was audible."

It appears that the invitation for this spiritual invasion was inadvertantly initiated through a favorite aunt of the boy. She had died in St. Louis two weeks prior to the first registered phenomena. "It developed that the aunt of the boy and his parents had used a Ouija board, and this probably gave the devil his first entrance." Many religious authorities are convinced that such a so-called toy actually offers an invitation to evil spirits. Aunt Tillie had been an enthusiast of spiritualism. Suspecting something supernatural in the sound of marching feet, the boy's mother asked (according to the exorcists's journal): "'Is that you Aunt Tillie?' She obtained no verbal reply and continued: (evidently aware of the methods employed by spiritualists) 'If this is you, knock three times.' There were waves of air striking the grandmother, mother and boy, and three distinct knocks were heard on the floor. The mother asked again: 'If you are Tillie, tell me positively by knocking four times.' Four distict knocks were heard."

As time went by, it became evident that strange occurrences and sounds seemed to follow the boy.

"An orange and a pear flew across the entire room where he was standing."
"The kitchen table was upset without any movement on the boy's part."
"Milk and food were thrown off the table and stove."
"The breadboard was thrown onto the floor."
"Outside the kitchen a coat on its hanger flew across the room."
"A Bible was thrown directly at the foot of the boy but did not injure him in any way."
"His desk at school moved about on the floor similar to the plate on a Ouija board." This latter evidence of telekenesis forced the boy to quit school because of embarassment.

Things became increasingly worse at home. "On one occasion the coverlet of the bed was pulled out from under the mattress and the edges stood up above the surface of the bed in a curled form as though held up with starch. When the bystanders touched the bedspread, the sides fell back to normal position." It was also stated that "At first everybody, including the boy, took it as a kind of joke, but it became more than a joke." Soon thereafter, "the word LOUIS was written in deep red on the boy's ribs," seeming to indicate that some invisible force desired that the boy travel to St. Louis where the his favorite aunt lived.

THE LUTHERAN MINISTER

His mother called a minister of her faith, a local Lutheran pastor. He was dubious about the whole matter. Although suspicious of the chest message, written upside down as if self-inflicted, he requested that the family come to his home. What happened next struck him as defying any natural explanation. His offer to keep the boy over at his home was accepted. It was the 17th of February in 1949. At about 10:00 PM, they decided to go to bed. The room contained twin beds. After about ten minutes, the boy's bed began to vibrate. The headboard was banging against the frame.

The minister reported: "It made a lot of racket. I thought he was shaking it but he was making no visible movement." Seeking a practical remedy to the situation, he placed the boy in a large overstuffed chair and sat beside him. Slowly the chair began to tilt upon its side and the minister had to grab it before it fell over. The good pastor insisted that there was no way the boy could be pushing the chair over since his legs were thoroughly tucked beneath him. He then placed the boy on a scatter rug upon the floor. Certainly, this would resolve the matter for the night. But no, the rug "moved slowly until it got to the wall and then it stopped." The poor clergyman was utterly befuddled. "I remember thinking he must be doing it himself but I realized later that would have been impossible. There was no movement of his body." The boy was delivered home the next day. Because of his Protestant theology, the ministered sought a natural explanation. Unable to come up with one, he categorized the whole incident under unknown forces.

FROM SHRINK TO WITCHDOCTOR TO PRIEST

A psychiatrist from Georgetown University was called in but refusing to believe in the phenomena he simply reported that the boy was normal but "somewhat high-strung". The family complicated matters further by calling a spiritualist. However, his incantations for dispelling spirits failed. Indeed, the situation became more grave.

Having a relative married to a Catholic, the boy's mother described the situation to him. His response was "If what you say is true, then you should consult a priest." The family called the nearby parish, St. James Catholic Church. The boy's father made an appointment to talk to one of the priests. The clergyman gave him various sacramentals: holy water, blessed candles, and some recommended prayers. "Once when the mother had sprinkled the holy water around the room, she placed the bottle on a dresser and it was picked up by the spirit and smashed. When one of the candles was lighted, the flame shot up to the ceiling, and the candle was extinguished for fear that the house might be set on fire." The suggested prayers seemed to make the phenomena worse. Deciding to call back the priest, the clergyman heard a great crashing sound. The mother of the boy told him that the telephone table she was using had broken into a hundred pieces.

