The Exorcism of Mary Ann
The Demons are the Ones Trying to Save Her
Based on true events.
Content Warning: Religious-based violence, Death of a disabled person, Ableist language and attitudes
The Exorcism of Mary Ann
By Jared Michael Lambert
“Now, before we close service tonight,” the pastor said as he dragged his stained handkerchief across his bald head. This Sunday’s evening sermon had been a fierce one, filled with energetic stomping and more hacking1 than a lifetime smoker, as he preached from Mark and Luke about Jesus casting out demons. “Brother James and Sister Ethel have a request to make of the congregation.”
A groan escaped my lips before I could stop it. Normally, evening service runs from 6 to 8. Two hours sacrificed as payment to enter Heaven. It was 8:32 according to the clock hung by the picture of a crucified Jesus.
Let your people go, I thought, but was too tired to laugh at my own joke. I just wanted to go home and get ready for school tomorrow.
My grandparents sat in the pew in front of me. Mamaw’s2 head turned, a perfect Linda Blair impression.
“You better quit showin’ yer ass,” she hissed, eyes narrowed into hateful slits with a dark promise that my legs would feel stinging licks of her dogwood switch when we got home if I didn’t act right.
I mimed zipping my lips shut, locking them, and tossing the key. A bit too flippant for her, I’m sure, but it was as hot as hell in here. The thermostat was cranked up to heat the elderly congregation’s paper-thin skin, with each degree above 67 making me more irritable and less caring of any repercussions.
She leaned into Papaw, whispering words I couldn’t make out.
He turned his eyes on me, looking at me like I was some mangy mutt. What had he said to me just yesterday? “I abhor you” — Big word for him. I could see it in his eyes that he meant it then; he meant it now.
He nodded at whatever Mamaw was spewing into his ear before turning to face the couple making their way to the front of the room.
James and Ethel reminded me of Disney villains’ henchmen — her, the short rotund one, and he, the tall lanky oaf. Their slow shuffles were a funeral dirge as they marched up the center aisle.
A hum filled the air, a cicada song that only I seemed to hear. The hair on my arms raised with gooseflesh. I had the feeling that lightning was about to strike where I sat. I looked around, seeing if anyone else could feel it too, but no one else seemed bothered, watching with anticipation as the couple took their place before the pulpit.
“Thank you, pastor,” Ethel said to him before facing the crowd. “As you all know, our child is . . .” She paused, looking to the back to the seats they’d vacated.
Necks craned to follow her line of sight to the obese forty-year-old woman dressed in a peach-colored muumuu and playing with a dirty Barbie doll. She didn’t notice the attention, too lost in a world of her own making, smiling with the kind of contentment that made me envious, as she rocked back and forth in her seat.
“Special.” She continued, “James and I are gettin’ up in years now. Soon, the Lord will call us home and –“Tears welled in her eyes. Little gasps escaped her lips as her chest heaved. James moved closer, wrapping a long arm around her and giving her a comforting squeeze.
“We worry,” he picked up, “what will happen to our baby girl after we’re gone. We ain’t got family to take her in. Well, none that’s no count anyway. And times have been hard. We don’t have the money to send her to a government home.”
Ethel started crying in earnest now. James fell silent to hush her like a lost lamb. The rest of us disappeared as they fell into a universe that was just them, their pain, and their attempts to make it go away.
I judged them.
The Bible says not to - 'judge not lest ye be judged' - but I'm no a Christian. As usual, I'm just here as a punishment. Maybe for trackin’ mud through the house, or maybe for the bigger sin of being born – bastard son of my grandparents’ oldest daughter, mixed-race to boot3. A double crime in their minds. So, I don’t feel any guilt and judge freely.
What were they asking for anyway? Money? The church to promise to take care of the girl? And I couldn’t help but think of her as a girl even though she had a couple decades on me.
“What Sister Ethel and Brother James are trying to say,” the pastor stepped back up from the front pew where he’d taken a seat. His face still glowed beet-red from his sermon. “Is we all know what caused this affliction.”
Genetics? Bad luck? I thought.
“Demons,” he said.
Welp. Guess I wouldn’t be any good at Southern Baptist Jeopardy.
“Mm-hmm’s” and “Amen’s” rang out like trumpet blasts from the mouths of the congregation — a jazz band that the pastor was leading.
He spoke with a cadence, building up his words to a climax. The crowd was with him, taking their cues, performing their call and response.
“Now, over the years they’ve asked for prayers, and we’ve given ‘em.”
“Yes, Lord!”
“They’ve asked for funds to see the doctor, and we’ve given it.”
“Yes, Lord!”
“But the devil is strong. He’s holding on to this poor girl. Trapping the mind of a child in a body that’s growing old. But you know what’s stronger?”
He paused, looking at every face in the room, the spark of devotion in him igniting a holy fire in every eye he met.
