Текст книги "The Exorcist"

Автор книги: William Peter Blatty

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    "Yes, it's beautiful," Karras said softly. His eyes were still on the page. The raging of the demon from upstairs grew louder.

    "... bastard... scum... pious hypocrite!"

    "She used to put a rose on my plate... in the morning... before I'd go to work."

    Karras looked up with a question in his eyes. "Regan," Chris told him.

    She looked down. "Yeah, that's right. I forget... you've never met her." She blew her nose and dabbed at her eyes. "Want some brandy in that coffee, Father Karras?" she asked.

    "Thanks, I don't think so."

    "Coffee's flat," she whispered tremulously. "I think I'll get some brandy. Excuse me." She quickly left the kitchen.

    Karras sat alone and sipped bleakly at his coffee. He felt warm in the sweater that he wore beneath his cassock; felt weak in his failure to have given Chris comfort. Then a memory of childhood shimmered up sadly, a memory of Ginger, his mongrel dog, growing skeletal and dazed in a box in the apartment; Ginger shivering with fever and vomiting while Karras covered her with towels, tried to make her drink warm milk, until a neighbor came by and saw it was distemper, shook his head and said, "Your dog needed shots right away." Then dismissed from school one after-noon... to the street... in columns of twos to the corner... his mother there to meet him... unexpected... looking sad... and then taking his hand to press a shiny half-dollar piece into it... elation... so much money!... then her voice, soft and tender, "Gingie die...."

    He looked down at the steaming, bitter blackness in his cup and felt his hands empty of comfort or of cure.

    "... pious bastard!"

    The demon. Still raging.

    "Your dog needed shots right away...."

    Quickly he returned to Regan's bedroom, where he held her while Sharon administered the Librium injection that now brought the total dosage up to five hundred milligrams.

    Sharon was swabbing the needle puncture while Karras watched Regan, puzzled. The frenzied obscenities seemed to be directed at no one in the room, but rather at someone unseen–or not present.

    He dismissed the thought. "I'll be back," he told Sharon.

    Concerned about Chris, he went down to the kitchen, where again he found her sitting alone at the table. She was pouring brandy into her coffee. "Are you sure you wouldn't like some, Father?" she asked.

    Shaking his head, he came over to the table and sat down wearily. He stared at the floor. Heard porcelain clicks of a spoon stirring coffee. "Have you talked to her father?" he asked.

    "Yes. Yes, he called." A pause. "He wanted to talk to Rags."

    "And what did you tell him?"

    A pause. Then, "I told him she was out at a party."

    Silence. Karras heard no more clicks. He looked up and saw her staring at the ceiling. And then he noticed it too: the shouts above had finally ceased.

    "I guess the Librium took hold," he said gratefully.

    Chiming of the doorbell. He glanced toward the sound; then at Chris, who met his look of surmise with a questioning, apprehensive lifting of an eyebrow.

    Kinderman?

    Seconds. Ticking. They waited. Willie was resting. Sharon and Karl were still upstairs. No one coming to answer. Tense, Chris got up abruptly from the table and went to the living room. Kneeling on a sofa, she parted a curtain and peered furtively through the window at her caller. Thank God! Not Kinderman. She was looking, instead, at a tall old man in a threadbare raincoat, his head bowed patiently in the rain. He carried a worn, old– fashioned valise. For an instant, a buckle gleamed in street-lamp glow as the bag shifted slightly in his grip.

    The doorbell chimed again.

    Who is that?

    Puzzled, Chris got down off the sofa and walked to the entry hall. She opened the door only slightly, squinting out into darkness as a fine mist of rain brushed her eyes. The man's hat brim obscured his face. "Yes, hello; can I help you?"

    "Mrs. MacNeil?" came a voice from the shadows. It was gentle, refined, yet as full as a harvest.

    As he reached for his hat, Chris was nodding her head, and then suddenly she was looking into eyes that overwhelmed her, that shone with intelligence and kindly understanding, with serenity that poured from them into her being like the waters of a warm and healing river whose source was both in him yet somehow beyond him; whose flow was contained and yet headlong and endless.

