The Exorcist

by William Peter Blatty

More rooted in logic was the silence of God. In the world there was evil and much of it resulted from doubt, from an honest confusion among men of good will. Would a reasonable God refuse to end it? Not finally reveal Himself? Not speak?

At a little past five in the morning, Chris was standing moodily behind the bar with her elbows propped, her head lowered and her eyes very sad as she waited for Sharon to return from the kitchen with a tray of ice. Then at last she heard her coming. “I still can’t believe it,” said Sharon as she entered the study. Chris looked up. Then to the side. And froze. Gliding spiderlike, rapidly, close behind Sharon, her body arched backward in a bow with her head almost touching her feet, was Regan, her tongue flicking quickly in and out of her mouth while she sibilantly hissed and moved her head very slightly back and forth like a cobra. Staring numbly, Chris said, “Sharon?” Sharon stopped. So did Regan. Sharon turned and saw nothing. And then screamed and jumped away as she felt Regan’s tongue snaking out at her ankle. Chris threw a hand to her cheek, her face ashen. “Call that doctor and get him out of bed! Get him now!”

Wherever Sharon moved, Regan would follow.

And I think—I think the point is to make us despair; to reject our own humanity, Damien: to see ourselves as ultimately bestial, vile and putrescent; without dignity; ugly; unworthy. And there lies the heart of it, perhaps: in unworthiness. For I think belief in God is not a matter of reason at all; I think it finally is a matter of love: of accepting the possibility that God could ever love us.”

“There it lies, I think, Damien … possession; not in wars, as some tend to believe; not so much; and very rarely in extraordinary interventions such as here … this girl … this poor child. No, I tend to see possession most often in the little things, Damien: in the senseless, petty spites and misunderstandings; the cruel and cutting word that leaps unbidden to the tongue between friends. Between lovers. Between husbands and wives. Enough of these and we have no need of Satan to manage our wars; these we manage for ourselves … for ourselves.”

“And yet even from this—from evil—there will finally come good in some way; in some way that we may never understand or even see.” Merrin paused. “Perhaps evil is the crucible of goodness,” he brooded. “And perhaps even Satan—Satan, in spite of himself—somehow serves to work out the will of God.”

“What do you think really happened?” he asked Chris softly. “I mean, as a nonbeliever. Do you think she was really possessed?” Chris pondered, looking down as she absently toyed with the rose again. “I don’t know, Father Dyer. I just don’t. You come to God and you have to figure if there is one, then he must need a million years’ sleep every night or else he tends to get irritable. Know what I mean? He never talks. But when it comes to the Devil…” She looked up at Dyer. “Well, the Devil’s something else. I could buy that; in fact, maybe I do. You know why? Because the creep keeps doing commercials.”

Dyer stared at her with fondness for a moment, then said quietly, “But if all of the evil in the world makes you think that there might be a devil, Chris, how do you account for all of the good?”