This anxious situation refused to end and matters grew more tense. The priest, Fr. E. Albert Hughes, went to the chancellor of the archdiocese. He was warned to move slowly and not to leap to rash judgments. The young priest explained that he had done as much. After a meeting with the archbishop, Most Reverend Patrick A. O'Boyle, he was authorized to initiate the exorcisms. Fr. Hughes resisted, hoping that an older and more experienced man might be chosen instead. He "understood that this should be done by a very holy man because the devil is wont to expose the sins of the priest; so the Father went to Baltimore and made a general confession. But the devil is the father of lies, and there is a theological opinion that he is unable to reveal sins that have been forgiven."

The archbishop insisted, the young priest had to offer the ritual. It would prove a terrible miscalculation. Between February 27 and March 4, the boy was moved to Georgetown University Hospital. A young man and altar server who was known for his abilities in high school football was drafted by the priest to assist him. This young man is still with us and is a leader in the local Knights of Columbus today. He told me that he had a terrible struggle to hold the possessed boy down. That he could spit across the room with deadly accuracy. At one point he lost his patience and even slugged the other boy to keep him under control. He saw himself as the popular priest's body guard. The priest made him go to confession and pledged him not to tell his mother and friends the details of the encounters. They tied the hands and feet of the boy to the bedposts. He reacted violently to the ritual. Loose items in the room crashed to the floor. The bed shook uncontrollably. Strenuously the large server sought to hold the bed down. The victim was a small boy and yet he possessed incredible strength. The priest warned his young assistant not to enter into dialogue with the boy, only to give the required responses to the ritual words of the priest. Strange words came forth from the restrained boy, supposedly Aramaic, a form of ancient Hebrew. Previously the boy had taunted the priest in Latin. Objects were thrown around the room. The boy growled like an inhuman animal. Then it happened. Somehow the boy had gotten a hand free of the restraints. He secretly tore through the heavy mattress and ripped out a metal spring. The server responded to the words uttered by Fr. Hughes in the ritual. At the conclusion of the Lord's Prayer, the boy attacked the priest and tore a gash into the cleric's arm from his shoulder to his wrist. Blood exploded over everything. The ritual prayerbook was caked in the priest's blood. He screamed out. The exorcism had ended in failure. The priest's life was saved by the doctors and his arm had a long track of a hundred plus stitches. He would have lingering problems with the arm and it would visibly drag at the consecration during Masses.

As an interesting aside, the young server in this episode was struck in the eye by the afflicted boy. He would develop a black eye and it was joked that maybe the priest had struck him. When the priest mysteriously left the parish, only he knew the true reason. The good priest would need to recuperate from his terrible encounter and injury. After this event, collegues of the priest say that Fr. Hughes was never quite the same. He became more quiet. He was intensely reserved about what had happened. One remarked that it was as if he was a haunted man. He died in 1980.

The sources are clear about this next point. "Up to this time everything had been obsession, that is, exterior to the boy, but as soon as the exorcisms began, real possession began."

THEY GO TO SAINT LOUIS

The boy expressed a desire to go to St. Louis, and since they had relatives they could visit there, the family left with the hope of leaving their troubles behind them. Unfortunately, the problem with the boy did not improve. "Different displays were witnessed by two aunts of the boy, four uncles and four cousins. The printing 'No School' was seen by four people. The swaying of the mattress, the upsetting of bedroom furniture and the scratching on the mattress were observed by the entire group . . . Phenomena indicated that the spirit was not the devil but the soul of deceased Tillie. The spirit confirmed again to all present that she was Tillie by moving a heavy bed two or three feet wih no one of the bystanders near the bed."

Again a priest was consulted. Fr. Raymond J. Bishop, S.J. from the univesity came to the house on March 9. from the closest Catholic parish was consulted. He "blessed the entire house, and used a special blessing in the boy's room and on his bed. A second-class relic of St. Margaret Mary was safety-pinned to the extreme border of the pillow. Shortly after the boy retired, the mattress on his bed began to move back and forth in the direction of the bed uprights. The boy lay perfectly still, and did not exert any physical effort. The movement in one direction did not exceed more than three inches, the action was intermittent and completely subsided after a period of approximately fifteen minutes." The next day, similar things happened. The relic was thrown to the floor. "The safety pin was open but no human hand had touched the relic. The boy started up in fright when the relic was thrown down."

