CaptainHowdy.com The #1 Exorcist Fansite Since 1999
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Think about it this way. Remember that picture you posted, of Regan and Sachi together, like twins? And Chris and Shirley are supposed to be rivals who look a lot alike?
Yes, Dalai, not Dali. But just because Shirley MacLaine doesn’t believe in Mormon beliefs NOW doesn’t mean that she wasn’t investigating them THEN — so wait and see where the story goes. You will be thrilled, amazed and inspired. And maybe even a little scared. 😉
Chapter 5
Chris stared at the Ouija board, unable to move. All about her, the sounds of the party continued, though there was a certain electricity in the air, a current that seemed to be flowing in her direction – or, perhaps, in the direction of the board. Or from it, she thought, and shivered.
It lay there in quiet menace, daring her to approach.
“Really, Chris, you must sit down,” Shirley was saying, her tone a friendly mixture of antagonism and curiosity. Other seated guests offered similar invitations, and Chris recognized many of them as fellow actors, some as athletes, and at least two as politicians. For not the first time, she wondered what lay behind their smiles. Regan might still be in the dark, but Chris herself sure wasn’t: she knew that her career had been ruined by the scandalous events in Georgetown even before her talent agency had dropped her, an act they had performed with far less courtesy than the kind they’d employed when collecting their previous, exorbitant fees. No, there was no longer a rivalry betwixt Shirley MacLaine and Chris MacNeil, for it was no longer a contest, which meant that this party was either a celebration of MacLaine’s victory, a pity party for Chris, or perhaps a sickening mixture of both.
She looked back at the two young men who had been watching from across the room. This isn’t to say that they had been the only ones watching her; quite the opposite, actually. Chris had felt like a curious animal on display in a Human Zoo. But those two boys had been different.
As Chris turned toward them, the one with the slightly longish blonde hair stood up and made his way through the crowd, excusing himself politely as he navigated through the throng. He made his way toward the stairs, leaving the second, slightly weasly one behind to maintain his vigil. Of the first, Chris thought: If Regan sees that boy, she’s going to become a teenager tonight. The thought made her think of when she first laid eyes on Howard, all those years ago –
“So, who is this ‘Howdy,” Chris?” Shirley asked, tearing Chris from her thoughts like flesh from a wall. “Don’t keep us in the dark, here.”
Chris sat on the couch beside a famous basketball player, staring at the board. “Come on, Shirley, you don’t believe in these things, do you?”
“Very much. You mean to tell me you’ve never seen a ghost?”
Chris shook her head.
“Come on, never? You’ve never seen or heard something you can’t explain?”
Chris forced a smile. “We star in movies, Shirley. We should be the first ones to know that they’re just make-believe.”
Shirley’s smile hardened, but remained. She sipped at her chardonnay. “I have a particular interest in such things, Chris. You might call it something of an obsession. You’re familiar with reincarnation, are you not?”
“I once saw the Dali Lama levitate.”
“So you do believe in the paranormal.”
“’Psychic’ does not mean paranormal. Mind over matter.”
“But what is the mind that controls the mind that controls the matter?” Shirley leaned back. She looked like a queen lounging upon many velvet pillows. “If it is possible to return from the dead, what gateways are there to choose? New bodies? Spectral non-bodies? Or what if it were possible to become something greater?”
She turned toward the weasly young man with the glasses, wearing his white dress shirt, black slacks and plain tie. Sensing this, he looked away from Chris, becoming visibly uncomfortable.
“Mormons,” Shirley intoned. “They go in pairs, you know. Missionaries. Each is randomly sent to a city he’s never visited, and is given a partner he has never met. Two young men, total strangers in a strange land, each there to keep the other in check. To make sure that each has his mind and heart in the right place. With Heavenly Father.” She turned to Chris. “That’s what they call God. They’re a most unique religion, Chris. Their beliefs on the nature of the afterlife are fascinating, to say the least.”
The missionary had gotten up and fled from observation, disappearing into the crowd.