I turned away.
“God!” he shouted.
Stomping feet and clapping hands shook the church with choruses of “hallelujah”. A madness spreading from one to the other. A virus they called the Holy Spirit.
From his pocket, the pastor pulled out a glass bottle. Even from my spot in the back pew, I could tell it was old, with its scuffed-up glass and time-yellowed label. It reminded me of the bottles snake oil salesmen hawked in Westerns.
“Tonight, we prove that the children of God are stronger than any demon.” His voice dropped to a whisper, eyes turning to the girl in the back. “Tonight, we cast out a demon of retardation.”
What the fuck?
He did not just say that. Putting aside how viscerally wrong it felt to hear, these people were Southern Baptists. They don’t do exorcisms.
I searched the room for someone to share my shock with, someone to see this was madness. Instead, there’s just rapture. A level of excitement that normal people reserved for Christmas and birthdays.
“Come here, Sweetie,” Ethel said, calling her daughter. “Mary Ann. Come here.”
Mary Ann didn’t hear. All the ruckus going on around her was ignored as she brushed at her doll’s tangled black hair.
“Get Mary Ann,” the pastor commanded, and the church deacons, including Papaw, moved towards her. “Everyone come on up here. Get some of this oil on your hands.”
I stayed seated, held down tight with mental chains.
Hands wrapped around Mary Ann’s arms, their grasp pulling her from her world and into this cruel one. The smile dropped from her face, and she started screaming, eyes searching for the safety of her parents who were supposed to be by her, and not finding them.
The screams were primal, far past that of a child throwing a tantrum. This was a child surrounded by wolves with snapping maws and hungry eyes. She didn’t know these people, though she’d likely seen them a hundred times — her mind didn’t remember.
“Calm down, Mary Ann. These people are helping you,” Ethel said, but her voice was too small compared to her daughter’s voice; a breeze telling a hurricane to calm down.
Mary Ann was doing all she could. Screaming. Kicking. Going boneless and using her body weight as a weapon. When she became too much, more hands joined, dragging her roughly across the coarse carpet, not caring about the burns or bleeding.
The congregation moved towards the pulpit — a gathering of zealous zombies waiting to be fed.
My heart ached. I wanted to run out. Call for help. The police, the news, anyone with a bit of common sense who would see that torturing a person like this was evil.
But I stayed seated.
Too afraid to speak up.
Too afraid to move. To attract their attention.
They dropped her between her parents and the pastor.
I thought she might jump up and run away. I knew she could get away with some momentum, her size turning her into an unstoppable juggernaut. The ones who dragged her were all over fifty — she could have taken them in a fight too. I’m sure the thought didn’t occur to her; her mind was too innocent to plan violence.
If she did run, I thought, I’d step up, arms out, and block them from chasing her. I would be her Gandalf facing down the Balrog. None shall pass.
But she didn’t run.
She lay in a heap, confused and crying.
And I sat there, a useless, coward.
“Matthew 16:17 — ‘In my name, they shall cast out demons’,” the pastor said, as he dribbled drops of oil onto geriatric hands. “Pray with me, brothers and sisters. Pray to save the soul and heal the mind.”
They closed in on her, tightening like a noose, their shadows drowning out her light.
Dozens of oil-slicked fingers pressed against her. Wriggling alien things grasping for purchase, leaving slug trails across her skin. Yellowed nails catching and cutting into her skin.
They started then.
Discordant prayers issued from each mouth, unintelligible as foreign tongues. They bled together, becoming the drone of locusts. A terrible song with Mary Ann’s screams as a counter melody.
The pastor’s voice soared above it all like a conductor’s wand leading an orchestra of madness.
“Foul demon of retardation – GET OUT! Leave this girl, retard demons! I command you in the name of the Lord. In the name of the Father, the Son, the Holy Ghost. GET OUT!”
Hours could have passed or seconds. I wouldn’t know. My mind was too far gone, broken by the absurdity and insanity I was seeing before me. I lost all sense of self, letting it go so that my mind wouldn’t break.
Each voice died slowly, winding down like a hand-cranked music box, until they were all standing there, silent, hands still outstretched. A baseball team waiting for the coach to yell, “Break.” So absurd, I could almost laugh.
Guided by some unseen hand, they stepped back away from each other, their eyes eager and lips smiling as they waited to see the good work the Lord had done through them.
I leaned forward, wanting a better view. I wasn’t a believer, but maybe this could make me one. Maybe Mary Ann would rise, a sense of self gleaming in her eyes, cured and ready to truly start her life.
I noticed the stillness first.
It’s eerie, the way a body rests once all life has been driven from it. It can be moved, but it no longer moves. Such a simple thing that makes all the difference — to know with a look that the mind, or soul, or spark is gone, and all you’re staring at is a thing.
They murdered her, I thought. All of them, pressed in on her, pushing her down so that she couldn’t breathe. All in the name of helping her. All in the name of God.