EXORCISM & BAPTISM

The next day, Friday, March 11, the priest who would perform the exorcisms visited the family. Fr. Bishop had in turn contacted Fr. William S. Bowdern, S.J. from St. Francis Xavier Church. He was shaken by what he observed. He brought additional relics and a crucifix. "Shortly after the boy had retired at 11:00 PM, he called downstairs that he had been frightened by a strong force that had thrown some object against the mirror in his bedroom. With safety pin openned, the relic of St. Margaret Mary had been thrown against the mirror and the sound was like a pellet striking the glass. Another occurence was a cross mark scratched on the boy's left, outer forearm. The pain was similar to that produced by a scratch of a thorn. The cross remained evident for approximately forty-five minutes." The family telephoned the priest in Washington, and after a few days, the priest in St. Louis brought the case to his archbishop (Archbishop Ritter) and was authorized to continue with the exorcisms.

The symptoms of possession seemed to get worse and not better with the new exorcism attempts begining on March 16. "The seizures took place in the evening when the boy went to bed and would last from 8:OO to 12 Midnight or 1:00 AM, intermittently, and then the boy would go off into a perfectly normal sleep for nine or ten hours." It was decided a few days later to recite the prayers earlier so that everyone could get more sleep. Nevertheless, the seizures were unabaited and started about 9:00 at night and lasted until 2:00 or 3:00 AM.
Sometimes as many as ten people were required to hold the boy during seizures. He would tear the sheets and pillows to shreads, as well as the shirts and undershirts of thos who restrained him. He was utterly wild, hitting and kicking. He even broke the nose of one of the assisting Jesuit students. One incident had him scratching the exorcist's arm so badly that he could not lift it for a number of days.

"Coming out of a seizure he would complain of feeling very hot and would ask for a glass of water. After one of the seizures in the beginning, he said that the evil spirit seems to carry him down into a pit about two hundred feet deep where there were intense heat and vile evil spirits. In the beginning also he semed to be in a long, dark cave with a tiny bit of light at the far end; as the exorcism progressed, the lighted end seemed to grow larger and larger, in one of the exorcims, the spirit, in the body of the boy, pointed to one of the priests who were assisting and said: 'What is the use of you being here; you will be with me in hell in 1957.'"

A few days passed. The boy asked to be baptized. It should be noted that his father had been baptized a Catholic and that some of his cousins in St. Louis were Catholics. Once consulted, the parents were agreeable. The boy was instructed and preparations were made to baptize him in church. "On the appointed morning he rose, took a shower, ate his usual breakfast and set out for the church in a car driven by his uncle. Just before reaching the church the boy grabbed his uncle by the neck and said: 'You S.O.B., you think I am going to be baptizd, but you are going to be fooled.' The uncle was just able to seize the emergency brake and avert a collision by an inch. It was realized that to baptize the boy in the church would create a scene, so he was taken to the third floor of the rectory, which stands in back of the church but faces Lindell Boulevard. Every time he was asked: 'Do you renounce Satan and all his works?' he would go into a rage. Only after several hours of repetition was the boy able to reply: 'I do renounce Satan and all his works.' Then it required several more hours to get the water poured on the boy's head."

After the rite of initiation, things became calm and quiet for a couple days. However, then the demonic business started up again and worse than before. Some of the phenomenon was quite peculiar. "One was the amount of spittle that the boy could discharge: there would be half-a-pint at one time. At times he would ask for a glass of water and it would be given to him, although it was known what would happen. It would be spat back on the bystanders. While the priest read the exorcisms, two others would hold a towel in front of his face to protect his glasses, but it was useless; the spittle would go under the towel, over the towel or around the towel and strike directly on the priest's glasses, and the boy's eyes would be closed the whole time. Another phenomenon was excessive urination. During the seizures the boy would utter the vilest obscenities, curses, blasphemies and ribald songs, all in a high falsetto voice that was off key." It is noted that at one stage, the exorcist had to protect himself with a pillow, for the boy's head moved like a cobra, aiming non-stop with spittle for his face.