“They’re not usually allowed to socialize,” Shirley went on, “but I promised them that there was no better place to find lost souls than a Hollywood party.” She laughed, and the surrounding guests laughed too, the response a strangely artificial thing. “But they interest me,” Shirley went on. “Their ideas, I mean. And speaking of interesting, do let’s talk about this ‘Howdy’ fellow you seem intent on avoiding.”
Shirley knew something, Chris realized. Something more than the typical tabloid fodder about the deaths of Burke Dennings, Lankester Merrin and Damien Karras
(dear, sweet Damien)
at the MacNeil home all those weeks ago. No, she knew more. But how? How was that possible?
Finally, she replied in a voice that was tense and terse despite all efforts to sound friendly; she’d simply had enough. “I don’t believe in ghosts. Nor do I believe in reincarnation. And even if I did believe in those things, I really don’t believe that our magical gateway to communication is a board game made by Parker Brothers. Now, if you’ll excuse me, it’s late, and my daughter and I had a long trip.”
She stood, bidding a retreat through the crowd, sensing that all chat had died to a murmur. They were all listening! she thought of the hundred-plus guests, knowing that it was unreasonable to think so, but unable to help it. This party, the conversations: all of it felt so artificial. A ruse. She went from room to room, looking for Regan, but her daughter had vanished.
She was just about to go through the front door to see if Regan had gone home when she felt a hand upon her arm. She spun around to see the missionary with dark hair, the one who had been listening to their conversation from afar. Instinctively, Chris pulled away, but his grip was tight.
“Let go of me!”
He said nothing.
“Let go of me or I’ll scream!”
“It won’t do you any good. Not here, anyway.” He leaned close. “They’re all wearing masks.” He turned around, making sure that all guests were a reasonable distance away, but the two of them were alone in the foyer. “My partner and I were here to see you. We must talk immediately. It’s of the utmost importance.”
Her mind was reeling. “I’m not interested in your religion, thank you, so if you’ll please let go…”
He did. “I’m sorry,” he said, looking away in shame. “But I had to stop you, I had to talk to you.” His eyes lifted. “We were sent here. To find you. To find Regan.”
Chris’ breathing stop.
“She’s in terrible danger, Mrs. MacNeil, and if we don’t act quickly, no exorcism in the world will do her any good.”
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.
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?“
You’re just apologizing for bad film making. On the commentary track,
Schrader says the images don’t mean anything. in a film, everything
should mean something. Look at the dream sequence in the first
Exorcist. Was it just a bunch of random stuff or did it all add up to
something? Look at the dream sequence in Exorcist 3. Was it just a
bunch of random stuff or did it add up to mean something? Then look at
the dream sequence in Paul Schrader’s trashterpiece, Was it just a
bunch of random stuff like floating clocks and strange women with
blowy hair or did it add up to mean something? I think it speaks for
itself. In closing, the dream sequence is tacky and badly made, and
none of the elements mean anything.Northern Lights are called northern because they happen in the north. Supernatural doesn’t mean illogical.
Cheche’s mom being raped only counts if it happens in the movie. Novelizations should fill in unnecessary info, not necessary info like this.
5AD is a major problem with the movies. It isn’t minor. Of course Christian churches wouldn’t be in Africa in 5AD, because they wouldn’t be anywhere else either.
The other point about Lucifer falling or not falling is equally a problem since the movies can’t even make up their mind about which demon it is. In The Exorcist it’s Satan. In Exorcist 2 it’s Pazuzu. In Exorcist 3 it’s Satan and the Gemini. In Paul Schader’s Beginning it is Lucifer. In Harlin’s it is Pazuzu wher Lucifer fell. Nobody seems to have any idea what is going on.
Regarding the dream sequence, explain who the woman is with the blowing hair, or the bandages around Merrin’s face?
I agree that Blatty’s dialogue isn’t always the most believable, and that Beginning had some good lines. Also Renny harlin is a better film maker in a visual sense, but his movie still doesn’t achieve the greatness of Exorcist 3 Legion. There’s no Father Karras!
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.
