9780440205890

WHAT WAS THE HORROR IN THE HOUSE
IN WARREN, MASSACHUSETTS?
In February 1985, Maurice Theriault surrendered
his rifles to the Warren Police Department, saying
he had to. When he was "someone else" he might
kill someone . . .
Days later, Police Chief Sean LeBoeuf was called to
the Theriault farmhouse, where he found this plain,
honest farmer lying on his back in a blood-spat-
tered bathroom, gyrating like a top and babbling in
a strange language. LeBoeuf thought Theriault was
faking . . . until he saw the blood seeping from the
man's eyes and the crimson lines on his back—lines
in the sign of the cross . . .
The true, terrifying, unspeakable events that fol-
lowed have never been revealed in full—until now.
Now you can decide if what Maurice Theriault
claimed was true . . .
That he was possessed ... by the devil.

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Satan's .
Harvest'
Michael Lasalandra
Mark Merenda
with
Maurice & Nancy Theriault
and
Ed & Lorraine Warren
A DELL BOOK

Published by
Dell Publishing
a division of
Bantam Doubleday Dell Publishing Group, Inc.
666 Fifth Avenue
New York, New York 10103
Copyright © 1990 by Michael Lasalandra & Mark Merenda
and Maurice & Nancy Theriault and Ed & Lorraine Warren
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or
transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or
mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any
information storage and retrieval system, without the written
permission of the Publisher, except where permitted by law.
The trademark Dell ® is registered in the U.S. Patent and
Trademark Office.
ISBN: 0-440-20589-1
Printed in the United States of America
Published simultaneously in Canada
August 1990
10 987654321
OPM

For Anne

Acknowledgments
We would like to thank the following people for
their cooperation in the creation of this book: Ed
and Lorraine Warren, Maurice and Nancy Ther-
iault, Sean LeBoeuf, Bishop Robert McKenna, Fa-
ther Homer Boyer, Larry Elward, Linda Fedele,
Charles Carvatas, Marcella Leone, Chris McKinnell,
Peter Walukiewicz, Joe Sciacca, and Debbie Noland.
The authors also wish to acknowledge several
books that contributed to their research into the un-
familiar world of paranormal phenomena: Hostage
to the Devil by Malachi Martin (Harper and Row
Publishers, 1976); People of the Lie, the Hope for
Healing Human Evil by M. Scott Peck (Simon and
Schuster, 1983); Witchcraft at Salem by Chadwick
Hansen (George Braziller, 1969); The Encyclopedia
of the Occult by Lewis Spence (Bracken Books,
1988); Strange Beliefs, Customs and Superstitions of
New England by Leo Bonfanti (Pride Publications,
1980); The Demonologist by Gerald Brittle (Berkley
Books, 1980); and The Devil in Connecticut by Ger-
ald Brittle (Bantam Books, 1983).
M.L. and M.M.
May, 1989

Introduction
I was a general-assignment reporter at the Boston
Herald in the late winter of 1985 when I was asked
to check out a story that was developing in the town
of Warren, a little more than an hour's drive west of
Boston. There were reports that the Catholic church
was planning the exorcism of a farmer there. The
Herald was known for offbeat stories and I had re-
ceived more than my share of strange assignments
in the time I had been working there, but this one
was perhaps the strangest.
Naturally, being a reporter, I was skeptical. But I
headed out to Warren anyway. It turned out that
what I found in Warren was more than just a good
story. It was something that has bothered me from
that day on. And it is something that has bothered a
great many others, causing several people great
harm as it touched them in different ways.
What follows is a reconstruction not only of the
events that took place in Warren, Massachusetts, in
1985, but also of the events that led up to that time
and those that have followed. The names of a few
minor characters have been changed to protect
their identities. In all other respects, the story re-
mains as it was told to us by the people who lived it.
The story is a shocking and frightening one, but one
that, in a time when satanism and satanic cults are
on the rise all over America, must be told.
M.L.
May, 1989

1
Police Chief Sean LeBoeuf wondered why he was
out freezing his ass off on this bitterly cold morn-
ing, instead of being back at the station, nursing a
hot cup of coffee.
He was sitting behind the wheel of his cruiser,
uncomfortable because he was wearing two layers
of clothing, which made it hard for him to move
freely. He stretched out his long legs and arched his
back. The upholstery squeaked as he stretched. He
thought about what it might be like in Florida this
very moment.
His toes were numb. His salt-stained shoes were
still wet from the slush that had covered the streets
of Warren, Massachusetts, since the previous Tues-
day. Aside from the accident reports every time
somebody drove down the steep slope of Coy Hill
and skidded past the stop sign at the bottom, noth-

2 ♦ Satan's Harvest
ing much lately had drawn the attention of War-
ren's tiny police force.
LeBoeuf was fairly certain that one of his men
would be called to the Depot, a seedy bar on Main
Street, to break up a fight later that evening. The
Bruins were playing and the bar's patrons, mostly
unemployed laborers and bikers, could be counted
on to draw inspiration from the hockey players and
try to rearrange one another's dental work.
Keeping the peace in Warren was a rather predict-
able business. The most dangerous moments usu-
ally occurred at the annual town meeting, LeBoeuf
thought. Getting an extra thousand dollars out of
the tightfisted town fathers could be a real blood-
bath.
Warren, population 3,800, was not the kind of
town that produced a lot of exciting police work.
What it did produce was plenty of small-town poli-
tics. The Board of Selectmen that governed the
town was often composed of three local merchants,
each with his own interests, personal loyalties, and
enemies. LeBoeuf thought of them as Moe, Larry,
and Curly. It didn't help any that one of the chief's
four patrolmen was also Curly's nephew.
You give an inexperienced group of men a mil-
lion-dollar budget to run a small town, and they'll
screw it up every time, LeBoeuf thought bitterly.
The redheaded ex-marine had been police chief
for almost five years; and each time he was reap-
pointed for a one-year term, it was a battle. LeBoeuf
longed for the day when he could quit his job and
hang out his shingle as a private investigator. Roust-
ing bored teenagers out of the town square at the

Satan's Harvest ♦ 3
complaint of the local shoe-store owner was not his
idea of glamorous police work.
In any case, this was not the kind of morning he
wanted to spend paying a visit to Frenchy Theriault,
whom LeBoeuf suspected of being an arsonist and
who had recently taken to telling people some very
tall tales.
Theriault was a local tomato farmer, best known
in the area for the little wooden stand that sold
farm produce in the autumn months to tourists
passing through on their way to see the annual ex-
plosion of foliage in the Berkshire Mountains of
western Massachusetts.
Unfortunately the man now seemed to be retail-
ing bullshit as well, the police chief thought. Lately,
Frenchy had taken to telling folks in town that his
house was possessed and that his family was being
haunted by the spirit of his wife Nancy's mother.
LeBoeuf, who had his own mother-in-law, was
perfectly prepared to accept the story—if Nancy
Theriault's mother had been alive. But Nancy's
mother had died ten years earlier.
LeBoeuf couldn't help smiling a little, despite his
irritation, as he recalled his own report on an inci-
dent at the station house a week before.
"On February 24, 1985," he had written, "Maurice
'Frenchy' Theriault came into the Warren Police De-
partment asking that the department take custody
of several rifles he owned. Asked if there was any
problem, Mr. Theriault said he was seeing a
psychic, and he had been informed by the psychic
that he was possessed and should bring all his fire-
arms to the police station. Mrs. Nancy Theriault

4 ♦ Satan's Harvest
was with her husband and informed the officers
that she was the only one who could pick up any of
the firearms from the police station, and not her
husband. Mr. Theriault informed us that under no
circumstances was he to be given the rifles, because
he might not be himself. He may look like that per-
son, but it might not really be him."
LeBoeuf had suppressed a snort of laughter, glad
enough to get the guns out of Frenchy's hands. He
had duly recorded two Winchester rifles and a shot-
gun.
LeBoeuf had nothing against Frenchy. In fact, he
kind of liked the little guy. Theriault was only about
five and a half feet tall and wore a thin mustache.
His face and hands were lined from a lifetime of
labor and the sockets of his eyes were deep-set, giv-
ing him a tired, brooding look that put a lot of peo-
ple off. But once you got to know him, LeBoeuf
thought, he was nice enough. Last Thanksgiving,
Frenchy had come to the station house with turkeys
for each of the officers on the force.
But since then LeBoeuf had ticketed Frenchy
twice because his dilapidated truck, which he used
to haul the tomatoes he grew, was nowhere near
roadworthy. And then there were the fires in the
Theriault farmhouse. Frank Moore, at the state fire-
marshal's office, suspected Frenchy had started the
small blazes himself in order to get the insurance
money. LeBoeuf was inclined to agree with him.
In any case, he thought, that certainly seemed
more likely than Frenchy's explanation. When he'd
reported them, Frenchy had said the fires were
caused by mysterious forces that invaded the house

Satan's Harvest ♦ 5
and caused objects to fly around on their own. But
cops don't buy supernatural excuses for suspected
crimes.
That's a laugh, LeBoeuf thought. Frenchy had un-
doubtedly concocted this nonsense to sidetrack the
arson investigation. Pretty original though.
At least Frenchy added a bit of local color to War-
ren.
But LeBoeuf wasn't in the mood for it today and
was none too pleased to find himself driving up to
Frenchy's house. Nancy Theriault had called the sta-
tion in a panic, screaming that she needed help. She
had said she was afraid not only for herself but also
for her three young grandchildren who were visit-
ing them at the time. LeBoeuf could only imagine
what might be going on there. Rumors of weird
events at the house had been circulating in the vil-
lage and were growing more and more bizarre with
each retelling. LeBoeuf had decided to take a cam-
era with him. Maybe some photographic evidence
might quash the ridiculous stories, he thought.
Things had gotten to the point where Frenchy was
being shunned. LeBoeuf had been in the coffee shop
two weeks before when Frenchy came in and sat
down for his usual midmorning cup of coffee. The
other five customers looked at one another and
quickly got up to pay their bills. Within two minutes
the door had slammed shut, ringing the little brass
bells that hung on the door. The shop was empty
except for the cop, the tomato farmer, and Joe Cor-
sino, the owner.

6 ♦ Satan's Harvest
It wasn't the first time Frenchy had caused a mass
exodus from the coffee shop.
Corsino frowned and came over to say something
to Frenchy when LeBoeuf waved him off.
"Look, Frenchy, you're ruinin' Joe's business," Le-
Boeuf had said. "You're gonna have to stop this bull-
shit about your house bein' possessed, or you're
gonna have to stop comin' here. You understand?"
The farmer hadn't replied. He merely nodded his
head and stared into his coffee cup.
LeBoeuf's recollections were interrupted when
his two-way radio crackled.
"Sean, you need any help with that domestic?"
LeBoeuf recognized the voice of Massachusetts
State Trooper Gilbert Bernard. Trooper Bernard
was assigned to the nearby Brookfield state police
barracks, and the two men had a good working re-
lationship. It was common practice for them to re-
spond to emergency calls together. Local residents
who had seen them in action often remarked on the
striking physical contrast: LeBoeuf, the stocky red-
head of French-Canadian descent, and Bernard, the
tall, rangy black man.
LeBoeuf suspected this morning's call was more
of Frenchy Theriault's effort to cover up his role in
the fires at his own house, but in the back of his
mind he felt a squirm of uneasiness over the wild
rumors and talk of supernatural events. Although
he was a skeptical and case-hardened police officer,
he was also a practicing Roman Catholic. It
wouldn't hurt to have a witness in addition to the
camera, he convinced himself.
The police chief picked up the microphone on his

Satan's Harvest ♦ 7
mobile police radio. "Yeah, Gil, come along for the
ride," he said. A minute hadn't passed before he saw
Bernard's blue-and-gray state-police cruiser fall in
behind him.
As they approached the Theriault property, Le-
Boeuf couldn't help thinking that if the farmhouse
was haunted, it was certainly in the perfect spot for
it. Perched on a knoll, just off quiet Brimfield Road,
the house stood alone, with no other houses in
sight. The bare oak trees and slate-gray clouds
above lent a desolation that gave LeBoeuf a shud-
der.
The simple New England frame house was rick-
ety and badly in need of repairs. Especially, Le-
Boeuf thought, since the fires that had been "myste-
riously" started in recent months.
About two hundred yards from the main house
was a one-story greenhouse with a tin roof. Fifty
yards farther on was a storage shed in the shape of
a huge aluminum barrel set into the ground. The
fields around the house bristled with short sticks
that in a couple of months would support the vines
that produced Frenchy Theriault's juicy red toma-
toes. Completely encircling the open fields was a
thick forest of pine trees, enclosing the farm from
the outside world.
It saddened LeBoeuf to see the once-proud farm-
house running to ruin. But that wasn't so unusual
these days in Warren. Farming just didn't support a
family the way it used to, and the central Massachu-
setts village had seen better days. The high-tech
boom that had sparked Massachusetts's economic
revival, bringing new jobs and prosperity to the

8 ♦ Satan's Harvest
state, had bypassed small farming towns like War-
ren.
LeBoeuf had been to the house on several occa-
sions. Frenchy Theriault had twice called the sta-
tion in the middle of the night to complain of
strange noises outside his house.
The police chief's subsequent investigation had
turned up no evidence of any noises—or of any-
thing that might be causing them—and LeBoeuf
was inclined to think that this problem, too, was
largely in Frenchy's head.
LeBoeuf's investigation hadn't reassured the
farmer. He kept insisting he'd heard the noises and
talked darkly of other things done to "torment"
him. Theriault's wife, Nancy, clearly frightened,
had supported her husband's story. The law officer
thought she was mainly scared of what Frenchy
might do to her if she didn't agree with him.
Theriault did have problems. And they were not
just in his head, as the police chief was about to find
out.
As LeBoeuf passed the ramshackle farm stand
that stood at the entrance to the Theriault driveway,
he slowed to make his turn. He couldn't count the
number of times he had seen Frenchy, Nancy, and
one or more of her kids weighing tomatoes at the
stand, most of the time for city dwellers who were
just passing through and had rarely tasted a real
farm-grown tomato. Those damned things in the su-
permarket didn't taste any more like a tomato than
a baseball did, as far as Warren's chief of police was
concerned.

Satan's Harvest ♦ 9
LeBoeuf swung past the stand and pulled up near
the house. Getting out of the cruiser, he buttoned
the top button of his jacket against the icy air and
slammed the door shut. There, he thought. Another
strange noise for Frenchy to complain about.
Nearing the house, he heard something that made
him look up toward the clouds weighing down on
the farm and darkening the late-morning sky. The
weather vane at the top of the Theriault home was
spinning wildly, yet there wasn't a hint of breeze.
That's weird. It's as if there's a hurricane blowing,
LeBoeuf thought.
He heard another car pulling up on the frozen
gravel driveway. Wheeling around, he let out a sigh
as he recognized Trooper Bernard. For a moment
he had forgotten he was being followed.
"What do we have, Sean?" Bernard rolled down
the window and called out.
"I dunno," LeBoeuf replied. "Maybe Frenchy's
beating his wife or something. Come on, let's go in."
The two officers made their way along the path to
the darkened side entrance of the Theriault house.
It was a distraught Nancy Theriault who opened the
ripped screen door. She was clutching a mul-
ticolored crocheted blanket, which was wrapped
around her shoulders.
Forty-three years old, Maurice Theriault's wife
was known in the town as a pleasant, quiet woman
who sold tomatoes with her husband and accompa-
nied him to St. Paul's Catholic Church when they
made one of their infrequent Sunday appearances.
With cascades of curly reddish-brown hair and—in
normal circumstances—a ready country-style smile,

10 ♦ Satan's Harvest
people often told her she looked like singing star
Loretta Lynn.
"Yeah," Nancy would say. "She's the coal miner's
daughter, and I'm the tomato farmer's wife."
Whatever he thought of Maurice, LeBoeuf re-
solved to be gentle with Nancy, who was shaking
uncontrollably, her face streaked with tears.
"He's in there," she cried, pointing toward the
kitchen.
The officers stepped heavily in their boots down
the hall. LeBoeuf went first, with Bernard a step
behind.
"Be careful," Nancy whispered in a frightened
voice.
Maurice Theriault was sitting at the kitchen table,
with a dazed expression on his face. Blood streaked
the black-and-gray stubble on his chin. He looked at
the two officers as if he was exhausted and sur-
prised to see them.
"What's going on, Frenchy?" LeBoeuf asked.
"I dunno, I dunno," the farmer replied in a voice
that seemed to come from far away.
Nancy Theriault pointed mutely at the bathroom
door just outside the kitchen. Bernard hesitated and
looked twice at LeBoeuf before stepping forward
and spinning the well-worn glass doorknob. The
door was stuck, so he gave it a kick. It groaned and
flew open.
For an instant both men stood paralyzed. The
black-and-white tile floor of the tiny, stark bath-
room was smeared with blood. The old-fashioned
bathtub was streaked with it. The medicine-cabinet

Satan's Harvest ♦ 11
mirror was flecked with it. The bathroom even
smelled of blood.
LeBoeuf instinctively reached for his gun. He was
blocking the door and Bernard wanted out of the
gruesome bathroom.
"This didn't happen 'cause he cut himself shav-
ing," Bernard muttered to LeBoeuf.
"Nancy, what happened here?" LeBoeuf de-
manded.
"I can't tell you," she choked out. "You'll think
we're crazy or criminals or something. Just like
when we turned in the guns."
LeBoeuf did his best to reassure Nancy that he
only wanted her statement for his report. Finally
she agreed to tell him what had happened.
Maurice had gone into the bathroom after break-
fast. A few minutes later, Nancy said, she became
worried and knocked on the door. She heard bi-
zarre sounds coming from the other side, and fear-
ing for her husband, she pushed the door open.
Then she had screamed.
In the middle of a pool of blood Maurice Ther-
iault, his face contorted beyond recognition, was ly-
ing on his back in a fetal position, gyrating like a
top. His tobacco-stained teeth were bared in a wolf-
ish grimace and his eyes were rolled back, exposing
only the whites. He was emitting a mournful wail
and babbling what seemed to be words, but were
not in any language his wife had ever heard. Red
froth bubbled from the corner of his mouth.
Petrified as she was, Nancy grabbed Maurice un-
der each arm. He seemed to weigh a ton. But she
managed to drag him out of the bathroom and into

12 ♦ Satan's Harvest

the kitchen, leaving a sweep of blood on the hard-
wood floor of the hallway.
As soon as she had touched him Maurice calmed
considerably, although he continued to mutter in-
comprehensible sounds.
"That's what happened," she said. "That's the hon-
est truth."
As she was telling the officers the story, Maurice
sat propped in a rusted folding chair. Although no
one had noticed it at first, blood was seeping from
his eyes.
"Holy shit," Bernard said, his uniform soaked
with sweat. He wiped perspiration from his upper
lip and shook his head. "You ever seen anything like
that?"
Nancy Theriault, trying to control her trembling,
dabbed at Maurice's eyes with a tissue, even as her
own continued to stream tears.
LeBoeuf, who had gone to the sink for a glass of
water, was trying to decide if he should call for an
ambulance. As he turned to Maurice, the glass of
water slipped from his hand and shattered on the
floor. All the others, except Maurice, jumped at the
sound.
"Gil, come here," said LeBoeuf in a strangled
whisper. "Look at his back!"
From the rear the blood on Maurice's T-shirt
formed a pattern the two officers instantly recog-
nized. They looked at each other in disbelief.
"Let's get his shirt off," said LeBoeuf.
With no resistance from the semiconscious
farmer, the two men peeled off his shirt and stood
back.

Satan's Harvest ♦ 13
Nancy Theriault had seen it all before. But that
didn't make it any less frightening. She started to
scream. "Oh, Frenchy, not again!"
The two policemen didn't even hear her. They
were staring at the crimson lines on Maurice's back.
Lines that any Christian would recognize.
Lines in the sign of the cross.
"Nancy, what really is going on here?" LeBoeuf
demanded when she had calmed down enough to
talk.
The police chief had taken Polaroid photos of the
farmer's back, photos that clearly showed the
marks. LeBoeuf was a cop, and despite the weird
happenings in the Theriault home, he tried hard to
think like a cop.
He knew that in any crisis a police officer has to
be aware of his surroundings, the possibilities, and
the probabilities. The probability was, he thought,
that Nancy Theriault had scratched her husband or
that he had fallen down and bled a lot from superfi-
cial wounds, although LeBoeuf had yet to see any.
The possibilities, on the other hand, were endless—
and LeBoeuf didn't like to think about them.
"I—I don't know ... I don't know what's g-go-
ing on," Nancy stammered. "Strange things have
been happening to Maurice. Awful things. I've been
so frightened. I know you don't believe us about the
sounds, but we hear them every night now. And the
other day Maurice was standing there, right there
where you're standing"—and she pointed at Ber-
nard—"and suddenly he flew across the room as if
he had been hit by a truck."
Trooper Bernard, hardened cop though he was,

14 ♦ Satan's Harvest
did a quick sidestep off the spot where Nancy said
Maurice had been standing.
"It was like he was a little doll and somebody had
flung him against the wall," Nancy continued.
"Sometimes his face changes and I don't even know
who he is. Last week he picked up our tractor by
himself."
The two policemen looked at each other. The
Theriaults' tractor weighed almost two tons.
Bernard sensed that something else was bother-
ing Nancy. "Is there something you're not telling
us?" he asked.
"You'll think I'm crazy. I don't want everyone to
say I'm crazy," Nancy sobbed.
"Just tell us about it, Nancy," Bernard said, put-
ting his muscular arm around her shoulder. "No-
body's going to say anything."
She took a deep breath that was interrupted by
little gasps from crying. It felt good to have the po-
lice here. They could protect her and the grandchil-
dren if Maurice were to go off the deep end again.
Yet she didn't know how much of the story to tell
them. She didn't want to see them haul her husband
—or her—off to the nuthouse. But she couldn't help
but blurt out another incident anyway.
"Well . . ." she said, glancing nervously at Mau-
rice. "Last week I saw two of him."
"What?"
"Two Maurices."
"What do you mean? He looked different?"
"No! No! There were two of him! I saw them.
There's a word for it, doppel-something."
Bernard sighed. What with bleeding eyes, crosses,

Satan's Harvest ♦ 26
unknown languages, and double apparitions, it was
turning into quite a morning. He was not looking
forward to writing the report on this one.
While Maurice sat staring into space, almost as if
he wasn't there, the two cops sat down at the
kitchen table and took notes while Nancy told them
more of her story:
"My daughter and I were sitting in the living
room watching TV. This was last month, before I
sent her away to New York to live with her father,
and you remember how cold it was, maybe ten de-
grees. Suddenly Maurice walked by in his jeans and
undershirt, heading out the front door. I called out
to him that it was too cold, but he kept on going,
right out the door. My daughter ran back into her
room to get her coat—she was going to catch him—
but when she passed the door to our bedroom, I
heard her scream, so I ran up there too. There was
Maurice, sitting on the bed, putting on his shoes!"
Nancy insisted there was no possibility Maurice
could have doubled back down the hall. She hadn't
removed her eyes from the front door. Besides, only
seconds had elapsed.
Maurice was as bewildered by the incident as
Nancy was. He insisted he hadn't gone near the liv-
ing room or the front door but was just getting
ready to go out.
The two policemen questioned Nancy repeatedly,
and although skeptical of her account, were con-
vinced she was sincere. Turning to Maurice, Ber-
nard felt nausea welling up inside. Blood was still
seeping from Maurice's eyes. He stared at the
trooper with a grotesque leer. Bernard nearly

16 ♦ Satan's Harvest
knocked over a jar of instant coffee that was sitting
at his elbow.
"Jesus Christ!" the startled cop shouted. He
watched, horrified, as Maurice's expression turned
to one of demented fury.
"What the hell do we do, Sean?" asked the shaken
Bernard.
LeBoeuf had been wondering the same thing. But
he had an idea. He had seen enough.
"We're going to call Father Boyer."
On the other side of Warren, Father Homer
Boyer, a rotund, elderly parish priest, was eating
his lunch—a tuna sandwich, a pickle and chips, and
a cup of milk. Boyer had been pastor of St. Paul's in
Warren for five years and was nearing retirement
age. He already had his mobile home down at the
trailer park and was dreaming of the day he would
move into it. When the telephone rang, he gazed
regretfully at his tuna sandwich, and a flash of ap-
prehension went through him.
Father Boyer had a premonition that the phone
call had something to do with Frenchy Theriault,
and unlike the local police chief, the priest was cer-
tain Frenchy's problems were genuine. He had al-
ready been out to the Theriault home on more than
one occasion and blessed the house. But he had
seen enough in those visits to know that whatever
was going on was more than he was equipped to
handle.
The parish priest who had preceded him in his
post had been called out one night to visit the home
of a man who claimed to be possessed by demons.

Satan's Harvest ♦ 17
According to the local records, the man had tried to
kill the priest when he first visited. With holy water
and prayers, the man's bizarre behavior had ceased.
But it was too late for the priest. He died shortly
afterward at the young age of fifty-five.
That's why, a few weeks earlier, Father Boyer had
called in a pair of demonologists, Ed and Lorraine
Warren, to investigate what was going on with
Frenchy Theriault.
So as the phone rang he thought it might be the
Warrens calling. They had promised to come up to
Warren again over the weekend to continue their
investigation of the phenomena that had been
plaguing Frenchy Theriault.
Father Boyer picked up the phone and listened
intently for several minutes as LeBoeuf recounted
the morning's events.
"Chief," said the priest, taking a deep breath,
"there's nothing you can do. This thing is bigger
than you. In fact, it's bigger than both of us. But
there are some people who are trying to help. Their
names are Ed and Lorraine Warren. They're
demonologists. They're already familiar with what's
been going on. In fact, they've been up here a cou-
ple of times."
"Oh?" said LeBoeuf.
"They're supposed to come back again soon," Fa-
ther Boyer said. "They're trying to decide if Frenchy
needs an exorcism. I think I'll call them again right
now and see if they can come up here tonight. I
don't know if we can wait any longer."
"That's for sure," said the stunned LeBoeuf.
"Somebody's got to do something soon."

18 ♦ Satan's Harvest
After hanging up, Boyer gazed out of the rectory
window for several minutes. Then he reached for
his Rolodex, flipping through it until he came to the
W's. When he found the number for the Warrens, he
slowly reached for the phone and dialed the num-
ber in Connecticut. As he dialed he thought about
what Chief LeBoeuf had told him. It seemed as if
things were getting worse for Frenchy. He hoped
that the Warrens could get back up here quickly.
The situation was definitely out of control.
As he listened to the ring of the phone, Father
Boyer looked up at the crucifix above his desk.
"We're going to need your help on this one, Lord,"
he whispered.

2
Fall in Maine. The leaves turn from green to a
patchwork of colors. The trees explode into a can-
vas of brilliant hues—red, then orange, yellow,
gold, and finally brown, before they drop to the
ground.
Ten-year-old Maurice Theriault was trudging
through the fallen leaves that had gathered along
the side of St. John Road on his way home from
school. There was a pleasing scent of burning leaves
in the cold air. Maurice's cheeks were ruddy and his
nose was runny.
He was small for his age, but muscular. Perhaps it
was the line of his jaw that made him seem older, or
his tired eyes. His neck and shoulders were well de-
veloped from working in the potato fields and the
barn for as long as he could remember. He always
wore the same blue-plaid shirt and jeans, which his

20 ♦ Satan's Harvest

mother carefully patched and repatched at the
elbows and knees.
Poverty was a way of life among the farmers in
tiny Fort Kent, Maine, in 1946. Located directly on
the Canadian border in rural Aroostook County,
Fort Kent, population 4,500, was home to many of
Maine's potato farms. Even in the midst of postwar
prosperity, life was hard for those who had to
scratch a living out of Maine's rocky soil.
St. John Road ran alongside the St. John River
and eventually connected to Main Street, the heart
of what passed for downtown in tiny Fort Kent. As
he walked Maurice spotted a group of boys playing
in a pile of leaves in a field where the road bent. He
quickened his pace, secretly wishing he could join
them but hoping they wouldn't see him.
Sometimes some of the other boys made fun of
him when they spotted him coming, because he usu-
ally stank of cow dung. They teased him unmerci-
fully and he hated it.
Even though the other kids also lived on farms,
their fathers let them enjoy their childhoods. Mau-
rice didn't have that luxury.
Their lives seemed so different from his. For one
thing, most of the boys his age were in higher
grades. They didn't have to miss school as often as
he did in order to help their fathers out on their
farms. Of course they had chores to do, but the
other boys weren't expected to do nearly as much as
Maurice had to do. It hurt Maurice to be different,
and he felt like an outcast.
He continued to walk home as he usually did,
head down, looking at the pavement.

Satan's Harvest ♦ 21
As he walked Maurice thought back to the day the
previous spring when his father had bought a new
tractor. "Drive it, or else," his father had threatened.
The child tried his best but couldn't master what
was really a man's job. His little legs couldn't reach
the pedals. Short legs were no excuse, as far as Max-
ime Theriault was concerned. He was determined
that Maurice would work as a full-fledged farm-
hand. When his son failed in a task, even one a
grown man might find difficult, Maxime would re-
spond with a stinging smack in the face or a humili-
ating kick in the behind.
Maxime Theriault didn't have a loving bone in his
body. He towered over Maurice, his menacing pres-
ence much taller than his actual five feet nine
inches. His mouth was a permanent scowl, formed
by the deeply etched lines from his nose. His thick
wire-rimmed glasses made his eyes a tiny blur. The
few times Maurice saw his father without his
glasses, he seemed almost human.
It was a cruel illusion. Maxime would just as soon
slap Maurice as say hello to him. For Maurice, there
were no fatherly hugs or pats on the back. Maxime
had little use for his other children either, but Mau-
rice, as the eldest, bore the brunt of his abuse. By
the time he was ten Maurice already had nine
brothers and sisters. Eventually there would be fif-
teen children in all.
But there was no even division of labor—or abuse
—around the Theriault farm.
Maurice was followed by three girls, May, Babe,
and Mabel. But because they were girls, Maxime

22 ♦ Satan's Harvest
didn't expect them to help out much, especially with
the hard chores. He pretty much ignored them.
After the three girls came Maxime, Jr., called
"Pete." He was Maxime's pet. Whatever affection
Maxime could muster went to Pete. Then came
Florence, Albertine, and Diane. Maxime ignored
them as he did the other girls.
Five more children would eventually follow, but
none would ever get the treatment that Maxime had
reserved for his firstborn.
Even as a toddler in St. Agatha, where the Ther-
iaults had lived before Maxime purchased the farm
in Fort Kent, Maurice hid under his bed, hoping his
father wouldn't find him and hit him. At first Mau-
rice just feared his father. Before long he hated him
with a burning passion.
But as much as he hated the coldhearted farmer,
Maurice would not think of disobeying his father's
commands. If he did, he knew to expect a blow—
from the back of his father's hand, his fist, or even a
two-by-four if that was nearby.
If he was late coming home today, he thought, as
he hurried, head down, past the children frolicking
in the leaves, he shuddered to think what his pun-
ishment would be. It was harvest season and Max-
ime had a full afternoon's work planned for Mau-
rice. One quick look at the boys jumping in the
leaves and Maurice speeded up his pace for home.
When he reached the weathered brown farm-
house little Maurice looked for his mother, hoping
she might be in the kitchen baking some of the
French-Canadian pastries that he loved so much.
Emelda Theriault was a short, slender woman,

Satan's Harvest ♦ 23
with a long brown braid down her back that was
turning frosty gray at her crown. Her round brown
eyes and oval-shaped face reminded Maurice of an
angel he had seen on a stained-glass window in
church. He thought of it whenever he saw her hair
unwound from its braid. Maurice marveled at how
neat and clean she looked despite the hours of
drudgery in the farmhouse and the even more gru-
eling days out in the fields. But her hands were
rough and calloused. The nails were short and the
knuckles were reddened, swollen from hours of
pounding a washboard, doing laundry by hand for
her large family.
Since his brothers and sisters were too young to
stand up to Maxime, Emelda was the only person
on earth Maurice could turn to for help. She tried to
protect him from Maxime's rage, often standing be-
tween them and taking a blow herself. Maurice
wished he could stop that from happening, but it
was impossible. All he could do was weep for his
mother. But they never discussed his father's vio-
lence. Never.
To his disappointment, his mother was not in the
kitchen when he arrived home. Most likely she was
out in the field, picking potatoes, following Max-
ime's orders.
Gulping down a glass of milk, Maurice went look-
ing for his father. He wasn't aware of the milk mus-
tache left on his upper lip. Better not to dawdle and
incur Maxime's wrath.
Maurice looked downhill toward the barn and
saw his father entering it. Probably going to fix a
piece of machinery or tend to a sick animal, Mau-

24 ♦ Satan's Harvest
rice thought. The boy wanted to watch, hoping he
could learn something useful. But he also knew that
if he asked his father to teach him, his reward
would be a curse or a beating. Maurice decided to
slip into the barn and secretly watch from behind a
bale of hay. Maybe if he learned something on his
own, his father would be pleased.
The boy took his time walking to the barn, trying
to drum up enough courage to spy on his father. He
tried to anticipate his father's unpredictable rages,
and in his head he continually heard Maxime's
booming voice screaming at him. No matter what
the circumstances, Maurice just couldn't win.
When Maurice reached the barn door, he grabbed
the old iron handle and pulled quietly. The familiar
warmth of the barn and its smell enveloped him as
he slipped inside. The light from outside poured
into the barn and seemed to shine like a spotlight
into one of the stalls. He heard some shuffling in the
hay.
When he saw what his father was doing, his jaw
dropped and his eyes opened wide.
The boy wasn't quite sure what was going on, but
he knew he shouldn't be there. He tried to run, but
he was frozen, as in a nightmare. A hot flash raced
through him as he imagined himself being spotted.
Maurice wondered if he should stay put or get out
of there as quickly as possible. He pondered the al-
ternatives for a moment, gulped, and made his deci-
sion. Turning to sneak out, Maurice didn't see the
black pitchfork that had been leaning against the
bale of hay. He only brushed against it, but that was
enough to send it clanking noisily to the ground.