    "I'm Father Merrin."

    For a moment she looked blank as she stared at the lean and ascetic face; at the sculptured cheekbones, polished like soapstone; then quickly she flung wide the door. "Oh, my gosh, please come in! Oh; come in! Gee, I'm... Honestly! I don't know where my..."

    He entered and she closed the door.

    "I mean, I didn't expect you until tomorrow!"

    "Yes, I know," she heard him saying.

    As she turned around to face him, she saw him standing with his head angled sideways, glancing upward, as if he were listening–no, more like feeling; she thought–for some presence out of sight... some distant vibration that was known and familiar. Puzzled, she watched him. His skin seemed weathered by alien winds, by a sun that shone elsewhere, somewhere remote from her time and her place.

    What's he doing?

    "Can I take that bag for you, Father? It must weigh a ton by now."

    "It's all right," he said softly. Still feeling. Still probing. "It's like part of my arm: very old... very battered." He looked down with a warm, tired smile in his eyes. "I'm accustomed to the weight.... Is Father Karras here?" he asked.

    "Yes, he is. He's in the kitchen. Have you had any dinner, incidentally, Father?"

    He kicked his glance upward at the sound of a door being opened. "Yes, I had some on the train."

    "Are you sure you wouldn't like something else?"

    A moment. Then sound of the door being closed. He glanced down. "No, thank you."

    "Gee, all of this rain," she protested, still flustered. "If I'd known you were coming, I could have met you at the station."

    "It's all right."

    "Did you have to wait long for a cab?"

    "A few minutes."

    "I take that, Father!"

    Karl. He'd descended the stairs very quickly and now slipped the bag from the priest's easy grip and took it off down the hall.

    "We've put a bed in the study for you, Father:" Chris was fidgeting. "It's really very comfortable and I thought you'd like the privacy. I'll show you where it is." She'd started moving, then stopped. "Or would you like to say hello to Father Karras?"

    "I should like to see your daughter first," said Merrin.

    She looked puzzled "Right now, you mean, Father?"

    He glanced upward again with that distant attentiveness. "Yes, now–I think now."

    "Gee, I'm sure she's asleep."

    "I think not."

    "Well, if–"

    Suddenly, Chris flinched at a sound from above, at the voice of the demon, booming and yet muffled, croaking, like amplified premature burial.

    "Merriiiiinnnnnn!"

    Then the massive and shiveringly hollow jolt of a single blow against the bedroom wall.

    "God almighty!" Chris breathed as she clutched a pale hand against her chest. Stunned, she looked at Merrin.

    The priest hadn't moved. He was still staring upward, intense and yet serene, and in his eyes there was not even a hint of surprise. It was more, Chris thought, like recognition.

    Another blow shook the walls.

    "Merriiiiinnnnnnnnnn!"

    The Jesuit moved slowly forward, oblivious of Chris, who was gaping in wonder; of Karl, stepping lithe and incredulous from the study; of Karras, emerging bewildered from the kitchen while the nightmarish poundings and croakings continued. He went calmly up the staircase, slender hand like alabaster sliding upward on the banister.

    Karras came up beside Chris, and together they watched from below as Merrin entered Regan's bedroom and closed the door behind him. For a time there was silence. Then abruptly the demon laughed hideously and Merrin came out. He closed the door and started down the hall. Behind him, the bedroom door opened again and Sharon poked her head out, staring -after him, an odd expression on her face.

    The Jesuit descended the staircase rapidly and put out his hand to the waiting Karras.

    "Father Karras..."

    "Hello, Father."

    Merrin had clasped the other priest's hand in both of his; he was squeezing it, searching Karras' face with a look of gravity and concern, while upstairs the laughter turned to vicious, obscenities directed at Merrin. "You look terribly tired," he said "Are you tired?"

    "Not at all. Why do you ask?"

