Will Storr vs. The Supernatural: One Man's Search for the Truth About Ghosts

by Will Storr

  ‘This would happen with someone under a very strong possession,’ says the priest. ‘The force of the devil can scare people like this.’

  … and about the bangings and the crashes that are common to so many of these cases.

  ‘It is possible for a place to become possessed,’ he says. ‘For example, the windows and doors open and close without anyone touching them. You hear lots of bangs. The television turns itself on and off, the lights turn on and off without anyone touching them. There have even been flying chairs and dancing armoires. I’ve had to do various exorcisms of houses. To free a house takes a long time. But less time than a person. When freeing the houses you use holy water and salt. You put the salt in the corners of the room. You also put salt on the windows to avoid an infestation. You use the salt against evil presences. The salt protects a place. I also use oil and water. I put the oil on the eyes, ears, nose, mouth and throat. All the senses. With the water I bless them at the beginning and during the exorcism if they become furious. I bless them again and they become even more furious.’

  I think about the last haunted place I stayed in – the First And Last Inn in Sennen. I’m still troubled by the behaviour of the pets, especially the moment when they stared at Annie’s wall and then bolted. Could this, I ask, be the sort of thing that happens when a place is possessed?

  ‘Yes,’ he tells me. ‘Animals are sensitive. They usually fix their eyes on one point, they stay there and then they run off. They are afraid of whatever they are looking at or feeling. Animals are very interesting regarding their behaviour. I get a lot from them.’

  Amorth says it can take years for a deliverance to be successful. He tells me that other symptoms of possession include vicious pains in the stomach and head that doctors can’t diagnose. The agony often gets so bad that the victims attempt suicide. Amorth says that many doctors and psychologists refer their patients to him when they sniff Satan in a case. He describes an apparently epileptic boy who was cured with an exorcism.

  ‘That boy wasn’t ill,’ Amorth recounts. ‘He was demonised. The devil does this to hide himself. He gives the person symptoms of an illness. This way people believe that they are ill when there is actually possession by the devil. The doctors can’t find any cure. For them, the medicines don’t work. After his exorcism, the child was completely healthy.’

  But things don’t always end so cheerily. In 1978, in the Bavarian town of Werneck, Father Ernst Alt and Father Wilhelm Renz were found guilty of negligent homicide after the exorcism of a twenty-three-year-old girl called Anneliese. Eleven months before her death, her parents – who, along with the priests, received a six-month suspended sentence – turned to the Church after becoming dissatisfied with the medical establishment’s diagnosis of her daughter as an epileptic. Renz and Alt carried out sixty exorcisms over a period of nine months. The sessions were often violent, and the demons in Anneliese would pretend to be Adolf Hitler, Judas Iscariot and Emperor Nero. From the start of her ordeal, the pretty, dark-haired theology student refused all food, drink and medical attention. She died, on 1 July 1976, of malnutrition and dehydration. She weighed slightly more than three kilograms.

  ‘Yes,’ says Father Amorth. ‘I know this case very well. Anneliese Michel. She was a girl who was offered to God for the forgiveness of our sins. She died for God. God allowed her to be possessed by the devil. They blamed the exorcists because she died whilst she was being exorcised. Then they prosecuted the exorcists and the girl’s parents. The prosecution was ridiculous and unworthy. It wasn’t the fault of the exorcists or the parents. It was the will of God.’

  ‘What I don’t understand,’ I say, ‘is if it was the will of God for her to suffer and die, how can we then say that He’s merciful and loving?’

  The exorcist doesn’t blink. He continues, slow, still, unmoved. ‘He permitted the death of his son Jesus,’ he says. ‘He permitted the death of martyrs and lots of people suffering from illnesses.’

  ‘But surely that’s the behaviour of something evil?’

  There’s a freighted pause. ‘No,’ says Amorth. ‘He is good because there is a need for this sufferance to make saints.’

  ‘So we need people to suffer so they can become saints?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why do we need saints?’

  ‘To protect humankind.’

  ‘But what good does their suffering do to the rest of us?’ I say. ‘I don’t understand how we can benefit from these people suffering.’