Satan's Harvest ♦ 25
The sound startled Maxime, who immediately
stopped what he'd been doing and looked around.
His eyes locked on Maurice and the boy froze with
panic.
"Maurice."
Maxime's voice sounded like thunder.
Maurice trembled. "Yes, Papa." He could hardly
get the words out of his mouth.
"Maurice, come here."
The boy hesitated.
"Maurice, come here or I will kill you," Maxime
said, his eyes still riveted on his frightened son.
Maurice walked slowly toward the stall.
"I want you to watch me," Maxime said, resuming
what he had been doing before he was interrupted.
Maurice could hardly bear to watch, but he didn't
dare look away.
A few minutes later Maxime was finished.
Maurice turned, poised to run, but his father's
voice held him in place. "Now do what I was doing,"
his father commanded.
Maurice closed his eyes and tried to imitate his
father, all the while wishing he were anywhere else.
After a few minutes Maxime told him to stop. "If
you're going to watch me, then you're going to have
to do what I do," he said. "Next time maybe you
won't watch me. And you better not say a word to
anybody about this. If you do, you'll die. And I'll
bury you in a manure pit."
With that, Maxime strode out of the barn, bel-
lowing a depraved laugh.
Maurice began to cry, not sure what it was that he
had just done but understanding that it was some-

26 ♦ Satan's Harvest
how evil. What he didn't know—couldn't have
known—was that with this act, he had opened the
door to a lifetime of torment. And that the perpetra-
tor of that torment would make Maxime seem like a
pussycat.
Maurice kept his terrible secret for three years.
During that time Maxime continued his forays into
the barn and often forced Maurice to join him.
Maurice knew what he was doing was sick and ter-
rible, and he hated himself for doing it. He always
felt an evil presence in that barn.
Maurice was growing up sullen and introspective.
His posture was changing. His once erect frame was
now stooped, and his head was bowed from contin-
ually looking at the ground.
Only with his mother did Maurice feel safe, but
he was betraying her by keeping his terrible secret,
and he felt overwhelmed by guilt. He thought of
confessing his sin to Father LeClerc, but he was too
ashamed—even in the dark privacy of the confes-
sional. He felt too ashamed to even look at the
cross.
His mother asked him several times what his fa-
ther did in the barn, but Maurice couldn't bring
himself to tell her either. The boy did his best to
hide his torment, but inside he imagined he was al-
ready in hell.
One day he was enjoying a piece of fresh apple pie
with his mother in the security of her kitchen, when
he decided to be brave. "Mama," the boy whispered.
"You know how you're always asking me what Papa
is doing when he goes to the barn? If you want to
know, why don't you watch?"

Satan's Harvest ♦ 27
That was as close as he could come to telling her.
Emelda Theriault knew that her thirteen-year-old
son was troubled, but rather than press him she de-
cided to act on his suggestion. She dreaded what she
might discover. Worse, she dreaded that Maxime
might find out she was spying on him. That would
mean a certain beating. But she had to discover her
husband's secret.
Maurice waited upstairs in his room as his
mother headed for the barn. He was so apprehen-
sive he could hardly breathe. Please, God, he
prayed, don't let her get caught.
He opened the window and breathed as silently
as he could in order to hear better. He sank to his
knees and recited the Lord's Prayer. His knuckles
turned white from being squeezed so hard.
Before he could finish he heard his father's voice
—and he knew the worst had happened.
"You bitch! You fucking bitch! What the hell do
you think you're doing in here?"
Maurice heard a sharp crack, then a scream.
Oh, God! Oh, God, I hope she's all right, the boy
prayed as a chill went up and down his spine.
"I'm going to kill you someday, woman!" he heard
his father scream. "I swear I'm going to kill you
someday."
Maurice sobbed. There was something in his fa-
ther's voice that made him sure it was more than
just an idle threat.
But Maurice didn't have time just then to dwell
on the threat on his mother's life. The barn door
burst open and Maxime was already on his way to
the farmhouse to hunt for him.

28 ♦ Satan's Harvest
"Maurice, tu vas payer pour qa! You're going to
pay for this!"
Maurice thought about running and hiding, but
where would he go? Maxime would find him and
beat him even worse.
The door burst open. Maxime stood there bare—
chested, in his dirty workpants, his hair a mess. The
veins in his face seemed as though they would
burst, and his eyes seemed to pop through those
thick glasses.
"You little bastard," he screamed. "I told you not
to tell her."
"I didn't tell her, Papa," Maurice whimpered. "Ask
her if you don't believe me . . ."
But Maxime didn't even hear Maurice's answer.
He had pulled his belt out of its loops and was al-
ready waving the strap around like a madman. A
strange gurgle was coming from his throat.
Maxime attacked his son furiously, whipping him
repeatedly all over his body. The razor-sharp belt
sang through the air with each blow, drawing blood
as Maurice curled into a ball and cowered under
the assault.
By the time he had stopped, Maxime's belt was
dripping with blood. He wiped it off on Maurice's
quilted bedspread and put it back on before heading
downstairs.
Maurice lay on his bed, sobbing, aching with
pain. He cried from his gut, and wondered why he'd
ever been born. He cried until there were no more
tears, until he had no more strength. He stayed in a
fetal position for hours, staring at a bloodstain that
Maxime's strapping had left on his bedspread.

Satan's Harvest ♦ 29
I hate him, I hate him, I hate him, he thought. I've
got to get out of here.
Maurice's thoughts drifted back to a frigid Febru-
ary afternoon seven years earlier. He was walking
home from school in a raging blizzard that started
at eleven a.m. Most of the other children had been
picked up by their fathers that day, but six-year-old
Maurice was left to fend for himself, as usual. The
howling wind and snow cut into his face. He pulled
his hat down over his ears and wrapped his scarf
across his mouth, but he couldn't escape the bitter
cold. He could hardly see in front of him. Snow was
swirling madly and the landscape was quickly turn-
ing white. His face stung and his fingers and toes
were going numb.
The snow piled up fast. By the time Maurice was
halfway home it was up to his knees. To escape the
biting wind he took cover behind a snowbank that
must have been five feet high. He crouched down to
keep warm, and within minutes he was covered
with snow. He began to cry. Unable to move his
arms or legs, he slipped toward unconsciousness.
Maurice no longer felt the cold. Everything was
white. Then the face of a man appeared. He had
long brown hair, a neat brown beard, and soft,
warm eyes. Instead of a plaid woodsman's jacket or
a down vest, he wore only a white robe. The man
looked at Maurice and smiled.
Despite the freezing weather the man didn't ap-
pear cold at all. In fact, he seemed to radiate
warmth.
Leaning over, the man extended his hands. He
picked Maurice up almost without effort and began

30 ♦ Satan's Harvest
carrying him away. The man never said a word to
Maurice.
The next thing the boy knew, he was home in bed.
His mother fed him a bowl of hot soup and told him
that he had somehow appeared safely on the porch
of the farmhouse.
"It was Jesus who saved me, Mama," Maurice
said.
Emelda Theriault had not seen the man who had
dropped her son off at her doorstep in the middle of
the raging blizzard. But she had no doubt that Jesus
was responsible. When she had seen how bad the
storm was, she'd said a prayer, asking God's protec-
tion for her son on his way home from school. Jesus
had answered her prayer by having one of the
townspeople give her son a ride home, she was cer-
tain.
"I'm sure He did, Maurice," she said. "I'm sure He
did."
Once Maurice had snapped out of his daydream,
his tears had dried and his anger subsided. Just re-
membering that day had calmed him down. Per-
haps Jesus would come and save him again.
By the next spring things had only gotten worse
around the Theriault farm. It was planting season
and Maurice was being made to work harder than
ever. Whenever it was planting- or harvesttime he'd
be forced to quit going to school for weeks at a
time. As a result, he was far behind in his studies.
Although he was thirteen, he was only in third
grade. Some of his younger sisters, who weren't

Satan's Harvest ♦ 31
forced to work around the farm as if they were
adults, had already passed him in school.
Maurice wasn't stupid, but everybody treated him
as if he were. When Maxime did allow him to at-
tend school, he'd still have to work each afternoon
after classes and all day on weekends. Even though
the other kids picked on him at school, it was better
than staying home to work with his father. Working
alongside his father meant being yelled at for the
smallest mistake and being slapped or kicked. Max-
ime Theriault hated his own existence and took it
out on everyone, especially his eldest son.
Maurice got to the point where he'd do anything
rather than work with his father. One day Maurice
was having trouble starting the tractor when his fa-
ther exploded at him. "Maurice, you no-good bas-
tard, can't you even start the machine?"
"I'm sorry, Papa. It must be broken. I'm doing it
the way I usually do it."
Maxime charged at his son, huffing and snorting
like a bull. He jumped up onto the tractor and
pushed him as hard as he could with both hands,
knocking the boy off his seat and onto the ground.
Maurice fell with a thud, his head landing against
a boulder. He got up slowly and began walking,
dazed, toward the farmhouse, trying to stop the
bleeding by holding his T-shirt tight against the gash
in his scalp. Maxime took no notice. He had gotten
the tractor started and was already driving away
toward the potato field.
As he stumbled toward the farmhouse, Maurice's
hatred for his father consumed him. He turned

32 ♦ Satan's Harvest
around and looked at Maxime disappearing into the
distance.
"I'd rather work for the devil than work for you!"
the boy shouted.
He felt a little better when he said it, so he said it
again, this time louder. "I'd rather work for the
devil than for you!" Maurice repeated it loudly, over
and over again, as he neared the house.
In the kitchen Emelda had just taken a straw-
berry-rhubarb pie out of the oven and was putting it
on the windowsill to cool. Maurice's voice was ring-
ing out across the yard:
"I'd rather work for the devil than for you!"
Emelda shuddered when she overheard her son's
sacrilegious oath.
Somewhere, someone else was listening too.

3
The following day Maxime thumped up the stairs
and barged into Maurice's bedroom, well before
daylight.
Snapping on the ceiling light, he barked, "Let's go,
Maurice, now! We've got some fields to plow."
Maurice groaned from under his pillow. "Can't I
sleep a little longer, Papa?" The sudden flood of
light was painful for Maurice's sleepy eyes.
Waking was always a disappointment because his
dreams, when he could remember them, were so
much more pleasant than real life. Sometimes he
would try to retain the plots of his dreams and elab-
orate on them during the day. This particular morn-
ing he was dreaming about kissing a girl from
school when the rude interruption came.
"I guess you didn't hear me, you lazy bastard. I
said get out of bed now."
Maxime started to take out his strap, but Maurice

34 ♦ Satan's Harvest
was already out of bed, had pulled on his jeans, and
was on his way downstairs to the kitchen. He
gulped down a glass of milk, grabbed a croissant,
and headed out the door toward the tractor.
"Maurice, you start up the tractor. And today I
want you to do it right."
The boy grimaced. He dreaded what would hap-
pen if he failed again. He walked slowly toward the
intimidating machine, going over in his mind the
proper way to start it.
The seat squeaked as he climbed into it. He ex-
tended his left leg as far down as he could, using
every ounce of strength he could muster to push the
clutch to the floor. Then he turned the key and
quickly put the gas pedal to the floor, while lifting
his left leg off the clutch. This was where he usually
got into trouble. He just couldn't seem to do all
those things in a fluid sequence so that the machine
would go forward without stalling.
But this time he had no trouble at all. Somehow
his legs seemed longer. He hardly had to strain to
keep the clutch down and when it came time to hit
the gas and let go of the clutch, he did it easily. The
tractor lurched slightly, then moved forward with-
out a hitch, almost as if it were moving on its own.
This is easy, Maurice thought to himself, steering
the tractor downhill toward the main potato field.
The motion of the big tires over the rows of spring
mud jostled his head and shoulders in syncopation
with the motor. The sweet spring air, coupled with
this new accomplishment, made Maurice feel
heady. He felt older.
Maurice never had trouble starting the tractor

Satan's Harvest ♦ 35
again. And plowing the fields was no longer the tor-
ture that it had always been. Maurice couldn't fig-
ure it out. It seemed almost as though somebody
were next to him, helping him do the work. It was
an easy spring.
By fall he was running the tractor like a man. He
harvested so many potatoes that even Maxime had
trouble finding fault with him, although he cer-
tainly tried.
One day in late October Maxime and Maurice
were boxing potatoes, and Maxime actually warned
his son that he was working too hard. But it wasn't
Maurice's welfare he was looking out for.
"Maurice, you're going too fast," Maxime said
over his shoulder. "Take it easy. I don't want you to
wear out now. We're just about finished harvesting.
Next week we start hauling logs. You'll need all your
strength for that."
Maxime was glad his son was now doing the work
of a man, yet it bothered him to see the boy growing
up. It might not be so easy to push him around any-
more. Ah, what am I worrying about? he thought.
The kid's only fourteen. I'm still in charge around
here. And besides, I'll use his strength for hauling.
Every winter, between harvest and planting sea-
sons, Maxime hauled logs to help make ends meet.
It was the job Maurice dreaded most. The logs were
so heavy that grown men often had trouble lifting
them. And it was usually so cold that a few hours of
work would leave his fingers numb, and his neck
sore and stiff, so that lifting the logs became twice
as difficult.
One December morning Maxime and Maurice

36 ♦ Satan's Harvest
were getting ready to haul a pile of logs to Emile
Lemieux's farm across town. The temperature had
dropped to zero and the snow was falling hard.
Maurice was reaching for the snow chains. "Papa,
they say we're going to have a blizzard," he said.
"Maybe we should wait until the storm is over."
Maxime glared at his son. "That just shows how
stupid you are," he shouted, curling his lip with dis-
gust and shaking his finger at him. "If there's a
storm, Emile's going to need his logs, isn't he? Now,
start loading these fucking logs on the flatbed. And
don't question me again."
It was the coldest day of the year so far. Maurice
placed his hands against the muffler of the tractor to
try to keep them warm. The freezing air stung his
face, so he breathed through his scarf. Not daring to
look at his father, he looked at his hands.
Maurice felt fire at the pit of his stomach. He
hated his father so much. It was as if he were
screaming inside at the very top of his lungs, but his
voice was absolutely paralyzed, out of fear of his
father's vicious temper.
Maurice got up and trudged over to the enormous
woodpile, then reached for a log. To his astonish-
ment, it seemed no heavier than a baseball bat. Yet
the log was about three feet long and a foot in diam-
eter.
Maurice tossed it onto the flatbed and reached
over for another.
Again the log seemed as if it were balsa wood,
except it was a log of sturdy pine. He picked it up
without effort and placed it next to the first one.
At the other end of the woodpile, Maxime Ther-

Satan's Harvest ♦ 37
iault was huffing and puffing as he loaded log after
log. Clouds of steam from his breath hung around
him in the freezing air. "These goddamn things get
heavier every year," he muttered.
Maxime hadn't been watching Maurice, but when
he finished with his pile he looked over at the boy
and saw that he had loaded every one of his logs.
"Hey, since when are you able to keep up with me?"
he said, looking sidelong at the boy.
Maurice didn't know what to say, so he just
looked down at the ground and shrugged his shoul-
ders. Inside, he wondered how he'd been able to lift
the logs so effortlessly. It was almost as if he'd had
help, he thought.
Maurice didn't know who'd been helping him, but
he was appreciative. He started giving thanks each
time he got help. "Merci," he would whisper. "Merci,
beaucoup."
From then on Maurice would ask for help when-
ever he faced a difficult task. "Please, if there's
somebody next to me, help me," he'd say. "I want
your help."
More often than not he'd get it.
Maurice's mysterious ability to work as if he were
a grown man—a very strong grown man—proved to
be as much of a curse as a blessing. Maxime real-
ized that he could now rely much more heavily on
his son to help him run the farm. Late the next sum-
mer he decided that Maurice would have to quit
school and begin working for him full-time. He told
the boy over dinner one cool night in late August.
"Maurice, you're wasting your time at school," he
blurted out as Emelda passed him the bowl of

38 ♦ Satan's Harvest
mashed potatoes. "You're fifteen now and you're
only goin' into fifth grade. You ain't never goin' to
be nothin' but a farmer, boy. Face facts. So you may
as well start working for me full-time. I need the
help and you can do the work of two men. So you
won't be goin' back to school next week."
Maurice was stunned. He didn't really like school,
mostly because the other kids made fun of him for
being so far behind, but he had been doing better
toward the end of last year. He was studying hard
and was starting to read a little. Every now and
then he'd pick up a newspaper to look up the
hockey scores.
Before he could say anything, his mother inter-
jected on his behalf. "Maxime, chiri, I think Mau-
rice would be better off in school," she said quietly.
"I could do his work for him."
"Shut up, woman," Maxime shot back very
loudly, pointing his finger at her. "I've made up my
mind. The boy's school days are over. Starting now
he's working for me full-time. End of discussion."
Maurice looked around at his brothers and sis-
ters, hoping that somebody might say something,
but it was not to be. They were all too scared to
utter a sound.
Maurice felt as if he were burning inside again.
He wanted to say something but knew it was hope-
less. He'd become too useful around the farm. His
father would never change his mind. He pushed his
plate away, excused himself, and went up to his
room. It seemed as if he were in a deep, dark hole
from which there was no escape.
Later his mother came up the stairs quietly and

Satan's Harvest ♦ 39
knocked softly on the door. She came in and sat
next to him on the bed.
"I'm sorry, Maurice," she said, putting her warm
arms around him. She was wearing a smooth white
sweater that felt so soft to Maurice. He put his head
on her shoulder. "Maybe you can study a little at
home. You can get some help from your brothers
and sisters."
His mother made things a lot better. At least she
was on his side, he thought. Maurice let out a big
sigh.
"Don't worry about it, Mama," he answered.
"Papa's probably right. I can barely read. I'm never
going to amount to anything, except as a farmer or
a workman, so I may as well get used to it. If only I
could get away from him, I'd be all right."
So Maurice's school days were over. His fourth-
grade education would have to do. He was no
longer a kid. He was a farmer. He was going to bide
his time until he could be on his own.
Maurice hated working with his father, but he ac-
tually enjoyed the work. Farming was satisfying. He
liked to plant seeds and watch them grow. Some-
times when he was pulling out weeds, he would
think of them as being evil, strangling what was
good. He planted a bumper crop of tomatoes that
year.
For the next three years he learned as much as he
could about farming while he counted the days un-
til his eighteenth birthday. On that day he'd be eligi-
ble to enlist in the army. He'd finally be free of Max-
ime Theriault's reign of terror.

40 ♦ Satan's Harvest
Finally the long-awaited day came. July 13, 1954.
Maurice was up early. It was a hot, sunny day, a
perfect summer's day in Maine. Vacationers were
heading to the St. John River to do some fishing.
Maurice Theriault was on his way downtown to the
army recruiting office. It was a five-mile hike from
the Theriault farm into downtown Fort Kent, but
that didn't bother Maurice. He walked briskly. To-
day he would begin a new chapter in his life.
By the time he got to the recruiting office, Mau-
rice was dripping sweat, but he wasn't tired. He was
excited. His hands trembled as he filled out the
stack of papers. By the time he was finished, Mau-
rice was dreaming of the day when he'd be wearing
army green, stationed maybe in Germany or
France. Maxime Theriault would be far, far away.
The sergeant told him that his papers seemed to
be in order and that all he needed was to pass the
physical exam and he'd probably be inducted
within two months. He passed the physical with fly-
ing colors.
Maurice was elated, but he knew the worst was
yet to come. He'd have to tell his father what he had
done. But this time he had the U.S. Army behind
him.
When Maurice got home that afternoon Maxime
was standing in the driveway, waiting from him. He
was clearly upset. "Where the hell you been all
day?" he boomed.
Maurice looked down at his feet. In his mind he
was seeing them in army boots. He decided to get
right to the point. "I joined the army today, Papa,"
he said. 'Tm goin' to be a soldier."

Satan's Harvest ♦ 41
"The hell you are," Maxime said, his eyes narrow-
ing.
"But, Papa," Maurice said, his face flushing. "I al-
ready signed the papers and passed the physical.
I'm going to be inducted in two months."
"We'll see about that," Maxime said. "Right now,
you've got some grass to cut. Now, get the hell out
of here and do it, or I'll knock your goddamn block
off."
Maurice went about his chores and managed to
avoid his father for the rest of the day. The next
morning, when Maurice awoke, Maxime wasn't
around. Maurice was relieved not to have to face
him.
"Where's Papa?" Maurice asked his mother, who
was busy fixing oatmeal for the rest of the children.
"He took the pickup and went into town," she re-
plied. "I don't know where he was goin', but it
seemed important. He didn't even wait to have
breakfast."
Maurice began to worry. A bad taste crept its way
up his throat. "Do you think he's going to try to stop
me from joining up?"
His mother sat down next to Maurice and gently
held his hand. She looked him in the eye. "Maurice,
he told me before we went to bed last night that he'd
stop you from leaving the farm if it was the last
thing he ever did. He needs your labor here. He
can't afford to lose you. I don't want to lose you
either, but I know that you need to get away from
him. C'est dommage, it's too bad, his mind is made
up. I'm sorry, mon chiri."
It was about noon when Maurice heard his fa-

42 ♦ Satan's Harvest
ther's pickup coming up the driveway. He hopped
out of the car, a smug look on his face, and headed
right for Maurice, who was fixing the barn door.
"You can forget about the army, you no-good
bum." Maxime chuckled with evident satisfaction.
"You ain't goin' nowhere."
He handed his son a piece of paper. Maurice
could barely read it, but he didn't have any trouble
recognizing a number and letter stamped at the top:
4-F.
"But . . . but I p-passed the physical," he stam-
mered. He felt as if the wind had been knocked out
of him.
"That's not what the army doc says today." Max-
ime was poking his pointed finger deep into
Maurice's left shoulder. "You are out, boy. I told you
that you're a farmer. And you'll be farming with me
until you're at least twenty-one. If you try to leave,
I'll get you. C'est vrai. That's a fact."
Maurice was crushed. He walked slowly into the
house and up to his room. He threw himself down
on his bed and started to cry. He cried until he had
no voice.
The next morning Maurice woke up to his moth-
er's opening the curtains in his room. She had made
him some hot tea and cinnamon toast, which she
placed next to him on the bed. Maurice was sorry to
be awake.
"I'm sorry, Maurice," she said. "I wish I could
have stopped him."
"How did he do it, Mama? How did he get me
changed to 4-F?"
Emelda Theriault put her arms around her son.

Satan's Harvest ♦ 43
"You know Papa and that army doctor go way back,
Maurice."
Maurice faced three more years before he'd be
free. It wasn't a pleasant thought, but he decided to
make the best of it. Maybe he'd join the National
Guard. At least he'd be able to get out of the house a
few nights a week and an occasional weekend.
When fall finally rolled around, Maurice did just
that. But after he attended just three meetings, Max-
ime started interfering. After dinner one night Mau-
rice dressed up in his uniform, waiting outside for
his friend, Jacques Boutellier, to pick him up for the
meeting.
Maxime came out of the house. "Maurice, I want
you to clean up the barn tonight," he said, taking a
swig from a bottle of beer.
"But, Papa, I have a Guard meeting tonight. Why
didn't you ask me last night?"
Maxime came up right next to him. Maurice
could smell the beer on his breath. "I don't need a
reason, boy," said Maxime. "Now get to work."
"But I'll get in trouble. You just can't miss a Guard
meeting without a good excuse—"
"Look, you little shit, I didn't want you to join, but
you did it anyway. Now, don't disobey me again, or
I'll fuckin' flatten you."
Maurice turned around and walked slowly up-
stairs. The familiar sense of hopelessness hung in
the air. He carefully took off his brand-new uniform
and put it in his closet. He got back into his jeans
and trudged out to the barn. It was the last time he
would put on that uniform.
From then on Maxime would always find some-

44 ♦ Satan's Harvest
thing for him to do on meeting nights. Maurice
went to see his unit commander.
"I—I can't continue in the Guard, sir," Maurice
said, a sheepish look on his face.
"What do you mean, son?" asked Captain Nor-
mand LaPointe. "You can't just quit the Guard."
"I can't help it, sir," Maurice said, looking down
and speaking in almost a whisper. "My father wants
me home and I can't go. I wish I could, but I can't."
His face was red with shame.
"I'll talk to him," Captain LaPointe replied.
Maurice shrugged his shoulders. He knew better
than to hope. Somehow Maxime always won.
The next day Captain LaPointe drove out to the
Theriault farm to talk to Maxime.
Maurice saw the two of them talking out by the
barn. A few minutes later LaPointe got back into his
Jeep and drove off.
Maxime gave Maurice the news at dinner.
"Talked to your captain today," he said, stuffing a
forkful of meatloaf into his mouth. "You're no
longer in the Guard."
Maurice wasn't surprised this time. Nothing his
father did surprised him anymore. He knew Max-
ime would find a way to stop him. About all that
was left to do was to feel sorry for himself and go
through the motions.
He was still feeling bad the following Saturday as
he drove the truck back to the farm after having
hauled a load of logs all the way to Ashland, a sixty-
mile drive. He still didn't have his driver's license
because Maxime wouldn't let him go for the test.

Satan's Harvest ♦ 45
But he insisted Maurice haul the logs anyway. He
told him to use the back roads so he wouldn't be
spotted by a cop. Ashland was the farthest Maurice
had ever driven, but he had no problems with the
haul.
On his way back home he stopped in downtown
Fort Kent to buy a chocolate for his mother. She
loved chocolates, but Maxime would never buy her
any. He would never get her anything. So Maurice
would sometimes get her one when he had a spare
nickel, which wasn't often. Despite all the work he
did at the farm, Maxime refused to pay him. "I feed
you, don't I?" was his usual reply when Maurice
would ask for a dollar or two so he could go out to a
movie. "That's all I gotta do."
As he walked out of the candy store with his
mother's gift, Maurice spotted Rosie Robitaille, a
girl he used to know at school. She had always been
nice to him.
Rosie was short, with very white skin, brown
hair, and large almond-shaped green eyes. Her face
was framed by a white silk scarf, and she wore a
green loden coat. He wanted to talk to her, but he
was too shy. He put his head down and started to
walk the other way.
"Maurice . . ."
He heard Rosie call his name.
"Maurice, is that you?"
He turned around. She had a big smile on her
face.
"Hi, Rosie." He felt uncomfortable talking to
girls, but she was so easygoing.

46 ♦ Satan's Harvest
"Maurice, its nice to see you. Where have you
been?"
"I had to quit school, Rosie. My father is making
me work for him."
"Is he still as mean as ever?" Maxime was famous
in town for being someone to avoid.
"Worse. Working for him is like working in hell."
"I'm sorry to hear that. Maybe you should move
off the farm. Work for yourself."
"If only I could. But he won't let me leave until
I'm twenty-one."
"I know how you feel, Maurice. My parents are
very strict too. But they finally said I could start
going out on dates. I just wish someone would ask
	tt
me.
Maurice may have been uneducated, but he
wasn't a fool.
"Uh, uh . . . maybe, you know, maybe you and
me, we could go out to a movie or something some-
time," Maurice blurted out.
Rosie's eyes lit up. She was glad Maurice had
taken the opening she had given him. She had al-
ways liked him and she felt sorry for him because
of how his father treated him.
"How about tonight? There's a new movie in town
at the Bijou. Its a John Wayne movie. You'd like
that."
Maurice could hardly believe his ears.
"You bet, Rosie! I'll pick you up at seven."
He almost skipped back to the truck. When he got
home Maurice was in a good mood. He felt that
maybe things were beginning to go his way.
Jft' Mama," he said, bounding up the stairs to his

Satan's Harvest ♦ 47
room. He made a beeline for his top dresser
drawer, reached inside, and felt around for his
money. He always kept it in an envelope way in the
back corner.
Then a sinking feeling came over him. There
wasn't anything in there but a handful of change.
He counted it. Only seventy-three cents. Admission
to the movie was fifty cents each, and he'd need at
least a buck to take Rosie out for a Coke later at the
soda fountain.
He'd have to ask his mother.
He ran down the stairs. "Mama, Mama," he yelled
excitedly. "I got a date with Rosie, a girl I know
from school! We're goin' to the movies tonight. But I
don't got enough money, Mama. Can I please have a
couple dollars? Please, Mama?"
Emelda Theriault was happy for her son. He had
been moping around for so long, she was pleased to
see him excited about something. She went to the
cookie jar, but when she reached inside, it was
empty. She'd had five dollars in there the last time
she'd looked. Maxime must have taken it. She'd
seen him come home with two six-packs of beer the
day before.
She had to fight back the tears. She was planning
to buy some material for a new dress. And she
dearly wanted Maurice to go on his date tonight.
Emelda went up to the bedroom and found Max-
ime's pants. She looked inside the pocket and found
one dollar and a receipt for a five-dollar purchase of
beer at the food store. She decided to take the dollar
and give it to Maurice. She'd have hell to pay, but

48 ♦ Satan's Harvest
she wasn't going to sit by and have all her son's
happiness taken away.
"Maurice, I can only give you one dollar," she
said. "That will get the two of you into the picture
show. You'll have to figure something else out if you
want to take her for a soda afterward."
"Merci, Mama," Maurice said, laughing. "Thank
you. I love you." He gave her a big hug and they
both laughed.
It wasn't much, but maybe he could borrow a
buck or two from his friend Jacques. If not, he'd
just have to explain to Rosie that he was a little
short this week. She'd understand.
He was still in a good mood when he came down-
stairs whistling. Maxime was in the living room,
cleaning his hunting rifle.
"Cut out that goddamn whistling," he barked.
"Can't a man have some peace and quiet?"
"Sorry, Papa. But you won't be bothered tonight.
I'm . . . I'm going out—on a date."
"Oh, yeah?"
Maurice felt that panicky feeling in his gut.
"Is that okay? I'm going to the movies with Rosie,
a girl from school. Can't I go?"
"How you gonna get there?"
"I was gonna ask you if I could use the truck. I'm
drivin' it real good now. Drove it all the way to Ash-
land today. No problem."
"But you ain't got a driver's license, Maurice. I
can't let you take the truck."
"Please, Papa. I really like this girl. You make me
drive the truck for work. What's the difference?"
"The difference is that I need you to drive it for

Satan's Harvest ♦ 49
work. You can walk to the movies. Now, get the hell
out of here."
"God, that bastard\ I hate his guts! Why do I ever
hope for anything? Why do I deserve this life? I hate
this!" Maurice said to himself between his clenched
teeth. His heart felt as if it had been ripped in half.
He thought about the situation: He couldn't ask Ro-
sie to walk all the way into town. He'd have to can-
cel the date, but he didn't want to hurt her feelings.
He decided to call Jacques and ask him if he'd take
Rosie to the movies. Later, Maurice found out the
two of them had hit it off. They started going out
together and eventually got married.
Maurice decided he would not try to date a girl
until he was off his father's farm. What would be
the use? This wasn't the first girl that he'd had to
give up because of his father. He would face life as
if he were a prisoner in jail.
The time passed slowly, but it passed. On
Maurice's twenty-first birthday his bags were al-
ready packed. Maxime Theriault was out in the field
early, so Maurice didn't have to worry about saying
good-bye to him.
He dressed quietly, taking a final look around his
room. Bad memories came immediately to mind.
He thought about the dozens of times he had been
whipped with his father's belt, and a hot flash raced
through his body. He walked slowly downstairs, try-
ing to focus on the good times with his mother and
his brothers and sisters.
In the kitchen Emelda Theriault was making
Maurice's favorite breakfast, crepes. His brothers

50 ♦ Satan's Harvest
and sisters were gathered around the table, waiting
for him to come down.
As he entered the room Emelda began to cry. She
hadn't noticed how her boy had grown. Although he
was only five feet six his body was stocky and mus-
cular. He looked bigger than he was. Suddenly he
was a man and he was leaving. If only Maxime
wasn't so damned hard on him, her son wouldn't be
leaving. She thought about her first son and her
mind drifted off for a moment to the day of the
blizzard when Maurice had been rescued by a Good
Samaritan.
Maurice put his arms around her. "Mama, don't
worry," he said. "I'll be all right. I'm going to Con-
necticut. I got a buddy down there. He works in a
silver factory and he told me he can get me a job."
Maurice hugged each of his brothers and sisters
and then kissed his mother good-bye. "Au revoir,
Mama," he said. "Good-bye."
His eyes welled up with tears as he walked out the
door for the last time. He looked over his shoulder
at his father's chair one last time. "I swear I hate
you, you bastard. Curse you! I hope the devil takes
his pitchfork and sticks it in your heart!"
Emelda looked down and shook her head.
Jacques was waiting outside in his car. Maurice
threw his bags into the trunk and hopped into the
front seat. Out of the corner of his tear-blurred eye,
he saw his father working in the field. The old man
didn't bother to say good-bye or even look up.
"Good riddance," Maurice whispered as Jacques
started the engine. "Good riddance, you bastard. I
hope you rot in hell."

