The Exorcist

by William Peter Blatty

The following morning when Chris opened her eyes, she found Regan in bed with her, half awake. “Well, what in the … Regan, what are you doing here?” Chris said chuckling. “Mom, my bed was shaking.” “Oh, you nut!” Chris kissed her and pulled up her covers. “Go to sleep. It’s still early.” What looked like morning was the beginning of endless night.

“Have you ever heard of exorcism, Mrs. MacNeil?”

“Do you think you should be wearing your priest clothes?” she said. Karras eyed her with a pity that he tried to conceal. Her face and her voice: how helplessly childlike they were. “Too dangerous,” he told her. “Okay.” Chris turned back and started opening the door, and it was then that Karras felt it: a chill, tugging warning. It scraped through his bloodstream like particles of ice. “Father Karras?” He looked up. Chris had entered.

She lifted a helpless, tormented face to the strong, sad eyes. Saw the strength. Saw the pain. “Okay,” she said weakly. She trusted the pain.

“Incidentally, what an excellent day for an exorcism.”