    "Do you have your raincoat with you?"

    Karras shook his head and said, "No."

    "Then here, take mine," said the gray-haired Jesuit, unbuttoning the coat. "I should like you to go to the residence, Damien, and gather up a cassock for my-self, two surplices, a purple stole, some holy water and two copies of The Roman Ritual." He handed the raincoat to the puzzled Karras. "I believe we should begin."

    Karras frowned. "You mean now? Right away?"

    "Yes, I think so."

    "Don't you want to hear the background of the case first, Father?"

    "Why?"

    Merrin's brows were knitted in earnestness.

    Karras realized that he had no answer. He averted his gaze from those disconcerting eyes. "Right," he said. He was slipping on the raincoat and turning away. "I'll go and get the things."

    Karl made a dash across the room, got ahead of Karras and pulled the front door open for him. They exchanged brief glances, and then Karras stepped out into the rainy night. Merrin glanced back to Chris. "You don't mind if we begin right away?" he asked softly.

    She'd been watching him, glowing with relief at the feeling of decision and direction and command rushing in like a shout in sunlit day. "No, I'm glad," she said gratefully. "You must be tired, though, Father."

    He saw her anxious gaze flick upward toward the raging of the demon.

    "Would you like a cup of coffee?" she was asking. "It's fresh." Insistent. Faintly pleading. "It's hot. Wouldn't you like some; Father?"

    He saw the hands lightly clasping, unclasping; the deep caverns of her eyes. "Yes, I would," he said warmly. "Thank you." Something heavy had been gently brushed aside; told to wait. "If you're sure it's no trouble..."

    She led him to the kitchen and soon he was leaning against the stove with a mug of black coffee in his hand.

    "Want some brandy in it Father?" Chris held up the bottle.

    He bent his head and looked down into the mug without expression. "Well, the doctors say I shouldn't," he said. And then he held out the mug. "But thank God, my will is weak."

    Chris paused for a moment, unsure, then saw the smile in his eyes as he lifted his head.

    She poured.

    "What a lovely name you have," he told her. "Chris MacNeil. It's not a stage name?"

    Chris trickled brandy into her coffee and shook hey head. "No, I'm really not Esmerelda Glutz."

    "Thank God for that," murmured Merrin.

Chris smiled and sat down. "And what's Lankester,

Father? So unusual. Were you named after someone?"

    "A cargo ship." he murmured as he stared absently and put the mug to his lips. He sipped. "Or a bridge. Yes, I suppose it was a bridge." He looked rueful. "Now, Damien," he went on, "how I wish I had a name like Damien. So lovely."

    "Where does that come from, Father? That name?"

    "Damien?" He looked down at his cup. "It was the name of a priest who devoted his life to taking can of the lepers on the island of Molokai. He finally caught the disease himself." He paused. "Lovely name," he said again. "I believe that with a first name like Damien, I might even be content with the last name Glutz."

    Chris chuckled. She unwound. Felt easier. And for minutes, she and Merrin spoke of homely things, little things. Finally, Sharon appeared the kitchen, and only then did Merrin move to leave. It was as if he had been waiting for her arrival, for immediately he carried his mug to the sink, rinsed it out and placed it carefully in the dish rack. "That was good; that was just what I wanted," he said.

    Chris got up and said, "I'll take you to your room."

    He thanked her and followed her to the door of the study. "If there's anything you need; Father," she said, "let me know."

    He put his hand on her shoulder and squeezed it reassuringly. Chris felt a power and warmth flowing into her. Peace. She felt peace. And an odd sense of... safety? she wondered.

    "You're very kind." His eyes smiled. "Thank you."

    He removed his hand and watched her walk away. As soon as she was gone, a tightening pain seemed to clutch at his face. He entered the study and closed the door. From a pocket of his trousers, he slipped out a tin marked Bayer Aspirin, opened it, extracted a nitroglycerin pill and placed it carefully under his tongue.

