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I have been thinking of an idea for a sequel to The Exorcist that ignores The Heretic and starts up where the first one ends, but instead of being Catholic, why not a different spin on Christianity? This one is called The Mormon Exorcist. I would also like to add that I am not a Mormon but will deal with their faith as delicately as I can.
Prologue:
The Bonneville Salt Flats
June 27, 1844
He turned toward the sky and squinted against colorless flame. The rising sun upon the white, salty plains rendered the world an explosion of blinding light somehow not unlike God, or pain, or even kindness. It seemed appropriate, given his task. This last journey. “My mission,” he thought, wryly.
Joseph Smith struggled on, despite weariness, despite fatigue, despite hunger. Thirst. His tongue was large and swollen, sticking to the roof of his mouth like a bloated leech feasting upon a bloodless stone. In Heaven, he knew water would be in abundance. His journey was almost finished.
The dream! Again, Moroni had appeared to him, even as he had all those years ago when the tablets had first been given unto the world. The Book of Mormon. Smith had labored to translate it, giving this second Testement of Jesus Christ to mankind despite his unworthiness to receive it, and when finished, Smith had thought himself a journeyman at rest. Yet there were still Kingdoms to walk, terrestrial or otherwise.
“If only I were a younger man,” he thought ruefully, stopping to rub his aching joints. The visiting angel hadn’t been interested in such earthly concerns. Smith had been told to go forth immediately, leaving all possessions behind, even those three wives who would mourn his passing from a world that would soon be little more than a battlefield. A greater cause needed him — something in the desert awaited.
As he rested his weary legs, the sun rose still higher, and it was then that Smith saw it: a dark shape on the horizon. Man-shaped. Tall. Erect. Waiting.
He knew it from his dreams.
He sighed wearily. It escaped him like a fearful stutter.
Pazuzu.
Joseph Smith, founder of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints, the prophet who had brought forth The Book of Mormon and all its lost teachings, strode forward on weak legs pumped by an old heart — a heart strengthened by the will of Heavenly Father.
As he pressed on, the statue grew larger, a tall and silent silhouette in the midst of a sea of white. It stared him down, its open mouth a frazen snarl of hate, its wings outstretched, its penis hard and cruel looking. Pazuzu: king of the evil spirits of the air, here to prevent Smith’s final meeting with Moroni, a meeting that would yield the final book of Mormon: the last chapter that would seal the fate of so many.
And as Smith drew close the statue, meeting its gaze as the wind rose up about him, the name of that book echoed in his mind in the voice of that most perfect angel:
The Book of Regan.
Part One
A New Beginning
Chapter 1
“Honey, this is Father Dyer,” her mother had said, and when she heard these words and saw the band of white that collared his throat–the sign of the Roman Catholic Church–she had impulsively kissed him. Why had she done that?
Regan’s thoughts were interrupted by a sudden jarring as the car came to an abrupt stop. Someone had cut them off. Strangely, Chris didn’t honk the horn or curse like she used to. Mother seemed so different these past few weeks, ever since Regan had been ill. It was as if part of her had died, or perhaps been replaced by something new. But what? And why did it seem so sad?
Chris started the car forward again, and they made their way through busy Washington DC toward Dulles Airport. Soon they would be back in LA, with a horse already waiting. But there would be no Sharon. And more importantly, no Daddy. She had finally come to accept this.
So why the melancholy? She had thought that upon getting better her mother, so previously traumatized by an illness Regan couldn’t remember and had been described to her only as being “serious,” would be celebrating life. But she wasn’t. Sure, Chris had quit swearing, but it seemed that she was somehow hollowed out, like one aware that they have passed their one true love on the street and then lost them in the crowd.
Once, during packing, Regan had come upon her mother staring at a photograph. Chris had reacted in a surprised (and somewhat guilty) way, hiding the photo behind her back and telling Regan to never sneak up on her again. But it hadn’t been an angry demand. Rather, Chris had seemed almost…scared? But why would she be scared of me?
And who was the man in that photo? It hadn’t been Daddy, that much was for sure. The face had been less soft and more rugged. Chipped. The face of a boxer.
Questions. So many of them. And yet even these pertinent issues seemed inconsequential next to a burning desire to know one simple answer, one that Mother had failed to answer and had gotten so uncomfortable when queried: what had happened to Regan’s genitals? What violence had transformed her nethers into a haphazard nightmare of ruined flesh?
Regan reached into her pocket and removed the bottle of Ritalin. Briefly she caught Chris watching from the rear view mirror. Their eyes met. Both smiled, but neither believed the gesture a genuine one.