Satan's Harvest ♦ 51
Jacques dropped Maurice at the Greyhound sta-
tion, where he boarded a bus for Boston. There he
would change buses and catch one bound for New
Britain, Connecticut. There he would make his own
life. He was finally free.

4
Just a few miles southwest of Hartford, Connecti-
cut, lies New Britain, a gritty factory town that
bears the fitting nickname "the hardware city of the
world." Maurice spent a grim two years there, la-
boring in a machine shop, but he never got used to
factory work. He disliked being indoors for so
many hours a day. He lived in a tiny apartment over
a bar that had a flashing neon light and the back of
a billboard for a view. He was always homesick.
Although he never wanted to see his father again,
he sorely missed his mother, his brothers and sis-
ters, and the country life he loved. He decided to go
back to Fort Kent. What did he have to lose?
When he returned, Maurice looked up a girl he
had gone out with a few times a couple of years
before. Patricia Anne O'Brien had always liked him,
but he'd had to stop seeing her for the same reason
he was unable to date Rosie—no money and no

54 ♦ Satan's Harvest
transportation. Patricia had been hurt when he
dropped her, but she hadn't blamed him. She knew
it wasn't his fault.
Although it had been two years, Patricia was
thrilled to see Maurice.. She hadn't changed at all.
Very mature-looking for her age, she could pass for
a woman in her twenties. Patricia was what some
would call buxom. She wore her ash-blond hair
long and straight, and she liked to dress simply, in
solid colors. When she found out that Maurice was
back in Fort Kent and had no place to stay, she in-
vited him to stay with her. Patricia lived with her
grandfather, Willy Dumont, and they had an extra
room. She was hoping the old man wouldn't mind
having a boarder.
When she approached Willy with the plan, he re-
jected the idea immediately. But when Maurice of-
fered to help out with the chores and pay a few dol-
lars a week in rent, it seemed to sway him. The
extra money would keep Willy in liquor through the
long, cold winter. And since winters in Maine were
extremely long and extremely cold, Willy needed all
the whiskey he could get his shaky hands on.
Willy was a grizzled old Frenchman who always
had a couple of days' growth of white beard and
seldom bothered to wear his teeth. He often mis-
placed them when he got drunk, which was most
nights. He was a bourbon man and usually smelled
of it. He always wore a green plaid jacket and
brown corduroys that were fastened at the top with
a big safety pin. The snap fastener had broken years
ago, but Willy liked to get a lot of mileage out of
things.

Satan's Harvest ♦ 55
Maurice and Patricia were getting along wonder-
fully. Although they weren't lovers—she was only
sixteen—they were becoming close friends. For the
first time in a long, long time, Maurice was feeling
happy. He was developing a life of his own. He'd
just had to wait for it longer than most people.
But something about Willy made him feel uncom-
fortable. The old man seemed jealous of the time
Maurice was spending with Patricia, especially
when he was drunk. He would mumble to himself
and peer at the two of them, then mumble some
more.
But what could they do? Patricia was still attend-
ing school. She was too young for them to move in
together, even if Maurice could afford his own
apartment, which he couldn't. His job as a farm-
hand in a potato field didn't pay much.
They decided they had to put up with Willy at
least until Patricia graduated. By this time Maurice
had gotten good at waiting for things he wanted. He
could do it again.
But one day Maurice came home from the field a
little bit early and found Patricia on her bed, sob-
bing. "What's the matter, Pat?" he said, taking her
hand and sitting down next to her.
"Nothing, Maurice," she whispered. "Nothing."
She was lying facedown, her face buried in the
crook of her arm.
Suddenly Willy opened her bedroom door and
walked in. When he saw Maurice he stopped dead
in his tracks and just stood there. The usual smell of
bourbon was in the air. He peered down at Maurice
and asked, "What you doin' home so early, boy?"

56 ♦ Satan's Harvest
"I wasn't feelin' so good. What's the matter with
Pat? She's been cryin'."
"I dunno. Don't worry about her. She's okay.
Sometimes she gets crazy. You know women."
He turned around, slammed the door, and
stomped off into the living room.
Maurice looked at Patricia. "What's he so mad
about?"
Patricia looked away from Maurice and began
crying again.
"You want to talk about it, let me know," he said,
closing her door gently behind him as he went off to
his own room, wondering what had caused her
tears.
The next day Maurice was still not feeling well
and stayed home from work. After Patricia had left
for school, Willy came into his room. "Boy, I think
it's time you moved outta here," he said. "This place
just ain't big enough for the three of us."
Maurice was beginning to feel the same way.
Willy had become more and more possessive of his
granddaughter and Maurice felt as if he was com-
peting for her affection. He packed his bags and
headed down the stairs with a suitcase in each
hand. He was angry and confused. What's wrong
with me? he was thinking. Why can't I keep a girl?
There was a loud knock on the front door just as
he reached the bottom of the stairs.
"Police, open up."
As Maurice moved toward the door Willy shot up
out of his easy chair and ran into the kitchen. Mau-
rice had never seen the old man move so fast.
When he opened the door a burly police officer

Satan's Harvest ♦ 57
was standing there impatiently. "Where's Willy Du-
mont?" he demanded. "I got a warrant for his ar-
rest."
"He just ran into the kitchen," Maurice answered.
"What's going on?"
The officer brushed past Maurice through the liv-
ing room and into the kitchen, where he found
Willy behind an open drawer. Bullets were strewn
out all over the counter. He was trying to load his
hunting rifle, but his shaky hands had knocked the
bullets all over the place. The officer rushed for-
ward, knocked the gun to the floor, and shoved the
old man against the wall. He put handcuffs on Willy
and led him away through the back door.
Maurice followed them outside, but the cop told
him to go back into the house and wait for Patricia
to come home. Maurice was puzzled, but he did
what he was told.
Ten minutes later a green Chevrolet pulled into
the driveway. A middle-aged woman was driving,
and Patricia was sitting in the passenger's seat.
There were tears streaming down her face.
"Willy's just been arrested!" Maurice shouted.
"What's going on?"
Patricia walked toward Maurice, her reddened
eyes looking down at the ground. "Oh, Maurice, I'm
so sorry."
She stood facing Maurice, holding on to his shoul-
ders. Then she blurted it all out. Willy had been
forcing her to act as his wife for years. She had to
sleep with him whenever he demanded it. She hated
it, but she was afraid to say anything.
"But then you came back, Maurice," she said,

58 ♦ Satan's Harvest
looking into his eyes for the first time since she
started telling her story. "And I fell in love with you
again. And I thought you would take me away from
him. . . ."
Later another policeman came to the house. He
wanted Maurice to come with him to the station.
"We just want to ask you some questions," the cop
said.
So Maurice went with him. At the station he was
taken to a hot room bathed in bright lights and
questioned about his relationship with Patricia,
about Willy's relationship with Patricia, and about
his relationship with Willy Dumont.
"Did you know he was bangin' her?" the cop
asked, handing Maurice a cigarette.
"No, of course not," Maurice answered, a little in-
credulous. "If I knew, do you think I'd have stood
for it?"
"Then were you bangin' her?"
The cop's voice got louder, and his eyes peered
straight into Maurice's.
"No," Maurice said without hesitation. "I never
did. We're not like that with each other . . . we're
more like friends."
Maurice was telling the truth, but not all of it. He
and Patricia had never made love—that was true.
But they were more than friends. She loved him,
and although he had never admitted it to himself or
anybody else, he loved her. The revelation that she
had been forced to have sex with her own grandfa-
ther hadn't changed his feelings about her. He knew
how it felt to be a victim. If anything, she would

Satan's Harvest ♦ 59
need him more than ever. He wasn't going to let her
down.
"You got to believe me," Maurice insisted. "I
wouldn't do nothin' to hurt that girl."
The cop asked him a few more questions and de-
cided to call it quits. He didn't know Maurice well,
but he felt the young man was sincere. It was some-
thing about the look in his eyes. He could tell that
Maurice loved Patricia and wanted to protect her.
He figured she needed somebody to protect her.
"Okay," he said. "You can go now. But we're going
to need you to testify, so don't go far."
Maurice picked up his blue pea-coat from the
back of the chair, stamped out the cigarette on the
floor, and headed out the door in front of the cop.
He took a left down the corridor and began walking
toward the front door, when he was startled by the
sight of Willy Dumont being led past him, hands
cuffed behind his back, shuffling toward an empty
cell.
Willy had a crazed look in his eyes and was mut-
tering something under his breath. When he saw
Maurice he stopped and stared at him. Maurice felt
scared and tried to look away but couldn't. It was as
if Willy were controlling him with his eyes. Then
Willy opened his mouth to speak.
"I'm going to haunt you for the rest of your life,"
he said, speaking slowly and deliberately.
The words came from Willy's mouth, but the
voice didn't sound like his. It was deeper, more gut-
tural.
He spoke again. "You two will never be happy to-

60 ♦ Satan's Harvest
gether. You'll never make a life together. I curse you
to the devil!"
Then two officers grabbed the old man and
dragged him down the corridor to the cell. As he
was being dragged away he spat on Maurice's shoe.
Maurice just stood there, shaken.
"Don't worry about him," said the officer who had
just finished questioning Maurice. "He's goin' away
for a long, long time."
But Maurice was frightened. The words rang in
his ears over and over.
The next day Patricia's mother showed up in Fort
Kent. She was living down in Portland, and after
hearing what had happened, had decided to take
Patricia away. But instead of taking Patricia to live
with her, she was going to have her daughter placed
in a foster home.
Maurice was determined not to let that happen.
As soon as he found out, he rushed down to Benefi-
cial Finance to get a loan. He needed a car, and fast.
Although his job at the potato farm didn't pay
much, the loan officer knew Maurice and trusted
him. He approved a five-hundred-dollar loan on the
spot.
Within an hour of receiving the money, Maurice
was the owner of a white '49 Mercury. It was
banged up and needed a paint job, but it seemed to
run pretty well. The salesman at Don's Car Lot said
it had a lot of miles left in it.
Maurice had rented a room about a block from
Willy's old house after Patricia's mother ordered
him out. He drove straight from the car lot to the

Satan's Harvest ♦ 61
rooming house, a brown-shingled triple-decker,
stopping only to fill the tank with gas. When he got
home he burst through the front door and ran up
the stairs to his room, not bothering even to say
hello to the landlady, fat old Mrs. LeGrande, who
was very interested in all the excitement.
He stuffed some clothes into an overnight bag
and rushed back downstairs to the pay phone in the
hallway. He fished around in his pocket for a nickel
and the receiver slipped out of his hands, which
were sweaty by now from nervousness. His throat
was throbbing with the beating of his heart. He di-
aled Patricia's number as fast as he could. Please,
God, let Patricia answer, he prayed.
The phone rang only once before he heard her
familiar voice. "Hello."
"Patricia, it's me. Get your clothes together. We're
getting outta here. I got a car. We'll go up to Canada
and get married. How quick can you be ready?"
Patricia was stunned. She hadn't known if she
was ever going to hear from Maurice again. "Mau-
rice, I can't believe what you're saying. . . ."
"Well, are you coming or not?"
It wasn't something Patricia had to think about
for long. "You bet I am!" she gushed, quickly lower-
ing her voice to a whisper so that her mother
wouldn't hear. "Be outside in fifteen minutes. My
mother is taking a nap. She won't even know I'm
gone. And, Maurice ... I love you. You've made
me the happiest girl in the world."
Patricia tiptoed into her room, barely able to con-
tain her excitement. She packed a bag, being very
careful to place her best dress on top, to make sure

62 ♦ Satan's Harvest
it wouldn't get wrinkled. She peeked in on her
mother, who was sound asleep, still tired from her
grueling three-hundred-mile drive the day before.
Patricia felt as if she were walking on air. Trem-
bling with anticipation, she placed her bag outside
the front door and waited excitedly for Maurice to
show up. Looking up at her mother's window, she
bit her lip. Oh, God, Mother, don't you wake up! she
was praying. Don't you dare wake up and spoil ev-
erything!
It seemed as if she'd been waiting for Maurice
forever. She looked at her nails, then traced a heart
in the gravel over and over. "Maurice. My love," she
wrote with the toe of her black pump.
In about ten minutes the Mercury pulled into her
driveway. When Patricia got in she showered Mau-
rice with hugs and kisses. He put his arm around
her as they drove off. She was thinking this was the
first scene in her life that felt like a fairy tale. It
hardly felt real.
It didn't take long to cross the border into New
Brunswick. They stopped in the town of Edmund-
son and found a justice of the peace who lived in a
little white cottage surrounded by tall pines. Before
the afternoon was over they were man and wife.
They spent their honeymoon night at a tiny motel
and drove back to Fort Kent the next morning. Sud-
denly everything felt different for Maurice and Pa-
tricia. The air was crisper and cleaner. Nature was
more beautiful. It seemed as though all their senses
were heightened and that everything took on a new
meaning. At last life belonged to them.
Later that day, over grilled cheese and Canadian

Satan's Harvest ♦ 63
bacon sandwiches at a cozy roadside diner near the
Maine border, they discussed their future. Maurice
was very earnest about his role as the provider, and
Patricia felt safer with him than she had ever felt
before. They agreed they should move out of Fort
Kent for good. Maurice said he had some friends in
Holyoke, Massachusetts. They decided to go there.
Holyoke was a medium-sized mill city in the Bay
State's rural Pioneer Valley. Maurice figured it was
as good a place as any to make a new start in life.
With a population of about 60,000, Holyoke was
closer in size to New Britain than to tiny Fort Kent,
but the central Massachusetts city seemed closer in
spirit to Maurice's hometown in northern Maine.
For one thing, there were plenty of French-Canadi-
ans in Holyoke. That made Maurice feel at home.
And the fact that Holyoke—known as "the paper
city of the world"—was full of paper mills also pro-
vided a link to Fort Kent, settled by lumberers from
French Acadia, where lumbering remained a major
industry.
So Maurice felt comfortable in his new surround-
ings right from the start. And the fact that Holyoke
was about five hundred miles away from two peo-
ple Maurice wanted nothing more to do with—Max-
ime Theriault and Willy Dumont—made it almost
perfect.
Maurice's old buddies quickly found him work in
a paper mill, and he and Patricia settled into mar-
ried life. Maurice seemed happy, although he some-
times got annoyed at Patricia for being lazy around
the house. She wasn't working, yet she rarely

64 ♦ Satan's Harvest
dusted, swept, or tidied up. Maurice had to talk to
her about it repeatedly. Each time she promised to
do better.
Maurice and Patricia began working on a family
right away and had a child before their first wed-
ding anniversary. They named him Carl. Two more
children, followed in rapid succession: a girl, Mau-
reen, and a second boy, Phillip. Friends joked that
Maurice was working in a paper mill during the day
and in a baby mill at night.
One hot and sticky August night, as he and Patri-
cia were lying awake in bed after having put the
kids to sleep, they began to argue. It was the usual
argument:
"Woman, I told you to clean the house today.
What happened?"
"Maurice, I didn't have time. The kids keep me
busy every second."
"You better find the time. I work hard at the mill
all day, and I don't like coming home to this. The
place is a shithouse. Dirty clothes everywhere. Dust
piling up. I don't even have any clean clothes."
"I'm doing the best I can," Patricia answered, her
face reddening. Couldn't he understand that she
was working too?
"My mother could do it," Maurice shot back.
"Why can't you?" Maurice was shouting now.
Patricia was getting tired of the same speech. She
had been through it so many times before. She
turned over and faced the wall. What she saw star-
tled her. "Maurice, look at the crucifix!"
The panic in her voice got Maurice's attention. He
looked over at the crucifix on the wall over their

Satan's Harvest ♦ 65
dresser, blinked his eyes, and looked again. A red
streak was making its way down the yellowing flow-
ered wallpaper. Blood was dripping from Christ's
hands and feet.
Shaken, Maurice put his arms around Patricia.
Suddenly he forgot what they had been arguing
about. They both dropped to their knees in prayer.
When they looked up, the blood was gone.
"You saw it, didn't you, Maurice?" Patricia whis-
pered, her voice barely audible but her eyes still
wide and glued to the cross.
"I dunno," he answered. "I think I did. The cross
was bleedin'. But now it ain't."
Patricia curled up next to her husband. "I'm
scared," she said.
"Aw, we probably imagined it," he told her, pat-
ting her shoulder. "Don't worry."
But inside, Maurice was scared too.
Maurice and Patricia tried to forget about the
frightening incident, but the very next Sunday after
attending church they began to argue again. Mau-
rice had asked Patricia to fix him a pot roast, but
she had forgotten to defrost the meat. When she
brought out a plate of leftovers from the night be-
fore, he exploded. "Where's the pot roast I wanted?"
he demanded.
Patricia looked down at the table. "I didn't take it
out in time," she said. "I forgot. I'll make it tomor-
row night."
"That's it!" Maurice shouted, slamming his hand
down on the wooden table. "I've had it!"

66 ♦ Satan's Harvest
He stormed off into the bedroom. As soon as he
passed through the doorway he saw it.
"Jesus!" he said, doing a double take. "Patricia,
come quick—it's happenin' again!"
In the kitchen Patricia stopped her sobbing. This
time she knew exactly what Maurice was talking
about.
Hesitantly she walked into the bedroom and
looked at the wall over the dresser. Once again
blood was gushing from Christ's hands and feet.
"What is this? What's going on?" she cried.
This time the frightened couple approached the
cross. Maurice reached out his hand and touched
the blood on the wall. The blood came off on his
finger.
He dropped quickly to his knees and began to
pray. Patricia did the same. By the time they had
finished the Lord's Prayer, the blood had disap-
peared from the cross, the wall, and Maurice's fin-
ger.
But it had not disappeared from their minds.
The crucifix would bleed in front of Maurice and
Patricia again. It was to happen often—usually
when they were in the middle of one of their in-
creasingly frequent arguments.
To Maurice it was a sign that his marriage was in
trouble. Each time it would happen it would shake
him up, and then he'd try to straighten things out
between them.
But Patricia didn't need a bleeding cross to tell
her they were in trouble. Maurice, she felt, was be-
coming impossible to live with. He was yelling at

Satan's Harvest ♦ 67
her all the time—just the way he told her his father
used to yell at him.
Maurice thought his wife was always against him.
He couldn't see how she could ignore her household
duties while she stayed at home all day. After all,
she only had three kids to take care of. His mother
had had ten—and she hadn't had much trouble
keeping house.
"She won't provide a proper home," he told his
buddy, Jim, at the mill. "What does that woman do
all day? She's not workin', so why's the house al-
ways a pigsty? I told her things have got to
straighten up. I'm layin' down the law. If they don't
straighten up, I'm gonna leave her. I don't want to,
but I'm gonna have to. I ain't got a choice."
The strange thing was that Maurice felt that he
still loved Patricia, and Patricia was certain that she
still loved Maurice, even though he didn't under-
stand her one bit. Each one seemed to be moved by
some outside force to believe that the other was
turning against the marriage. Maybe, she thought,
Willy Dumont was right. Maybe they would never
be happy together.
At the same time Maurice and Patricia found they
had another outside force to contend with.
Maurice's father had decided to pack his family up
and move them to Massachusetts. Maxime's farm
was failing, and like many of the French-Canadians
in poverty-stricken Aroostook County, he decided
that he'd move on to greener pastures. Most of the
others who had left Fort Kent had gone to Massa-
chusetts, so that's where Maxime decided he'd go
too.

68 ♦ Satan's Harvest
To Emelda it was a dream come true. She missed
Maurice and her grandchildren badly and had se-
cretly hoped they would move back to Fort Kent
one day. The prospect of moving near her first child
was just as good. And maybe they'd find some better
land to farm.
When she suggested to Maxime that they move to
Holyoke, he surprised her. He said that was where
he wanted to move too. He had some friends in the
area. The fact that his son also lived there barely
crossed his mind. In fact, Emelda wasn't even sure
Maxime knew that Maurice was living in Holyoke.
Emelda was thrilled that they'd be near Maurice
again. And although she was worried about how her
son would take the news, she was hopeful that
things would work out. Maybe time had healed
some of those wounds.
For his part, Maurice was happy to have his
mother around. He missed her too, and she'd be
able to help out with the kids from time to time. As
for Maxime, he would just stay clear of him. Since
Maurice wasn't going to be living with his father,
there was no way the old man could boss him
around.
As it turned out, Maxime's return had little im-
pact on Maurice's life. The two avoided each other
as much as possible. Maxime had plenty of other
children to make miserable. And Maurice was too
busy raising his own kids and trying to keep his
failing marriage together to think much about his
father.
If anything, it was his mother, not his father, who

Satan's Harvest ♦ 69
had the worst effect on Maurice and Patricia's mar-
riage. Although Emelda was always as sweet and
helpful as she could be, her presence seemed to add
to the stress of the already shaky union.
In Maurice's mind Emelda Theriault was like a
goddess hovering over his life with a gentle pres-
ence. Her house was always immaculate, her chil-
dren well fed with delicious food prepared from
recipes handed down to her from her own mother.
There was no way Patricia could measure up to his
mother.
Within a year of his parents' arrival Maurice and
Patricia had split up, convinced their marriage had
been cursed by the ghost of Willy Dumont. Al-
though they remained friends, they decided it
would be better to go their separate ways.
Patricia agreed that the children would remain
with Maurice. She would go to Maryland to stay
with her aunt Yvonne for a while. Then from there
they would figure things out.
A few months after moving in with Aunt Yvonne,
Patricia fell ill with pneumonia and had to be hospi-
talized.
Maurice was worried. The illness made him real-
ize how much he loved her. Although he and Patri-
cia were no longer man and wife, he still cared for
her and knew she needed him. He wanted desper-
ately to visit her in the hospital, but how could he?
He couldn't get time off from work.
During this time he went to see his mother. When
she opened the door Emelda Theriault's face turned

70 ♦ Satan's Harvest
white. "Maurice, what are you doing here? I thought
you were in Maryland visiting Patricia!"
Maurice scratched his head. "I had a feeling like I
was there too," he said. "But I thought it was just a
dream."
Emelda scrunched up her eyebrows. "It's so
strange! I just got off the phone with Patricia at the
hospital in Baltimore. She said you had just left her
room. Why would she tell me that lie? Her aunt
Yvonne also spoke to me and was telling me how
sweet it was of you to come, and that you looked a
little pale."
Maurice's head began hurting. "I feel weak," he
said.
"Maurice, you better sit down," Emelda said, tak-
ing her son's arm and leading him to the couch in
her living room. "You don't look too good. Let me
get you some chicken soup."
Maurice sat down as his mother went to the
kitchen. By the time she returned he was fast
asleep.
When he awoke, Emelda Theriault demanded an
answer. "Will you please tell me what's going on
here?" she asked her son.
But Maurice couldn't explain it. As far as he was
concerned he had only visited Patricia in a dream.
"How could I have just been in Baltimore and be
here with you now? It's impossible."
In room 208 at Baltimore City Hospital, Patricia
Theriault was feeling better. She looked over at her
aunt Yvonne and smiled. "I knew he'd come," she

Satan's Harvest ♦ 71
said, clutching the bouquet of flowers he had given
her.
Yvonne smiled back. "He still loves you, Patricia."
It was not the last time Maurice Theriault would
appear in two places at once.

5
M aurice lived aimlessly for the next several years,
kicking around from job to job and from town to
town, but mostly staying close to his mother in Hol-
yoke. Without Emelda, Maurice would have been
lost. She would look after the kids for him almost
every day. She was like a mother to them.
Maurice often thought that Carl, Maureen, and
Phillip ought to be raised by their own mother
rather than his, but all attempts at reconciling with
Patricia proved fruitless. When she upped and
moved to Texas, he knew it was over for good. The
thought saddened him because, down deep, he still
loved her. And he felt that she still loved him too.
She had said it many times in letters and phone
calls over the years. But whenever one of them sug-
gested giving the marriage another try, the other
would back away. Maurice blamed it on Willy
Dumont's curse. Eventually he realized that the

74 ♦ Satan's Harvest
curse was stronger than their love. Finally he
stopped trying.
Maurice held a number of factory jobs, but none
of them amounted to much. Since he couldn't read
or write very well, he was constantly passed over
for foremen's jobs. And his thick French-Canadian
accent didn't help matters. Some of his bosses made
fun of him because of it and called him "Frenchy."
In time the nickname stuck. Even his friends
started calling him Frenchy. But to them it wasn't a
putdown. And he didn't take it as one. He kind of
liked it. After all, he was proud that he was of
French descent. And it gave him a new identity. Not
long after his nickname had caught on, Maurice
started growing one of those pencil-thin mustaches
like the one worn by the then popular French actor
Charles Boyer. If they were going to call him
Frenchy, he thought, he might as well look the part.
But the. new nickname wasn't putting dollars in
his pocket. It seemed he'd never get out of his rut. In
frustration he left his kids with his mother and
went back to Fort Kent one last time. He thought
maybe he could get some cheap land and resume
farming—something he had never gotten out of his
blood. He had no trouble finding work on a potato
farm, but as always, he couldn't make enough
money. And Maurice was lonely. He missed his
kids. He missed his mother. And he missed Patricia.
Just when life seemed to be at its lowest point,
Maurice met Tina. She was working in the potato
fields with him. Petite and slim, with black hair and
dark eyes, Tina seemed the answer to his dreams.
He needed a wife and his children needed a mother.

Satan's Harvest ♦ 75
He quickly asked her to marry him. Tina, who was
raising a small boy on her own, was equally lonely
and agreed to assume both roles. They married and
moved back to Massachusetts, to a farm in
Belchertown, a little village a few miles east of Hol-
yoke, where they began growing fruits and vegeta-
bles.
But their marriage proved to be little more than
one of convenience. There was no passion in it, and
the nine-year union produced no children. It turned
out that Tina and Maurice had almost nothing in
common, and they lived from day to day in their
own separate worlds. During the years he was with
Tina, Maurice found himself turning inward more
than ever before. He couldn't share his feelings with
Tina and felt more and more isolated in the mar-
riage. Strange things would happen to him, but he
never told her about any of them. He never told
anybody, preferring to keep it all to himself.
For instance, in the fall of 1965, he was once out
walking through his tomato patch when he almost
tripped over a wooden cross. "Where the hell did
that come from?" he muttered to himself.
When he reached down to pick it up, Maurice's
eyes began to get blurry. He started to rub them but
stopped when he felt a gushy liquid on his fingers.
When he pulled his hands away he noticed his fin-
gers were covered with blood. He hadn't remem-
bered cutting himself, but he ran into the house and
headed straight for the bathroom to check himself
in tbe mirror.
He could hardly believe what he was seeing.
Blood was seeping from both eyes. Maurice tried to

76 ♦ Satan's Harvest
clean the blood up with a tissue, but he couldn't get
it to stop. The funny thing was that he couldn't find
a cut or a scrape around either of his eyes. He
thought maybe he should get himself to a doctor,
but for some reason he stayed right there. He con-
tinued to stand in front of the mirror and watch as
the blood poured from his eyes down his face, onto
his shirt and into the sink.
Maurice was transfixed as he watched his eyes
bleed. He felt no pain or fear. It was almost as if he
had gone into a trance. He was in the bathroom for
about twenty minutes when Tina began banging on
the door.
"Maurice, you all right? What's the matter?"
Startled, Maurice emerged from his trancelike
state. He looked at himself and noticed some dried
blood on his face and shirt. He quickly cleaned him-
self up.
"I'll be right out," he said, taking off his shirt and
throwing it into the hamper. "I just cut myself shav-
ing. It's nothing."
Tina was glad that Maurice wasn't sick. They
were going to a dance at the Elks Hall that night,
and she didn't want him to back out again. He did
that all too often.
When Maurice came out he seemed unusually
quiet, as if he was deep in thought. Tina wanted to
ask if something was bothering him, but she de-
cided not to. He's been a little touchy lately, she
thought. Better not to start an argument.
They left for the dance about eight that night, but
Maurice had barely said a word since he'd come out
of the bathroom. Inside the dance hall he sat down

Satan's Harvest ♦ 77
at a corner table, not bothering to say hello to any-
body, not even to some of his pals from the factory.
And he never even asked Tina to dance.
She didn't know what to make of his strange be-
havior. Maurice wasn't what she would have called
outgoing, but he usually enjoyed these dances. He
liked country music and even though he wasn't
much of a dancer, after a couple of drinks he would
be up stomping his feet, especially if the band was
playing one of his favorite songs, such as the "Or-
ange Blossom Special."
Invariably Maurice and Tina would stay at the
Elks Hall until last call at one a.m. and then head
over to a friend's house for one or two more before
calling it a night. But tonight Maurice would have
none of that. It wasn't much past ten when he an-
nounced to Tina that he wanted to leave, that he
had something important to do.
Naturally Tina was upset. She had been waiting
all week for this evening, and now Maurice was go-
ing to spoil it. She started to argue, but Maurice
seemed in no mood for a fight. He simply said he
was leaving and that she'd better come along be-
cause he wasn't going to wait for her.
Tina swallowed hard and gave in. She could tell
Maurice wasn't in the mood to be persuaded to stay.
As was usually the case when they disagreed, Tina
gave Maurice the silent treatment. She got into the
Chrysler New Yorker without saying a word, slam-
ming the door behind her.
Most times Maurice would try to smooth things
over, making a joke or promising to do something
to make it up to her, such as take her out to lunch at

78 ♦ Satan's Harvest
Freddie's Diner or to the Dairy Queen for a sundae.
But tonight he seemed to be giving her his own ver-
sion of the silent treatment—except that he didn't
seem at all angry or upset with her. He just wasn't
talking.
He drove quietly, staring ahead as they drove
down Route 202. There was a fork in the road about
two miles from home, and it required slowing down
to take the left turn. Directly in the middle of the
fork was a sturdy old oak tree.
As Maurice approached the fork Tina noticed that
he wasn't slowing down. She wanted to say some-
thing, but was still giving him the silent treatment
and didn't want to break it. Yet Maurice continued
to drive straight for the tree, and he showed no
signs of turning or stopping.
"Frenchy!" she shouted.
But Maurice didn't even hear her. He continued
to head for the tree. He seemed to be transfixed, in
some sort of a trance. It was as if he was deter-
mined to crash.
Seconds before the car went off the road and
straight for the tree, Tina reached over and grabbed
the wheel, turning it quickly toward her. The quick
action probably saved their lives. Instead of hitting
the tree head-on, the car careened sideways into a
stone wall that ran along the side of the road. The
crash was loud, as metal crunched and glass shat-
tered. But when it was over neither Maurice nor
Tina had received even a scratch.
Tina was practically hysterical. "Maurice, what
were you trying to do, kill us both? Are you insane?"