    Chris entered the kitchen. Pausing by the door, she looked at Sharon, who was standing by the stove, the palm of her hand against the percolator as she waited for the coffee to reheat.

    Chris went over to her, concerned. "Hey, honey," she said softly. "Why don't you get a little rest?"

    No response. Sharon seemed lost in thought. Then she turned and stared blankly at Chris. "I'm sorry. Did you say something?"

    Chris studied the tightness in her face, the distant look. "What happened up there, Sharon?" she asked.

    "Happened where?"

    "When Father Merrin walked in upstairs."

    "Oh, Yes..." Sharon frowned. She shifted her faraway gaze to a point in space between doubt and remembrance. "Yes. It was funny."

    "Funny?"

    "Strange. They only..." She pause. "Well, they only just stared at each other for a while, and then Regan–that thing–it said..."

    "Said what?"

    "It said, 'This time, you're going to lose.' "

    Chris stared at her, waiting. "And then?"

    "That was it," Sharon answered. "Father Merrin turned around and walked out of the room."

    "And how did he look?" Chris asked her.

    "Funny."

    "Oh, Christ, Sharon, think of some other word!" snapped Chris, and was about to say something else when she noticed that Sharon had angled her head up, to the side, abstracted, as if she were listening.

    Chris glanced upward and heard it too: the silence; the sudden cessation of the raging of the demon; yet something more... something... and growing.

    The women flicked sidelong stares at each other.

    "You feel it too?" asked Sharon quietly.

    Chris nodded. The house. Something in the house. A tension. A gradual thickening of the air. A pulsing, like energies slowly building up.

    The lilting of the door chimes sounded unreal.

    Sharon turned away. "I'll get it."

    She walked to the entry hall and opened the door. It was Karras. He was carrying a cardboard laundry box. "Thank you, Sharon."

    "Father Merrin's in the study," she told him.

    Karras moved quickly to the study, tapped lightly and cursorily at the door and then entered with the box. "Sorry, Father," he was saying, "I had a little–"

    Karras stopped short. Merrin, in trousers and T-shirt, kneeled in prayer beside the rented bed, his forehead bent low to his tight-clasped hands. Karras stood rooted for a moment, as if he had casually rounded a corner and suddenly encountered his boyhood self with an altar boy's cassock draped over an arm, hurrying by without a glance of recognition.

    Karras shifted his eyes to the open laundry box, to speckles of rain on starch. Then slowly, with his gaze still averted, he moved to the sofa and soundlessly laid out the contents of the box. When he finished, he took off the raincoat and draped it carefully over a chair. As he glanced back toward Merrin, he saw the priest blessing himself and he hastily looked away, reaching down for the larger of the white cotton surplices. He began to put it on over his cassock. He heard Merrin rising, and then, "Thank you, Damien." Karras turned to face him, tugging down the surplice while Merrin came over in front of the sofa, his eyes brushing tenderly over its contents.

    Karras reached for a sweater. "I thought you might wear this under your cassock, Father," he told Merrin as he handed it over. "The room gets cold at times"

    Merrin touched the sweater lightly with his hands. "'That was thoughtful of you, Damien."

    Karras picket up Merrin's cassock from the sofa, and watched him pull the sweater down over his head, and only now, and very suddenly, while watching this homely, prosaic action, did Karras feel the staggering impact of the man; of the moment; of a stillness in the house, crushing down on him, choking off breath.

    He came back to awareness with the feeling of the cassock being tugged from his hands. Merrin. He was slipping it on. "You're familiar with the rules concerning exorcism, Damien?"

    "Yes, I am," answered Karras.

    Merrin began buttoning up the cassock. "Especially important is the warning to avoid conversations with the demon...."

    "The demon." He'd said it so matter-of-factly, thought Karras. It jarred him.

    "We may ask what is relevant," said Merrin as he buttoned the collar of the cassock. "But anything beyond that is dangerous. Extremely." He lifted the surplice from Karras' hands and began to slip it over the cassock. "Especially, do not listen to anything he says. The demon is a liar. He will lie to confuse us; but he will also mix lies with the truth to attack us. The attack is psychological, Damien. And powerful. Do not listen. Remember that. Do not listen."