  Amorth’s eyes peer up at me. From underneath his ageing folds, he looks like a slow, basking reptile who’s had his afternoon dose disturbed by a titchy, skittering gnat. ‘Because it gives us the opportunity to repent our sins,’ he says. ‘The sinners abandon their sins. They get a better life. And people convert. Anneliese’s death absolved the sins of others and it converted many people.’

  ‘So a lot of people converted to Christianity because of this?’ I ask.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And this means that Anneliese is a saint?’

  ‘Yes, I think she is a saint.’

  I look at Father Amorth. Father Amorth looks at me. There’s a silence. I look down at my notes and fiddle with the corner of a piece of paper. I decide to change the subject.

  I’ve been thinking, these last few days, about the things I’ve been up to on my journey – the Ouija boards, the séances, the demonically infested houses, the graveyards, the cups of tea I’ve drunk that have been prepared by possessed women. And I’ve been wondering what Father Bill, if he were still alive, would have to say about it all. And, with all that in mind, and while I’m here, I think, well … I might as well ask.

  Father Amorth reacts to my request for an exorcism with typical steady understatement. And, thankfully, he doesn’t tie me down. He stands at my side, rests the end of his purple stole on my shoulder and begins his prayer. ‘Ecce crucem Domini,’ he begins in a low, dark hum. He dabs the blessed oil on my head, eyes and lips and rests his hand on my head. ‘Sit nominis ti signo famkus tuus munitus,’ he murmurs. I sit back and wait for the eruption. I feel tense and sweaty and primed. ‘Dei exorcisto,’ he says. And I don’t spit or scream or vomit up a nail. I’m not furious. I actually feel quite nice. A warm, relaxed swell emerges in my ankles, fills up my legs and spreads through my torso and arms. I let go a sigh and decide to relax into my exorcism as if it’s a big, soft, spiritual sofa.

  ‘You are not possessed by the devil!’ announces the exorcist with a big smile when he’s finished.

  ‘Excellent!’ I say, and leap to my feet. I follow Father Amorth out of the anteroom and into the car park, which sits in the middle of the complex in the classic Roman atrium fashion. The moment that I get outside I’m struck, yet again, by the potent feeling that permeates this place. I felt it when I walked in. There’s something in the air out here. It’s as powerful as the feeling of dread that I felt in that upstairs room at Michelham. And yet, it’s the precise opposite. I feel as though I’m sinking slowly into a warm marshmallow of love. I want to pitch up a deckchair, unbutton my shirt and just bask, for a while, in the soothing magic. I can’t understand where it comes from. It can’t be Dr Salter’s ‘psychic feng shui’ as this is just a standard car park. There’s worn tarmac and unremarkable vehicles and an awkward family of streetlights. And, backing onto it, there’s the high concrete wall of a triple-decker church. Could it be the powerful concentration of holy worship in there that’s leaking into the air out here? This sensation, I think as we walk, is the same thing as the ‘atmospheres’ that people talk about. It’s like when Janet said ‘there was a funny atmosphere in the house’ on the night that the terror first kicked off. And when home-buyers are shown around houses on property programmes, they’re forever remarking that ‘it feels nice in here’ or the opposite. Is this paranormal? Is it the same thing that Stephen the Druid taught me about – a sixth sense?

  We walk back inside, and down a long corridor whose dusty silence is broken only by the e
xorcist’s steady talking.

  ‘People don’t realise the power of the devil,’ Amorth says. ‘And if we don’t realise his power, we can’t fight against it, and he continues to do what he wants. There are not lots of people who are possessed but there are many people who follow the devil. Because the devil has two activities. One ordinary and one extraordinary. The ordinary activity is temptation. Tempting man to evil. The extraordinary activity is possession.’

  ‘So big world issues,’ I say, ‘like Iraq. Is this the work of the devil, tempting Blair and Bush?’

  ‘Yes, because God is the God of life. The devil searches for death. All wars are the work of the devil.’