Chapter 2
The house was theirs. Brick. Sprawling. A veritable palace flanked by thick trees, crouching upon the heights overlooking the City of Angels. The bustling universe seemed to go about its frantic business, unaware of the Hollywood royalty that had communed above them, each prince and princess sequestered in their own gated kingdom. So close to one another and yet so far removed. Even more so from the world below.
Willie and Karl had settled things long before Regan and Chris pulled into the large circular drive, so when Regan went looking for her room, she found it prepared. Everything a girl could want, from a new wardrobe in the closet to all her favorite stuffies on the bed. Nevertheless, Regan was nonplussed. It felt artificial somehow. Sterile. Absently, she went to her bedroom window and looked out, seeking something comparable to the stone steps that had plummeted precipitously beside the Georgetown rental. Instead she saw only a swimming pool. She’d always wanted one, but the revelation did little to change her mood.
“Rags?”
Regan turned. Chris was in the doorway, leaning against the frame. Something in her eyes – concern?
“Honey, you all right?”
A nod. The girl turned from the window.
“Mom, why didn’t Sharon come?”
Chris inhaled slowly and then seemed to horde the breath. It was a while before she allowed it to re-enter the atmosphere, to commune and bond with new air molecules, shaping and reshaping into infinite new versions of intangible human fuel. “Well,” she began, going to the bed and sitting, “Sharon doesn’t like the warm weather. She prefers the east coast. Allergies. Her sinuses are terrible.” She smiled lamely, but Regan’s dubious expression went unchanged.
“I don’t believe you, Mom.”
A long delay. An hour of unspoken thought passed between them in under a minute.
“She needed time to herself,” Chris whispered at last. “Things she needed to sort out.”
Regan nodded. It was the same excuse, the same empty, empty answer that offered so many possibilities but nothing of substance. She felt the sudden urge to cry but didn’t want her mother to see it. Lately, the slightest show of emotion had turned Chris into a frenzied, doting mother so uncharacteristic of her usual brusque self. The result had been two females who stood behind walls that neither could see over.
Suddenly, Chris was on her feet again, her forced smile and red, swollen eyes a veritable mask that was as constant these days as a setting sun. “Well, why don’t you get cleaned up and try on one of your dresses?” she asked. “Don’t forget, we’ve been invited to the MacLaines for dinner.”
Regan grimaced. “I thought you hated her. Said she’s trying to steal all your roles.”
“Well, if she’s willing to be neighborly, I’m willing to, too. Besides,” she said with a smile that was so surprisingly genuine that Regan nearly reeled from it, “maybe I can steal some of hers.”
They laughed. So genuine. So yesterday.
“You know Shirley has a daughter about your age,” Chris went on. “I think a friend is just what you need.”
Regan nodded. “Yeah, I guess so.”
Chris came to her, folding Regan in her arms. It was a long, sweet embrace. “Love you, Rags,” she whispered, kissing her daughter’s head. Then, like a phantom, Chris passed from the room, leaving Regan alone to unpack.
Eyeing the stuffies lined up on her bed, Regan had a sudden thought: Maybe I should put those away. The idea of a possible new friend stirred a sense of concern for her perceived immaturity. Being the daughter of a box office superstar didn’t allow for consistent friendships to begin with, and she didn’t want to sabotage the chance by inviting potential playmates over to giggle at the sight of stuffed ducks and rabbits lounging upon frilly pillows. No, to the closet they would have to go.
She swept them up in her arms, accidentally knocking a pillow to the floor. It took a moment for her eye to register the object that had been hidden beneath, tucked away and now glinting openly in the sunlight that poured through the window.
It was a crucifix.
Chapter 3
It wasn’t just a dinner – it was a party. The MacLaines were obviously very popular in the neighborhood, and it seemed that all of Hollywood had turned out for the event. Chris had to wonder how much of it was for her and how much of it was an attempt by her rival to establish dominance. Yet Shirley was nothing if not the perfect hostess. Many a martini was offered (Chris turned them all down), and finger food was in abundance, rivaling the finest feast. Even Regan appeared happy, which seemed somehow more important to Chris than hobnobbing with the elite. I guess I’m only just starting to appreciate her, she thought with a combination of wonder and self-loathing.
“Chris, darling, there’s someone I want your daughter to meet,” said Shirley, a glass of chardonnay in one hand, the other leading forward a young girl about Regan’s age. There was even a vague similarity in appearance between the two, though not as great as the one shared by Shirley and Chris, an observation so commonly noted by the press. “Regan, this is my daughter, Sachi.”