    As Karras handed him the stole, the exorcist added, "Is there anything at all you would like to ask now, Damien?"

    Karras shook his head. "No. But I think it might be helpful if I gave you some background on the different personalities that Regan has manifested. So far, there seem to be three."

    "There is only one," said Merrin softly, slipping the stole around his shoulders. For a moment, he gripped it and stood unmoving as a haunted expression came into his eyes. Then he reached for the copies of the Roman Ritual and gave one to Karras. "We will skip the Litany of the Saints. You have the holy water?"

    Karras slipped the slender, cork-tipped vial from his pocket. Merrin took it, then nodded serenely toward the door. "If you will lead, please, Damien."

    Upstairs, by the door to Regan's bedroom, Sharon and Chris stood tense and waiting. They were bundled in heavy sweaters and jackets. At the sound of a door coming open, they turned and looked below and saw Karras and Merrin come down the hall to the stairs in solemn procession. Tall: how tall they were, thought Chris; and Karras: the dark of that rock-chipped face above the innocent, altar-boy white of the surplice. Watching them steadily ascending the staircase, Chris felt deeply and strangely moved. Here comes my big brother to beat your brains in, creeps! It was a feeling, she thought, much like that. She could feel her heart begin to beat faster.

    At the door of the room, the Jesuits stopped. Karras frowned at the sweater and jacket Chris wore. "You're coming in?"

    "Well, I really thought I should."

    "Please don't," he urged her. "Don't. You'd be making a great mistake."

    Chris turned questioningly to Merrin.

    "Father Karras knows best," said the exorcist quietly.

    Chris looked to Karras again. Dropped her head. "Okay," she said, despondently. She leaned against the wall. "I'll 'wait out here."

    "What is your daughter's middle name?" asked Merrin.

    "Teresa."

    "What a lovely name," said Merrin warmly. He held her gaze for a moment, reassuring. Then he looked at the door, and again Chris felt it: that tension; that thickening of coiled darkness. Inside. In the bedroom. Beyond that door. Karras felt it too, she noticed, and Sharon.

    Merrin nodded. "All right," he said softly.

    Karras opened the door, and almost reeled back from the blast of stench and icy cold. In a corner of the room, Karl sat huddled in a chair. He was dressed in a faded olive green hunting jacket and turned expectantly to Karras. The Jesuit quickly flicked his glance to the demon in the bed. Its gleaming eyes stared beyond him to the hall. They were fixed on Merrin.

    Karras moved forward to the foot of the bed while Merrin walked slowly, tall and erect, to the side. There he stopped and looked down into hate.

    A smothering stillness hung over the room. Then Regan licked a wolfish, blackened tongue across her cracked and swollen lips. It sounded like a hand smoothing crumpled parchment. "Well, proud scum!" croaked the demon. "At last! At last you've come!"

    The old priest lifted his hand and traced the sign of the cross above the bed, and then repeated the gesture toward all in the room. Turning back, he plucked the cap from the vial of holy water.

    "Ah, yes! The holy urine now!" rasped the demon. "The semen of the saints!"

    Merrin lifted up the vial and the face of the demon grew livid, contorted. "Ah, will you, bastard?" it seethed at him. "Will you?"

    Merrin started sprinkling.

    The demon jerked its head up, the mouth and the neck muscles trembling with rage. "Yes, sprinkle! sprinkle, Merrin! Drench us! Drown us in your sweat! Your sweat is sanctified, Saint Merrin! Bend and fart out clouds of incense! Bend and show the holy rump that we may worship and adore it! kiss it! lick it, blessed–"

    "Be silent!"

    The words flung forth like bolts. Karras flinched and jerked his head around in wonder at Merrin, who stared commandingly at Regan. And the demon was silent. Was returning his stare. But the eyes were now hesitant. Blinking. Wary.