  We enter a meditative high room and, eventually, reach the front door. The moment I open it, the outside crashes in. It feels like a different world out here. The evening is bearing down, by now, over the spires and the traffic and the people. There’s bustle, shops and tinny Latino pop coming from a flat over there. There are planes in the sky and peeling, graphitised billboards and a special meal deal on at the grimy local McDonald’s round the corner. Traffic lights change and ping at the citizens and they march across, purposeful and pre-programmed, each with a sprinkle of the universe buzzing deep in their brain-stems, each absorbed in their own invisible worlds. I stand there and look around at this world of things, where the devil and his enemy have all but disappeared from sight. And it does feel like a different world out here. But is it?

  ‘Father Amorth,’ I say, ‘is the devil winning?’

  He blinks slowly and nods. ‘Yes. Our world has many diabolical influences and there are many temptations. The devil is strong. He is winning. God leaves us alone. He lets us do as we do. But I believe that there will be a very big punishment of the world and then we will return to the path of God. I believe in a Third World War.’

  20

  ‘I am the ghost’

  THE DINING TABLE in the most haunted house in Britain is protected by a thick, rubbery sheet. Covered in concentric diamond patterns and the colour of cheaply recycled paper, its surface is strafed with small, brown stains. These are the table-cloth’s war medals, proud evidence that it’s taken the hot beverage bullets many times over for the antique wood that it protects. I put my tea mug down on it, as I sit and start to talk to my host. But when I look up, he’s not there. Before I have the chance to locate him, he darts back into view and slips a wooden coaster underneath my mug. He is wearing a wounded look that morphs, slowly, into a minor scowl.

  ‘Oh, sorry,’ I say. ‘I thought … ’

  But I trail off. It’s clear by his reaction that the Founder doesn’t want to talk about it. He looks hurt, personally hurt. It’s as if I’ve slammed my steaming drink down on the back of his hand. There’s a tense silence. The Founder sits down in front of me and puts his own cup on a coaster. I smile at him and try to break the gooey awkwardness that’s swollen up in the air between us.

  ‘So, do you get more frightened here than you do anywhere else?’ I ask him.

  ‘Well, I wouldn’t say frightened,’ he says. ‘I think a better word is … um … what’s a better word? Daunted.’ He takes a careful sip of his tea, bending his head to meet his cup. ‘You have to be careful what you say,’ he says. ‘Saying, “I get frightened” puts you into a different spotlight. You get people saying, “He’s a ghosthunter and he gets frightened?” You know, I’ve got thirty-six years’ experience doing this. I’m in the league of your Andrew Greens and your Maurice Grosses.’ He puts his mug down, slowly. ‘It can get frightening for other people. But I love this house. I absolutely love coming here. It’s where I’m happiest.’ He looks around for a moment. ‘This place is like a spider’s web,’ he says. ‘You get drawn in.’

  I can’t tell you where I am, because I’m not supposed to be here. But I can say this much: the thirteenth-century property in which I’m drinking tea is internationally legendary as being the most haunted place in Britain. It was a ‘mass house’ during the Reformation and secret Catholic services were often held here. Illegal clergy used the building as a hideout during those murderous years and the walls of this place are pocked with priest holes and drenched in evil history.

  For a while, paranormal enthusiasts were allowed to come to spend the night, for a small fee or, most often, for charity – and in the cabinet behind me there are several thick folders filled with hundreds of event logs that attest to this place’s dark madness. More recently, though, the property has been bought privately, and its new owner is fed up with the regular annoyance of people knocking on the door asking for tours. So, he doesn’t want publicity. He’s not even been told that I’ve come to stay for the best part of a week. Currently, he’s far away on holiday and David Vee, founder of Ghosts-UK, is house-sitting, as he does whenever the building would otherwise be unoccupied. Maurice Grosse told me that I should stay in a haunted location for a length of time to get the best spectral results, so I was thrilled when the Founder said I could join him for a few days here. I couldn’t have hoped for a better, more dreadful place than this.

  ‘I can prove that ghosts exist just by the stuff I’ve got from this house,’ the Founder tells me, his eyes looking large and strangely vulnerable through his thin wire glasses. ‘But I’m not allowed to use it. Because the owner won’t let me. That’s one of the strict instructions. I’m a friend of this house. I have a bond with it and the owner, and I wouldn’t do anything to jeopardise that bond. Plus he’ll sue the arse off me.’