The two girls, both so sweet-faced and innocent, smiled awkwardly and waved, despite the lack of distance between them. “Hi,” they both said at once, their two voices a chorus, causing both to giggle.
“Sachi, honey, why don’t you show Regan your bedroom?”
The younger MacLaine nodded and held out her hand. “Come on,” she said to Regan.
Regan looked at her mother for assurance. She really doesn’t know how to make friends like a normal kid, does she, thought Chris with a vague sense of alarm. “Go on, Rags, it’s okay,” Chris told her with a smile. Smiling back, Regan took Sachi’s hand, and the two disappeared upstairs.
“Is your daughter all right?” Shirley asked. “She seems a little distracted.”
Something about the question caused Chris’ flesh to crawl. “No, she’s fine. A little jet lagged. Why do you ask?”
Shirley eyed Chris for a long time, saying nothing. “So I hope that it won’t be a problem with you that I’m doing the new Friedkin film,” Shirley asked, changing the subject. Her tone seemed to walk the fine line between friendly and catty. “I realize you were his first choice, but the Dennings film went so far behind schedule given the unfortunate accident, and Billy simply couldn’t hold off the studio any longer. Who’s finishing Crash Course, if I might ask?”
“Warner Brother brought in some hack to cut the footage. Enough was shot.”
“I see. Am I to understand that you and Dennings were dating?”
The line of questioning began to feel like an interrogation. Chris found herself wishing for a drink. “No, not dating,” she said, waving off the question like a bothersome but altogether harmless fly. “He was just a good friend.”
Shirley’s gaze remained even. “Shame about how he died. It was just outside your home, wasn’t it?”
The memories came flooding back all at once. The image that had haunted her dreams: Regan, her face a painted snarl, grabbing Burke by the neck and –
“Yes. But I’d rather not talk about it.”
Shirley smiled. “Of course,” she said. But there was something dancing in her eye. “Incidentally, you know that I dabble in the occult?”
Chris’ blood went cold. “No. I didn’t know that.”
“Just thought I’d mention it.” Shirley turned suddenly toward the throng of guests. “If you’ll excuse me, Chris, I really must see to it that we have enough wine on the table.” Then she was gone.
Chris stood there, adrift, a stranger at a party for which she was the guest of honor. Not for the first time, she found her thoughts going back to Damien. Her dear, sweet Karras – the man who had risked all and given his own life for Regan, a surrogate father and, perhaps, a surrogate husband, if only for a time. Damien. Gone forever.
She turned and then saw the strangers who eyed her intently from the far side of the room: two young men, early 20s, both wearing plain black ties over short sleeved white dress shirts. They were tucked away in a corner, nibbling their snacks and drinking punch, neither speaking nor socializing. The depth of their gaze made Chris feel naked and vulnerable.
Just then, Shirley called her over to a nearby couch. “Chris, darling, you really must join us,” she said. Chris, relieved at the distraction, waded through the crowd, aware that the young men followed her move with their piercing blue eyes.
When she reached her host, she found Shirley sitting at a coffee table with several other guests.
Before them, upon the table, was a Ouija board.
Chris felt the air go out of her lungs.
“The strangest thing just happened,” Shirley said, her smile friendly but her eyes probing. “He asked for you. For you, in particular.”
“Who?” Chris asked, though she knew the answer already. Her knees were weak, and her bowels were moist.
Shirley’s smile faded. “Someone named ‘Howdy.’ Does that name ring a bell?“
And that’s not Sachi. She was never a spoiled/cruel kid. Regan should find out about what happened in Georgetown in a different way.
If there isn’t a Byzantine Church (and / or Byzantine Churches) covered in sand in the not-too-distant future, your narrative receives a thumbs-down from me, sir. The heart of the Exorcist saga has always beat from deep within Byzantinian culture.
As for cinematic inspirations, might I also suggest a viewing of arguably one of the finest films of our decade: Star Wars Episode II Attack of the Clones? I mean, I don’t know about you but I felt that that movie alone was superior to all three films in the Bored of the Rings trilogy.
Tabloids.
I. Hate. Tabloids!. How could they say that about Damien and Chris when it never happened?
Chapter 4
Sachi’s room dwarfed even Regan’s. It was less a bedroom than a private apartment, one with separate areas springing off the center. Each subdivision was dedicated to a different interest, be it art supplies or books. Regan noted the former with great interest: there were a good many sketch pads and jars of clay lined up on the side desk, putting even Regan’s tools to shame. It looked like the imagined chamber of a faraway princess: all rich furs, silk, and toys that were all doubtlessly one of a kind.