FIRST COMMUNION

The exorcist and the family returned to the Washington, D.C. area. The boy's parents were at wits end and were suffering from sleep deprivation. Fr. Hughes tried to get the boy committed to a sanatorium or hospital in the Wasington-Baltimore area, but none would take him. It was decided to take him to the Alexian Brothers Hospital in St. Louis. He was given instructions in preparation for his first communion. The hope was that receiving the Eucharist might bring the possession to an end. "When the time came, it was impossible to get the Host near his tongue, but finally, after several hours, they succeeded in placing it on his tongue and three times he spat it out. Eventually success was achieved. This was on April 2, the first Saturday of the month, a day dedicated to Our Lady of Fatima. The title was explained to the boy and he showed great interest. But the seizures continued."

"WHAT IS YOUR NAME?"

During the exorcism, the priest asked for the first time its name. "What is your name and when will you depart?" The response was simply "Shut up, shut up." Later, "in answer to the question of his name, the words, 'Hell, Spirit,' appeared in red letters on the boy's chest. In reply to the question of departure, red numbers: 4, 8, 10, 16, some Roman numerals, appeared on the boy's body. He said: 'I will not go until a certain word is pronounced and this boy will never say it.' There also appeared a red arrow extending from the boy's throat to the bottom of his abdomen, and it was thought that the spirit might go out by the way of urine, as has happened in some cases."

An appendage to the diary tells us that "the boy would greet the priests with filthy, foul obscenities, fluently answer the exorcist's questons in Latin, a language he had never studied." One day the boy was sitting in bed reading about Our Lady of Fatima with the book on his knees when he was thrown into a seizure. He threw the book across the room. On another occasion, he was given a glass of milk and threw that across the room. On one of the final days, a Jesuit scholastic gave the boy a plate of chipped beef. He grabbed the plate, jumped to one side of the room, and threatened to brain anyone approaching him. While one asistant approached him from one side, the scholastic crawled under the bed to seize him. The boy threw and smashed the dish of food against the wall.

LIBERATION AT LAST

Despite hope that the possession would end during Holy Week, it continued through Easter Sunday with particularly violent seizures. The worst day of all was April 18, Easter Monday. The exorcist and his assistants were becoming completely discouraged.

"Suddenly, at 11:00 PM, a new voice was heard from the boy; a beautiful, rich, deep bass voice exclaimed: 'Satan, Satan, go, now, now, now to the pit where you belong, in the name of DOMINUS (the Lord).' That was the word and at that moment the boy felt a tearing sensation in his stomach, relaxed and lay perfectly quiet. He described what has happened. He saw a brilliant figure, visible from the waist up, clothed in a close-fitting white garment which had the appearance of scales; the hair was long and flowing in a wind; the right hand held something like a flaming sword or light pointing downward. It was St. Michael the Archangel. When he spoke, the evil spirit rebelled against going until the word 'Dominus' was spoken and at this moment the boy felt the tearing sensation in his stomach. Then at some distance down he saw some evil spirits standing at the mouth of a cave from which flames issued. Then the spirits reluctantly withdrew into the cave, the opening closed and across it appeared the word: 'Spite.' Thus the possession was ended."

CLOSING REMARKS

The diary tells us that the exorcist and his assistants "observed some severe fasting, mindful of the admonition of Christ that some devils can be driven out only by prayer and fasting." There had been at least twenty exorcisms performed. One Jesuit involved remarked: "Only be examining the record after possession was ended, was it possible to see the meaning of the replies (the red marks on the boy's body). The numbers may have been the days on which certain spirits departed from the boy, if there were actually more than one in his body."

The Jesuit priest has since passed away although his assistant, the then scholastic is still with us, Walter Halloran. The young server who tried to help Fr. Hughes has desired to remain anonymous. An interesting side note, George (the server) tells me that when the boy returned to Washington, he could not remember the active possession episodes. The possesed man is still living and there has been no trouble since. He married and had a nice family. Life went on.