Satan's Harvest ♦ 79
Maurice turned toward Tina and pulled her to-
ward him.
"What happened?" he asked.
Maurice didn't even remember having left the
dance. He had no recollection of driving home. All
he knew was that the crash had startled him out of
what seemed to be a deep sleep.
Tina didn't want to hear it. She figured her hus-
band was losing his mind. There were other things,
but she had tried to dismiss them. There was the
time their pet beagle, Peter, was killed, for instance.
Maurice told her he had been hit by a car, but later
she found a bloody pick in the area where he'd said
the accident had occurred. It was Maurice's pick.
But it didn't make any sense that he would kill
Peter. Maurice loved that dog and took him out
hunting nearly every Sunday during the season.
And the day after the dog had been killed, Maurice
had buried him in the woods, crying all the while as
he dug the grave.
Then there was the time she had watched out the
kitchen window as Maurice beat his riding horse, a
pinto named Bar Coda, with a stick after the horse
had failed to learn a trick Maurice was trying to
teach him. When Tina chastised Maurice about be-
ing too rough with the animal, Maurice professed
not to know what she was talking about.
"I would never hit Bar Coda," he said. "I love that
horse."
Tina believed him. She knew that he did love that
animal. But she also knew what she had seen.
But Maurice would not accept responsibility for

80 ♦ Satan's Harvest
his bizarre behavior. He blamed Tina, claiming that
she put him up to the violent acts.
It made no sense, but there were simply times
when Maurice made no sense—not to Tina, not to
anybody. It was as if there was another person in-
side him. When that other person took over his per-
sonality, anything was possible.
Maurice's strange behavior was taking its toll on
the marriage. Twice Tina left him and went back to
Maine. Both times Maurice went up and brought
her back. Eventually, though, she left him for good.
"You're crazy," she said as she walked out the
door. "You ought to see a headshrinker."
This time Maurice didn't even try to get her back.
He knew he was wrong, that he had caused Tina to
leave, and that she had good reason for leaving. He
decided he'd just have to carry on alone. He had
been through this before. He'd manage without her.
But he wondered if she was right. Maybe he was
going crazy. But farmers didn't see psychiatrists.
Whatever was bothering him, Maurice thought, he'd
figure it out. Maybe that mysterious force that he'd
called on for help in the fields would come to his
aid again.
Alone again, Maurice decided he needed a plan of
action. And as had been the case so many times be-
fore, Maurice's plan involved a change of scenery.
This time he decided to leave Massachusetts for up-
state New York. He'd stay with his uncle Ted Pelle-
tier in the town of Greenfield, outside Saratoga
Springs, site of the famous health spa. He had al-
ways liked Uncle Ted and knew the old man could

Satan's Harvest ♦ 81
probably use some help cutting wood for the win-
ter.
When he got there Uncle Ted was happy to have
him, but there wasn't much work to be had on his
tiny farm. Maurice had to look around for addi-
tional work and found it on Henry Senecal's farm.
He helped in the fields and cut wood too. Henry let
him sell some of what he cut, to make some extra
money. It was a good arrangement for Maurice and
Henry didn't mind. He liked Maurice and wanted
him to stick around. The two men had become
drinking buddies and liked to stay up late at night,
sitting around the pot-bellied stove in the kitchen,
drinking whiskey and beer and swapping stories.
One chilly night in November of 1979, Maurice
showed up, as usual, with a bottle of Jim Beam
bourbon for himself and a six-pack of Genesee beer
for Henry. But before they could get down to some
serious drinking, the old man asked Maurice for a
favor. "Frenchy, can you help me out? Give my
daughter a ride to work, okay? Her car's busted."
Henry's daughter, Nancy, was working the night
shift at General Foods. She would go in at eleven
and work until seven in the morning. It wasn't
ideal, but as a divorced mother of three girls Nancy
couldn't be choosy.
Maurice had seen Nancy many times around the
farm, but he had never gotten to know her. Usually
she was sleeping when he was working in the fields,
or heading out the door to her job when he came
over at night to drink with Henry.
Nancy was an attractive woman of forty, with
curly red-brown hair and hazel eyes. She had a

82 ♦ Satan's Harvest
deep, sexy voice and was very articulate and outspo-
ken. She had been married to a policeman for thir-
teen years before her divorce three years earlier,
and was used to hanging around with cops, not
farmers.
Maurice couldn't help being captivated by Nancy
from the first time he saw her, but he never made a
move for her. For one thing, he didn't know how
Henry would feel about it. Second, he was a little
intimidated by her. He was still basically shy when
it came to women, and he noticed that she wasn't
afraid to voice her opinions—probably from hang-
ing around cops for so many years. He figured he
wasn't her type.
But he was glad to give Nancy a ride to work.
They didn't say much on the way to the plant where
she worked as a packer, but Maurice enjoyed the
few minutes they spent alone together. She seemed
genuinely interested in him, and it turned out that
she didn't look down on him at all because he was
just a farmer. After all, she was a country girl.
Maurice decided to make a pass at her. He was
forty-three years old and he'd been lonely in the
year since he and Tina had been divorced. But it
was more than that. There was something about
Nancy. She moved him as he had never been moved
before. She was strong and smart and wouldn't take
any guff from anybody. She would make a good
partner.
The next night, Maurice came over earlier than
usual and offered right away to drive Nancy to
work. When they got into his pickup, he breathed

Satan's Harvest ♦ 83
deeply and announced, "You can move over, closer,
if you want."
Nancy tried to stifle a laugh. "That's okay,
Frenchy. I'm fine right here."
And she remained leaning against the door, not
budging an inch. But inside, she was glad he had
asked. She was wondering if he would ever make a
pass at her. Now that he had tried, she wanted to
take it slowly. She had been burned before. No rea-
son to rush into anything. There was plenty of time.
Maurice gave Nancy a ride to work for the rest of
the week. He wanted to make another move the en-
tire time but he was afraid he'd be rejected again.
She hadn't exactly jumped at the offer to sit beside
him that second night. But he decided that if he
didn't do something by Friday, he might not get an-
other chance. She was due to get her car back from
the shop on Saturday.
On his way back home Thursday night he devised
a plan. The next day he'd load up the front seat of
his pickup with tools, lodging them up against the
passenger-side door. And when it came time to give
Nancy a ride to work that night, he'd tell her the
passenger-side door was jammed and she'd have to
get in through the driver's side. If she did, she'd
have to sit in the center of the seat, right next to
him.
The plan worked to perfection. Nancy got in with-
out hesitation and she sat right by his side. Of
course, she knew that it was all a ruse, but she
didn't mind. She had been waiting patiently for him
to make another move, and she thought his trick

84 ♦ Satan's Harvest
was pretty clever. By the time they got to the fac-
tory, Nancy was hugging Maurice.
As he dropped her at the gate Maurice asked if he
could pick her up in the morning and take her to
breakfast. Usually Nancy got a ride home with one
of her girlfriends. She was thrilled that he'd asked
and told him so.
When her shift was over at seven in the morning,
Maurice was waiting by the gate and he was wear-
ing his best Western suit. It was gray with black la-
pels. He wore a white shirt with silver tips on the
collar, and a string tie.
"Frenchy, I think this is the beginning of a beauti-
ful friendship," she said, quoting a line from her
favorite movie, Casablanca.
From then on they were inseparable. Soon after-
ward they moved back to Massachusetts with the
intention of buying themselves a small farm. This
time Maurice was certain that things were going to
work out.
Maurice and Nancy moved to the town of East
Longmeadow, a small farming community just
south of Springfield. For the first time in a long
time, things were really going well for Maurice. His
relationship with Nancy couldn't have been any bet-
ter. Their little rented farm was prospering, so
much so that they were thinking of buying some
property of their own.
They were again living close to Maurice's mother,
and he was glad of that. He always missed his
mother when he wasn't living nearby. Now he was
only about fifteen miles away. It wasn't quite the

Satan's Harvest ♦ 85
same as when they were in the same town, but they
were still near enough for frequent visits.
Maurice and his father were even beginning to
talk to each other. They weren't exactly close—that
would have been impossible, considering the way
Maxime had treated Maurice as a child—but at least
they no longer openly hated each other. When Mau-
rice would drop by to visit his mother, Maxime
would sometimes come over and make small talk.
Usually he'd ask Maurice how his tomato plants
were faring. Once in a while he'd even ask about his
grandchildren.
Maybe it was because so many of his other kids
had moved far away, to Oklahoma City. First it was
Maxime, Jr., known as "Pete." He was five years
younger than Maurice and always seemed to have
been Maxime's favorite—if there was such a thing.
However, even Pete eventually fell out of favor with
Maxime. It happened when Pete's car—which Max-
ime had signed for—was repossessed. Maxime ex-
ploded at Pete with a fury that he usually reserved
for Maurice. Pete moved to Oklahoma not long af-
terward.
After Pete left, several more of the family fol-
lowed him out there. First Norma, then Florence,
then Helen, and then Clifford. The thinning out of
his flock seemed to make Maxime more reflective.
He still had his moods though. It was just that he
would no longer explode the way he used to when
Maurice was a child. These days Maxime seemed to
keep his hostility inside. Maurice could sometimes
see the anger building up in him. He had good built-
in radar for that. But instead of lashing out at the

86 ♦ Satan's Harvest
nearest person, Maxime would just stomp out of the
room, slamming the door behind him.
Although he was glad that his father seemed to be
making an effort to make amends, Maurice was
troubled by Maxime's new pattern of behavior. At
least in the old days he knew what to expect. Now
he compared his father to a ticking time bomb.
Maurice feared that if his father didn't let his anger
out, he might one day go off the deep end and do
something really hideous.
But Maurice tried not to dwell on those fears. Af-
ter all, he was just a tomato farmer, not a psychia-
trist. And he had his own problems to deal with.
While the strange events that had ruined his mar-
riage to Tina had, for the most part, subsided, there
was still an occasional incident that caused him to
worry.
There was the time he and Nancy had gone to
look at a farm in Warren, Massachusetts, about
twenty-five miles northeast of Longmeadow. They
were standing on the porch, discussing the pros and
cons of buying the property. In the middle of their
talk Nancy took out the cross that she always wore
around her neck, a cross given to her by her
mother.
"Let's ask Jesus to help us decide, Maurice," she
said.
All of a sudden Maurice's eyes widened and
looked as if they were on fire. He stared at Nancy as
if she had done something terrible. Then he reached
over, and using both hands, pushed her off the
porch.
Before Nancy could say anything, Maurice had

Satan's Harvest ♦ 87
leapt off the porch and was on top of her. He
yanked the cross, chain and all, from around her
neck and threw it into the woods.
Nancy was crying. "Maurice, what did you do that
for? That cross was a gift from my mother. What's
gotten into you?"
But Maurice was already back on the porch and
was mumbling, "I have her by the hand ... I have
her by the hand."
Nancy came over to him, but he seemed to have
forgotten the incident.
Nancy tried to get him to talk about what he had
done with the cross, but Maurice insisted he did
know what she was talking about.
The next night, however, Maurice told Nancy he
had something for her—and he reached into his
pocket and pulled out the cross.
"Maurice, you went back to get it for me," Nancy
said, astonished. "I'm so glad. But how did you find
it? Those woods are thick with brush."
"I didn't find it," Maurice said. "A lady found this
cross. A lady in white. She took me by the hand and
led me to where this cross was. I don't even remem-
ber where. But she showed me right where it was."
"What lady? Who?" Nancy asked.
Maurice hesitated. Then he blurted out something
that frightened Nancy. "I didn't get a good look at
her face, but I think it was your mother."
Nancy sat down. "I think I need a drink of water,"
she said. She didn't know what to think of Maurice's
story. Her mother had been dead for fifteen years.
Maybe, she thought, her husband had seen her
spirit. It was her mother's cross and chain. Maybe

88 ♦ Satan's Harvest
her mother had come back to help him retrieve it.
Nancy figured anything was possible. She had a
spiritual nature and a lot of faith. Maybe spirits do
exist, she thought. After all, the Holy Ghost is a
spirit, right? She had never seen a ghost, that was
true. And neither had Maurice, as far as she knew.
But there was always a first time for everything.
On the other hand, it was also possible that Mau-
rice was crazy.
She decided to try the spirit theory. It gave her
hope that she might see her mother again, which
felt very comforting.
"Yes, Maurice," she said. "It was probably my
mother's spirit."
She said it, but unconvincingly. She just didn't
know what to believe.
Despite the strange incident Maurice and Nancy
decided to go ahead and buy the farmhouse in War-
ren. Not long afterward Maxime announced, out of
nowhere, that he was moving his family to Okla-
homa, to be closer to Maxime, Jr., and the other
children who had moved there over the past few
years.
Maurice was upset. He didn't want to be so far
from his mother. But something else bothered him
even more. He didn't know why, but he had a sink-
ing feeling that he would never see Emelda again.
He begged his father not to pull up and move west,
but it was no use. Once his mind was made up
about something, there was no changing it and
Maurice knew that.
After they had gone Maurice's mother was con-

Satan's Harvest ♦ 89
stantly on his mind. A feeling of doom came over
him whenever he thought about her living out there
in the middle of nowhere. His father's hasty deci-
sion to move to Choctaw, Oklahoma, just didn't sit
right with him. Just what had been going through
Maxime's mind?
A year went by. Maurice called his mother long-
distance from time to time, and things seemed to be
going okay. Maurice's fear—that his father might
revert to his old violent ways—hadn't come true.
Instead he was only getting more sullen and de-
pressed, Emelda reported. Sometimes, she said, it
was more frightening than when he used to throw a
chair or lash out with a belt.
So the nagging worry continued to weigh heavily
on Maurice's mind.
One night in June, 1982, Maurice and Nancy were
getting ready to go to bed when they heard a strange
noise in the house. It sounded like somebody mum-
bling downstairs. "Maurice, did you hear that?" she
asked.
"It sounds like somebody talkin', but I can't make
it out," he answered. "I'll go down and take a look
around."
Maurice came back up a few minutes later. "No-
body down there," he reported. "We must have
imagined it."
They got into bed and heard the sounds again.
"Maurice, there's definitely somebody down
there. In fact, I hear two voices. A man and a
woman. It's like they're arguing. Shhh, listen!"
Maurice had heard it too. He got out of bed and
ran down the stairs again, but when he got to the

90 ♦ Satan's Harvest
living room the noises had stopped. He looked
around everywhere but found nobody. They were
both a little frightened but figured it had to be their
imaginations. Sometimes the wind can play tricks.
He climbed back into bed and told Nancy there
was nothing to worry about. Before he drifted off to
sleep he had worried thoughts about his mother.
For some reason he thought she was in some kind
of danger. He thought of calling her, but it was late.
He'd call her in the morning.
Maurice and Nancy were awakened before dawn
by a loud pounding on the front door.
"Open up, open up!"
Maurice kicked off the sheets and grabbed a robe
before heading down the stairs. He opened the door
and saw a somber-faced police officer standing
there. "We tried to call you, but nobody answered,"
the policeman said.
A cold chill raced down Maurice's spine. "What's
the matter?" he demanded.
By this time, Nancy had rushed downstairs and
stood by Maurice's side. "What's going on?"
"You better call your sister Norma in Oklahoma,"
the cop replied. "There's been a terrible accident.
I'm sorry." Then he turned and walked to his
cruiser.
Maurice's heart sank. The sense of doom was so
real that he could almost taste it. Something horri-
ble had happened. The cop hadn't said so, but he
knew somehow that his mother had been involved.
He held his breath while he dialed Norma's num-
ber in Choctaw. Before the end of the first ring,

Satan's Harvest ♦ 91
however, Maurice's palms got sweaty and his head
began spinning. Everything turned white. He
dropped the phone and fell to the floor.
As Nancy grabbed the phone, Maurice's brother-
in-law, Gil Kennedy, answered at the other end.
"Gil, this is Nancy," she shouted. "What happened
out there?"
"Nancy," he said, his voice almost a whisper. "You
better sit down."

6
In June, 1982, the following article appeared in the
Holyoke Tribune-Transcript:
Police in Oklahoma expect a final report
Wednesday on the apparent murder-suicide of a
former Holyoke couple living in Choctaw, Okla.
Choctaw Police Chief John Whetsel today said
only technical reports from the medical examin-
er's office, ballistics office, and the Oklahoma
State Bureau of Investigation need to be finished.
"We expect the final report to go along the lines
of the preliminary ruling from the medical exam-
iner's office and our investigation, which ruled it
a murder-suicide," Whetsel said.
Maxime, 69, and Emelda (Pelletier) Theriault,
64, of 2589 Victoria Lane, Choctaw, were found
dead in their bedroom Friday morning. Police
said the cause of death was gunshot wounds.

94 ♦ Satan's Harvest
The Theriaults' daughter, Norma Mason, of
Nicoma Park, Okla., with whom the couple was
staying, found the bodies after hearing shots.
Police said three shots were fired by Mr. Ther-
iault. They said the first shot missed and lodged in
the headboard of the bed, while the second struck
Mrs. Theriault in the right side of the head. Mr.
Theriault then shot himself in the chest, accord-
ing to police.
Funeral services for the couple will be Wednes-
day morning at the Messier-Farrell Funeral
Home, Chestnut Street, Holyoke, followed by the
liturgy of Christian burial in Our Lady of Perpet-
ual Help Church here. Burial will be in Notre
Dame Cemetery, South Hadley. Calling hours at
the funeral home are Tuesday from 2 to 9 p.m.
Maurice had scarcely gotten up from his chair
since he came to after the phone call to Oklahoma.
Suddenly life seemed to have lost all meaning. His
beloved maman was gone. Nancy had come over to
him several times, trying to comfort and console
him, but it was no use. He didn't want to talk, he
didn't want to eat. He didn't want to do anything.
All he could do was think about what had happened
out there in Oklahoma.
He had worried for years that Maxime might
snap and do something like this. Maybe I could
have prevented it. Why didn't I call last night? he
thought. He tortured himself by imagining his
mother's last few violent moments of life. He played
the scene in his mind over and over again. There
must have been a struggle. He probably had been

Satan's Harvest ♦ 95
beating her. She was shot at a close distance. "Oh,
poor Maman. My beloved, poor sweet maman\"
Finally, after darkness had fallen, Maurice, his
mind exhausted, fell off to sleep, still in the same
easy chair he had been sitting in all day. And he
began to dream . . .
In Maurice's dream Emelda Theriault woke
slowly in the early-morning light in Nicoma Park,
Oklahoma. Even though she knew she was awake,
she kept her eyes shut. She could hear her husband
Maxime moving around the bedroom of their
daughter's house, and she had no desire to see him
right away. It would automatically turn into a con-
frontation. She didn't want to spoil this visit with
Norma. It had been such a long time since they had
been together. And if Maxime started cursing or hit-
ting her, a family scene was sure to follow, as was
usually the case. She smiled a little to herself to
think that she'd always had the notion that her
"golden years" would be easier.
After more than forty years of marriage to this
volcanic personality, Emelda still never knew
where or when one of his maniacal outbursts might
occur. There were days when he might not bother
to wake her, preferring to have a solitary coffee in
the kitchen, and other days when, if she didn't get
up and prepare his breakfast, his face would turn
purple with rage and he would take off his thick
leather belt and whip her out of bed.
Having suffered almost half a century of abuse,
Emelda had stopped asking why Maxime could be
so angry about something one day and not notice it

96 ♦ Satan's Harvest
the next. She had stopped asking, as well, why it
was her lot to suffer abuse from such a man. She
was simply grateful for the few isolated moments
like these when she could lie in bed and drift, the
light from the windows suffusing the inside of her
eyelids with a warm glow that gave her thoughts a
rosy hue.
Lying under the heavy coverlet that protected her
from the brisk weather that had lingered into June,
Emelda let herself enjoy her dreamy state. She pic-
tured her parents, whose warm example of love and
mutual respect had stayed with her, in bitter con-
trast to her own marriage. Maman and Papa had
been so happy together when she was growing up in
Fort Kent, Maine. She had thought all marriages
must be the same. With Maxime Theriault she had
found out just how different some unions could be.
As an adolescent Emelda had worked as a seam-
stress. There had been such fun when she could
work and giggle with the other girls in their homes,
doing the piecework that often gave them cramps in
their hands and didn't pay enough to buy one of the
dresses they were making. Still, she had loved the
companionship, and she and her special girlfriends
had often walked arm in arm to downtown Fort
Kent for a movie or soda.
When Maxime Theriault had begun courting her
she was afraid of him. He was five years older than
she was and already had the rugged build and dark
beard of a man. Emelda still felt, in many ways, as
if she had just become a teenager.
But the other girls thought him strong and hand-
some, and her parents, loving as they were, did

Satan's Harvest ♦ 97
nothing to discourage a match that might mean she
would marry and leave the house. After all, there
were too many mouths to feed and too many daugh-
ters to marry off.
So she had married and had regretted it, and con-
tinued to regret it every day of her life. Maxime had
quickly proved himself to be a bully of the worst
kind. Emelda realized within weeks that the hulk-
ing farmer had married her just to have a maid who
would cook and clean and sleep with him.
On Saturday nights when she knew that her girl-
hood friends were at the movies, as she herself had
been such a short time ago, she would have to sit
quietly in the corner while Maxime got viciously
drunk. She had asked once if she couldn't go out
with her old friends, but her husband had called her
a tramp and forbidden it. In any case, she couldn't
afford it, since Maxime gave her no money.
No, her best hope was to be quiet and hope that
Maxime would drink until he passed out, before be-
coming physically abusive. He had hit her on their
wedding night, and although the blows were rare,
the threat of them had never abated.
She had thought at first to leave him, but she had
become pregnant almost immediately after the
wedding. Seven sons and eight daughters had fol-
lowed, and any thought that she might escape her
disastrous marriage had vanished in the avalanche
of work involved in taking care of her children.
Maxime had never considered pregnancy a reason
for her to stop her daily chores, and the number of
children to be cared for made that an impossibility,
in any case.

98 ♦ Satan's Harvest
But she did love being a mother, despite the work,
and found some fulfillment in having loving rela-
tionships with each of her children.
Emelda's thoughts turned to Maurice, her eldest.
Although she had special feelings for each of her
children, there was no denying that her relationship
with Maurice was unique. He was a fine boy, a
sweet boy, she thought, and she hoped that he might
one day become a priest, one of God's chosen minis-
ters.
She had done her best throughout his childhood
to protect him from Maxime's murderous tantrums,
to see that he was clean and well fed and that he got
a good education. When Maxime forced him to quit
school, she had been as heartbroken as her son.
She remembered tenderly the tranquil moments
the two had shared when Maxime wasn't there.
Most of those moments seemed to have taken place
in the kitchen when Maurice was still very young.
Surrounded by the smells of traditional French-Ca-
nadian dishes, mother and son enjoyed what were
perhaps the most loving moments in their lives for
some twenty years.
Emelda remembered just as vividly the pain she
had felt when Maurice had cursed his father in the
field, and again when he'd left the house. She under-
stood why he had to go, but it still removed one of
the bright spots in her own existence, which was
otherwise so hard and dreary. She also knew that,
no matter how justified it was, no good could come
of such a sacrilegious oath.
Emelda was convinced that now, with Nancy, the
forty-one-year-old Maurice had found safe haven,

Satan's Harvest ♦ 99
had found the peace that had eluded him all his life.
She thought of the mysterious stranger who had
once picked Maurice out of a snowbank during a
raging blizzard and delivered him safely home.
Guard him all his life and bring him safely home
to You, she silently prayed.
Emelda heard Maxime leave and then quickly re-
enter the room, opening and shutting drawers as if
he was looking for something. She shut her eyes
more firmly and feigned sleep. Lost in her few good
memories, she had no desire to replace them imme-
diately with the hard reality of Maxime Theriault
and the state of Oklahoma.
Emelda did not like Oklahoma. The American
West—with its windswept plains, rolling clouds,
and harsh landscape—seemed so alien after a life-
time in New England. Here there were no little vil-
lages with picturesque churches, no stone walls, no
apple trees, no familiar faces. A woman of French-
Canadian descent who spoke English with a decided
accent, when she spoke it at all, did not fit in a land
of oil rigs and cowboys. Emelda loved visiting her
children, but lying there in the guest room of
Norma's house, she couldn't help but wish they
were all back in Maine.
Emelda could not have known that she would
never see the region of her birth again, would never
see her children again, would never see another
morning.
Maurice's dream continued. In it, Emelda was
back in her parents' living room in Fort Kent, trying
to guess whether the delightful odor coming from

100 ♦ Satan's Harvest
the kitchen was her mother's pain complet, wheat
bread, or a baguette, the long, thin loaf of French
bread that accompanied all family dinners. It
seemed to her that she could hear the voices of her
brothers and sisters running and laughing about
her. Large families were normal among the
staunchly Catholic French-Canadian families of
Maine, and hers was no different: five brothers and
four sisters made for a very lively household in-
deed.
But even as these memories surrounded her, she
was suddenly overcome by an overpowering stench,
something acrid, putrid, as if all the animals in her
father's barn had defecated there in her parents' liv-
ing room. But as soon as this absurd thought pre-
sented itself, she realized it could not be, that the
smell was here, here in Nicoma Park, Oklahoma,
here in the room with her.
She opened her eyes. What she saw was so utterly
terrifying, a scream throbbed in her throat. Maxime
was kneeling on the edge of the bed, leering down
at her. He was dressed normally, wearing his habit-
ual blue jeans and a plaid work shirt, but it was a
Maxime she had never seen, not even in his wildest
rages. His brow was so swollen that it was apelike,
and his lips were drawn back over his teeth, giving
his jaw the look of a muzzle. His eyes were black,
like two bottomless holes.
Emelda knew she was in grave danger. She could
not see Maxime's hands, which seemed to be hold-
ing something under the folds of the coverlet, but
she was sure he was holding his belt and was going
to beat her.

Satan's Harvest ♦ 101
"Good morning," he purred.
Emelda gasped. The voice had come from Max-
ime, but it was not his voice. "Maxime, why are you
talking like that?" she asked.
"We are not Maxime," he replied.
"We? What do you mean 'we'? Who are you? What
are you?" she whispered in French.
"Nous sommes des vieux copains de Maxime," the
voice replied. "We are old buddies of Maxime's."
The temperature of the room, which had been
chilly but nothing more, now became freezing and
Emelda shook under the covers, whether from fear
or from the cold, she could not tell.
Emelda, who was both deeply religious and a bit
superstitious, did not want to ask the next question,
but searched instinctively to keep this, this creature
talking.
"What is your name?"
But it didn't answer. Instead, a steady stream
of talk—disjointed, bizarre, blasphemous—came
forth.
"Mrs. Stickney, Mrs. Stickney ... in cowl and
beads and dusty garb . . . the eel is credited with
the possession of many marvelous virtues . . . the
power of transformation is shown in a multitude of
cases . . . fuck, fuck, fuck . . . Joan of Arc was
married to the fire . . . hideous . . . wolf, cat, dog,
griffin . . . Uriel . . . the nails . . . Sextus reigned
six years . . . Ooooaaaaaaaaaaaaaah . . . Stick
together now, mates . . . The Claimant, the Daring
One, Mr. Homunculus . . . You ask me to tell you
how we know the Ruler of Seven Chains."
"What is your name?"

102 ♦ Satan's Harvest
"Toise."
"Who are you?"
"Not your mother," and the creature with her hus-
band's face began to cackle.
"Astaroth, Baal, Cozbi, Dagon, Aseroth, Baalimm,
Chamo, Beelphegor, Astarte, Bethage, Phogor, Mo-
loch, Asmodaeus, Bele, Nergel, Melchon, Asima, Bel,
Nexroth, Tartach, Acharom, Belial, Neabaz, Mer-
odach, Adonides, Baemot, Jerobaal, Socothbenoth,
Mahomer, Beelzebub, Leviathan, Lucifer, Satan!
Recognize us now?"
"Who are you?"
"We're the devil."
Emelda fainted. Instantly she felt herself being
shaken so hard she thought her neck would snap.
"Wake up, bitch," the creature snarled.
Opening her eyes again, Emelda tried again to
scream but felt her cries cut off as a hand closed
around her throat. Leaning close to her ear, the
creature uttered a warning so absolute, in a voice
that carried such pure menace, that Emelda simply
stared terrified at the ceiling.
"Shut up, bitch, or we will kill you now," it hissed.
The animallike face, barely recognizable as her
husband's, was in front of her again, only inches
from her eyes.
"That's better," he said. "Much better."
"What are you going to do to me?" she quavered.
"We are going to kill you, then we are going to kill
this disgusting worm that we have used for so many
years, "he said, pointing at his own chest. "Don'tyou
think that will be a fitting conclusion to all the years
we've tortured you and your family? We've even tor-

Satan's Harvest ♦ 103
tared him"— he pointed again to himself—"if the
truth be told, which it can be now, because you
aren't going to be telling anybody."
He laughed, snorting in a repulsive way, snot
dripping from his broad nostrils, foamy spittle col-
lecting in the corners of his mouth. Blood began to
seep from his eyes. Gazing at Emelda, who lay para-
lyzed on the bed, he continued:
"Yes, we've even tortured this worm,"he said, his
voice constantly changing—now a guttural snarl,
now a crooning singsong. "So now his time is over.
We're going to kill you and then we're going to kill
the worm. The police will come and rule it a murder-
suicide. What else could it be? The police don't be-
lieve in us, which is very convenient indeed for us.
After that we will go and pay a visit to your dear son
Maurice."
Emelda closed her eyes. "Holy Mary, Mother of
God!" she whispered.
The creature looming over her giggled.
"Chaire Miryam, kecharitomene," he said in a
strange language. He grabbed Emelda by the shoul-
ders, pulled her toward him, and slammed her into
the bed over and over again. "Don't say that, bitch!
Don't say that, bitch! Don't say that, bitch!"
Finally, panting for breath, the creature who
called himself Toise and said that he was the devil
stopped his beating. But the covers on the bed were
completely pulled loose, and now Emelda could see
her son-in-law's gun lying among the sheets.
The gun was left over from Gil's days on the Loui-
siana police force, and last night when he had come
in he had hung it on the fireplace. Now she stared at

104 ♦ Satan's Harvest
it the way someone on the top floor of a tall build-
ing stares at the pavement below: dizzy at the idea
of what would happen if she fell, wondering in hor-
ror if she would feel anything.
Through her terror she sensed that her only hope
was to continue talking to the creature, even though
she felt she would endanger her soul by doing so.
"Are you really the devil?" she asked.
"The devil, a devil, what do you care, you ugly old
cunt? The main thing is, we're going to kill you and
then your husband and then your son."
"Why?"
"Why not? Weren't we invited in? Didn't this worm
we are inhabiting like to curse everyone and every-
thing? Didn't your son invoke our name?"
His next words made Emelda, for the first time,
start to sob, for they came out of his mouth in the
voice of Maurice.
"I'd rather work for the devil than work for you!"
he mocked.
The tears ran down Emelda's cheeks as she re-
membered Maurice's curse on his father.
"Too bad he's not here, eh?" said the creature. "He
could work for us both at once!" And he let loose his
demented laugh, strands of saliva hanging from his
foul mouth.
Grabbing the gun from the bed, he began to
stroke it lovingly. "My lovely pet, my lovely pet! I
want to fuck you, my lovely pet gun. ..."
Emelda thought for an instant of lunging for it,
but her husband was far bigger and stronger than
she, a condition that had forced her to passively ac-
cept his abuse all her life. She could not now, at this

Satan's Harvest ♦ 105
final moment, summon the courage to attack him in
this horrible incarnation.
"Maurice is almost awake," crowed the creature.
"We mustn't be late. The early bird gets the worm."
And he laughed hysterically again. "Toise must be
going to visit your son."
Emelda saw the death's head that now grinned
down at her and began to pray:
"Our Father, Who art in heaven, hallowed be Thy
name . . ."
Her prayer was cut off by the blast of gunfire and
the thwack of a bullet crashing into the headboard
beside her. As she started to rise and scream the
second shot caught her in the right temple.
There was a bright burst, and the world went
black before her eyes. As she rocketed down the
long tunnel leading to death, the last thing she
heard was the third gunshot and a voice gurgling,
"The worm . . . the worm."

