Lessons from an Exorcist: The Memoirs of Father Miguel de Ângelo (Book 1)

At the request of my friend, Fernando Silvestri, I have decided to write this handbook for you, young exorcists. I must confess, however, that this is the first time I have ever attempted to write anything of the sort. If, at times, these pages seem disorganized or confusing, you shall have to forgive me.

I suppose the proper place to begin is with an introduction.

My name is Miguel de Ângelo.

Yes, the same name as the painter.

A curse I have carried since childhood, and one I have never managed to escape. No, I cannot paint the ceiling of a chapel, in case that was the first question that came to your mind.

Some of you may also know me by another name: the One-Eyed Priest. It is a title I earned during the Great War, where I lost my left eye. It is not a name I take pride in, though I have long since stopped minding it. There are far worse things a man can be called.

In any case, I have spent many years serving the Church as an exorcist, and I have been asked to pass that experience on to those who will come after me.

The difficulty is that I have absolutely no idea how one writes a handbook.

I have never been a man who teaches through rules or numbered lists. Everything I know was learned in the field, usually after making enough mistakes to learn the lesson.

So I reached a different conclusion.

Instead of telling you what you ought to do, I shall simply tell you what happened to me. If you are wise enough to learn something from my failures—and, on occasion, my successes—then these pages will have served their purpose.

If not...

Well, only God knows why I ever agreed to write them.

Before I begin, however, I must destroy one dangerous misconception. Contrary to what many believe, demons are not always evil. Nor are men always good.

I know perfectly well that some of my brothers in the faith would call those words blasphemy. Even so, I ask only that you hear me out before passing judgment.

God granted all His creatures free will. If a man may choose evil, why should it be impossible for a demon to choose good? The truth is far more complicated than sermons usually make it sound.

I do not ask you to agree with me.I ask only that you listen to the story that convinced me.

The winter of 1921 had settled over Europe. Three years had passed since the Great War ended, the Spanish flu was finally beginning to loosen its grip on the world, and I found myself in the country I despise above all others.

England.

Its people are arrogant, its weather is dreadful, and, worst of all for an Italian, its cuisine is an affront to God’s own creation.

I never set foot on that wretched island unless my superiors order me to, and that was precisely why I was there.

At first glance, the assignment seemed straightforward. A young woman from a noble family was said to be possessed by a demon. My task was simple enough: cast the creature out and return to Rome as quickly as possible.

Had things gone according to plan, this story would never have found its way into these pages.

My hopes of leaving England within a few days were dashed almost immediately. But I am getting ahead of myself.

I know what you are thinking.

“Why would the Vatican send a Catholic priest to Protestant England? And an Italian at that?”

Believe me, I asked the very same question.

According to my superiors, the Winter family was one of the few noble houses that had remained loyal to Rome. Even after Henry VIII severed ties with the Vatican and Catholics became objects of suspicion and persecution, they never abandoned their faith.

There was another reason I had been summoned.

Several Irish priests had attempted to free the young woman before me. Every one of them had failed.So the Vatican decided to send one of its finest exorcists.

Me.

Whether I truly deserved that reputation is another matter entirely. I have never been in the habit of judging my own abilities. I simply assumed that, if they kept sending me to the most difficult cases, someone believed I could solve them.

Or, at the very least...

Die trying.

I arrived at a tiny railway station in a village whose name I have long since forgotten. Truth be told, I am not entirely certain I ever knew it in the first place.

What I do remember is the rain. Cold, relentless English rain. That miserable island seems incapable of producing any other kind.

The station stood in the middle of nowhere. There was nothing around me but open fields, a scattering of trees, and an almost oppressive silence. The only sign that civilization still existed was the train that had left me there...Several hours earlier.

I waited so long that I seriously considered walking the rest of the journey. I had no idea where I was supposed to be going, but at that point any direction seemed preferable to standing in the rain.

Then, through the curtain of water, I saw two headlights approaching. As they drew nearer, I understood immediately why they had taken so long. The motorcar was moving slower than a man on foot.

“Well,” I thought, “it’s still better than walking in this weather.”

The car finally came to a halt before me.

An elderly man stepped out. Completely bald, dressed in black from head to toe, with so many dark spots covering his skin that, for a brief moment, I wondered whether he had somehow survived the Black Death.

“Father Miguel Angelo?” he asked.

He spoke with the solemnity of a man delivering a sermon. Every word emerged in exactly the same measured tone, as though emotion had long ago abandoned him.

“Myself.”

Strictly speaking, my name is Miguel de Ângelo. Most people forget the de. Eventually, I stopped correcting them.

“Mr. Winter is expecting you.”

Not the slightest change in expression. Not the slightest change in tone. I confess, the man had already begun to irritate me.

He took my only suitcase, placed it carefully in the boot, opened the rear door for me, and only then climbed behind the wheel.

Well, I thought...

At least one Englishman still knew how to receive a guest.

I have never cared much for motorcars. But dear Lord, I was grateful that the vehicles we drove during the Great War had not been as painfully slow as that one.

I swear before all that is holy that, had I climbed out and continued on foot, I would probably have reached the manor before the automobile did.

Only the rain—and the sea of mud outside—kept me in my seat. Since I clearly had time to spare, I decided to ask a few questions.

“So then, Mr...”

“David.”

“Mr. David, perhaps you could tell me a little more about the circumstances that brought me here.”

The old man remained silent for several moments. It seemed he was searching carefully for the proper words.

“Miss Marina Winter has been possessed by the Devil.”

The way he said it amused me.

Most people speak such words either in terror or in hysterics. David merely stated the fact with the same calm solemnity he had shown ever since we met.

“And what makes you believe she is possessed?”

“She displays every sign we have been told to expect. She speaks languages no one understands. She knows things she could not possibly know. Sometimes she speaks in her own sweet voice...And sometimes...In voices that are not her own.”

“I see. Anything else?”

“No, Father.”

“I understand...”

One of the very first lessons an exorcist learns is that not every supposed possession is, in fact, a possession.

Quite the opposite.

Most cases are eventually explained by illnesses of the mind, or by afflictions far more earthly than infernal.

That is why gathering information beforehand is so important. The more you know before you arrive, the easier it becomes to distinguish a genuine possession from a poor soul in desperate need of a physician rather than a priest.

Unfortunately...

That rule does not always help. Most people already know the famous signs of demonic possession. And sometimes...

That makes our work considerably more difficult.

“How long has she been... like this?”

“Two years.”

I nearly had a fit. Two years? How could that be? Possessions do not work that way. After six months, the girl should have been dead...

Or utterly consumed by the demon.

But two years?

That simply made no sense.

“I’m sorry...Did you say two years?”

“Yes, Father. In truth, it will soon be three.”

“And only now you’ve decided to ask for help?”

“Yes, Father.”

I waited for an explanation. When none came, I had no choice but to drag it out of him.

“What do you mean?”

“The master never believed there was any reason to seek help. The young lady was... unwell. But she never harmed anyone.”

I will admit that, upon hearing those words, I briefly considered throwing that foolish Englishman out of the car and making him push it the rest of the way.

Fortunately, I have learned that losing one’s temper rarely improves a situation.

“So why call for me now?”

“Apparently Miss Marina said something that deeply disturbed the family. After that... The master decided it was time to seek assistance.”

“And what exactly did she say?”

“I’m afraid I couldn’t tell you, Father.”

It was at that moment I realized the case before me would be far more complicated than I had first imagined.

The truth, however...

Was that I still had absolutely no idea what was waiting for me.