William Blatty - The Exorcist

He paced. What else? What else? Something quick. She---Wait a minute. He paused, staring down, hands clasped behind his back. That chapter... that chapter in the book on witchcraft. Had it mentioned...? Yes, it had: that demons invariably reacted with fury when confronted with the consecrated Host... with relics... with---Holy water! Right! That's it! I'll go up there and sprinkle her with tap water! But tell her it's holy water! Sure! If she reacts the way demons are supposed to react, then I'll know she's not possessed... that the symptoms are suggestive... that she got them from the book! But if she doesn't react it would mean...

Genuine possession?

Maybe...

Feverish, he rummaged for a holy-water vial.

Willie admitted him to the house. In the entry, he glanced toward Regan's bedroom. Shouts. Obscenities. And yet not in the deep, coarse voice of the demon. Raspy. Lighter. A broad British... Yes!... The manifestation that had fleetingly appeared when he'd last sees Regan.

Karras glanced down at the waiting Willie. She was staring puzzled at the Roman collar. At the priestly robes. "Where's Mrs. MacNeil, please?" Karras asked her.

Willie motioned upstairs.

'Thank you."

He moved to the staircase. Climbed. Saw Chris in the hall. She was sitting in a chair near Regan's bedroom, head lowered, her arms folded on her chest. As the Jesuit approached her, Chris heard the swishing of his robes. She glanced up and quickly stood. "Hello, Father."

There were bluish sacs beneath her eyes. Karras frowned. "Did you sleep?"

"Oh, a little."

He was shaking his head in admonishment.

"Well, I couldn't," she sighed at him, motioning her head at Regan's door. "She's been doing that all night."

"Any vomiting?"

"No." She took hold of his sleeve as if to lead him away. "C'mon, let's go downstairs where we can---"

"No, I'd like to see her," he gently interrupted. He resisted the tugging insistence of her lead.

"Right now?"

Something wrong, reflected Karras. She looked tense. Afraid. "Why not now?" he inquired.

She glanced furtively at the door of Regan's bedroom. From within shrieked the hoarse mad voice: "Damned Naa-zi! Naa-zi cunt!"

Chris looked away; then reluctantly nodded. "Go ahead. Go on in."

"You've got a tape recorder?"

Her eyes searched his with quick movements. Little flicks.

"Could you have it bought up to the room with a blank reel of tape, please?"

She frowned with suspicion. "What for?" Then alarm.

"You mean, you want to tape...?"

"Yes, it's im---"

"Father, I can't have you...!"

"I need to make comparisons of patterns of speech," he cut in firmly. "Now please! You're just going to have to trust me!"

They turned to the door as an excoriating, stream of obscenities apparently drove Karl out of Regan's bedroom. His face ashen and grim, he was carrying soiled diapers and bedding.

"Get 'em on, Karl?" Chris asked him as the servant closed the bedroom door behind him.

Karl glanced quickly at Karras, then at Chris. "They are on," he said tersely, and went quickly down the hallway toward the staircase.

Chris watched him. She turned back to Karras.

"Okay," she said weakly. "Okay. I'll have it sent up." And abruptly she was walking down the hall.

For a moment Karras watched her. Puzzled. What was wrong? Then he noticed the sudden silence in the bedroom. It was brief. Now the yelping of diabolic laughter. He moved forward. Felt the water vial in his pocket. He opened the door and stepped into the bedroom.

The stench was more powerful than the evening before. He closed the door. Stared. That horror. That thing on the bed.

As he approached, it was watching with mocking eyes. Full of cunning. Full of hate. Full of power.

"Hello, Karras."

The priest heard the sound of diarrhetic voiding into plastic pants.

He spoke calmly from the foot of the bed. "Hello, devil. And how are you feeling?"

"At the moment, very happy to see you. Glad." The tongue lolled out of the mouth while the eyes appraised Karras with insolence. "Flying your colors, I see. Very good." Another rumbling. "You don't mind a bit of stink, do you, Karras?"

"Not at all."

"You're a liar!"

"Does that bother you?"

"Mildly."

"But the devil likes liars."

"Only good ones, dear Karras, only good ones," it chuckled. "Moreover, who said I'm the devil?"

"Didn't you?"

"Oh, I might have. I might. I'm not well. You believed me?"

"Of course."

"My apologies."

"Are you saying that you aren't the devil?"

"Just a poor struggling demon. A devil. A subtle distinction, but one not entirely lost upon Our Father who is in Hell. Incidentally, you won't retention my slip of the tongue to him, Karras, now will you? Eh? When you see him?"

"See him? Is he here?" asked the priest.

"In the pig? Not at all. Just a poor little family of wandering souls, my friend. Yon don't blame us for being here, do you? After all, we have no place to go. No home."

"And how long are you planning to stay?"

The head jerked up from the pillow, contorted is rage as it roared, "Until the piglet dies!" And then as suddenly, Regan settled back into a thick-lipped, drooling grin. "Incidentally, what an excellent day for an exorcism, Karras."

The books! She must have read that in the book!

The sardonic eyes were staring piercingly. "Do begin it soon. Very soon."

Inconsistent. Something off here. "You would like that?"

"Intensely."

"But wouldn't that drive you out of Regan?"

The demon put its head back, cackling maniacally, then broke off. "It would bring us together."

'You and Regan?"

"You and us, my good friend," croaked the demon. "You and us." And from deep in that throat, muffled laughter.

Karras stared. At the back of his neck, he felt hands. Icy cold. Lightly touching. And then gone. Caused by fear, he concluded. Fear.

Fear of what?

"Yes, you'll join our little family, Karras. You see, the trouble with signs in the sky, my dear morsel, is that once having seen them, one has no excuse. Have you noticed how few miracles one hears about lately? Not our fault, Karras. Don't blame us. We try!"

Karras jerked around his head at a loud, sudden banging. A bureau drawer had popped open, sliding out its entire length. He felt a quick-rising thrill as he watched it abruptly bang shut. There it is! And then as suddenly, the emotion dropped away like a rotted chunk of bark from a tree: Psychokinesis. Karras heard chuckling. He glanced back to Regan.

"How pleasant to chat with you, Karras," said the demon, grinning. "I feel free. Like a wanton. I spread my great wings. In fact, even my telling you this will serve only to increase your damnation, my doctor, my dear and inglorious physician."

"You did that? You made the dresser drawer move just now?"

The demon wasn't listening. It had glanced toward the door, toward the sound of someone rapidly approaching down the hall, and now its features turned to those of the other personality. "Damned butchering bastard!" it shrieked in the hoarse, British-accented voice. "Cunting Hun!"

Through the door came Karl, moving swiftly with the tape recorder, setting it down by the bed, eyes averted, and then quickly retreating from the room.

"Out, Himmler! Out of my sight! Go and visit your club-footed daughter! Bring her sauerkraut! Sauerkraut and heroin, Thorndike! She will love it! She will---"

Gone. Karl was gone. And now abruptly the thing within Regan was cordial, watching Karras as the priest quickly set up the tape recorder; looked for an outlet; plugged it in; threaded tape.

"Oh, yes, hullo hullo hullo. What's up?" it said happily. "Are we going to record something, Padre? How fun! Oh, I do love to playact, you know! Oh, immensely!"