7
The Devil hath power to assume a pleasing shape.
—William Shakespeare, Hamlet
How are you fallen from Heaven,
Lucifer! Son of the Dawn!
Cut down to the ground!
And once you dominated the peoples!
Didn't you say to yourself:
I will be as high as Heaven!
I will be more exalted than the stars of God!
I will, indeed, be the supreme leader!
In the privileged places!
I will be higher than the Skies!
I will be the same as the Most High God!
But you shall be brought down to Hell,
to the bottom of its pit.
And all who see you,
will despise you . . .
—Isaiah 14: 12-19

108 ♦ Satan's Harvest
•k it *
At the end of Stephen Vincent Benet's famous short
story "The Devil and Daniel Webster," the Prince of
Darkness is forced to promise that he will never
again show his face in the state of New Hampshire.
It is nowhere recorded that any such promise was
made about Massachusetts. The Bay State's history
is rife with documented cases of devil worship,
witchcraft, and black magic. The state that is
known for producing presidents and scholars is
also known for Lizzie Borden, who "took an ax and
gave her mother forty whacks/ Then when she was
good and done/ Gave her father forty-one," and for
being the home of Albert DeSalvo, the "Boston
Strangler."
But there could hardly be a more unlikely spot
for the dramatic events of 1985 than Warren, Mas-
sachusetts.
On the western border of Worcester County, War-
ren is a rural town of seventeen thousand acres
(twenty-nine point five square miles) of scenic hills
and valleys bisected by the Quaboag River. Located
on Route 67, which connects with Routes 9 and 20,
the town has access to the Massachusetts Turnpike
eight miles to the east and ten miles to the west. It is
equidistant from Worcester and Springfield (Mas-
sachusetts^ second and third largest cities, respec-
tively), each twenty-five miles away. The Quaboag
River, which still bears traces of industrial dams of
a century ago, recently has been favored by canoe
and Kayak enthusiasts. There is a pond and a swim-
ming beach in Warren, and parks and playgrounds
for the good-weather months.

Satan's Harvest ♦ 109
Situated some sixty-five miles west of Boston, the
town is buried in the southwestern angle of Worces-
ter County, hidden far from the intense spotlight
that shines on "dear old Boston, home of the bean
and the cod/ Where the Cabots speak only to the
Lowells/ And the Lowells speak only to God." This
characterization of Boston by John Collins Bossidy,
in his toast at the Holy Cross College alumni dinner
in 1910, and known to all in the Boston area, cer-
tainly had nothing to do with Warren.
Warren's prominence in the news was not to
come from intellectuals like Bossidy, or from cele-
brated sports teams such as the Red Sox or Celtics,
or from famous sons such as John F. Kennedy, or
from a dramatic role in American history. When
Warren made headlines it was to be for something
sinister.
Originally part of the Quaboag Plantation (later
called Brookfield), Warren was settled in 1727, and
incorporated in 1741 as Western. In 1834 the name
Western was changed to Warren in honor of the
Revolutionary War hero General Joseph Warren.
Many prosperous dairy farms were the economic
backbone of the community for its first one hun-
dred years. Warren's history as a mill town began in
1815 with the first cotton-yarn factory, and shortly
afterward, the first woolen mill. By the 1800's the
community had switched from its agricultural base
to a manufacturing economy, which it maintains
today. Descendants of the original English, and
later, Irish, French-Canadian, and Polish settlers
comprise the majority of its current residents.

110 ♦ Satan's Harvest
There are only one or two black or Hispanic fami-
lies living there.
Major industries employ more than fifteen hun-
dred people in the town. Some fifty-seven percent of
Warren adults are employed in manufacturing,
compared to twenty-five percent of Massachusetts
workers. Among the town's biggest employers are a
manufacturer of commercial, military, and indus-
trial pumps; a company that makes power presses;
another that finishes and dyes cloth; and another
that launders clothing and industrial linens.
As is the case with many industrial towns, War-
ren's population is not an educated one. Of all resi-
dents twenty-five years old and older, thirty-seven
percent have an elementary-school education or
less. Fifty-four percent have never finished high
school.
Slightly to the northwest of present-day Warren is
the town of Ware, and a short distance from the
road that leads to Ware is what old New Englanders
call a "town bound"—a spot comparable to the
place in the southwestern United States where the
borders of Arizona, Colorado, Utah, and New Mex-
ico meet. One can walk around the town bound and
pass through three towns and three counties. Local
folklore has it that the spot had special significance
for certain local inhabitants and that the remains of
campfires and strange animal bones have been
found in the area.
In the western part of the town is Colonel's Moun-
tain, which reaches an altitude of 1,172 feet. From
the summit there is a commanding view of the sur-
rounding countryside. At the foot of the mountain

Satan's Harvest ♦ 111
was the home of the Quaboag Indians of the tribe of
the Nipmucks. Scooped-out rocks and pestles that
have been found there testify to the Indians' coarse,
simple fare—samp or hominy and succotash, with
wild meats and fish.
The Indians worshipped a number of spirits,
some of them evil. For hundreds of years western
Massachusetts rang with their cries, their songs,
their dances, and their magic incantations. Among
the most powerful members of the tribe was often
the medicine man, who had the power to drive out
evil spirits.
But the Indians were not the last practitioners of
strange rites in Massachusetts. The Puritan Pilgrims
who founded the Massachusetts Bay Colony gov-
erned themselves as a theocracy. Witchcraft and the
devil were not mere abstractions to these stern men
and women who had fled their own country in the
face of religious persecution. Devils and witches
were very real to them and there were strict laws to
deal with them.
Contrary to popular myth, the cases of devil wor-
ship and witchcraft that have made Massachusetts
infamous in the annals of the occult did not proceed
from mass hysteria, nor were they assumed to be
manifestations of the supernatural at first.
"When the devil broke forth again, at Salem vil-
lage in 1692, he was not immediately recognized,"
according to Chadwick Hansen in his book Witch-
craft at Salem. When several village girls began to
be seized by fits and to complain of terrible pains,
the town fathers first sought a medical remedy.

112 ♦ Satan's Harvest
"When these calamities first began," wrote the Rev-
erend Samuel Parris, a clergyman of Salem, "which
was in my own family, the affliction was several
weeks before such hellish operations as witchcraft
were suspected."
It seems also that in the Salem of 1692, as with
Warren in 1985, the devil was invited to show his
wickedness when human beings, innocently or oth-
erwise, dabbled in the occult and invoked curses in
his name.
"I fear some young persons, through a vain curi-
osity . . . have tampered with the devil's tools so
far that hereby one door was opened to Satan to
play those pranks, anno 1692," wrote Salem resi-
dent John Hale. He was referring to young girls in
the village who used occult games (usually involv-
ing an egg and a glass) to try to find out the occupa-
tions of their future husbands. The rhyme associ-
ated with this game is still sung today: "Rich man,
poor man, beggar man, thief."
One village girl dabbling in such occult practices
was rewarded with the sight of a specter in the like-
ness of a coffin. "And she was afterwards followed
with diabolical molestation to her death, and so
died a single person," Hale wrote at the time. He
added, "a just warning to others to take heed of han-
dling the devil's weapons lest they get a wound
thereby."
Once the evil genie was out of the bottle, it
proved, as always, very hard to get him back in. One
young woman after another fell ill, and they, in
turn, accused neighborhood women of tormenting
them and appearing before them with the devil.

Satan's Harvest ♦ 113
"The devil hath been raised among us, and his rage
is vehement and terrible; and, when he shall be si-
lenced, the Lord only knows," said Reverend Parris.
According to Hansen's Witchcraft at Salem,
Tituba, a Carib Indian slave woman brought to New
England from Barbados to serve in the Parris
household, was being examined in court. Perhaps
she, as the children's babysitter, would tell what
was afflicting them.
"Did you ever see the devil?" she was asked.
"The devil," she replied, "came to me and bid me
serve him."
The devil had come to her, Tituba said, in the
shape of a man—a tall man in black with white
hair. Other times he had come in the shape of an
animal. He had told her he was God, that she must
believe in him and serve him six years, and he
would give her many beautiful things. He had
shown her a book and she had made a mark in it, a
mark that was "red like blood."
But Tituba said others had made marks in the
book, and she, too, named some of the older women
in the village. Soon the famous trials were under
way, and when it was over more than fifteen people
had been hanged as witches. One man, Giles Corey,
who refused to answer to the charge, was "pressed"
to death. Increasing amounts of weight, in the form
of large rocks, were placed on his chest until he was
crushed, his tongue protruding from his mouth at
the end.
Although the devil is not often talked about in
modern-day pulpits, almost all theologies recognize

114 ♦ Satan's Harvest
his existence. In so-called sophisticated circles, the
devil is taken to be a metaphor for the evil that men
do or the evil that befalls them.
But hundreds of millions of Christians—mostly
Roman Catholics, Anglicans, and Protestant funda-
mentalists—and Hasidic Jews accept, as part of
their faith, the idea that a malign spirit can invade a
human being and take over the victim's personality.
Plato in his Republic not only speaks of demons
of various grades but mentions a method of treating
and providing for those possessed by them. Sopho-
cles and Euripides describe the possessed, and men-
tion of the subject is also to be found in Herodotus,
Plutarch, Horace, and other ancient authors.
The name "devil" is derived from the Greek
diabolos, "slanderer." It is the name for the supreme
spirit of evil, the enemy of God and man. According
to the orthodox Christian belief of the present day,
Satan has been endowed with great powers for the
purpose of tempting man to prove his fortitude.
The original idea of Satan is that of an "adver-
sary" or "agent of opposition." This fits, of course,
with the Christian belief in Satan as Lucifer, one of
God's fallen archangels, who chooses to revolt
against Him.
The Bible does not really explain Satan's origin.
Although biblical scholars have always presumed
that the serpent in Genesis who tempts Adam and
Eve is Satan or his emissary, Satan does not appear
until the book of Job, when Job and his sons are
about to make an offering to God. "Satan," it says,
"also came among them. And the Lord said to Sa-
tan, 'From where do you come?' So Satan answered

Satan's Harvest ♦ 115
the Lord and said, 'From going to and fro on the
earth, and from walking back and forth on it.'"
In the Bible, Satan appears as a distinct personal-
ity, described in the book of Matthew as "Prince of
Demons," and in Ephesians as the ruler of a world
of evil beings who dwell in the lower heavens. In
Revelations the war in heaven between God and Sa-
tan is described, and his imprisonment is foreshad-
owed after the overthrow of the beast and the kings
of the earth, when he will be chained in the bottom-
less pit for one thousand years. After another period
of freedom he is finally cast into the lake of brim-
stone forever.
The ability of demons to invade human beings is
an important concept to millions of fundamentalist
Christians. Most of them accept, on the basis of the
Bible, that a person can be possessed by the devil.
And there are people regarded as having special
gifts who practice a "deliverance ministry," casting
out evil spirits by praying over the victim and com-
manding the devil to leave.
The Roman Catholic Church is no exception.
Pope John Paul II has gone out of his way to ac-
knowledge the existence of the Evil One. In August
of 1986 the Pope, in the last of a series of summer
sermons, told the faithful that the devil exists and
"is a cosmic liar and murderer." The Pope said that,
contrary to many recent teachings, the devil is still
very much in the world "tempting men to evil . . .
to turn away from the law of God." John Paul in-
voked stark biblical images that portray the devil as
an unclean spirit, tempter, evil one, anti-Christ,
lion, dragon, or serpent. The Pope said he wanted to

116 ♦ Satan's Harvest
"clarify the true faith of the church against those
who pervert it by exaggerating the importance of
the devil or by denying or minimizing his malevo-
lent power." The Pope asserted that Satan "has the
skill in the world to induce people to deny his exis-
tence in the name of rationalism and of every other
system of thought which seeks all possible means to
avoid recognizing his activity."
According to the Reverend Lachlan M. Hughes, a
Jesuit professor of canon law in England, demonic
possession is a manifestation of the power that God
left the devil after having expelled him from
heaven. As the Bible says in I Peter 5:8, "The devil,
as a roaring lion, walketh about seeking whom he
may devour."
Why God has left the devil with such power is a
mystery for those who ponder the nature of good
and evil.
Although the Catholic Church is conscious of the
devil and his deeds, it regards claims of diabolic
possession as it does claims of miracles: with great
skepticism. The symptoms of demonic possession
closely resemble those of mental illness, so great
caution is required before the Church will give per-
mission for its final remedy: the solemn rite of exor-
cism.
Exorcism has always been a part of the Catholic
faith. Jesus says in the Bible that He casts out devils,
and the apostles performed exorcisms in His name.
In the early Church anyone so gifted could exorcise.
In the third century exorcism was restricted to the
ordained clergy, in particular to a minor order
called Exorcists, which was suppressed only in

Satan's Harvest ♦ 117
1972. A manual for Roman Catholic exorcists was
published in 1608 and ran to thirteen hundred
pages.
The Catholic rite of baptism includes an exorcism
(which does not presuppose possession) to ward off
evil. As recently as February of 1986, Cardinal Anas-
tasio Alberto Ballestrero of Turin names six exor-
cists, priests charged with casting out demons.
Perhaps the foremost authority on exorcism in
our time is Malachi Martin, a former Jesuit profes-
sor at the Pontifical Biblical Institute in Rome and
the author of more than a dozen books, including
Hostage to the Devil, concerning the possession and
exorcism of five living Americans.
Martin writes that Catholic Church authorities
"believe that there is an invisible power, a spirit of
evil; that this spirit can for obscure reasons take
possession of a human being; that the spirit can and
must be expelled—exorcised—from the person pos-
sessed; and that this exorcism can be done only in
the name and by the authority and power of Jesus
of Nazareth."
Martin sets forth the characteristics of a pos-
sessed person: a peculiar revulsion against symbols
and truths of religion ("always and without excep-
tion a mark of the possessed person"); an inexplica-
ble stench; freezing temperature; telepathic powers
about purely religious and moral matters; a pecu-
liarly unlined or completely smooth or stretched
skin, or unusual distortion of the face, or other
physical and behavioral transformations; acquired
weight, in which the possessed person becomes
physically immovable, or when those around the

118 ♦ Satan's Harvest
possessed are weighted down with a suffocating
pressure; levitation, in which the possessed rises
and floats off the ground, chair, or bed without
physical support; violent smashing of furniture,
constant opening and slamming of doors, tearing of
fabric in the vicinity, and other phenomena, equally
bizarre.
Possession by the devil, according to Father
Tracy, may result in such immobility that even the
combined strength of several people cannot budge
the victim. Or the possessed may reveal secrets he
or she has no way of knowing. But the strongest
indication of possession is the ability to converse
intelligently, without repetitiveness, in a language
the victim cannot possibly know.
As Father Martin notes, almost every one of these
occurrences by itself might have another, more
worldly explanation than demonic possession. Vic-
tims of Tourette's syndrome (a neurological disor-
der due to a chemical abnormality in the brain), for
example, will sometimes let forth a stream of excla-
mations, barks, obscenities, along with facial con-
tortions. Doctors also mention paranoia, epilepsy,
Huntington's chorea, dyslexia, hysteria, and Parkin-
son's disease as maladies or disorders whose symp-
toms might be mistakenly construed as signs of pos-
session.
The investigation that leads to an exorcism usu-
ally begins because a man or a woman is brought to
the notice of Church authorities by family or
friends, and these people recount events that, taken
together, cannot reasonably be laid at the door of

Satan's Harvest ♦ 119
any disease known to modern science. In these
cases, there is no other recourse than exorcism. A
special man is needed: the exorcist.
There is no official public appointment of exor-
cists. In some dioceses there is a private arrange-
ment between the bishop and one of his priests
whom he knows and trusts. In other dioceses "the
bishop knows little about it and wants to know
less," as Martin notes.
The Church has not laid down qualifications for
an exorcist, other than that he be an ordained
priest. There is no official training for an exorcist,
although Church authorities find it advisable that a
priest attempting an exorcism has already assisted
at another. But Father Martin, in his chapter "A
Brief Handbook of Exorcism," describes the typical
(if there could be such a thing) exorcist:
"Usually he is engaged in the active ministry of
parishes," he writes. "Rarely is he a scholarly type
engaged in teaching or research. Rarely is he a re-
cently ordained priest. If there is any median age
for exorcists, it is probably between the ages of fifty
and sixty-five. Sound and robust physical health is
not a characteristic of exorcists, nor is proven intel-
lectual brilliance, postgraduate degrees, even in
psychology or philosophy, or a very sophisticated
personal culture. All have been sensitive men of
solid rather than dazzling minds.
"Though, of course, there are many exceptions,
the usual reasons for a priest's being chosen are his
qualities of moral judgment, personal behavior, and
religious beliefs—qualities that are not sophisti-
cated or laboriously acquired but that somehow

120 ♦ Satan's Harvest
seem always to have been an easy and natural part
of such a man. Speaking religiously, these are the
qualities associated with special grace."
When an exorcism is needed, it is the exorcist
who makes all the decisions, who chooses an assis-
tant priest, if he wants one, and lay assistants. The
time and the place of exorcism is left to him.
The place of exorcism is generally in the home of
the possessed person. There is a reason for this: As
with the Theriault farmhouse, there is a close con-
nection between spirit and physical location.
"The puzzle of spirit and place makes itself felt in
many ways and runs throughout virtually every ex-
orcism," writes Father Martin. "There is a theologi-
cal explanation. But that there is some connection
between spirit and place must be dealt with as a
fact."
During an exorcism, Father Martin says, the
room must be cleared, since objects—even heavy
ones—may move about, rock back and forth, even
fly across the room and strike the priest or the pos-
sessed person or the lay assistants. "It is not rare,"
Martin writes, "for people to emerge from an exor-
cism with serious physical wounds."
Windows and doors are securely closed, both to
keep the demonic force from affecting the area out-
side and to stop the possessed person from attempt-
ing to throw himself or the exorcist or his assistants
from a window.
The number of lay assistants will vary with the
exorcist's expectation of physical violence. Four is
typical, and often a medical doctor is present as

Satan's Harvest ♦ 121
well. In recent years tape recorders and even video
cameras have been used.
The assistants must be physically strong and the
exorcist, who has fasted and confessed in prepara-
tion for his battle with the devil, must make sure
that his assistants are not consciously guilty of per-
sonal sins at the time of the exorcism, because they,
too, can expect to be attacked by the evil spirit. Any
sin can be used as a weapon against them.
"The exorcist must be as certain as possible be-
forehand that his assistants will not be weakened or
overcome by obscene behavior or by language foul
beyond their imagining; they cannot blanch at
blood, excrement, urine; they must be able to take
awful personal insults and be prepared to have their
darkest secrets screeched in public in front of their
companions," Father Martin writes. "These are rou-
tine happenings during exorcisms."
Nor is it unusual for an exorcism to last for days
on end, or for the poor victim of possession to re-
quire two, three, or more exorcisms before finding
freedom from his affliction.
"Possession and exorcism are not themselves
mere fads with no interest beyond the bizarre and
the significantly frightening," says Father Martin.
"They are tangible expressions of the reality which
envelops the daily lives of ordinary people."

8
1 he strange incidents that had plagued Maurice off
and on for much of his life seemed to escalate after
he, Nancy, and her two daughters, Cheryl and Ann,
moved into the farmhouse in Warren in May 1982.
That summer they decided to drive to Saratoga,
New York, to visit Nancy's father. It was late eve-
ning. The sun had just set, leaving a delicate laven-
der edge on a few puffy clouds in the western hori-
zon. The sky went from orange to deep purple. With
the windows down, they were enjoying the balmy
air as they cruised along the Massachusetts Turn-
pike in Maurice's New Yorker, at a steady sixty
miles per hour.
Suddenly the car started rapidly accelerating un-
til it was doing about ninety. The pedal seemed to
be pushing down by itself, out from under
Maurice's foot. He scrambled around for the pedal,
trying to pull it out, while steering at breakneck

124 ♦ Satan's Harvest
speed. The tires were burning rubber. He felt frozen
to the wheel.
He slammed on the brakes, but the car continued
to surge forward. Maurice did his best to control the
vehicle, but he felt something pulling his hands
from the steering wheel.
Nancy was screaming, but her arms and legs
were immobilized, as though she were tied down
with weights. She shouted, "Frenchy, what are you
trying to do? Slow down! You're going to kill us!
Stop! Stop it!" It took all her strength to use her
voice. It was exactly like a bad dream, only she was
awake.
Despite what was going on, Maurice didn't panic.
He felt as if there was an outside force in the car
with them and that their lives were in that force's
hands. "Okay," he said. "If there is somebody in
here with us, why don't you just take over com-
pletely?"
He took his hands off the wheel and his feet off
the pedals.
Nancy was still unable to move. She closed her
eyes as the car moved by itself into the passing lane,
surging ahead, passing a tractor-trailer truck, and
then suddenly pulling back into the cruising lane,
finally slowing down to a normal rate of speed.
Maurice took the wheel again and continued driv-
ing toward New York.
Nancy regained control of her body. "Maurice,
what the hell were you trying to prove?" Nancy
shouted, shaking all the while.
"You know I didn't do that," he replied. "I couldn't
have done that."

Satan's Harvest ♦ 125
Nancy knew Maurice was telling the truth. She
had seen what happened. But she didn't want to be-
lieve it.
She cried all the way to Saratoga, until she was
hoarse. She stared out the window, trying to figure
out what in the world had caused the car to drive on
its own.
The following year, on New Year's Day, there was
a blizzard. Snow had been falling all day and was at
least a foot deep. Around the house there were some
drifts more than three feet high. It was a major
nor'easter, as they say in Maine.
Nancy was sitting in the living room, reading the
paper. It was getting dark out and she had just a few
moments to sit by the fire and read the weather
forecast before she'd have to get up and prepare
dinner.
Maurice had been sitting next to her but had got-
ten up a few minutes before to make a cup of coffee.
"Honey," she called out to him, "they say this
snow may last all night."
But he didn't reply.
That's strange, she thought. If there was one thing
Maurice liked to talk about, it was the weather—
especially storms. Whenever she mentioned the
subject, he'd get all excited and animated and go on
and on about this storm or that and how the
weather in Massachusetts was nothing compared to
the weather in Maine.
She yelled out to him again. "Maurice!"
Still he didn't answer.

126 ♦ Satan's Harvest
Maybe he's gone into the bedroom, she thought.
He had been shoveling the driveway all afternoon
and was probably exhausted. Maybe he was catch-
ing a few winks before dinner.
Nancy went through the kitchen and peeked into
the bedroom. He wasn't there. There was a strange
smell though. A bad smell, like rotten potatoes.
"Phew-ee! What's that?" She looked around for the
source, but the smell seemed to disappear when she
tried to locate it.
She called out to her daughter, Maureen, to look
around for her stepfather. A few minutes later Mau-
reen came back into the living room and reported
that she couldn't find Maurice. He wasn't anywhere
in or around the house.
Nancy and Maureen were puzzled. They would
have seen him if he had gone back outside—unless
he'd used the cellar door, but nobody had ever used
that before. It was nailed shut.
They went to the front door, where Nancy called
out his name. It was still snowing. "Maurice! You
out there?" Nancy's voice echoed across the snow-
blanketed yard.
Seconds later Maurice popped his head out from
behind the barn door. "I'm in here," he yelled back.
"Turn on the light. I'm comin' right in."
As Maurice trudged to the house through the
knee-deep snow, Nancy noticed something that
bothered her. Maurice was leaving footprints as he
walked from the barn toward the house, but there
were none left from when he had walked from the
house to the barn. The snow was falling hard—but

Satan's Harvest ♦ 127
not hard enough to cover up a grown man's tracks
made only a few minutes earlier.
"Maurice, how come there're no tracks going out
to the barn?" Nancy asked.
Maurice looked confused. "What do you mean? I
been out there all day," he said. "Those tracks been
covered up for hours." He stamped his boots on the
porch and made a halfhearted attempt at shaking
the snow off his hat and coat before entering the
house.
Nancy grimaced and started to say something
about not tracking snow into the house, but Mau-
rice was already on his way into the kitchen. She
decided to forget about it The house needed clean-
ing anyway. A little slush wouldn't matter.
Just then Maurice came back out of the kitchen,
holding a cup of hot coffee. That's weird, Nancy
thought. He wasn't even in there long enough to
boil water, let alone make coffee. And he didn't
have a snowflake left on him. Not even a melted
one.
She went up to him and touched him. He wasn't
in the slightest bit cold. Nancy grabbed his arm and
pulled on his sleeve, shouting, "What's going on,
Maurice? Why aren't you cold? You've been out in
the snow. Why aren't you wet and cold? What's with
you?"
The mysterious smell came back for an instant.
Maurice raised his eyebrow and stared at her as if
she were from another planet. Then he sat down in
his easy chair and lit up a cigarette. "Yeah, it's sup-
posed to be a bad storm," he said. "But nothin' like
the ones we used to get back home. No way."

128 ♦ Satan's Harvest
k k k
During this time Maurice was having trouble
sleeping. He'd fall off to sleep easily, as he always
had. He was usually tired from a hard day out in the
fields. But he'd often wake up in the middle of the
night, terrified, from some bad dream. One of the
dreams kept recurring. In it a bent-over, evil man
was sticking pins in his back and laughing.
On this particular morning Maurice awoke from
an especially poor night's sleep. He'd been having
that dream again. No matter how many times he
woke up and fell back to sleep, he couldn't shake
that same awful dream. Maurice didn't know what
it was supposed to mean or who the man was who
was sticking him with pins. His face was obscured.
At first Maurice thought it was his father. But some-
times the face seemed more hideous—like some-
thing out of an old horror movie he had seen on
television.
As he climbed out of bed, Nancy took one look at
him and screamed. "Maurice! What's that on your
back?"
Maurice turned around. "What are you talkin'
about?"
"Maurice, look! There's some kind of writing on
your back."
He thought she was joking. "Stop kiddin' around,"
he said.
But Nancy wasn't kidding. "Look in the mirror,"
she demanded.
Curious now, Maurice turned his back to the full-
length mirror on the wall, peering over his shoulder
to see what his wife was talking about.

Satan's Harvest ♦ 129
"Holy shit!" he said.
Nancy hadn't been kidding. There, clear as a New
England spring day, were four words scratched out
across his back, as if someone had taken a needle
and etched a message: "La porte est ouverte."
"What is that, Maurice? What does it say? I don't
think it's English."
Maurice had trouble making out the words he
saw reflected in the mirror, so he asked Nancy to
sound out the words as best she could. "La portay
est oovray?"
Maurice thought for a moment. It sounded like
French, his native language. Nancy obviously hadn't
pronounced the words properly, but he got the mes-
sage. "Mais oui," he said. "La porte est ouverte. The
door is open."
"What the heck is that supposed to mean, Mau-
rice? The door is open? To what? What happened to
you?"
Maurice knew that the scratchings were some-
how connected to his dream. Someone was opening
a door for him. He didn't want to go through it. But
for some reason he feared his wishes didn't really
matter.
He wondered if perhaps it was some kind of
warning. He had gotten mysterious warnings in the
past but had ignored them, not really understand-
ing them until it was too late. But now he was learn-
ing to pay more attention to these warnings. Three
years before, in the winter of 1981, he had been
given what he and Nancy later figured was a warn-
ing about his parents' impending deaths, but at the
time they had misinterpreted it.