  Outside, the fields are bitter and lifeless and the trees are petrified and skeletal. I take a sip of my tea and put it carefully down on the coaster that David has placed on top of the rubber table-cloth. I’m very careful not to drip. At this stage, I just think that he is being slightly over-zealous in his house-sitting duty-of-care. I soon come to realise, though, that the Founder’s relationship with the most haunted house in Britain is far stranger than that. It’s the way he talks about it obsessively, the way he looks at the walls and handles the furniture, the way a touch of the love rival’s jealousy rears up in his voice when he mentions the owner and other visitors that have been allowed to stay here. I’m not sure what’s behind this curious and oddly moving behaviour, yet. I’m only just aware of it. But the Founder loves this place too much. He haunts it.

  ‘ … it’s only true poltergeist activity if it moves in an arc of parabola,’ the Founder is saying.

  ‘Sorry, what?’

  ‘I was telling the team from Haunted Homes, this show that I’ve been filming for ITV1. When an object moves of its own accord, you can only confirm that it’s true poltergeist activity if the object moves in an arc of parabola.’

  ‘What’s an arc of parabola?’

  ‘When I say that, people are always extremely impressed, but all it means is a semi-circle. If you call it an arc of parabola, it makes you sound more important. It’s the same with words like “parabolic”, “elaborate”, “paranormal”, “pertaining to”.’ The Founder looks at me and smiles with just one side of his mouth, before saying to himself, a little wistfully, ‘Arc of parabola.’

  I shift in my seat, take another sip of tea and try to think of something to say. Suddenly, I realise that my mind is completely empty.

  ‘You’ve lost weight,’ I say.

  ‘Yes, I have,’ says the Founder. ‘I’ve lost about seven stone.’

  ‘Seven stone?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Wow.’

  I take another sip of tea, and rub my fingers over the surface of the tablecloth for a bit.

  ‘Seven stone!’ I say and smile at him. I put my cup down in the dead centre of the coaster.

  There’s a silence.

  ‘It’s quiet,’ I say.

  David listens for a beat. ‘It’s eerily quiet,’ he says. ‘The problem with ghosts is they check you out. They’re intelligent.’

  There’s another silence.

  ‘Could they be checking me out?’ I say.

  ‘I think that’s quite pos
sible,’ he says. ‘They could be waiting to pounce.’

  I look around me, at the pictures and the windows and into the corners. ‘How many ghosts are here?’

  ‘We’ve had sightings of thirteen different entities,’ he says, folding his arms in front of him on the table.

  ‘Can I have a look around, then?’ I ask, getting up from my seat. I’m anxious to have a wander about. There are two rooms upstairs that are especially notorious. ‘Slow down!’ David says.

  ‘Bloody hell! Don’t be in such a hurry all the time. You’re not in London now, you know.’

  I sit back down and help myself to one of the folders of ghost reports. I flick through the pages. After an hour or so reading, patterns begin to emerge. As well as the usual footsteps and self-closing doors, many people have felt an invisible hand holding theirs, had their hair pulled or felt suddenly overcome with a powerful feeling of sadness in the child’s bedroom, upstairs. But the room next to that is said to be the most troubled of all. I read an interview with the house’s previous owner that’s been cut out of an old local newspaper. On her first night here, the old lady and her husband prepared for sleep with the door closed. As soon as the light was switched off, the latch popped up and the door swung open again. This happened four times. After the fifth attempt at closing the door, she commented to her husband, ‘If it does that again, I’m sleeping downstairs.’ It did it again. And a full apparition of a priest appeared in the doorway. Despite the fact that it’s in the most haunted part of the most haunted house in Britain, this room is still referred to as ‘the haunted room’. And it has remained unoccupied for decades.

  David is still sitting opposite me. He’s smoking another cigarette. I keep catching him glancing at me. I smile at him through the silence.

  ‘When we were in Wales,’ I say, ‘you told me that you were attacked by three apparitions in this place.’

  ‘Yes,’ he says. ‘That was extremely odd. I was on my way back from the kitchen and I saw a reflection in the back of my glasses. I turned around and there were three separate entities, full apparitions, as solid as you and I.’