These are my stuffies,” Sachi said, pointing to the heaping pile of expensive plush animals that lounged upon her queen-size bed. “I like rabbits the best. This one is Mr. Bun.” She presented Mr. Bun, who grinned at Regan in a crazy buck-toothed way, but Sachi didn’t offer him, holding him close instead.
Regan laughed, and Sachi’s eyes went cold. “What’s so funny?” she demanded.
“I put all my stuffies in the closet in case you saw them and made fun of me,” Regan replied, feeling instantly more at ease. Less self-conscious. But Sachi’s face remained hard, her mouth a small, straight line.
“Don’t copy me,” Sachi warned.
“What?”
“I said, don’t copy me.”
“How did I copy you?”
“You called them stuffies after I did.”
“I’ve always called them that!”
“Sure you have,” Sachi responded laconically. She returned Mr. Bun to the bed. “My Mom says your Mom is a has-been. She said that nobody wants to cast her anymore because of all the bad press about the people dying at your house.”
Regan was flustered. Confused. From the moment she had entered the room, Sachi’s attitude had changed. She’d become antagonistic. Mean. And what was she talking about? “What do you mean?” she asked. “Nobody died.”
“Mom says somebody killed the director guy. The one making your Mom’s movie.”
Burke? Regan’s mind reeled. “No, he’s at home in England,” Regan said. “That’s what my Mom said.
“Then your Mom lied,” Sachi said, shrugging. She began strolling about the room, randomly handling toys, jewelry and other precious objects in a disinterested way while Regan stood helplessly near the door. The sounds of the downstairs party seemed suddenly very far away. Another planet, maybe.
“It was on the news,” Sachi went on. “Somebody turned his head around like on cartoons. Only owls can do that and live, not people. And some famous priest guy had a heart attack. And there was this other priest who jumped out your window and fell down some stairs.” She turned and met Regan’s eyes full on. “The National Enquirer said he was having an affair with your Mom, and the Catholics will boycott any more movies your Mom makes since she was a dirty whore. That’s why nobody wants to hire her.”
Regan felt suddenly faint. Could this be true? Could her mother have lied to her? It was as if everything she knew were proven suddenly and irrevocably false. Tears stung her eyes, but she couldn’t let this cruel, hateful little girl see them. She turned, fleeing the room toward the stairs–
— and collided into someone barring her way. She stepped back, dazed, her vision already blurred with tears, and when her eyes readjusted, she was staring up into the beautiful, kind face of an angel. Young. No older than twenty. Creamy skin. Blue eyes. A shock of blonde hair, not overlong, but just enough to be fashionable.
“Are you okay?” he asked, his smiling mouth revealing a row of pearled teeth. Regan’s heart was caught in her throat; she was suddenly, and uncontrollably, in love.
“I – I just—“ she stammered.
He smiled. “I guess I must have gotten lost. This house is like the Temple back home in Utah. Huge. Beautiful, too.” He looked around, considering; then his gaze returned to Regan’s. “Empty, though.”
“What do you mean?”
“No Heavenly Father. The opposite, actually.” He held out his hand. “I’m Elder Jensen.”
She blushed a little, the previous encounter with Sachi a quickly fading memory. “I’m Regan.”
“Your Mom’s a terrific actress. I saw all her movies. Angel was my favorite.”
“Mine too.”
An awkward pause. Regan couldn’t hold his gaze; never had she been so smitten before. He was so adorable, dressed in his plain black slacks and short-sleeved white dress shirt, a black tie dangling precipitously from his throat. So simple, and yet so elegant.
He broke the silence. “Wanna go for a walk? It’s a beautiful night.”
Her cheeks turned a fierce crimson. “Yeah, she said. “Sure.”
Gesturing chivalrously, he allowed her to go first. She went down the stairs with Jensen just behind, the sound of the party swelling and surrounding them.
And had either turned, they would have seen the hate-filled, jealous eyes that watched from Sachi’s open bedroom door.
Yes cobra022, Blatty based Chris on Shirley and Regan on Sachi. I wrote about it here: http://captainhowdy.com/?page_id=38&xdforum_action=viewthread&xf_id=7&xt_id=313&pstart=0
Oh God, I love it! You know that I am a huge fan of Shirley MacLaine and Sachi. I made that wallpaper of them. Please keep going!
“Chris inhaled slowly and then seemed to horde the breath. It was a while before she allowed it to re-enter the atmosphere, to commune and bond with new air molecules, shaping and reshaping into infinite new versions of intangible human fuel.”
“What violence had transformed her nethers into a haphazard nightmare of ruined flesh?”
Genius.
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