A FEW ADDENDUM NEWSPAPER CITATIONS

An aunt of the boy said in a New York Times article from August 1972: (Upon the boy's visit to her home) "All of a sudden the mattress starts going, just raised up in the air, and down, up and down, and my sister hollered for me, . . . oh I tell you that mattress just raised both of us right up in the air . . . . I happened to have a table against the wall with a vase of flowers on it and I got out but as my nephew tried to leave, that table actually flew in front of the door and would not let him out . . . ." In the same article it quotes what a Jesuit priest confided to him, "I assure you, Gene -- I saw this with my own eyes -- the boy did not tear the Ritual book, he dissolved it! The book vaporized into confetti and fell in small pieces to the floor!"

"Okay, maybe this story should not have been told?"

The staff writer Jeremiah O'Leary reported in the Evening Star that the boy spoke an unknown language that sounded similar to Hebrew. "A professor of Oriental languages from Catholic University was called in and he was shocked to discover the words coming from the boy's mouth were in Aramaic, the language spoken in Palestine in Jesus' day."

RECOMMENDED READING
Allen, Thomas B. POSSESSED. New York: Doubleday, 1993.

Father Joe's Scary Stories

2002-10-21T13:13:00.000-07:00

Teenagers have enjoyed Fr. Joe's stories for many years. Now it is your chance to hear what all the fuss is about. It is a good safe way to celebrate Halloween time while not forgetting the more important ALL SOULS and ALL SAINTS DAY. Why are his stories particularly scary? It's because, he says, they are REAL.

"Real? What do you mean his stories are real? Please no!"

Note the testimonials:

FROM A PARENT - "Father, what did you tell my children? They're all huddled together in the same bed and won't let me close the door."

FROM A 12TH GRADE BOY - "I may never turn out the lights again!"

FROM AN 8TH GRADE GIRL - "I had to go to the bathroom but was afraid to go alone."

FROM A 9TH GRADE BOY - "This is better than a haunted house!"

FROM A 10TH GRADE GIRL - "You mean a toy can bring about possession? I am going straight home to burn my ouija board!"

FROM A 7TH GRADE BOY - "More pizza!"

FROM AN 11TH GRADE GIRL - "What do you mean all his stories are REAL? No, no, they can't be! Please, somebody, tell me he's lying!"

FROM SOMEONE'S KID BROTHER - "I want my mommy!"

FROM YOUTH DIRECTORS - "Anything that keeps them quiet and under control is fine by me!"

FROM OTHER PRIESTS - "Fr. Joe's telling what kind of stories?"

STORY ARCHIVE

01. An Exorcism Story

02. How True Was the Exorcism Story?

03. The Goatman of Prince George's County

04. Last Nights on a Wintry Night

05. Order of the Dead

06. Not Quite Alone in the Dark

07. Candle Against the Darkness

08. Bedtime Fright

09. Bad Dreams

10. The Haunted Apartment

11. Indian Pooka

12. Face in the Mirror

13. Piggy

14. Spectres in the Rectory

15. Something Strange in the House

16. Unwelcome Visitor

17. The Old Man Next Door

18. Crazy Woman & Empty People

19. What Became of Helen?

20. Substituted Souls

21. The Fortune Teller

22. Monster in the Parish

23. Haunted By Our Choices

24. Not a Story But Cloning is Scary!

25. The Travelers

26. A Story for Children: Johnny Be Bad

****** ****** ******

TWO INTERESTING CITATIONS FROM THE NEW TESTAMENT

Revised Standard Version & Confraternity Version (Revised Challoner-Rheims)

And God did extraordinary miracles by the hands of Paul, so that handkerchiefs or aprons were carried away from his body to the sick, and diseases left them and the evil spirits came out of them. Then some of the itinerant Jewish exorcists undertook to pronounce the name of the Lord Jesus over those who had evil spirits, saying, "I adjure you by the Jesus whom Paul preaches." Seven sons of a Jewish high priest named Sceva were doing this. But the evil spirit answered them, "Jesus I know, and Paul I know; but who are you?" And the man in whom the evil spirit was leaped on them, mastered all of them, and overpowered them, so that they fled out of that house naked and wounded. And this became known to all residents of Ephesus, both Jews and Greeks; and fear fell upon them all; and the name of the Lord Jesus was extolled. Many also of those who were now believers came, confessing and divulging their practices. And a number of those who practiced magic arts brought their books together and burned them in the site of all; and they counted the value of them and found it came to fifty thousand pieces of silver. So the word of the Lord grew and prevailed mightily. (Acts 19:11-20)