130 ♦ Satan's Harvest
It had been a typical February day in New En-
gland. It was cold, with temperatures in the twen-
ties. And the slate-gray sky that made life so de-
pressing around that time of year seemed to be
hanging more heavily than usual. Maurice and
Nancy had to ride into town to pick up some sup-
plies. They had just gotten to the pickup when Mau-
rice began to feel dizzy. He leaned against the door.
"Your father doesn't have long to go," he blurted
out in a voice much deeper than his own. Then he
fell to the ground.
Nancy rushed to his side. "Maurice, are you all
right?"
Maurice had passed out for a moment, but was
quickly back to normal. "I'm okay," he said. "I just
got dizzy for a second. Maybe I need something to
eat."
"Maurice, you said something scary just before
you passed out," Nancy said. "You said my father is
going to die. And you said it in a different voice. It
was weird. What did you say that for?"
Maurice looked puzzled. "I didn't say anything,"
he said.
But as they walked to the farmhouse to get a glass
of water, Maurice felt uneasy. He felt death in the
air. He could almost smell it.
"Let's call my dad," Nancy said. "I want to make
sure he's okay."
As it turned out, Henry Senecal was fine. Not long
afterward, when Maxime Theriault shot and killed
his wife and himself, Maurice and Nancy thought
back to that February day. Could it have been a

Satan's Harvest ♦ 131
warning? And if so, who was trying to warn them?
And why?
These were questions Maurice and Nancy
couldn't answer. All they knew was that things were
getting stranger and stranger.
Nancy had been jotting notes on these unusual
occurrences in a diary that she kept under her bed.
She called it her "little black book." After each inci-
dent, she would pull out the book and write down
what had happened.
Maurice didn't like the practice. He just wanted to
ignore what was happening to him, hoping the
strange events would stop on their own. But after
his parents had died, he remembered the warning
and asked Nancy to take out the book and read him
what she had written. He especially wanted to hear
the part about when he had been warned about his
father's death.
Nancy walked into the bedroom and reached un-
der the bed for the book. She hadn't looked at it in
quite some time. When she pulled it out she was
surprised to see that it was charred black, as if it
had been in a fire. "This book's all burned!" she said,
looking at Maurice as if to accuse him of having set
it on fire.
Maurice looked surprised. "Don't look at me," he
said. "I didn't do it."
Nancy opened it and began to cry as she flipped
through what was left of the pages. Every one had
been charred. Even a photograph of her eldest
daughter had been burned.
"How could this happen?" she demanded. "We

132 ♦ Satan's Harvest
haven't had a fire. You burned it, didn't you? You
never liked me writing in it."
Maurice looked at her. "I didn't do it," he said.
"You got to believe me."
"You sure you didn't burn this book, Frenchy?"
But Nancy could tell from the fear on his face
that he was telling the truth. Besides, she never
knew him to lie to her. If he hadn't wanted the book
around, he probably would have asked her to throw
it out. But he wouldn't have set it on fire. He wasn't
like that. He was a good man.
Maurice was telling the truth. He was even more
frightened than she was. They were both thinking
the same thought at the same time: If someone was
setting books on fire, what might be set on fire next?
Strange events such as those that were plaguing
Maurice and Nancy would put a strain on any rela-
tionship. Maurice and Tina had broken up over sim-
ilar problems. And the bizarre occurrences
prompted many arguments between Maurice and
Nancy. But Nancy was made of stronger stuff. No
matter what happened, Nancy was determined to
stick by him. She realized that her man seemed to
be in some kind of trouble, and she was certainly
not going to abandon him when he needed her
most. She decided that they would have to seek
help.
"Maurice," she said one day as they sat at the
breakfast table, sipping their morning coffee. "I
want us to see a priest."
Maurice didn't say anything, just kept his coffee
cup to his lips. But from the look on his face Nancy
could tell he was relieved. The events had been tak-

Satan's Harvest ♦ 133
ing their toll on him. He was trying not to dwell on
them, but the more he did that, the stranger things
got. He was clearly frightened. "We'll go see Father
Boyer right after breakfast," she said.
The kindly parish priest was just finishing saying
Mass when Maurice and Nancy pulled up. He recog-
nized them from Sunday Mass. They weren't zeal-
ous churchgoers, but they came often enough. He
agreed to see them in his study right away.
He brought them into his small, tidy wood-pan-
eled office. The room had a nice reassuring smell.
There was a worn Oriental rug on the floor in front
of a very comfortable deep-red brocade couch, a
glass bookcase stacked with books, and there was a
simple crucifix on the wall. He sat down behind his
sturdy oak desk.
"Father, you've got to help us," Nancy said as she
and Maurice sat down. "Strange things have been
happening to us. Maurice has been getting mes-
sages, and I think they're from the spirit of my
mother. We've been arguing a lot because of it."
Nancy deliberately did not tell the priest every-
thing. She didn't want him to think they were crazy.
She held tightly on to her purse handle, nervously
snapping and unsnapping the fastener. "W-what can
we do?" she asked.
Father Boyer had heard a lot in his many years as
a priest. Messages from "spirits" were nothing new.
People thought they heard them all the time. The
best way to deal with them, he knew from experi-
ence, was to find out what the spirit who was sup-
posedly sending the message wanted and then to

134 ♦ Satan's Harvest
comply with the wishes—if they were harmless
enough.
"And why would your mother be trying to com-
municate with you?" Boyer asked. "What would she
be trying to tell you?"
"Well, she wouldn't like it that we're living to-
gether when we're not married," Nancy replied.
"She'd want us to make it right."
"So why don't you?" asked the priest.
Maurice and Nancy just looked at each other.
"I'll marry you myself," Boyer said.
The next day they set the date.
The marriage took place May 19, 1984, at St.
Paul's Church. Father Boyer performed the cere-
mony. Nancy wore a simple blue dress with a white
lace collar and held a small bouquet. Maurice wore
his Western suit with the string tie, the same one
he'd worn on his first date with Nancy. The only
guests in attendance were Maurice's younger sister,
Emelda, and her husband, Norman, and Nancy's
brother, Louis, and his wife, Marcia.
After the ceremony the six of them went out to
lunch at Maurice's favorite steak house. Afterward,
Maurice and Nancy drove down to New Britain to
stay overnight at Emelda and Norman's house. The
four of them went dancing that night at the French
Club.
Maurice and Nancy felt good about what they had
done. "I think things are going to be okay now,
Maurice," she said, giving him a good-night kiss.
"My mama's going to be happy about what we've
done."

Nancy and Maurice Theriault (Photo by Mark Merenda)

Father Homer Boyer in front of St. Paul's Church in
Warren, Massachusetts (Photo by Mark Merenda)

Bishop Robert McKenna in front of Our Lady of the
Rosary Chapel in Monroe, Connecticut (Photo by Mark
Merenda)

Ed and Lorraine Warren (Photo courtesy of Dino De
Laurentiis)

The bloodstains on
Maurice's T-shirt that
Chris McKinnell
discovers while working
in the greenhouse with
Maurice. Maurice
complained that
someone threw ice
cubes down his back.
(Photo by Chris
Marshall)
After rushing Maurice to the farmhouse, Chris McKinnell,
along with Chris Marshall, examines Maurice's back and
finds no wound. (Photo by Chris Marshall)

Maurice's truck with
burn marks after it had
burst into flames. At one
point Maurice lifted the
front of the truck long
enough for his son to
change a tire. (Photo by
Chris Marshall)
Maurice lifts the statue
of Mary. Exhibiting
superhuman strength is
one criterion for
exorcism. (Photo by
Chris Marshall)

Maurice visits his father Maxime's grave, hoping to
make peace. Moments later he is knocked back by an
invisible force. (Photo by Chris Marshall)

The Theriault farmhouse in Warren, Massachusetts
(Photo by Ed Warren)

Satan's Harvest ♦ 135
* * *
Nancy couldn't have been more wrong. If any-
thing, the strange incidents that were making their
lives a living hell only escalated.
A little over a month later Maurice was out in the
field cutting up a big old beech tree that had fallen
on his property during a lightning storm. He was
using a chain saw, cutting the branches into more
portable pieces. The wood and grass were still wet
from all the rain, and the going was slippery. He
was experienced with a chain saw and was being
very careful.
As he worked he kept having a vision of the chain
saw slipping out of his hands and cutting him. Sud-
denly he lost his grip on the saw, and the handle
slipped out of his hands. The blade cut right into his
work boot, sputtering to a stop halfway through.
Dark red blood began spurting through the hole
where the blade had cut through the boot. But for
some reason Maurice didn't feel any pain. "I didn't
cut myself," he said out loud. "I didn't cut myself."
He kept repeating the phrase as he slowly walked
back to the farmhouse. "I didn't cut myself. I didn't
cut myself." He continued to chant as he walked,
leaving a trail of blood behind him.
When he reached the house he sat down on the
brick steps and took off his bloody boot. When he
peeled off his sock, which was also dripping with
blood, Maurice saw that his foot was not bleeding at
all. There wasn't even a wound! He should have
been horrified, yet he wasn't surprised.
Just then Nancy came out of the house and saw
the blood. "Oh, my God, Maurice, what happened?

136 ♦ Satan's Harvest
Quick! Let me get some towels! Do you want me to
call an ambulance?"
"Don't bother," he said. "It's nothing. I'll be all
right. It's only a scratch."
"That's really bleeding! You've lost a lot of blood,"
Nancy said. "Let me look at it."
But Maurice just brushed by her. "I said it was
nothing," he muttered.
Just as he had known it would be, from the mo-
ment he'd started his little chant.
A few weeks later the first of three mysterious
fires broke out at the farm. In the first one a storage
shed, located about two hundred and fifty yards
from the house, burned down to the ground. Mau-
rice had been working close by in the yard and
hadn't seen anyone near the shed.
The second fire occurred just a couple of weeks
after that. This time it was the vegetable stand in
front of the house, by the side of the road. It was
badly damaged, but it was left standing.
The third fire broke out inside the house itself, in
Nancy's daughter Cheryl's bedroom, in the middle
of the night. Again, there was no explanation for it.
Fortunately no one was hurt in any of the fires,
but the three blazes in a row set Maurice back finan-
cially. And of course they had frightened him and
Nancy considerably. For a while Maurice was stay-
ing up at night with a flashlight and a gun, waiting
to catch whoever was setting the fires. He couldn't
imagine who might be doing it. He didn't have any
enemies in town.
Of course, he kept thinking that the fires might be

Satan's Harvest ♦ 137
related to the other strange events that had been
occurring with increasing frequency around the
farm. Then he'd try not to think about the unex-
plained knockings, bad smells, rattlings, heavy
breathing, and walking sounds that were repeatedly
waking him and Nancy up during the night.
In October Maurice was out in the yard with
Cheryl's fiance, Keith, raking leaves. As he raked,
Maurice slipped and fell down next to a stately old
elm tree. When he landed on the ground, he noticed
he had fallen on a large piece of bark. Maurice
picked it up and motioned to Keith to come and
take a look. But Keith, noticing the unusual shape,
just laughed. "Yeah, we can use it for home plate the
next time we play softball."
But Maurice did not act as if he had just stumbled
onto home plate. He turned deadly serious and be-
gan shouting, "Take it! It is a part of me! Take it in
the house and shut out the lights and look at it!"
Cheryl, who had heard Maurice yelling, came
running out of the house toward the two men. Mau-
rice insisted she take the piece of bark inside and
look at it in the dark.
By this time Cheryl was used to the strange occur-
rences that had been taking place around the farm-
house, so she took the bark inside. As Keith passed
her in the foyer, she whispered to him, "This is get-
ting a little ridiculous."
"Just do it," Keith shushed her and whispered
back. "Don't get him upset."
So she brought the bark into a darkened bedroom
—and couldn't believe her eyes when she saw it. The
bark was glowing in the dark. It lit up the room like

138 ♦ Satan's Harvest
a thirty-watt bulb. "Jesus!" she said. "How can that
be?"
Maurice took the bark and nailed it to the wall
next to his bed.
The light continued to shine for the next several
days. When it finally darkened he took it down and
hung a crucifix in its place.
More strange things kept happening. Usually they
were harmless enough, although they did create a
lot of fear. Crucifixes would bleed, objects would
glow in the dark. Fires would break out, but nobody
ever got hurt. Even when things would happen to
Maurice—such as the time he cut through his foot—
he would survive intact, at least physically. What
the incidents were doing to his mind was hard to
tell.
It wasn't until just before Christmas of that year,
1984, that events began to pose a real threat to Mau-
rice himself.
Maurice and Nancy decided they would really
decorate the farmhouse that year. Normally they
weren't big on Christmas. And Maurice hated the
idea of putting up lights. But this year the kids
wanted the holiday to be special. They were feeling
the pressure of all the strange goings-on, and they
thought a little extra Christmas spirit might help.
What with all that had been happening, Maurice felt
he ought to do something religious.
So Maurice made a six-foot wooden cross that he
planned to mount on the roof, facing the street. He
got out the wooden ladder and leaned it against the
roof. Superstitious as always, he carefully avoided
walking under the ladder. The cross resting on his

Satan's Harvest ♦ 139
shoulders, Maurice began climbing step by step up
to the roof, with one hand carefully keeping his bal-
ance on the ladder.
Once on the roof, he nailed up the cross. Then he
climbed back down the ladder to get the colored
lights he was planning to string along the cross.
Something happened on his way back up.
Maurice was on the second to the last step of the
ladder, about to place his right foot on the top step
when he felt the ladder twisting, as if someone at
the bottom were trying to make him fall.
"Hey!" he shouted as he grabbed for the roof to
hang on. He looked down. That's funny, he thought.
There's nobody there.
He shrugged and took another step up. As soon as
he took the step it happened again. This time the
ladder shook violently. Maurice lost his balance, let
go of the cross, and fell to the ground with a thud.
Maurice cried out with pain. He had landed on
his shoulder and it hurt. But he was determined to
finish the job. He got up, righted the ladder, placed
it back against the front of the house, picked up the
lights, and began climbing back up, carefully hold-
ing on to the ladder and making sure it was lodged
more securely against the house.
He had touched the roof with his hand and was
about to lift his right foot up and over, when the
ladder began moving away from the house. Mau-
rice grabbed for the drain but missed. He fell over
backward and again hit the ground, this time land-
ing on his head.
He was dazed but didn't lose consciousness. He
was determined to try once more. He wasn't going

140 ♦ Satan's Harvest
to let this get the better of him. It was like a spiritual
challenge, a fight between good and evil. At least the
cross was up there. This time all he had to carry up
with him were the lights, a hammer, and some
nails.
Maurice strung the lights around his neck, picked
up the hammer in one hand and the nails in the
other, and took a deep breath. Then he stepped up
on the ladder. He held the hammer in his right
hand, ready to strike at anyone or anything that
might attack him.
But this time he didn't even get halfway up before
the ladder tipped over backward. As he fell Maurice
could feel the string of Christmas lights tightening
around his neck. Once on the ground he tugged at
the lights, prying them away from his invisible as-
sailant. "Get away from me!" he shouted. "Leave me
alone!"
The lights loosened their grip around his neck
and Maurice pulled them off. He threw them to the
ground as he took a deep breath. He had decided
that enough was enough. They would live without
the lights again this year.
Nancy, who was inside the kitchen baking some
Christmas cookies, heard Maurice shouting and
came running outside to see what had happened.
What now? she thought.
He told her the story. "Something's trying to kill
me," he said.
"I'm scared, Maurice," she said, helping him into
the house. "I want you to be careful. Promise me?"
Maurice, still smarting from the falls and the

Satan's Harvest ♦ 141
strangulation attempt, just nodded. "Yeah, I'll be
careful," he said.
But he wondered how he could protect himself
from an unseen enemy.
After Christmas Maurice and Nancy vowed that
the new year was going to be better. After all, it
couldn't be any worse, could it?
To start 1985 on a positive note, they toasted at
midnight with a bottle of sparkling wine and made
plans to take a vacation—their first in years. They
decided to drive to Florida, soak up some sun, and
leave all this weirdness behind them for a while.
They visited Orlando, Tampa, and St. Petersburg
and enjoyed quite a pleasant trip—except for one
day when they went out on a boat ride in the waters
off St. Pete.
It was a picture-perfect Florida day. The sun was
shining bright, without a cloud in the sky. The tem-
perature was in the high seventies, and the winds
were not much more than a gentle whisper. The
beautiful blue gulf waters couldn't have been
calmer.
Although he had grown up in Maine, Maurice
lived all his life inland, far from the famous rocky
shores. He wasn't used to being out on the high
seas. At first he was reluctant to take the boat out,
but when he saw what a beautiful day it was, he just
couldn't think of an excuse.
They weren't offshore more than half an hour
when it happened. Out of nowhere the skies dark-
ened, and waves began to pound against the side of

142 ♦ Satan's Harvest
the little motorboat. Maurice was scared. "Let's get
the hell out of here," he said.
Rain began pouring down on them as they raced
back to shore. The drops felt like icy bullets on their
bare skin. It suddenly felt like winter. It was a har-
rowing ride. Maurice didn't really know much
about operating a boat, but he figured it wasn't
much different from driving a car or a tractor. He
got it back safely, but it was more difficult than he
had thought. There aren't any waves on a road or in
a field. He and Nancy were dripping wet when they
turned the boat back in.
"No more boats," he declared. "I'm a landlubber
and I'll always be a landlubber." As they walked to
the car the sun came back out again. "Just our
luck," Maurice said. Inside, he wondered if the
freak storm might have been another in the string
of strange events that he had been trying to escape
by coming to Florida.
He decided it was just the changing nature of
Florida's weather. He remembered what the boat-
rental agent had said to him when he'd left the
dock: "If you don't like the weather in Florida, just
wait five minutes." Maurice thought it an odd thing
to say, with the weather having been perfect at the
time, but he hadn't let it bother him. Now he won-
dered if the man had known something.
Oh, what the heck! Maurice thought. Maybe he
was making too much of an innocent comment.
And he couldn't really complain. They had enjoyed
perfect weather the entire time they were in Flor-
ida. One bad day hadn't ruined what had been a
terrific vacation. The change of scenery had done

Satan's Harvest ♦ 143
him and Nancy good. Maybe when they got back to
Warren things would be different. They decided
they would try to make them different. To start
with, they'd go to church more often. And they'd
begin right away.
On their first Sunday back they dressed in their
best clothes and drove the three miles to St. Paul's.
They were a few minutes late, so they scurried from
the parking lot to the church, not wanting Father
Boyer to notice their tardiness. They hadn't seen
him much lately and they were embarrassed. When
they got to the steep flight of stairs leading up to the
front door, Maurice began climbing two steps at a
time. He could already hear the organ music play-
ing. Mass was under way.
"Come on, Nancy," he shouted, looking back at
her as she climbed the steps one at a time behind
him.
"I'm coming, I'm coming," she said.
Suddenly Maurice was falling backward toward
her—as if he had been pushed. But they were the
only people on the steps.
Nancy stumbled but managed to move aside.
Maurice rolled down about four of the stone steps
before coming to a stop. He was scraped and
bruised a bit, and his pants were ripped at one knee,
but other than that he was all right. He looked up at
Nancy as if to say Why me?
"You all right, Maurice?" she asked.
"Yeah, I'll live," he said. "But I'm gettin' tired of
this." Maurice blessed himself not once but twice
with holy water as he entered the vestibule. And as
always, Maurice fidgeted throughout the entire

144 ♦ Satan's Harvest
Mass. But Nancy spent the hour deep in prayer.
Maurice could hardly believe it. He had never seen
her pray so hard in all his life. "Ain't you goin' to
come up at all for air?" he joked just before Holy
Communion was about to be given.
But Nancy was dead serious. "Maurice, this is im-
portant," she snapped. "Why don't you pray too?"
When Mass was over, Nancy looked Maurice
right in the eye. "Listen to me, Maurice," she said.
"And listen good. Something's rotten in Denmark. I
don't know what's going on with you. But I can't
believe it's my mother's spirit that's doing this to
you. I think there's something evil here. And I'm
afraid. I think we ought to talk to Father Boyer
again. And this time we have to tell him every-
thing."
As was his custom, Father Boyer walked outside
and stood on the front steps after Mass to greet his
parishioners. When everybody else had gone Nancy
walked up to him. Maurice remained by the church
entrance, fidgeting with the Sunday bulletin.
"Hello, Nancy," Father Boyer boomed. "Haven't
seen you in a long time. Glad you could make it
today. Hope to see you every Sunday from now on.
Is that Maurice hiding up by the door? Come on
over and say hello, Maurice. I won't bite."
But Nancy was in no frame of mind for small
talk. Father Boyer could see that. "Is something the
matter?" he asked, taking her hand.
"We've got to talk to you, Father," she said. "We've
got to talk to you right away."
The elderly priest recalled the last time Nancy

Satan's Harvest ♦ 145
and Maurice had sought his help. "The spirits
again?" he asked, with his hand on his chin.
"I don't think it's my mother's spirit anymore, Fa-
ther," Nancy said. "It's . . . it's something worse."
"Well, it's a little bit chilly out here," said the
priest. "Why don't we go into my office."
Once inside, Father Boyer fixed them a pot of cof-
fee. "My housekeeper is off today," he said, apolo-
getically. "Just clear those papers off the couch and
have a seat."
They sat down next to each other, and Father
Boyer sat down at his desk. In a kindly way, he
asked his visitors, "Now, why don't you start at the
beginning?"
As usual, Nancy did most of the talking. And talk
she did. By the time she had finished, it was nearly
three o'clock. They had been there almost three
hours. And by the time she had finished telling her
stories, she was crying her eyes out.
"You've got to help us, Father," she said, dabbing
at her eyes with a tissue. "We don't know what's
going on. But things aren't right. I think maybe
Maurice is haunted or something."
Throughout the three hours Maurice remained
quiet, staring down at his hands. He nodded from
time to time, confirming things that Nancy was say-
ing.
"This is quite disturbing," the priest said. "I don't
have much experience with these matters. But it's
possible your house is haunted. I'll come out tomor-
row and bless the house with holy water. Maybe
that will put an end to these strange happenings. In
the meantime you go home and pray."

146 ♦ Satan's Harvest
* * *
The next day, right after Mass, Father Boyer got
into his black Buick and drove out to the Theriault
farmhouse. He was a little bit frightened. He had
blessed plenty of houses and people before, but
never for any reason like this.
He remembered the story of a priest in a neigh-
boring town who had gone out to sprinkle holy wa-
ter around a house whose owner was thought to be
possessed. That priest died an early death.
Father Boyer had taken a large bottle of holy wa-
ter with him, and by the time he was through, he
had used it all. Using a sprinkler known as an asper-
sorium, he went through every room. As he did it he
prayed.
When he was finished, he tried to reassure the
Theriaults. "I think this may do the trick," he said.
"If you have any more problems, call me. There
may be other things we can do."
"Thank you, Father," Nancy said. "Thank you so
much. I know this is going to work. I just know it."
Father Boyer wished he were as confident. But he
truly had no idea if what he had done would be of
any help at all. From the things that Nancy had told
him, he feared that the Theriaults problems might
require more than just a sprinkling of holy water.
The next day he decided to drive to the mall near
Worcester to browse in the bookstore there. They
had a lot of books on the supernatural and paranor-
mal. Maybe he could find something to help the
Theriaults. Looking through the section on religion,
Father Boyer came across a book that jarred his
memory. It was called The Demonologist. He re-

Satan's Harvest ♦ 147
membered it from a TV program he'd once seen
about a couple from Connecticut who had devoted
their lives to fighting demonic possession.
He decided to shell out the two ninety-five for the
paperback. It seemed a small investment if it could
teach him something he might be able to use to help
the Theriaults. But when he got back home, Father
Boyer put The Demonologist up on his bookshelf
and promptly forgot about it. He was growing old
and sometimes things just slipped his mind. He
didn't give the book another thought until a couple
of weeks later when he received a frantic call from
Nancy Theriault.
"Father, things are happening to Maurice again,"
she said. "He was in two places at once."
Father Boyer didn't understand. "Two places at
once?"
"Yes, it's happened before. This time, me and my
brother Eddie, his wife Barbara, and my daughter
Ann were standing around the kitchen table, and
Maurice comes out of the hallway. Eddie asks him
where he's going, but Maurice doesn't answer. He
just went right out the door, like he was a robot or
something. He didn't even have any clothes on. But
I knew Maurice would never walk out like that,
stark naked. Besides, I had seen this thing happen
before, where he turns up in two places at once, but
before I thought maybe I was crazy, even though I
knew in my heart that I wasn't. So ... so I asked
Ann to go into the bedroom and see if Maurice was
still there. Well, she goes in there and I hear her
scream. Sure enough, he's in there. He's sitting on

148 ♦ Satan's Harvest
the edge of the bed, taking his boots off. Blood is
seeping from his eyes."
Father Boyer listened intently to the eerie story.
And then he remembered the book he had pur-
chased a few weeks earlier. "Can you hang on a sec-
ond?" he asked Nancy. "I'll be right back." It only
took him a few seconds to find The Demonologist. It
was right on the shelf where he'd left it. He paged
through it until he found the names of the couple he
had seen on TV that time.
"I think I know some people who can help," he
told Nancy when he returned to the phone. "I'm go-
ing to call them right now. Just sit tight until you
hear from me."
"Okay, but please hurry, Father," Nancy said. "I
don't think I can take any more. I'm so worried. I'm
at my wits' end."
After hanging up, Father Boyer gazed out the rec-
tory window for several minutes. Then he picked up
the phone again and dialed information for Con-
necticut. "For Monroe," he said to the operator. "Do
you have a listing for Ed and Lorraine Warren?"

9
Ed and Lorraine Warren had just entered the car-
riage house behind their charming Monroe, Con-
necticut, home, where they were about to teach
their weekly class at the New England School of
Demonology.
The students, mostly high school and college kids
from nearby towns, were already seated, ready to
be captivated by the lecture Ed was about to deliver
on the subject of demons and possession. The can-
dles were lit and a tape of a Gregorian chant was
playing softly in the background. Everything was in
its place: a crucifix, a skull, a sword, a book on the
supernatural, a statue of a saint. Dozens of these
kinds of objects dotted every available bit of wall
and shelf space.
A jovial, husky man of fifty-eight, Ed, with his
khaki vest, green plaid lumberjack's shirt, and blue
jeans; his down-to-earth sense of humor; and his ab-

150 ♦ Satan's Harvest
solute lack of pretense, hardly fitted the image of
his profession. Especially since the release of the
popular movie Ghostbusters.
But Ed and his wife, Lorraine, are the nation's
foremost demonologists. They've been at it for
more than forty years. And although they saw the
movie and thought it funny, they are dead serious
about their work.
Ed, born just down the road in Bridgeport, is one
of only seven practicing demonologists in North
America. And he's the only one who is not a clergy-
man.
His wife is a trance medium, with strong powers
of both clairvoyance and ESP. An attractive, digni-
fied-looking woman just a few months younger than
Ed, Lorraine usually wears her black hair piled up
high and has a penchant for wearing large pieces of
ornate jewelry. Her eyes have a knowing, calming
quality about them that can instantly soothe a trou-
bled mind.
Ed first became interested in the world of ghosts
and demons as a youngster growing up in a haunted
house. Since the 1940's, he and his wife have investi-
gated more than two thousand cases of the super-
natural all over North America, Europe, and Austra-
lia. More than fifty of those cases involved demonic
possession.
Just as they approached the lectern, the telephone
rang once. The call had been quickly intercepted by
the answering machine that Ed had turned on just
before leaving the house, to make sure the class
would not be interrupted.
Since they had not yet started the class, Lorraine

Satan's Harvest ♦ 151
leaned over to Ed and whispered, "Honey, do you
want me to get it?"
Ed frowned. "That's why we've got an answering
machine. We'll return the call as soon as class is
over."
Lorraine knew Ed was right. Their phone was
constantly ringing off the wall. Half the time it was
just some crank. Ever since the release of Ghostbus-
ters, everybody and his brother was seeing ghosts.
But that didn't mean they didn't have to take each
call seriously. Any one of them could be real. And
Lorraine felt that this call might be one of those.
She sensed that someone was in deep distress and
that she and Ed might be the only ones who could
help. She let out a little sigh, thinking she'd go
ahead with the class, but she'd probably be dis-
tracted, unable to get that phone call out of her
mind.
Ed took off his vest and placed it over the back of
a chair. Lorraine lit two more white candles. Then
Ed began to pray to St. Michael the Archangel and
St. Theresa. The students prayed with them.
"Now, I'm going to talk a little about demonic
possession," Ed began. "People don't become pos-
sessed by devils or demons by accident. Doors have
to be opened. Once you try to communicate with
them, you open the door."
Sometimes, he said, that happens when a person
starts playing with a Ouija board. The Ouija board is
a definite way to invite spirits in, he said, and you
don't know what kind of spirit you're going to get.
It's like going into a crowded street and asking a
total stranger to come into your house, he ex-

152 ♦ Satan's Harvest
plained. "You're likely to run into trouble." Other
times, he noted, a person can be singled out as a
victim by a deceased relative.
And it's not always "the devil" who possesses peo-
ple or houses, Ed told the transfixed audience.
"Rather, it is usually one of millions of demons.
These are the angels who were cast out of heaven."
Possession, he matter-of-factly explained, is the
fourth stage of demonic activity. First comes en-
croachment, where a negative spirit is given an
opening to a human being, either through voluntary
means, such as a satanic ritual, or through involun-
tary means, such as a curse or the performance of
an unholy act. The second stage is infestation, when
the demons first haunt a person's house. The third
stage is oppression, when the spirits begin trying to
take over the person living in the house. The final
stage, after possession, is death.
"We're not talking about fairy tales or ghost sto-
ries," Ed told his audience. "When diabolical energy
takes over, it has full command of the body. The
person doesn't realize what happens. He can't use
his own faculties." Sometimes, Ed added, a person
can be possessed by more than one spirit, and spir-
its can be both human and inhuman.
"To get rid of the spirits, an exorcist must com-
mand them to leave in the name of Jesus," he went
on. Ed said that he was not an exorcist—only an
ordained priest can be one. But he described his
work with exorcists to help drive out the evil spirits.
Then he took a shot at some of the scientific
parapsychologists who also study so-called "para-
normal" phenomena. "We'll work with them," he

Satan's Harvest ♦ 153
said. "But we also work with priests. They don't. We
believe there is only one person who can deliver a
man or a home from a demon. That is an ordained
minister of God."
A young woman in the front row put up her hand.
"You have a question?" Ed said.
"Do weird things really happen like in The Exor-
cist?'
Ed smiled. "You mean do objects fly around the
house? Do strange voices call out? Do possessed
people really perform superhuman feats of
strength? Can they speak foreign languages they
have never studied? Do they bleed? Vomit in gro-
tesque colors?"
A few students laughed.
"Don't laugh," Ed said, his expression turning se-
rious. "All those things have been known to happen.
But that's not the half of it. I have been cut and
slashed. Spirits have carved out marks and symbols
on my body. I have been tossed around the room
like a toy. Demons are very serious. And fighting
them is very serious business."
Ed explained that when he is called by someone
seeking help, his first task is to determine if the dis-
turbance is being caused by a spirit. Like the scien-
tific parapsychologists, he wants to find proof. Un-
like them, however, he sometimes finds it.
"Spirit manifestations are orderly and observ-
able," he said. "When they are genuine Lorraine
and I work with the clergy to bring an end to the
torture that a person or family may be going
through."
One thing that must be determined, Lorraine

154 ♦ Satan's Harvest
said, is whether the spirit is human or inhuman.
"When a spirit is causing phenomena to occur in a
home, it's usually being caused by a ghost," she said,
explaining that a ghost is the spirit of a human be-
ing who died a sudden death and is stuck between
worlds. They simply may not realize they are dead.
Or they may not be emotionally ready to leave this
plane. The spirit, she noted, will attempt to make
the earthly world aware of its presence by trying to
manipulate the physical environment—making
sounds, knocking on walls, that sort of thing.
"Basically, the ghost is calling out for help," Lor-
raine said. "So we help them. We help them move
along to the next dimension. They're not evil,
they're just unhappy."
Then Ed stepped back up to the lectern. "But
there's another type of spirit we encounter in our
work," he said, his voice louder than before. "It's the
inhuman spirit. That's an entity totally unworthy of
life. And because it is so unworthy it has been pre-
vented from taking on a physical existence. This is
the demon. The name comes from his eternal hate
of both man and God. The demonic spirit is another
thing altogether from the human spirit. It is dedi-
cated to death and destruction. It can manipulate
the physical environment easily, whereas the hu-
man spirit usually cannot. The demonic spirit's goal
is fear, injury, and, if possible, death."
The students were riveted to their seats, but one
young man looked at Ed skeptically. Ed could feel a
challenge coming on.
The young man wore a bulky black wool sweater
under a faded blue-jean jacket. He was probably no

Satan's Harvest ♦ 155
older than nineteen. He had long blond hair and a
faint trace of a beard. He rolled his eyes as Ed fin-
ished his last sentence. "Come on. How do we know
any of this is true?" he blurted out.
Ed just smiled. "I'm glad you asked that ques-
tion," he said. "First of all, let me ask you if you
believe in God. Do you?"
The young man fidgeted in his seat. "Well, not re-
ally. I'm an atheist or maybe an agnostic. I'm not
really sure. I have to have proof. If God actually
showed Himself to me, then maybe I'd believe."
Ed pointed to the young man. "It's atheists like
this who never believe," he said. "But it's not just me
who says this is so."
He explained that demonology—the study of de-
mons—is a legitimate category of theology, with its
own literature. Cases have been studied extensively
over many years, he noted. The Roman Catholic
Church teaches classes in the subject at its seminar-
ies and universities in Rome.
In 1975, Ed told the class, a conference on the
subject was held behind closed doors at the Univer-
sity of Notre Dame. The conference was entitled "A
Theological, Psychological, Medical Symposium on
the Phenomenon Labeled as Demonic."
"Papers that came from the conference confirmed
the reality of demonic oppression and possession,"
said Ed, speaking firmly and punctuating each sylla-
ble by tapping his pointed finger on the lectern.
"But, of course, if you don't believe in the Al-
mighty, then you don't believe in the devil either,"
he concluded. "If that's the case, you probably don't
belong here tonight. You may stay, but I ask that