    Merrin capped the holy-water vial routinely and re-turned it to Karras. The psychiatrist slipped it into his pocket and watched as Merrin kneeled down beside the bed and closed his eyes in murmured prayer. " 'Our Father...' " he began.

    Regan spat and hit Merrin in the face with a yellowish glob of mucus. It oozed slowly down the exorcist's cheek.

    " 'Thy kingdom come... ' " His head still bowed, Merrin continued the prayer without a pause while his hand plucked a handkerchief out of his pocket and unhurriedly wiped away the spittle. " '... and lead us not into temptation,' " he ended mildly.

    " 'But deliver us from evil,' " responded Karras.

    He looked up briefly. Regan's eyes were rolling upward into their sockets until only the white of the sclera was exposed. Karras felt uneasy. Felt something in the room congealing. He returned to his text to follow Merrin's prayer: " 'God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ; I appeal to your holy name, humbly begging your kindness, that you may graciously grant me help against this unclean spirit now tormenting this creature of yours; through Christ our Lord.' "

    "Amen," responded Karras.

    Now Merrin stood up and prayed reverently: " 'God, Creator and defender of the human race, look down in pity on this your servant, Regan Teresa MacNeil, now trapped in the coils of man's ancient enemy, sworn foe of our race, who...' "

    Karras glanced up as he heard Regan hissing, saw her sitting erect with the whites of her eyes exposed, while her tongue flicked in and out rapidly, head weaving slowly back and forth like a cobra's.

    Once again Karras had a fling of disquiet. He looked back at his text.

    " 'Save your servant,' " prayed Merrin, standing and reading from the Ritual.

    " 'Who trusts in you, my God,' " answered Karras.

    " 'Let her find in you, Lord, a fortified tower.' "

    " 'In the face of the enemy.' "

    As Merrin continued with the next line, Karras heard a gasp from Sharon behind him, and turning quickly around, he saw her looking stupefied at the bed. Puzzled, he looked back. And was instantly electrified. The front of the bed was rising up off the floor!

    He stared at it incredulously. Four inches. Half a foot. A foot. Then the back legs began to come up.

    "Gott in Himmel!" Karl whispered in fear. But Karras did not hear him or see him make the sign of the cross on himself as the back of the bed lifted level with the front.

    It's not happening! he thought, as he watched, transfixed.

    The bed drifted upward another foot and then hovered there, bobbing and listing gently as if it were floating on a stagnant lake.

    "Father Karras?"

    Regan undulating. Hissing.

    "Father Karras?"

    Karras turned. The exorcist was eyeing him serenely, and now motioned his head toward the copy of the Ritual in Karras' hands. "The response, please, Damien."

    Karras looked blank and uncomprehending. Sharon ran from the room.

    " 'Let the enemy have no power over her,' " Merrin repeated gently.

    Hastily, Karras glanced back at the text and with a pounding heart breathed out the response: " 'And the son of iniquity be powerless to harm her.' "

    " 'Lord, hear my prayer,' " continued Merrin.

    " 'And let my cry come unto Thee.' "

    " 'The Lord be with you.' "

    " 'And with your spirit.' "

    Merrin embarked upon a lengthy prayer and Karras again returned his gaze to the bed, to his hopes of his God and the supernatural hovering low in the empty air. An elation thrilled up through his being. It's there! There it is! Right in front of me! There! He looked suddenly around at the sound of the door opening. Sharon rushed in with Chris, who stopped, unbelieving, and gasped, "Jesus Christ!"

    " 'Almighty Father, everlasting God...' "

    The exorcist reached up his hand in a workaday manner and traced the sign of the cross, unhurriedly, three times on Regan's brow while continuing to read from the text of the Ritual: " '... who sent your only begotten Son into the world to crush that roaring Lion....' "

    The hissing ceased and from the taut-stretched O of Regan's mouth came the nerve-shredding lowing of a steer.

