... In cases of possession by the dead, there are manifestations such as Oesterreich's account of a monk who, abruptly, while possessed, became a gifted and brilliant dancer although he had never, before his possession, had occasion to dance so much as a step. So impressive, at times, are these manifestations that Jung, the psychiatrist, after studying a case at first hand, could offer only partial explanation far what he was certain could 'not have been fraud'...
Worrisome. The tone of this was worrisome.
... and William James, the greatest psychologist that America has ever produced, resorted to positing 'the plausibility of the spiritualist interpretation of the phenomenon' after closely studying the so-called 'Watseka Wonder,' a teenaged girl in Watseka, Illinois, who became indistinguishable in personality from a girl named Mary Roff who had died in a state insane asylum twelve years prior to the possession...
Frowning, Chris did not hear the doorbell chime; did not hear Sharon stop typing to rise and go answer it.
The demoniacal form of possession is usually thought to have had its origin in early Christianity; yet in fact both possession and exorcism pre-date the time of Christ. The ancient Egyptians as well as the earliest civilizations of the Tigris and the Euphrates believed that physical and spiritual disorders were caused by invasion of the body by demons. The following, for example, is the formula for exorcism against maladies of children in ancient Egypt: 'Go hence, thou who comest in darkness, whose nose is turned backwards, whose face is upside down. Hast thou come to kiss this child? I will not let the...'
'Chris?'
She kept reading, absorbed. 'Shar, I'm busy.'
'There's a homicide detective wants to see you.'
'Oh, Christ, Sharon, tell him to---'
She stopped.
'No, no, hold it.' Chris frowned, still staring at the book. 'No. Tell him to come in. Let him in.'
Sound of walking.
Sound of waiting.
What am I waiting for? Chris wondered. She sat on expectancy that was known yet undefined, like the vivid dream one can never remember.
He came in with Sharon, his hat brim crumpled in his hand, wheezing and listing and deferential. 'So sorry.
You're busy, you're busy, I'm a bother.'
'How's the world?'
'Very bad, very bad. How's your daughter?'
'No change.'
'Ah, I'm sorry, I'm terribly sorry.' He was hulking by the table now, his eyelids dripping concern. 'Look, I wouldn't even bother; your daughter; it's a worry. God knows, when my Ruthie was down with the---no no no no, it was Sheila, my little---'
'Please sit down,' Chris cut in.
'Oh, yes, thank you,' he exhaled, gratefully settling his bulk in a chair across the table from Sharon, who had now returned to her typing of letters.
'I'm sorry; you were saying?' Chris asked the detective.
'Well, my daughter, she---ah, never mind.' He dismissed it. 'You're busy. I get started, I'll tell my life story, you could maybe make a film of it. Really! it's incredible! If you only knew half of the things used to happen in my crazy family, you know, like my---ah, well, you're---One! I'll tell one! Like my mother, every Friday she made us gefilte fish, right? Only all week long, the whole week, no one gets to take a bath on account of my mother has the carp in the bathtub, it's swimming back and forth, back and forth, the whole week, because my mother said this cleaned out the poison in its system! You're prepared? Because it... Ah, that's enough now; enough.' He sighed, wearily, motioning his hand in a gesture of dismissal. 'But now and then a laugh just to keep us from crying.'
Chris watched him expressionlessly, waiting....
'Ah, you're reading.' He was glancing at the book on witchcraft. 'For a film?' he inquired.
'Just reading.'
'It's good?'
'I just started.'
'Witchcraft,' he murmured, his head angled, reading the title at the top of the pages.
'What's doin'?' Chris asked him.
'Yes, I'm sorry. You're busy. You're busy. I'll finish. As I said, I wouldn't bother you, except...'
'Except what?'
He looked suddenly grave and clasped his hands on the table. 'Well, Mr. Dennings, Mrs. MacNeil...'
'Well...'
'Darn it,' snapped Sharon with irritation as she ripped out a letter from the platen of the typewriter. She balled it up and tossed it at a wastepaper basket near Kinderman. 'Oh, I'm sorry,' she apologized as she saw that her outburst had interrupted them.
Chris and Kinderman were staring.
