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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.
Harlin is a better film maker than Schader. People hate Harlin’s script, but they don’t look at his mood or his style, or his shots. Schrader’s film had a better script but he filmed it so bland and flat and boring.
I would also like to ask if you will be discussing the following points.
– There are no Northern Lights in Africa
– Billy Crawford isn’t black, and looks like a Mexican floating in a diaper
– Jesus wasn’t dead in 5AD
– If that is where Lucifer fell, why is Pazuzu there
– The dream sequence has visions that don’t mean anything within context of the rest of DominionLinda Blair is quite the MILF. Good thing she has no kids, since they would probably have a problem with watching their mother stab her own pussy with a cross, LOL.
First of all, Blatty didn’t make The Beginning, that was Paul Schader. Second, Exorcist 3 is the best one of the whole series. It is funny and has great FX, plus the carp scene is one of the best performances in history.
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.
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.
I would love to contribute. Email me at savior.self@hotmail.com
I also concur that this was never filmed. If so we would know about it. I think that “Paul” needs to stop inferring things from interviews with elderly men who probably only have killer stares when they’re eyeing the spread at Old Country Buffet.
Mr. Garrett, i would like to ask what makes you think that the prequels are worthy of a case study? I am not knocking your endeavor, just asking for a pitch. Most of us felt that both films were lacking. At any rate I will happily read your book.
Whether it is intended to be in the book or not, it is still extraneous and ruins the mystery. Sometimes what isn’t seen is far more effective. It’sbetter to imagine this sequence in the mind’s eye.