    " '... snatch from ruination and from the clutches of the noonday devil this human being made in your image, and...' "

    The lowing grew louder, tearing at flesh and shivering through bone.

    " 'God and Lord of all creation... ' " Merrin routinely reached up his hand and pressed a portion of the stole to Regan's neck while continuing to pray: " '... by whose might Satan was made to fall from heaven like lightning, strike terror into the beast now laying waste your vineyard...' "

    The bellowing ceased. A ringing silence. Then a thick and putrid greenish vomit began to pump from Regan's mouth in slow and regular spurts that oozed like lava over her lip and flowed in waves onto Merrin's hand. But he did not move it. 'Let your mighty hand cast out this cruel demon from Regan Teresa MacNeil, who...' "

Karras was dimly aware of a door being opened, of Chris bolting from the room.

    " 'Drive out this persecutor of the innocent....' "

    The bed began to rock lazily, then to pitch, and then suddenly it was violently dipping and yawing, and with the vomit still pumping from Regan s mouth, Merrin calmly made adjustments and kept the stole firmly to her neck.

    " 'Fill your servants with courage to manfully oppose that reprobate dragon lest he despise those who put their trust in you, and...' "

    Abruptly, the movements subsided and as Karras watched, mesmerized, the bed drifted featherlike, slowly, to the floor and settled on the rug with a cushioned thud.

    " 'Lord, grant that this...' "

    Numb, Karras shifted his gaze. Merrin's hand. He could not see it. It was buried under mounded, steaming vomit.

    "Damien?"

    Karras glanced up.

    " 'Lord, hear my prayer,' " said the exorcist gently.

    Slowly, Karras turned to the bed. " 'And let my cry come unto Thee.' "

    Merrin lifted off the stole, took a slight step backward, and then jolted the room with the lash of his voice as he commanded, " 'I cast you out, unclean spirit, along with every satanic power of the enemy! every specter from hell! every savage companion!' " Merrin's hand, at his side, dripped vomit to the rug. " 'It is Christ who commands you, who once stilled the wind and the sea and the storm! Who...' "

    Regan stopped vomiting. Sat silent. Unmoving, The whites of her eyes gleamed balefully at Merrin. From the foot of the bed, Karras watched her intently as his shock and excitement began to fade, as his mind began feverishly to thresh, to poke its fingers, unbidden, compulsively, deep into corners of logical doubt: poltergeists; psychokinetic action; adolescent tensions and mind-directed force. He frowned as he remembered something. He moved to the side of the bed, leaned over, reached down to grasp Regan's wrist. And found what he'd feared. Like the shaman in Siberia, the pulse was racing at an unbelievable speed. It drained him suddenly of sun, and glancing at his watch, he counted the heartbeats, now, like arguments against his life.

    " 'It is He who commands you, He who flung you headlong from the heights of heaven!' "

    Merrin's powerful adjuration pounded off the rim of Karras' consciousness in resonant, inexorable blows as the pulse came faster now. And faster. Karras looked at Regan. Still silent. Unmoving. Into icy air, thin mists of vapor wafted from the vomit like a reeking offering. Karras felt uneasy. Then the hair on his arms began prickling up. With nightmare slowness, a fraction at a time, Regan's head was turning, swiveling like a manikin, creaking with the sound of some rusted mechanism, until the dread and glaring whites of those ghastly eyes were fixed on his.

    " 'And therefore, tremble in fear, now, Satan...' "

    The head turned slowly back toward Merrin.

    " '... you corrupter of justice! you begetter of death! you betrayer of the nations! you robber of life! you...' "

    Karras glanced warily around as the lights in the room began flickering, dimming, and then faded to an eerie, pulsing amber. He shivered. It was colder. The room was getting colder.

    " '... you prince of murderers! you inventor of every obscenity! you enemy of the human ace! you...' "

    A muffled pounding jolted the room. Then another. Then steadily, shuddering through walls, through the floor, through the ceiling, splintering, throbbing at a ponderous rate like the beating of a heart that was massive and diseased.