That same realization started dawning on them as well as they looked between each other and her corpse. Fear cut through the haze of fervor that had taken them. They backed away from each other, repulsed by what the other had done.
Mary Ann’s parents stared down at the body, faces unreadable. Grief? Relief? Guilt? I couldn’t tell.
The pastor took in his flock, took in Mary Ann’s corpse, spreading fear through it like a wolf walking through a herd of sheep. He was losing them, losing more than them if the fear took root. One loose tongue and a call to the police, and the Channel 3 news team would be in the church parking lot by morning, talking about the mad cult that killed a special needs woman.
He’d been in this game too long though — was too used to rolling with the punches. It would take more than a little thing like this for him to fall to his knees in fear.
“Praise Jesus! The Lord has called her home. Praise Jesus!” the pastor said, repeating it over and over as he reached out to shake hands with those around him. “I know what it looks like, brothers and sisters, but fear not. We have done the Lord’s work, and through us, he has called home a servant. Praise him!”
As if infected by his words and touch, slowly the crowd started to shift. Their faces morphed from fear and disbelief to pride and joy. Even the parents began to nod. Ethel was crying, but between the sobs, she said, “Thank you, Lord. Thank you, Jesus.”
No, I thought. This can’t be it. They can’t just wipe this away, can’t wash away the blood on their hands with dogmatic devotion. No. They can’t. I won’t let them.
I could leave. Run out before someone stopped me. Just up the holler was a white double-wide trailer. Surely, they’re home. I could beat on the door, borrow their phone, call the police. Maybe they could come with an ambulance. Maybe it wasn’t too late to save her.
The pastor raised his hands, calling for quiet. “Now,” he said, meeting every eye in turn, “Demons are crafty. Even those cast out by Jesus didn’t return to Hell but entered another. Just for my peace of mind, I need to know if there are any other demons here tonight.”
Eyes darted feverishly, wondering if the one they’d been reveling with was, in fact, possessed by the demon now. I wondered what they expected, if they thought there really was a demon of mental deficiency that would infect them, and how would they know? Wait until they started marking their Bible with crayons?
“Maybe it’s not the same demon. Not one of retardation but one of doubt. Maybe a spirit of betrayal. One that would tell you to turn on your brothers and sisters in Christ.”
The threat rang as clear as a church bell to even the densest of members. If you tell, you’re next.
“Pastor,” Papaw said, breaking the eerie silence that had fallen.
My heart jumped, hearing his familiar voice. Had I judged him all wrong? Was he going to step up and do the right thing? Fight for the truth of what happened here?
Tears stung my eyes as my heart filled with love that I thought was long gone. I didn’t know how much I wanted to love or be loved by this man until this moment. Every bad thing he’d done to me could be washed away. I admitted that I wasn’t always the best, but this could be a new beginning — our relationship reborn.
The pastor narrowed his eyes. “Go ahead.”
“There is another demon here tonight,” He said, then looked at me. “One of rebelliousness. One that doesn’t respect his elders. One not washed in the blood. My grandson.”
The words struck me like ice water. I knew they only kept me out of obligation — they’d told me so a hundred times — but that didn’t seem like enough to condemn me to death. How could he do this?
“I abhor you,” he’d said.
He’d meant it then; he meant it now.
The pastor’s gaze found me easily — the lone soul in these hallowed halls without blood on his hands, hiding in the back, and, more importantly, a witness to what had happened here.
“That so?” he said, the bottle appearing in his hand like a conjurer’s trick, and giving it a shake. “The Lord has provided enough oil for one more cleansing. Deacons, fetch the boy.”
Author Ramblings: This is based on a true event that happened when I was a teen. The woman didn’t die but was absolutely terrified. There haven’t been many times in my life that I’ve heard someone scream with such utter terror as I did that night. Worse for me was seeing the pride on all the congregation’s faces as she lay there, crying, even afraid of her parents who had participated.
The line, “Demons of retardation - get out!” is a hundred percent real. The pastor actually said that. Bellowed it, really. Over and over again.
A style of sermon delivery. Specifically, it describes the preacher's use of a repeated vocal pattern, accompanied by deep breathing or a rasping sound between phrases. This creates a call-and-response dynamic, building intensity, and the congregation responds with affirmations like "Amen" or "Hallelujah." Hacking preaching is deeply rooted in the oral traditions of Pentecostal and Baptist congregations.
Mamaw and Papaw are regional terms for grandmother and grandfather.
To boot: An idiom that means "in addition" or "as well"
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I could 100% see this unfolding. Brutal
Raw and visceral. It hits like true horror should - emotions you can't shake, images you can't get out of your head. There's honestly little need to invent supernatural beings to scare people, but there's nothing more horrible than what people do to one another. It's all the more terrifying because it did (or could) happen.