And immediately afterwards [Jesus] made his disciples get into the boat and cross the sea ahead of him, while he dismissed the crowd. And when he had dismissed the crowd, he went up the mountain by himself to pray. And when it was late, he was there alone, but the boat was in the midst of the sea, buffeted by the waves, for the wind was against them. But in the fourth watch of the night he came to them, walking upon the sea. And they, seeing him walking upon the sea, were greatly alarmed, and exclaimed, "It is a ghost!" And they cried out for fear. Then Jesus immediately spoke to them, saying, "Take courage; it is I, do not be afraid." (Matthew 14:22-27)

A FEW THOUGHTS FROM FATHER JOE

Above are examples of "scary" elements found in Bible stories. Despite a few objections, the telling of ghost stories and the like have a long history among believers. Many themes in Christianity come to the fore: the resistence of the devil and the other fallen angels, life beyond the grave, the mystery of sin and death, the communion of the saints, prophecies regarding the end times and the anti-Christ, etc. Nevertheless, it may still seem particularly bizarre that a priest would annually tell scary stories, and yet, for many years that has been my practice in the month of October.

Why tell scary stories? We could also ask this of the inspired biblical authors, and yet believers regard the Scriptures as God's living WORD to us, revealing himself and the message of salvation. Could it be that the light of the Good News shines all the brighter against the dark backdrop of human weakness and spiritual evil? I think so.

It also concerns me that many people live as if the resurrection is a hoax and that the prospect of judgment includes no dark possibility of condemnation. Many people today deny the existence of hell and reduce the devil to a fantasy character as on television and in movies. Others accept the occult lie that the devil is only the necessary flip-side to God. I even knew a "Catholic" professor in seminary, and a cleric no less, who denied the existence of angels, good or bad. While my stories are meant as juvenile entertainment, in some small part, they might function as an antidote to both the occult and the atheistic state of affairs. We are not alone. Some of us are being heavily manipulated by things we cannot see. It is essential that we place our trust in God alone. True religious faith needs to supplant superstition and doubt. Hopefully, we can avoid the extremes.

Turning to the subject of ghosts, there is a great deal of divergence on this question. Many theologians contend that the makeup of the afterlife excludes any type of spectral encounter. They would classify ghosts as flights of imagination, or in the worse scenerio, demons in disguise. Others fit ghosts into the category of souls in purgatory, crying out for prayer and remembrance. There are many stories told that seem to support this possibility. In any case, ghost stories remind us that the grave will not consume us and that the soul is immortal.

Scary stories tend to drive us toward sources of safety and strength. Note how many practical atheists and hedonists make the sign of the cross and recite HAIL MARYs in the face of immediate danger. God is almighty and omnipresent. If we trust in him, we have nothing to fear. Separated from him, we have every reason to be fearful. How do we stand right now with God?

Ask yourself how these statements make YOU feel:

GOD knows your deepest darkest SECRETS.
Yes, GOD KNOWS "What You Did Last Summer".
God SEES YOU all the time, everywhere you go.
Your sins, large and small, NAILED JESUS to the Cross.
Saving faith must be lived out in OBEDIENCE.
Your body is a TEMPLE of the Holy Spirit.
What have YOU DONE to your body lately?
Are You a FRIEND of God or of the devil?
What COMMANDMENTS have You BROKEN?
There is still time to REPENT and to BELIEVE.
But hurry, it is running out. The shadows are falling. The day is almost spent. Night is coming. BOO!

This special event is FREE each year! But we will never turn away donations. PLEASE, no little kids. These stories are TOO INTENSE! Young people in grades 7 thru 12 are welcome! Call ahead and let us know if you are coming. FOOD and DRINK will be provided. Held in late October, near Halloween obviously, the stories have been told at St. Mary of the Assumption in Upper Marlboro, during hayrides, and at the Church of the Holy Spirit in Forestville, MD.

FOR MORE INFORMATION:
Church of the Holy Spirit
1717 Ritchie Road
Forestville, MD 20747
frjoe2000@yahoo.com

LAST TIME & PLACE:
5:00 PM Evening Mass
Holy Spirit Church
6:00 PM Halloween Activity
Parish House

Check to see IF, WHEN and WHERE it will be this year!