The power of Christ compels you.
When I imagined what I’d get up to in my final year of university, becoming an exorcist wasn’t it.
It all started with an obsession over a slightly older man.
We had bonded over our infatuation with a certain Professor McFitty. Eventually, we stopped talking about our shared love interest and started talking about… ourselves.
She was a polo-playing, aristocratic Scotswoman. Her passions included shooting, hunting and the Prince of Wales’ rendition of ‘My Heart is in the Highlands’. I was a spiritual, maybe-going-back-to-church agnostic, with a deep love for cigarettes and European men.
The natural point of interest became my new friend’s haunted house on the Scottish Borders. She went into comprehensive detail about the paranormal nature of her youth. I kept quiet – not because I was sceptical, but because I was curious to hear more. She had me at heavy breathing, but I was truly convinced when she mentioned the witches burned next door.
I there and then made the executive decision:
Fuck me, I am never going to this girl’s house.
Over the course of a few months, we figured we had more in common than our taste in older men. We ditched countless study sessions to drink cheap wine at the pub – or even cheaper wine on the nearest park bench. Looking back, it’s a miracle we passed that year at all, given our excessive drinking habits and all-too-gorgeous male distraction.
That day, the sun had shone on us. We were practically overflowing with Château Cheval Blanc.
The time had come to confront our destiny.
After going through two Magnums and ordering a curry neither of us remember, we decided to take a break from the hard work and go to Scotland for a shooting weekend. I was so completely and utterly blattered that I had forgotten all about the witches, and that I didn’t have a clue how to hold a rifle straight. We called her dad, who thought the whole idea was rather funny. He admitted he was slightly disappointed in our chosen pairing for the wine.
Thus ensued a horrific hangover, made worse by the possibility of imminent possession.
To be honest, it was actually the shooting that cost me more sleep than the witches. I cannot say the same for my friend, who I sufficiently freaked out on the days leading up to our visit. Having grown up in the church, I was pre-trained in the exorcism essentials. I gave her my guarantee that I had it all covered.
I’d exorcise her house. She’d help me out with the rifle. The deal was struck. It was time to prepare.
I visited the local church’s exorcism expert to get up to scratch with all the newest lingo. It had been a while since I had been to a service, and I wanted to make sure my information was up-to-date.
I think somewhere along the line we might have got a bit cocky, making for a horrifying series of encounters that we weren’t wholly prepared for. Nevertheless, a few bad dreams and paranormal experiences later, my friend and I made our way to her evil haunted house.
She was stressed out about the ghosts. I was petrified about the shooting. We both sat sweating in the back of the Baron’s car.
After a quick greeting with the human owners of the house, my friend and I ran to her room to dismiss her demonic tormentors. A couple of prayers later, the vibe got lighter. We laughed, and swapped the vial of holy water for a humble glass of wine.
So… what did I learn exactly? The answer is, not much. I’m still an amateur at exorcisms, and I’m even worse at shooting. My passions remain rooted in cigarettes and European men.
But if there’s one thing I did come to terms with, it’s the undeniable fact that:
Behind every successful exorcist is a copious stream of wine.
Hands Open 