156 ♦ Satan's Harvest
you try to keep an open mind. You may learn some-
thing. Any other questions?"
"What was your most frightening case?" asked an
innocent-looking blond woman in her mid-twen-
ties.
"That's easy," Ed said. "We were involved as the
chief investigators of a haunting on Long Island
that you might have heard about. It became the sub-
ject of a best-selling book and movie. Anybody here
remember The Amityville Horror?"
A few jaws dropped. Obviously that had struck a
familiar chord.
"To this day, that remains one of the worst cases
that we've ever been involved with and certainly
one of the most controversial," Ed said.
In the Amityville case in the mid-1970's, George
and Kathleen Lutz and their three children had
been forced to flee from a house they had pur-
chased two years earlier in the Long Island suburb
of Amityville. They fled after having been victim-
ized by what they said were supernatural forces. It
turned out that a year before they bought the house
the eldest son of the previous owner had murdered
the six sleeping members of his family. After inves-
tigation, the Warrens concluded that the house was
haunted not by ghosts but by inhuman spirits.
But the Amityville case was only one of many
highly publicized cases in which the Warrens had
been involved. There was the case of the hauntings
at the U.S. Military Academy at West Point in 1972.
The Warrens were called in to investigate a haunt-
ing at the home of the Academy's commanding gen-
eral.	H

Satan's Harvest ♦ 157
And of course there was the highly publicized
case of demonic possession in Brookfield, Connecti-
cut, in 1979-80. In that case, a young man by the
name of Arne Johnson was charged with stabbing
another young man, Alan Bono, to death. Johnson's
defense? Not guilty by reason of demonic posses-
sion. Unfortunately for Johnson, the judge wouldn't
allow the unusual defense and he was found guilty
of manslaughter. But the Warrens, who investigated
the case, were convinced Johnson was possessed
and had become possessed after he challenged the
demon who had earlier been haunting Arne's young
friend, eleven-year-old David Glatzel. The case was
also made into a book, The Devil in Connecticut.
"That was our most shocking case since the one in
Amityville," Ed said.
The young man who had challenged Ed earlier
seemed to be more accepting of what Ed was saying
now that he'd heard of the many famous cases Ed
had been called in to investigate. But when he
snickered and leaned over, whispering something
to the girl sitting next to him, Ed knew he hadn't yet
convinced him completely.
"Is something still bothering you?" he asked.
The young man nodded. "Yeah," he said. "How
come you publicize your cases so much? You seem
like a couple of publicity hounds to me."
A big smile came over Ed's face. "You can call us
whatever you like, but the truth is that we positively
want notoriety and exposure for our cases," he said.
"It is only through the exposure of these case histo-
ries that others who suffer the same diabolical fates
can be enlightened about the existence of the preter-

158 ♦ Satan's Harvest
natural world. And we expose cases only with the
full consent of the people involved. There are liter-
ally hundreds of cases that we have kept from the
public's eye because the people involved didn't want
any publicity."
Ed explained that the publicity also spreads the
word about the New England Society for Psychic
Research, a Christian ministry he and Lorraine di-
rect. The society is a metaphysical organization that
bases its beliefs upon Christian doctrine and the
teachings of Jesus Christ. "We've got dozens of vol-
unteers who help us," Ed said. "They receive no
compensation. Their only reward is helping these
victims of diabolical attacks."
Ed then turned on a tape recorder that sat on a
table next to the lectern. "I think you might be inter-
ested in hearing this," he said, chuckling just a little.
On the tape, an elderly woman talked about a
haunted house across the street from her. After a
few minutes Ed stopped the tape and warned the
students to pay special attention. "The sounds you
will hear in the background could not have been
made by a human voice," he said.
He restarted the tape as the students strained to
hear. In the background a voice seemed to be laugh-
ing. But the voice sounded as if it were coming
from the bottom of a well. And it was deep, gut-
tural, and had a sinister tone. The disturbing laugh
was repeated several times. Then the tape abruptly
stopped.
"If that isn't diabolical, I don't know what is," Ed
said, turning off the machine.
As he headed toward the door, several of the stu-

Satan's Harvest ♦ 159
dents just stayed in their seats, stunned by what
they had heard. Others charged after Ed and Lor-
raine to ask questions.
Ed stood by the door, attempting to accommodate
the students as much as he could, but Lorraine was
tugging at his jacket.
"Remember, we've got a message on the machine,
and I have the feeling it may be an important one,"
she whispered into her husband's ear. With her ESP
abilities—proven in tests at UCLA—Lorraine was
rarely wrong about a hunch or intuition.
"Jeez, I almost forgot," Ed replied.
Then he turned to the students surrounding them.
"Sorry, kids, we've got to go," he said. "We may have
a new case."
They walked briskly into the house and headed
directly to the telephone-answering machine.
Ed hit the Play button and wandered over to the
refrigerator to pour himself a glass of juice.
An elderly voice played back on the little answer-
ing-machine speaker. "Hello, this is Father Homer
Boyer at St. Paul's Church in Warren, Massachu-
setts. Ah, a couple in my parish has been having
trouble recently. Strange things have been happen-
ing to them. Terrible things. I fear their house may
be possessed. I read about you in a book and
thought you might be able to help. But hurry. The
situation is deteriorating rapidly. Please call me as
soon as possible. And God bless you."
Ed and Lorraine looked at each other.
"Did you hear the way his voice was quivering?"
Lorraine said.

160 ♦ Satan's Harvest
"He's frightened," Ed said. "We better call him
right away."
It was after ten, but the Warrens knew the priest
would be anxiously awaiting their call.
Ed picked up the phone and dialed the number
the priest had left on the tape.
Father Boyer was still in his office, sitting by the
phone, paging through The Demonologist. Nancy
Theriault had called again since he had made his
call to the Warrens. This time, she reported, Mau-
rice was sitting in his easy chair, a faraway look in
his eyes, reciting phrases in a language she didn't
understand.
At first Father Boyer suspected he was simply
speaking French, his native tongue. But Nancy in-
sisted it wasn't French. She had heard him speak
French hundreds of times. This didn't sound any-
thing like French. She said it sounded more like the
language the priests used to use to say Mass, before
everything had been changed by Vatican II.
"Latin?" Father Boyer asked.
"Yeah, Latin," Nancy said. "I think he's speakin'
Latin. But he's never said a word in Latin in all the
years I've known him. He was never an altar boy or
nothin', and he's never gone to Mass all that much.
How come all of a sudden he can speak Latin?"
Father Boyer was dumbfounded. "I don't know,
Mrs. Theriault," he said. "I don't know. There are
some things going on here that I can't explain. But
I've called the people that can help, and I'm waiting
to hear from them. Please hang up and give them a
chance to call me back."
He hung up the phone and opened his prayer

Satan's Harvest ♦ 161
book. He decided to say a few prayers in the hope
that it might hasten a return phone call from the
Warrens.
Father Boyer had dozed off at his desk after about
five minutes of prayer. It was late and it had been a
long day. When the phone rang about ten minutes
later, it almost knocked him off his chair.
"Father Boyer here," he answered.
"Father, this is Ed Warren. Sorry I'm calling so
late, but I just got finished teaching a class. You
sounded anxious. How can I help?"
The priest told Ed what had been going on with
Maurice Theriault. He gave him a pretty good run-
down on what he knew, trying hard to remember
everything that Nancy had told him. He told Ed of
Maurice's bleeding eyes, of his sudden ability to
speak Latin, about how he was pushed down the
church stairs by an invisible force.
Father Boyer may have forgotten some things,
but he figured he had remembered enough to give
Ed an idea of what was happening. "I fear their
house may be haunted or possessed," the priest said.
"But I'm no expert in the field. That's why I called
you."
Right away, from what Father Boyer had re-
counted, Ed knew he'd have to go up to Warren and
investigate. "Father, give me their number. I'll call
them right away. I think Lorraine and I will have to
drive up there tomorrow."
After hanging up with the priest, Ed called the
Theriaults and spoke to Nancy. She recounted some
of the things that had been happening. Some of the
incidents Ed had already heard from Father Boyer.

162 ♦ Satan's Harvest
Some were new, such as the two Maurices, the car
driving by itself, the messages scratched into
Maurice's back.
"I'd like to come up there tomorrow, if the
weather's good," Ed said. "Is that okay with you?"
"Of course it's okay," Nancy replied. "I wish you
could be here right now. I can't take much more."
"Don't you worry," Ed reassured her. "We'll do
everything we can to help. And tonight make sure to
say your prayers."
Nancy was so relieved. Now they were going to
get some real help.
When Ed hung up the phone he turned on the
television to get the weather forecast. It was Febru-
ary 17, and there had been some talk about a snow-
storm. Fortunately the forecast was for clear skies
until later in the week.
"Let's plan on getting up early," Lorraine said,
closing up the large road atlas she had been looking
at. "It's a pretty long drive and I think we ought to
get there with a few hours of daylight to spare."
"Sounds good," Ed said, heading off into the bed-
room. Then a thought came to him. "Honey, what
do you think about asking Linda Fedele to come
along with us. She's been wanting to help us investi-
gate a case, and it might be a good idea to have a
police officer with us."
Lorraine agreed right away. "That's a great idea,"
she said. "I don't think she's working tomorrow. I'll
give her a call."
Linda Fedele was a detective with the police de-
partment in Norwalk, Connecticut, a city on the
Long Island Sound, located about forty-five minutes

Satan's Harvest ♦ 163
south of Monroe. In the course of her job she had
investigated many occult-type crimes and had de-
veloped an interest in the subject. She had even lec-
tured on it to other police departments. Over the
years she had crossed paths with the Warrens sev-
eral times, and they had come to be friends.
When Lorraine called, Linda jumped at the invi-
tation. And Lorraine was glad she had. Bringing a
police officer along couldn't hurt. And the gun she
carried would serve as a form of protection in case
things got out of hand.
Lorraine told Ed the good news that Linda had
agreed to come with them. "I told her to be here by
ten o'clock," she said.
"That's good, because I don't want to leave much
later than that," Ed replied.
As they got into bed, Ed reached over and picked
up his well-worn Bible. "I think I'll read a few pas-
sages before dozing off," he said to Lorraine.
"What do you make of this?" she asked.
"It sounds pretty frightening," he said. "I have a
feeling we're going to have our work cut out for us."
Then he looked into Lorraine's worried eyes and
grinned. "Hey, who ya gonna call?"
She laughed and felt better. Whenever Ed re-
peated that line from Ghostbusters she always
laughed. It helped to ease her anxiety. But she had a
feeling there would be no joking when tomorrow
rolled around. She said a prayer as her head hit the
pillow.
Ed and Lorraine were up bright and early the
next morning. Lorraine prepared a hearty breakfast

164 ♦ Satan's Harvest
of bacon and eggs, and while they ate they plotted
their route to Warren on a road map.
Monroe is in rural southeastern Connecticut,
halfway between New Haven and the New York
state line, about a two-hour drive from New York
City. They'd head north on a couple of back roads
until they could pick up 1-84, the new interstate.
Once on 1-84, Ed figured they could make good time
heading northeast toward Massachusetts. The 1-84
would take them past Waterbury, Bristol, and also
New Britain, the city where Maurice had lived years
before. At Hartford they'd take 1-91 directly north
toward Springfield, where they would catch the
Massachusetts Turnpike east to the exit at Palmer.
From there it would be only a few minutes on two
small roads, Routes 32 and 67, until they got to War-
ren. The day was bitterly cold but the skies were
clear, so weather wouldn't be costing them time. In
all, the ride would take a little more than two hours.
They were so busy planning the trip and thinking
about what they might have to confront that Lor-
raine almost forgot that it was February 18, the an-
niversary of her father's death seventeen years ear-
lier.
The realization called for a slight change in plans.
"We'd better go to Mass," she told Ed. He agreed,
and they hurried to get dressed and rush off to
nearby St. Stephen's Church for the eight a.m. ser-
vice.
At Mass, Lorraine prayed not only for the soul of
her beloved father but also for that of Maurice
Theriault. She could feel that something terrible
was going on in Warren and that she and Ed were

Satan's Harvest ♦ 165
going to be in for a battle—maybe the battle of their
lives.
After Mass was over, Ed and Lorraine headed
back home to wait for Linda and to pack up their
beige Chevy Chevette with everything they would
need to investigate the goings-on at Maurice Ther-
iault's house: a bottle of holy water, a tape recorder,
camera, a special crucifix that Ed took with him on
all their cases, and relics of several saints, including
Padre Pio, the venerated saint who was known for
his stigmata—the near-constant bleeding from his
hands, feet, and left side—just like Christ on the
cross. Padre Pio was also celebrated for innumera-
ble miracles of healing. The relic had been given to
the Warrens by officials of the Church in Rome. Ed
and Lorraine also made sure to wear medals of the
Blessed Virgin around their necks. They never went
on a case without them.
Linda arrived shortly after ten. Thirty-two years
old, she looked trim and sturdy in her jeans and
V-neck sweater. Her curly brown hair was pulled
back in a ponytail. After a quick cup of coffee they
hit the road. On the way, they filled Linda in on as
much as they knew about the case of Maurice Ther-
iault.
They had been driving about two hours and fif-
teen minutes when they saw the sign on Route 67
that said "Entering Warren."
When they got to Brimfield Road they began look-
ing out for the farmhouse. Lorraine didn't need to
check the number on the mailbox to know that they
had arrived. As soon as they were within eyesight of
the Theriault property, she pointed and said, "That's

166 ♦ Satan's Harvest
it. That's the house. I can feel it." Sure enough, it
was. As they pulled into the driveway, the Warrens
saw a modest farmhouse that was badly in need of
repairs. It was perched on a knoll surrounded by
several other buildings, including a makeshift
greenhouse with plastic over it and a number of
pieces of old farm equipment. The gravel driveway
was the only evidence of any landscaping. The front
yard was patrolled by a big German shepherd sur-
rounded by half a dozen kittens.
As they got out of the car Nancy Theriault opened
the kitchen door, popped her head out, and said,
"Welcome to our home. I'm glad you're here."
She looked almost exactly as Lorraine had imag-
ined her. She was wearing jeans and an untucked
corduroy shirt. Her red-brown hair was curly and
she wore no makeup. She was a real country girl.
And Lorraine could see that this country girl had
been under incredible stress. Her darkened eyes
and the lines on her forehead attested to that.
"Come on in," Nancy said. "Maurice is at the ta-
ble. I'm going to make some coffee."
Inside, the room was heated by an old pot-bellied
stove. Maurice sat at the table, staring into space.
He wore coveralls and a corduroy shirt that looked
a lot like the one Nancy was wearing. He had a pen-
cil-thin mustache and his brown hair was thinning
a bit at the top. His leathery face evidenced a life-
time of hard work.
But more than that, the aura Lorraine saw sur-
rounding him was dark and muddy. Terrible. He's
scary to look at, she thought.
Ed sized Maurice up quickly, too, and saw that,

Satan's Harvest ♦ 167
despite his small size, he was a strong man. He had
muscles on top of muscles. Ed glanced over at
Linda Fedele. He knew she had her gun in her purse
and he was glad of that. If Maurice was a nutcase,
they might need it. And if he wasn't, well, they still
might need it.
They sat down around the table, sipped coffee,
and talked for the next couple of hours. Nancy
again did most of the talking, telling the Warrens of
Maurice's lifetime of incredible incidents. She told
the Warrens what she had once told Father Boyer—
that she thought Maurice or the house was some-
how being haunted by the spirit of her mother.
But right off the bat Ed doubted that was the case.
If the things Nancy was telling them were true,
there was no way they could have been caused by a
human spirit.
What happened next only helped to confirm that
feeling.
As Nancy talked, Maurice mostly just sat there,
nodding and staring blankly into space. But at one
point, when Nancy spoke of Maurice's mother,
Maurice put his hand to his brow and began to cry.
Linda noticed it first, and when she did she al-
most fell off her chair. Maurice was crying tears of
blood!
The veteran police detective had seen plenty of
blood in her thirteen years as a cop, but never any-
thing like this. She nudged Lorraine to look. Simul-
taneously, Nancy and Ed had noticed the bleeding
too. Nancy jumped up to get a box of tissues and
handed one to Maurice, who dabbed at his eyes to
soak up the blood.

168 ♦ Satan's Harvest
Once the bleeding had stopped, Ed began asking
questions. "How often does this happen, Maurice?"
he asked.
"It happens often enough," Nancy answered.
"Usually when he gets angry or upset."
Ed mulled the possibilities over in his mind. Ei-
ther Maurice had a rare medical problem, or the
bleeding was a case of stigmata—a manifestation of
the bleeding wounds of Christ.
The bleeding stopped when Maurice stopped cry-
ing, but it would start up again several times before
the day was over, whenever the discussion recre-
ated some difficult and disturbing time in Maurice's
troubled life.
Ed had a sense that Maurice might have come
under demonic possession, but that would have re-
quired an entry. Maybe there had been an incident
that could have provided an entry point.
By delving back into Maurice's past, Ed hit on a
couple of matters that might explain what was hap-
pening. The first was the incident with Maurice and
his father in the barn, back when Maurice was just
a youngster. That unholy act, Ed figured, definitely
could have opened a door for evil to enter.
There was also the time when, as an overworked
youngster in the fields, Maurice asked for the help
of an invisible force—and seemed to get it. That
could have provided another point of entry.
And then there was the curse put on Maurice by
old Willy Dumont. If the door was already open,
that might have opened the door even wider, Ed
thought.
When they were through, Ed didn't say anything

Satan's Harvest ♦ 169
to Maurice or Nancy about what might have caused
the unusual occurrences. Instead he just told them
that he would be in touch with Father Boyer and
would be sending some researchers up to the house
at a later date to do some investigating.
Ed, Lorraine, and Linda then drove off to the Sa-
lem Croft Inn in nearby West Brookfield to get some
dinner and listen to the tapes of the conversation
they had just concluded with Maurice and Nancy.
Linda was shocked by several of the things she
had heard. But she just couldn't get over Maurice's
bleeding eyes. "Do you think there's a medical ex-
planation?" she asked.
Ed swallowed his last piece of apple pie, put
down his fork, and leaned back in his chair. "If only
there were," he said.
"Then what do you think is going on?" Linda
asked.
"I think something terrible is going on there," he
said. "I suspect Maurice is possessed. But we won't
be able to say for sure until we conduct a full inves-
tigation. We've got to get a team in there right
away."
Back home again in Monroe the next day, Ed be-
gan calling some of his most trusted assistants, lin-
ing up a team that could assist in the investigation
into the Maurice Theriault case.
In addition to Linda, Ed would ask two college
students—both named Chris—who often worked to-
gether on these cases: Chris McKinnell and Chris
Marshall. They were trusted assistants who never
shied away from a frightening case. When Ed

170 ♦ Satan's Harvest
needed people to spend the night in a haunted
house or with a person who was suspected of being
possessed, "the two Chrisses" were usually the first
ones he would call.
Roger Coyle, a patrolman with the Bristol, Con-
necticut, police department, was another valuable
assistant. Roger usually worked with his friend, A1
Vogel.
Larry Elward and Charles Carvatas, two friends
who worked in a nursing home in Bridgeport, not
far from the Warrens' home in Monroe, also usually
worked together. Larry would later become a sub-
deacon in St. Anthony's Maronite Catholic Church
in Danbury.
Rounding out the group would be Danny St. Lau-
rent, a muscular weightlifter; Peter Walukiewicz, a
student of the Warrens'; and Marcella Leone. Ed fig-
ured Danny's strength might come in handy.
But before Ed sent his troops up to observe, he
decided he would need to return to Warren once
more, to talk with Father Boyer. He and Lorraine
decided to drive up on the weekend.
They met with Father Boyer in the rectory of St.
Paul's Church at noon on Saturday. Ed and Lor-
raine had gotten a good feeling about him from
their conversation on the phone that night, and
their meeting in person only confirmed that feeling.
The Warrens found the priest not only willing to
work closely with them but also willing to call on
his friend and former classmate, the Most Reverend
Timothy J. Harrington, bishop of the Roman Catho-
lic diocese of Worcester, for help if necessary.
That was good news as far as Ed and Lorraine

Satan's Harvest ♦ 171
were concerned. After talking at length with Father
Boyer, they had a feeling that the bishop might be
needed—but for more than what the priest had an-
ticipated.
Father Boyer had been out to bless the house,
thinking it might be haunted or possessed. But Ed
suspected something more hideous.
"Father," Ed said, "I'm going to level with you. I
think that Maurice has come under demonic posses-
sion. We haven't proven it, of course. We still have
to do our investigation. But that's my suspicion. If it
turns out to be the case, exorcism may be needed.
And as you know, the only one who can authorize
an exorcism is the bishop. We may need your help
there."
"You've got it, Ed," the priest replied. "If we need
it, I'll call the bishop personally. But I hope to God
we won't."
Ed could see the apprehension in the priest's eyes.
"Frightened?" he asked.
Father Boyer sat down at his desk, swung his
chair around, and looked out the window to the
street below. "I still shudder when I think about the
day the priest who preceded me here told me of his
encounter with Satan," he said. "He was pushed
around for six hours. He was exhausted. He said he
didn't ever want to do it again. He said he was in the
same room with a demon. That priest died the next
month at the age of fifty-five. Does that answer your
question?"
Ed realized he had asked a stupid question. Of
course the priest was frightened. Who wouldn't be?
"I'm frightened too, Father," Ed replied.

172 ♦ Satan's Harvest
"Why don't we go over to the church and pray?"
the priest said.
The two men walked slowly out of the rectory
and over to the church. As they walked together
they didn't say a word.
The battle was about to begin.

10
Police Chief Sean LeBoeuf was still reeling from
the events at the Theriault farmhouse two days be-
fore. He couldn't shake the image of Maurice, sit-
ting there at the kitchen table, dazed and bleeding,
out of his mind.
He really preferred not to think about it, and usu-
ally he was good at shutting out the terribly things
that happen to people, things that a cop sees in the
normal line of duty. But this Theriault case was dif-
ficult to ignore.
When LeBoeuf had first become aware that there
was something odd going on at the farmhouse on
Brimfield Road, he simply figured he had an arson-
ist on his hands. But then that suspected arsonist,
Frenchy Theriault, had come into the station and
turned in his guns, making the incredible claim that
he was possessed and was seeing a psychic.
The normally unshakable ex-marine could deal

174 ♦ Satan's Harvest
with that. Frenchy, he had concluded, was con-
cocting a story to cover up having set his own place
on fire to collect the insurance money. And he was
probably paying a fortune-teller to back up his
story.
As a nine-year veteran of the Warren Police De-
partment, with an associate degree in criminal jus-
tice from Quinsigmond Community College in
Worcester, LeBoeuf knew that arson was the hard-
est crime to prove. But the thirty-five-year-old cop
also had confidence in himself and State Fire Mar-
shall Frank Moore. He figured that if they couldn't
trip up this dim-witted farmer, they ought to turn in
their badges.
But then he and Trooper Bernard had been called
to the farmhouse. LeBoeuf didn't know what the
heck had taken place, but he knew what he'd seen.
He'd seen Frenchy covered with blood and Nancy
screaming hysterically.
And then Father Boyer had told him about the
pair of demonologists that he'd called in. Psychics
and demonologists! What next?
Although LeBoeuf had been brought up in the
nearby village of West Brookfield, he'd been
around. During his four-year stint in the marines,
LeBoeuf had been stationed in Scotland and in
Guantanamo Bay, Cuba. In addition to being widely
traveled, he had studied for two years at Worcester
State College, pursuing an associate's degree in psy-
chology.
He could usually spot a con a mile away. And as
much as he liked old Father Boyer, he knew that the
priest was getting old and wasn't as sharp as he'd

Satan's Harvest ♦ 175
once been. LeBoeuf was determined to make sure
that he and the town of Warren weren't going to
be exploited—either by Frenchy or by these
"demonologists."
LeBoeuf decided he'd better take a drive up to the
farmhouse to see what he could see. He parked his
cruiser out on the road, out of sight, and scoped out
the driveway to the Theriault home. There he saw
something that bothered him.
There was a black Ford Elite parked in the drive-
way—a car he had never seen before at the Ther-
iault home. Moreover, he could tell from a distance
that the car had out-of-state plates. The plate was
blue—from Connecticut.
He walked up the steep slope until he could make
out the license plate. LeBoeuf couldn't believe his
eyes. The plate read: GHOST.
He didn't know whether to laugh or cry.
But he knew what he would do as soon as he got
back to the station. He'd run a check on that plate to
see who he was dealing with. LeBoeuf made it back
to the station in record time. It didn't take long for
the check to be completed. The car was registered to
a Lorraine Warren of Monroe, Connecticut.
The chief drove back out to Frenchy's the next
day and confronted the farmer about the car with
the GHOST license plates. Maurice was just getting
ready to leave for town and was surprised to see
LeBoeuf. The police chief approached Maurice
without saying a word. LeBoeuf, wearing mirrored
aviation-style sunglasses that threw Maurice's im-
age back toward him, folded his arms over his
chest.

176 ♦ Satan's Harvest
"Frenchy, who's driving that black car with Con-
necticut plates?" he asked. "I saw it parked in front
of your house the other day."
The farmer glanced up and raised his eyebrows as
if to ask, What were you doing, spying on me? But
he decided against baiting the imposing officer.
"Those are the psychics I told you about. The ones
I'm seeing for my problem. The ones who told me to
turn in my guns. They're helping me get rid of this
thing that's haunting me."
LeBoeuf assumed a look of disbelief. "Psychics?"
he said.
"Yeah," Frenchy said. "Father Boyer calls 'em
demonologists."
LeBoeuf nodded. "Mind if I come by and meet
them sometime?" he asked.
"Suit yourself," Frenchy replied. "I don't care.
They'll be back up on Saturday." Maurice wasn't
crazy about having LeBoeuf poking about, but
maybe it would be good if he understood, he
thought.
When Saturday rolled around, LeBoeuf decided
to go arid meet these so-called demonologists.
Ed Warren was walking down the path leading
from the Theriaults' side door when LeBoeuf pulled
up in his cruiser. As soon as he saw the police car,
Ed turned around and began heading back to the
door, pretending not to have noticed.
"Hold it a second, pal," the chief barked from his
open window. He turned off the engine. This guy is
starting to irritate me already, he thought.
Ed didn't turn around but kept on walking.
Now LeBoeuf was getting irritated. This guy's not

Satan's Harvest ♦ 177
going to make it easy for me, he thought. "Excuse
me, fella," the police chief said, getting out of the
cruiser, "But I'd like to ask you a few questions."
Ed stopped and turned to face the cop. The usu-
ally easygoing demonologist didn't like what he
saw. Look at this guy, Ed thought. He thinks he's
General Patton. That uniform. Those boots. That
shining brass. That condescending attitude. That
stiff macho body language. However, he said,
"Hello, officer. My name is Ed Warren. Is there
something I can do for you?" Ed, figuring he had
better show some respect, added, "Why don't we go
in and have a cup of coffee?"
"I just want to know what you folks are doing
here," LeBoeuf said. "I like to know what's going on
in my town."
Ed Warren had faced police officers before. They
never seemed to believe. He wasn't going to let Gen-
eral Patton interfere with his efforts to rid Maurice
of the demon that was making his life insufferable.
"I said, I just want to know who you folks are and
what you're doing here," LeBoeuf said. "Just a mat-
ter of routine."
Maybe, Ed thought. Maybe not. He decided to
take the initiative.
"Hey, Chief," Ed said, touching his arm lightly, "I
can tell by your attitude that you are a nonbeliever."
LeBoeuf didn't flinch and Ed continued.
"But you are involved in something here that you
don't understand and that you are not willing to
accept. And that's because you don't want to accept
it. But to truly comprehend what's happening to

178 ♦ Satan's Harvest
Maurice Theriault, you'll need some understanding
of what this is all about."
Ed wondered if this was registering at all.
LeBoeuf shrugged. Actually Ed was getting
through, but LeBoeuf simply hated thinking about
stuff like this; the whole subject frustrated him.
"Now, come on, Chief," Ed said. "Let me explain
everything that's happened here."
With that, LeBoeuf relaxed a little. They walked
together into the farmhouse. Nancy was half expect-
ing Chief LeBoeuf to show up, because of his little
interrogation of Maurice the day before. She
quickly poured two cups of coffee and then went
into the bedroom to tidy up.
The chief listened to Ed for ten minutes. Although
impressed with Ed's professionalism, he knew that
he and this "demonologist" were there for different
reasons. LeBoeuf knew that he was there for a crim-
inal investigation. This psychic investigator was
there for something else, the chief thought. Maybe
money. Maybe sensationalism. Maybe religion.
Whatever, their interests weren't the same.
LeBoeuf knew he wasn't going to get any help
from the Warrens; that was obvious. He just hoped
he wasn't going to be hindered too much in his in-
vestigation.
"Well, I'd appreciate it if you'd keep me in-
formed," LeBoeuf said on the way back to the
cruiser.
"Sure thing, Chief," Ed replied. Just as much as
you need to be, he thought.
LeBoeuf knew that he was being shut out. He
walked back to his cruiser and drove off, still trying

Satan's Harvest ♦ 179
to put his finger on just what was going on. He
promised himself he would continue to investigate
until he was satisfied that Frenchy Theriault was—
or wasn't—an arsonist.
One might think that the Church would be eager
to perform exorcisms. After all, what could be
greater proof of the power and efficacy of the Ro-
man religion than the ability to cure what can't be
otherwise cured—or understood. Aside from mira-
cles, what greater example of the ultimate power
for good?
But, as is the case with miracles, the Church,
afraid of the sensationalism and exploitation which
inevitably accompany such cases, is often reluctant
to step in. One of its requirements, in the case of
exorcism, is that the person believed to be possessed
undergo a psychiatric evaluation.
During the ordeal of Maurice Theriault, the Rev-
erend Peter Conley, spokesman for the Boston arch-
diocese, expressed that reluctance in an interview
printed in a Boston newspaper on the subject of de-
monic possession. "In my twenty-one years in the
priesthood I've never heard of a genuine case of
possession," he said. "The advance of psychology
puts a whole different perspective on these cases."
So there was much rejoicing in the Theriault
house when the diocese agreed to furnish a Catholic
psychiatrist to evaluate Maurice. This could be the
first step toward freeing Maurice of the demons that
were making his life a living hell, they thought.
Ed, Lorraine, Nancy, and Maurice were sitting to-
gether at the kitchen table on a sunny Monday

180 ♦ Satan's Harvest
morning discussing the news the Warrens had
brought. "Now they'll see that it's not his imagina-
tion Or some trick he's playing," said Nancy.
Ed Warren, who had seen hundreds of cases of
demonic possession, was less sure. He knew that if
the Church is reluctant to acknowledge cases of pos-
session, then the psychiatric profession is a hun-
dred times more reluctant. He was trying to appear
confident for the Theriaults' sake, but his concern
was mirrored in his body language. He sat stiffly,
chin in hand, looking out the window.
He mulled the situation over in his mind. The
problem, from a doctor's point of view, is that many
of the symptoms attributed by the superstitious to
demonic forces can often be equally well assigned
to chemical and psychological disorders. A doctor is
aware that people who suffer from what is now
known to be epilepsy, for example, were once
thought to have been possessed.
"Let's hope we get one who has an open mind and
who can admit that there are things he doesn't un-
derstand," said Ed as Lorraine nodded agreement.
Maurice stared at the crumpled napkin in front of
him, saying nothing. For him, this meeting might be
the beginning of a cure, an end to the bizarre occur-
rences that had haunted his life since childhood and
that were now tearing it apart. He wondered if he
would ever feel "normal"—not that he knew what
that was, exactly.
The group sat in silence at the kitchen table, each
person speculating about the upcoming meeting
with the psychiatrist. The ring of the telephone shat-

Satan's Harvest ♦ 181
tered the quiet. Nancy jumped, then quickly moved
in the direction of the phone.
"Hello," she said, her voice showing a mixture of
anticipation and trepidation. "Yes, Father. He's
here. Just a second."
She turned to the table and looked at Ed. "It's for
you," she said. "It's Father Boyer."
Ed got up and took the call. After speaking quietly
for a minute or two, Ed hung up and turned back to
the table. "He wants us to come up to the rectory,"
he announced. "That's where the doctor will meet
Maurice."
In the car on the way over, the silence persisted.
Even talkative Nancy was deep in thought. Maurice
stared out the window, expressionless. He had a
suspicion of psychiatrists—"head-crackers," he
called them.
What if he was crazy and they locked him up, but
he was still possessed and didn't have Nancy there
with him? The usual sensations of helplessness and
trepidation were becoming magnified under all the
official scrutiny. He prayed silently to the Virgin
Mary.
Maurice had a childlike belief that Father Boyer,
having a special connection to God, could somehow
interpret his good side and convey it upward. So he
wore a large smile when he saw the priest sitting
behind his desk at the rectory of St. Paul's. He
trusted the old country priest. Father Boyer had
given Maurice a large gold crucifix, and Maurice
carried it with him now at all times, even slept with
it clutched in his hand. It was a relief to Maurice to
have a physical object that offered protection.

182 ♦ Satan's Harvest
Seeing the priest now, Maurice reached for the
crucifix tucked in his belt. "I have my friend with
me," he said, a little sheepishly.
As he drew it out the crucifix suddenly flew from
his hand and went flying across the room, narrowly
missing Father Boyer's left eye. He cried out in sur-
prise. It crashed into a glass case behind him, shat-
tering it instantly.
Father Boyer recovered quickly and picked up the
cross. Maurice was staring at his outstretched hand.
Ed, Lorraine, and Father Boyer looked at Maurice's
palm in wonderment, seeing what looked like a
burn mark where he had handled the cross.
A remaining glass shard tinkled to the floor.
Ed knew that it was essential that Maurice and
the others be calm for the psychiatric evaluation—
the demonologist didn't want the doctor walking in
to find a distraught Maurice and immediately con-
clude that he was mentally unstable—so he did his
best to put the conversation on a normal footing.
After all, he pointed out, such an incident was the
very reason the group was assembled today in the
rectory, and in many ways, the cross flying out of
Maurice's hand was the least of what they had seen
in recent weeks.
Twenty minutes later the doctor arrived. He
looked exactly as Maurice had imagined—tall,
sturdy, square-jawed, with piercing gray eyes and
glasses. It was more than his classic Germanic fea-
tures, though, that bothered Maurice. With just one
glance he could tell that this man was without com-
passion. He exuded no warmth at all. On the con-
trary, he had a disturbing coldness about him. Mau-

Satan's Harvest ♦ 183
rice just figured that came with the territory though.
After all, he's a head-cracker, he thought.
The doctor introduced himself, shook hands all
around, and quickly closeted himself with Maurice
in Father Boyer's private office. The group waited in
silence. After a short time the psychiatrist opened
the door. "Ed, would you join us please?" he asked.
When the three men were alone the psychiatrist
began to question Ed closely regarding Maurice and
his friendship with him. How did Ed feel about
Maurice? What was his interest in Maurice's case?
How did the two men get along? And on and on.
The doctor seemed intent on proving that Maurice
was in some way sexually deviant.
Finally Ed impatiently interrupted. "Look," he
said, his face reddening. "We came here to help be-
cause of the things that have been happening in
Maurice's home."
"Well," replied the doctor, "I'm afraid I don't be-
lieve in any of that stuff."
"Would you call yourself a Catholic?" said Ed.
"I'm not here to discuss my personal beliefs with
you."
"Hey, now, wait a minute. Don't you even believe
in God?"
A little religious indignation was rising up in Ed.
"There you go asking questions," the psychiatrist in-
terrupted, speaking in a condescending tone of
voice.
Ed got up and started pacing. Pointing his finger,
he said, "You say you wanna ask us questions. Then
I'm gonna ask you questions. You say when you're
dead, you're dead. What about Christ, if you're such

184 ♦ Satan's Harvest
a good Catholic? The Bible says on the third day He
rose."
"I simply don't want to talk about that stuff."
"The reason we wanted to see you was to get
help," Ed snapped.
He rose to leave and Maurice, seeing his friend
get up, followed suit. Beet-red, Ed stormed out and
grabbed Lorraine's hand in front of the astonished
eyes of Father Boyer.
"Come on, honey, we're leaving," Ed said firmly.
"Father Boyer, we'll call you."
The Theriaults certainly hadn't expected this to
happen, and their heads were spinning from the
sudden drama.
They all piled into the car and drove off quickly,
gravel flying out behind the tires. But as they were
pulling onto the steep road that runs between St.
Paul's Church and the rectory, Maurice cried out.
"Ahhhh! My back! My back!" He was moaning in
pain.
"Maurice, honey, what is it?" Nancy asked.
Ed slammed on the brakes, ran around the car,
and yanked open the back door. "Help me get his
shirt off, Nancy," he instructed.
As the pair struggled to peel off Maurice's plaid
hunting shirt in the chilly March air, the car be-
came silent. There, across Maurice's shoulder
blades, was an enormous cross that looked as if it
had been burned into his flesh.
Ed grabbed Maurice by the hand and started
down the driveway.
"What are you doing?" Nancy sobbed as Ed led
Maurice by the arm toward the rectory.

Satan's Harvest ♦ 185
"We're going to show this doubting Thomas
proof," Ed shouted over his shoulder.
As the twosome climbed the stairs to Father Boy-
er's office, the now breathless Ed turned Maurice
around in front of the priest. Father Boyer's jaw
dropped open.
Ed called out to the psychiatrist. "I think you'd
better come have a look at this, Doctor," he said.
The doctor was on the phone. When he hung up
and emerged from Father Boyer's office, Ed de-
manded, "So what's your explanation for this?"
The doctor looked speculatively at Maurice's
back. "Okay, Maurice," he said. "How did you do
this to yourself? I've been honest with you, now you
have to be honest with me."
Ed Warren felt the hair stand up on his head. He
was so angry he was shaking. He knew this so-
called scientific type had a completely closed mind
and there was no getting through.
Ed's eyes narrowed. "Listen here, you," he said
through clenched teeth. "I hope that when you're by
yourself something comes up and smashes you
right in the mouth as has happened to this poor
man you refuse to help. If he needs a psychiatrist,
it's not gonna be you."
Turning to Father Boyer, Ed fought to control
himself. "I'm sorry, Father, but we came here for
help," Ed said. "Now we're leaving."
As Ed backed the car out of the driveway for the
second time, Father Boyer turned to the psychia-
trist. "You know, sir," he said. "I think you're a nasty
man." The priest was so upset that he left the rec-
tory and went for a walk to calm himself.

186 ♦ Satan's Harvest
* * *
The case of Maurice "Frenchy" Theriault was now
public property. The police report of the incident at
the farmhouse, when Chief LeBoeuf and Trooper
Bernard responded to Nancy's frantic call for help
after Maurice had cut himself in the bathroom, was
picked up by a local newspaper. Like most news-
gathering organizations, the paper had a police
scanner operating twenty-four hours a day. The po-
lice blotter the next day carried some details of the
stop Trooper Bernard had made.
On Thursday, March 21, the Springfield Morning
Union carried a story by reporter Sandra E. Con-
stantine with the headline: CHURCH CONSIDERS
PERFORMING EXORCISM IN WARREN.
The story quoted Father Boyer as saying that an
investigation was under way. Bishop Timothy Har-
rington of the diocese of Worcester was unavailable
for comment. While the story did not identify Mau-
rice Theriault by name, it did give the town where
he lived.
By the next day, the Boston Herald, a racy tabloid
owned by Australian publisher Rupert Murdoch,
had jumped on the story. ARE DEMONS AT WORK
HERE? screamed the Herald's banner headline.
The story in the Herald also did not give
Maurice's name. Although a Herald reporter was
able to track him down, Maurice would not com-
ment- and the paper's editors decided to withhold
his name for the moment.
The story reported that a team of demonologists
had been called in to study the man identified only

Satan's Harvest ♦ 187
as a Warren man, and that the church was consider-
ing performing an exorcism.
The next day, the Herald followed up with an-
other story. FARMER BATTLING THE DEVIL
screamed the headline. A subhead added exorcism
is the only answer: psychic.
The story by ace reporter Joe Sciacca detailed the
strange phenomena that had plagued Maurice, this
time referred to not by name but by occupation—a
farmer. The story revealed that the farmer bled
from the eyes and that objects flew about his home,
defying the laws of nature.
It also quoted Ed and Lorraine Warren as saying
that the only way the man could be freed was
through exorcism. And in this story, for the first
time, the office of Bishop Timothy Harrington con-
firmed that the matter was officially under investi-
gation by the Church.
In other words, this was no joke.
By now, of course, the story of Maurice Theriault
was the talk of the town of Warren. Many people in
the small town had already heard something of
what was going on in the farmhouse on Brimfield
Road. After these stories came out everybody knew
about it. And Maurice's already magnified fear was
increasing with each newspaper story. Only wishing
to be free of his affliction, he had no idea that he
would have to become the center of a media-fed
frenzy.
On Monday, the Herald followed up with a reac-
tion from the townspeople of Warren. The headline:
SATAN ISN'T IN OUR TOWN.
The story, by reporter Timothy Clifford, quoted

188 ♦ Satan's Harvest
neighbors and Warren residents who doubted
Maurice's story, although many expressed compas-
sion. Most of the comments in the story simply re-
vealed people's misconceptions about exorcism.
"From what I hear," said one woman, "if a pos-
sessed person goes near a priest or holy water, he
goes completely wild . . ."
The next day another Herald reporter got War-
ren's Police Chief LeBoeuf to comment for the first
time about the case that had his little town making
news in the big city of Boston.
POLICE CHIEF DISCLOSES DEMON CASE was
the headline in the Herald when LeBoeuf broke his
silence. The story quoted the chief as saying, "He
had evidently just come out of a seizure. But I didn't
see any convulsions." LeBoeuf did confirm seeing a
cross or X on Maurice's back.
Then LeBoeuf said something that tantalized the
reporter. "There are some things about this case
that I just can't talk about right now," he said. "But
if you treat me fair, I'll tell you everything when the
time is right. And there are some things that I'll tell
you that will make your hair stand on end."
The reporter promised he wouldn't betray the
chief's confidence and continued to pursue the
story from different angles.
By the next week, the National Enquirer, the
granddaddy of sensational tabloids, was on to the
story in a big way. And so was the Weekly World
News, another supermarket tabloid.
POSSESSED MAN BEGS FOR EXORCISM
shouted the headline in the Weekly World News.

Satan's Harvest ♦ 189
EVIL POWER TEARS HIS FLESH AND FLINGS
HIM THROUGH THE AIR.
The Weekly World News may have lost points with
journalism professors on style, but they had the in-
credible facts right: Maurice was being tormented
by a diabolical force. And with the sensational cov-
erage in the press, he was also being tormented by
mockers, thrill seekers, and heartless neighbors
who would drive up to the house, honk their horns
and scream "devil worshipper!" or "The devil lives
here!"
Others would call the house at all hours to hiss
"Get out of town!" Church services at St. Paul's in
Warren seemed to be composed half of curious on-
lookers and half of newspaper reporters. Maurice
hardly dared show himself.
It was too much for Father Boyer. In the church's
weekly bulletin on Palm Sunday, he lashed out at
"merciless and cruel reporters who . . . called the
rectory at all hours . . . and had the gall to try to
see the person involved . . . looking for sly com-
ments from individuals in town completely un-
aware of any facts."
From the pulpit that very day the usually gentle
priest also made the Maurice Theriault case the sub-
ject of his sermon. He accused the media of "trying
to make a weirdo and a freak" of the poor farmer.
Outside the church, Herald photographer Jim Ma-
honey focused his telephoto lens through a window
and snapped a picture of the priest as he railed
against the media. It was the type of "sneak" shot
that the tabloid specialized in. The Herald ran the

190 ♦ Satan's Harvest
photo the next day, along with a story headlined:
CHURCH WEIGHING EXORCISM.
After Mass, Father Boyer talked to Herald re-
porter Joe Heaney about Maurice. "I know him and
he is a good churchgoing man who needs our com-
passion," the priest said. "I don't know why people
would want to go out and hurt him. This is not a
freak show."
But it was a cartoon that appeared in the Herald
that proved particularly upsetting to Maurice and
Nancy. It showed an old farm couple in the style of
Grant Wood's "American Gothic," standing in front
of their house, with demons and ghosts crowding
the background. "Nice folks," says one police officer
to another. "Kids are ugly as sin though!"
This was just too much. Maurice and Nancy were
crazy about their grandchildren, and the cartoon
hurt.
After the cartoon had appeared, cartoonist Leo
Abbott received a strange phone call from someone
purporting to be Maurice. The caller angrily
warned him that he didn't know who he was mess-
ing with, and to expect disaster. Less than a week
later Abbott's father suffered a debilitating stroke.
By the time Holy Week came around, the Maurice
Theriault case had become Chief LeBoeuf's night-
mare as well. He had to go out to the farmhouse
often to drive off the tourists and hecklers who had
been driving up and down Brimfield Road trying to
spot the "devil." All the publicity had suddenly
made Warren a tourist destination. The chief saw

Satan's Harvest ♦ 191
this as the worst kind of publicity his town could
receive, a negative that could be hard to undo.
LeBoeuf himself had been getting his share of at-
tention from the media. That was another thing he
didn't care for. After a couple of interviews, in
which he gave only the barest threads of informa-
tion, he decided to clam up.
Besides, he had some more investigating to do.
He'd go out to the house under the pretense of want-
ing to protect Frenchy from the hecklers. In fact, he
might actually be needed for that purpose. It was
Monday of Holy Week, the day after the Boston Her-
ald had interviewed Father Boyer at Palm Sunday
Mass. The creeps usually came out in force after a
newspaper story.
When he got there, things were quiet. A couple of
cars drove by and honked, but fortunately there
was no trouble. LeBoeuf spotted Frenchy out in the
yard and drove up to him. "How's it goin',
Frenchy?" he asked. "Anybody giving you any trou-
ble?"
Frenchy figured LeBoeuf was there to pry, as
usual, and wanted to answer, Nobody but you,
Chief. But he held his tongue. Better to be friendly,
he thought. "It's quiet today," he said. "But I never
know when something's going to happen. The heck-
lers—I can handle them. It's this other thing that's
got me licked."
LeBoeuf chuckled. "Still after you, huh?"
Maurice glared at him. "You still don't believe,
even after what you and that colored fella saw?"
For all his cynicism and suspicion LeBoeuf had
never actually closed his mind completely to what

192 ♦ Satan's Harvest
Maurice and Ed were saying. Sure, it was farfetched
and probably a crock. But there was that small part
of his mind—the part that had been brought up
Catholic—that was willing to at least entertain this
stuff about demons and possession.
"Let's just say I'm skeptical," LeBoeuf replied.
"Well, why don't you come over and spend the
night one night this week?" Maurice asked. "You'll
see."
LeBoeuf raised his eyebrows. "You want me to
stay overnight?"
"Sure," Maurice said. "I ain't got nothin' to hide.
You'll see. Then maybe you'll believe me."
"Okay," LeBoeuf said. "You got it. How's tomor-
row night?"
"Fine with me," Maurice said.
So at seven the next evening Chief LeBoeuf,
armed with a camera and a bottle of holy water
Father Boyer had given him, came prepared to
spend the night at the Theriault farmhouse. He kept
the visit a secret from his wife, telling her only that
he would be out all night on surveillance. No need
to scare her unnecessarily. No reason to tell her he
was planning to spend the night with the devil, he
thought to himself with a little laugh.
He rang the doorbell promptly at seven. But
when Maurice opened it, he stared at LeBoeuf as if
he was the last person on earth he was expecting.
"What do you want?" he asked.
"Well, Frenchy, this is the night you invited me to
stay over, and I'm here," said LeBoeuf.
Maurice started twitching. He had a certain look

Satan's Harvest ♦ 193
in his eye. LeBoeuf noticed it right away. Maurice
looked different, like someone else.
"I don't think this is a good idea," Maurice said. "I
don't think you should spend the night."
"Now, look, Frenchy, you invited me and I'm
here. Why don't you let me see for myself and be
convinced?"
"Uh, I don't think so," he said. "It's too dangerous.
I better call the Warrens."
Oh, Jesus, thought LeBoeuf. They'll put the ki-
bosh on this for sure.
Frenchy closed the door on LeBoeuf and went off
to call them. Sure enough, when he opened the door
a few minutes later, he told LeBoeuf that he
couldn't stay the night.
He explained that the Warrens had suggested an-
other night—not during Holy Week. That would be
better, since Holy Week is the worst time for
psychic phenomena and it could prove dangerous.
But they said they would leave it up to Maurice and
LeBoeuf.
"Well, I'm willing to take the risk," LeBoeuf told
Frenchy.
But Frenchy insisted that he couldn't stay. "If you
do, I'm going to sleep at a motel," he said.
LeBoeuf knew he couldn't force him, so he
backed off. "Okay, Frenchy, have it your way.
Maybe we'll do it another time."
But he knew that Frenchy would never let him.
The offer was another crock.
As he pulled out of the driveway Maurice peered
out his living room window and watched the
cruiser leave. His eyes began to tear blood and his

194 ♦ Satan's Harvest
mouth began to drool yellow phlegm. His face con-
torted into a hideous shape and he started breathing
heavily.
"Heh, heh, heh," he muttered, more a growl than
a laugh. "That bastard will never catch me. If he
tries, I'll kill him."
Then he passed out, falling to the floor with a
thud. He stayed there, sleeping, until Nancy came
home about half an hour later with some groceries.
"What happened, honey?" she said, dropping her
bags to run to his side.
Maurice came out of his deep sleep slowly. He
shook himself awake. "I dunno," he said. "I must
have passed out. I was just going to answer the door
for the chief. He was supposed to spend the night
here tonight."
"So where is he?" Nancy asked.
"I dunno," Maurice replied. "I guess he changed
his mind. Must have gotten scared off."
"Just as well," Nancy said. "I don't trust that guy. I
think he's trying to get you, Maurice."
The next day Maurice and Nancy received a visit
from an old personal friend, Henry Lupa. Henry
was a landscape contractor and had been a guest of
the Theriaults on many occasions over the years.
When the publicity storm broke, Henry wasted no
time in getting to his friends' house. Unlike the
neighborhood gawkers, he was there to offer com-
fort, not taunts.
"Why didn't you tell me you needed help?" he said
to Nancy as she took his jacket and led him into the
kitchen, where Maurice was sitting. As he pulled

Satan's Harvest ♦ 195
out the yellow flowered vinyl chair and sat down,
he said, "I brought something from St. Joseph's in
Canada, and I want you to have it." He pulled a vial
of holy water out of his jacket pocket. "I got this
'specially for you, Maurice."
Maurice had not even greeted his friend yet. He
was just staring out the window. But Nancy, de-
lighted with the gesture, took the bottle and prefer-
red it to Maurice. "Look, Frenchy, look what Henry
brought from Canada!"
"I don't want it," Maurice said, speaking in a
monotone and still staring into space.
Nancy pushed the vial forward again. "Come on,
Frenchy, take it."
"No, I don't want it now," he repeated.
Nancy looked nonplussed. "I'll put some on you,
then," she said, and with that, sprinkled some of the
holy water on Maurice's forehead.
The instant the first drops hit his head Maurice's
body went stiff, and blood began to seep from his
mouth. Then the holy water itself, running down
Maurice's forehead, turned blood-red. Before
Nancy and Henry could react, Maurice rose,
zombielike, and went into the bathroom. The
stunned Henry now had confirmation of what he
had been reading in the newspapers. His face was
white. Several minutes later Maurice emerged from
the bathroom and sat down at the table as if he
were entering the room for the first time that eve-
ning.
"Oh, hi, Henry," he said. "When did you get here?"
Henry was shaken but tried to stay cool and calm,
mostly for Nancy's sake. He stayed at the Theriault

196 ♦ Satan's Harvest
home for dinner and there were no further inci-
dents during the meal, though he kept looking at
Maurice to make sure.
When it came time for Henry to leave, there were
warm words all around, and the Theriaults' friend
assured them he would be there if they needed him.
He was sure that Maurice's problem must be a phys-
ical one that was being misunderstood.
Just as Henry reached the bottom of the Ther-
iaults' driveway, he was hit by a tremendous rush of
nausea, then by burning stomach pain such as he
had never before experienced or believed possible.
His head was spinning and aching so badly that he
thought it might explode. Immobilized by the pain,
he stopped the car and prayed for it to pass. Every-
thing had turned white before his eyes. A terribly
foul smell was filling the car.
After what might have been an hour, he managed
to open a window. The cool air helped clear his
head. He considered trying to drive back up the
driveway to the Theriaults' house for help, but de-
cided he'd try to drive home instead. He managed to
navigate slowly out to the street, hanging on to the
steering wheel, fighting the urge to black out again.
He felt stronger and stronger as he got farther and
farther from the house. When he finally reached
home he vomited all night.
"You're not to go back to that house. No way!" his
wife said. "Whatever is in there didn't like you
bringing that holy water. It's much too creepy for
you to deal with, Henry!"
Henry wasn't about to argue. He was scared to
death.

Satan's Harvest ♦ 197
Later, Ed Warren explained it all to the Ther-
iaults. He was of the same opinion. "It's the fear
factor," he said. "Anytime you pose a threat to a
demon, that is what it fears. And Henry definitely
posed a threat because he came here to help you
with something of a spiritual nature, the holy wa-
ter."
Although Henry later agreed to appear before the
bishop to testify to what he had seen, he never went
to the Theriault home again. Maurice was an old
friend, but Henry wasn't going to risk his life to
help him.
For Nancy, trying to sleep that night was difficult.
Maurice lay oblivious with his face in the pillow,
and she kept turning the day's events over and over
in her mind. Then she heard a sound that bothered
her. At first she thought it was a dripping sound,
perhaps from the bathroom. But the sound was ee-
rie, and it wasn't coming from that area. Slowly she
realized that it seemed to come from the foot of the
bed. She couldn't place what it was. Then it came to
her. It sounded exactly as if a starving animal was
gnawing a piece of raw meat, "chomping and chew-
ing," as she described it later.
Frozen with fear, just as at the time the car had
driven itself, she couldn't move or speak. So she
feigned sleep and waited for the sounds to cease.
She felt the hairs on her arms stand up as the eating
sounds were followed by animallike howls.
There would be no sleep for Nancy Theriault. Not
that night. Not anytime soon.

198 ♦ Satan's Harvest
* * *
Ed Warren knew that the strange incidents were
bound to intensify around this time of year. It was
the Lenten season—a time when psychic activity
usually increases. That's why he was pushing so
hard for a quick exorcism.
He told a Boston Herald reporter that week that
Church officials were "doing their best to get things
under way. This is Holy Week—the time when these
cases seem to explode."
Ed promised that the exorcism would be over by
Good Friday at the latest. But Good Friday came
and went without an exorcism. So did Easter Sun-
day.
So when Maurice and Nancy received a call from
Father Boyer two days after Easter, they were wary
at first. He asked them to visit him in the rectory
that afternoon. Maurice was convinced the Church
had ordered another psychiatric evaluation, and
he'd had his fill of doctors who were unwilling to
believe in the torments he was suffering. The
farmer would dearly have loved exchanging places
for just a day with one of these learned men to see
what his attitude would be afterward. He was fed
up with the whole approach, but knew there was no
other plan.
It was with much reluctance that Maurice and
Nancy agreed to go to the rectory again with Ed and
Lorraine Warren. Ed asked Maurice's friend Henry
Lupa to come with them to recount his experience.
When the group arrived, they were surprised to
see another Catholic priest with Father Boyer, and
they were even more surprised to hear him intro-

Satan's Harvest ♦ 199
duced as Bishop Timothy Harrington. While Ed and
Lorraine had talked with the bishop on the phone
several times, they had never met him in person.
Bishop Harrington was very Irish-looking. He
was short and heavyset, with a full face and ruddy
complexion. His gray hair was balding and he
squinted a little from behind his glasses. He had a
certain calm way about him, and Maurice felt com-
fortable with him. He could tell instantly that the
bishop was a man of compassion and kindness.
After Father Boyer's many calls and the publicity
about the case, the bishop had decided to meet Mau-
rice himself. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary
about the meeting as the group sat and made con-
versation about—of all things—buying snow tires.
Suddenly the bishop seemed to make up his
mind. "Maurice, I'm going to say a prayer for you,"
he announced. He asked Maurice to stand and Ed
Warren and Henry Lupa stood on either side of the
tormented farmer.
Ed was gravely concerned that this spontaneous
exorcism could go horribly awry. "The bishop
didn't know it, but he was in grave danger," he said
later to Lorraine. "Maurice could have knocked his
block off."
Putting his hand on Maurice's head, the bishop
began saying a prayer to St. Michael. Nancy, staring
up at him, silently mouthed the words of the prayer
in unison.
"St. Michael the Archangel, defend us in battle. Be
our protection against the wickedness and snares of
the devil."
As the prayer began, Maurice's face began to

200 ♦ Satan's Harvest
change, his forehead swelled, and his eyes took on a
sadistic gleam. He began to mutter in a deep, gut-
tural voice that was no longer his own.
"I am in the depths of this man's soul," the crea-
ture inside Maurice growled and sputtered. "And I
will have it!"
Bishop Harrington continued to pray while the
creature bellowed, "You cannot destroy me! You
cannot make me leave!"
Bishop Harrington flinched but continued to
pray.
"May God rebuke him, we humbly pray, and do
Thou 0 Prince of the heavenly host by the divine
power of God cast into hell Satan and all evil spirits
who wander now throughout the world, seeking the
ruin of souls."
Suddenly Maurice pitched forward onto his
knees. The bishop took a bottle of holy water out of
his cassock and began to sprinkle it furiously on
Maurice—so liberally that when Maurice came to
some minutes later, he was ashamed to think he
had wet his pants.
The bishop kneeled and placed his hand on
Maurice's shoulder, looking at him straight on.
"You are my brother and I want to help you."
Maurice shook his head groggily and asked for a
cigarette. The bishop, obviously shaken too, joined
Maurice in a smoke.
"I hope my prayers will help," he said.
"I hope so too, Bishop," said Nancy. "Thank you
so much."
Lorraine, terribly moved by what she had seen,
also spoke words of praise. "I have never seen any-

Satan's Harvest ♦ 201
one of your position, totally unprepared, attempt a
thing like that," she said.
Although Ed did not want to discourage Maurice
and his wife, he had his doubts. Cases of genuine
possession call for a formal exorcism, he knew, not
a few prayers, however well intentioned.
Maurice and Nancy seemed so cheerful on leav-
ing the rectory that Ed suggested lunch, and the two
couples were soon seated around a table at a local
restaurant. Maurice, who had seemed very tranquil
on the ride down, sat silent through most of the
meal as the others chatted of inconsequential mat-
ters.
"The bishop's such a nice man," Maurice gushed
at one point. "He's just like a regular Joe." Suddenly
he leaned forward and hissed at Ed, "I'd like to spit
in both your faces!" His voice had completely
changed.
No one said anything. Ed and Lorraine looked at
each other knowingly.
It wasn't over yet.

11
Although Ed and Lorraine were hopeful that
Bishop Harrington's spontaneous exorcism might
calm Maurice and slow the pace of the possession,
it was clear from his behavior in the restaurant im-
mediately afterward that the prayers the bishop had
said were not going to be enough.
For the next three days at the end of March 1985,
things were calm in the Theriault household. A
group of trained observers and students from the
Warrens' New England School of Demonology were
often at the house, either in pairs or larger num-
bers. The group included Assembly of God minister
Phillip Murphy, police officer Roger Coyle, A1 Vo-
gel, Larry Elward, seminarian Charlie Carvatas, col-
lege students Chris McKinnell and Chris Marshall,
Ray Jefferson, aircraft factory-worker Peter
Walukiewicz, Danny St. Laurent, and Marcella Le-
one.

204 ♦ Satan's Harvest
Some had never before witnessed preternatural
phenomena. Others had worked with the Warrens
for years. All were trained observers.
It was the two Chrisses, Chris Marshall and Chris
McKinnell, who were in the house the night it be-
came evident that the forces tearing at Maurice had
certainly not been banished from his life as yet.
Lorraine Warren took the phone call late that
night as a snoring Ed slept soundly beside her.
Chris Marshall was on the phone. In the back-
ground Lorraine could hear Nancy screaming, "Oh,
my God! Oh, my God! Stop these things from flying
around!"
Marshall said that Maurice had been lying quietly
on the bed with his granddaughter, when the two
young men heard crashing sounds and Nancy start-
ing to scream. Racing for a camera, then to his
room, they found a hysterical Nancy, who managed
to choke out that objects were flying about the room
and smashing into the walls. Shards of shattered
vases and pictures lay scattered about the room.
Lorraine told the two young men to try to calm
the Theriaults—and themselves—but to get out of
the house if anything further happened. She prom-
ised that she and Ed would be over in the morning.
"Above all, someone must remain awake at all
times," she counseled.
Ed and Lorraine had wanted to spend more time
at the Theriault house, but they were distracted by
another case, a haunted house, in the town of
Tewksbury, Massachusetts, about two hours from
Warren, in the Bay State's Merrimack Valley, north
and west of Boston.

Satan's Harvest ♦ 205
That case, involving a classic poltergeist, was de-
manding more and more of their time, as another
family—a mother and her young children—was be-
ing scared out of its wits by unexplained knockings,
noises, and flying objects that had smashed nearly
every mirror, window, and other breakable object
in the home. The case had forced Ed and Lorraine
to split their time in Massachusetts between Warren
and Tewksbury and caused them to send some of
their researchers to Tewksbury to stay up all night
in the possessed house to observe the strange phe-
nomena there.
As bad as things were in Tewksbury, Ed realized
that Maurice needed most of his attention. He con-
tinued to spend the bulk of his time with the poor
farmer.
The day after the things had gone flying around
the room at the Theriault farm, Nancy sent all the
children to stay with friends and relatives. What-
ever was torturing Maurice, it was a force far more
powerful than anything she could imagine. Far
more powerful and far more evil. The children
could not be around until this thing was finished—
one way or another.
Despite Lorraine's advice, there was little danger
of anyone's going to sleep, not with the increasingly
nightmarish events that had become commonplace
around Maurice. Although the occurrences were
terrifying for everyone, perhaps the most scared
was Maurice himself.
The following morning Maurice was getting
ready to shave. He filled up the old porcelain sink

206 ♦ Satan's Harvest
with hot water and wiped the steam off the mirror.
As he looked he was aghast to see not one but two
images of himself. It was the doppelganger again!
So many times in his life he had been told that he
was in two places at once, but seeing it himself was
something else again. He'd always thought that peo-
ple were just mixed up. Maurice shook so hard he
didn't dare hold a razor near his neck. He simply
put the shaving utensil down and wiped the shaving
cream off his face. He'd do without a shave that day.
Even in the face of the demonic infestation, life
on the farm had to go on as usual and work had to
go forward. Even the horrifying events of that
month didn't mean that anyone would give the
hard-working couple groceries—or any other of
life's necessities—for free. On the contrary, people
who used to extend credit now demanded cash.
Most people assumed that "Frenchy" had gone
crazy, and crazy people are not considered good
credit risks.
So the days immediately following Bishop Har-
rington's impromptu prayer service for Maurice
found the farmer and his wife working hard in the
greenhouse, preparing the fields for spring planting
and refurbishing the vegetable stand for the sum-
mer trade that would follow.
One bright morning Nancy was working with the
small pots of tomato shoots in the greenhouse. On
the other side of the long building she heard her
husband pounding a nail into a board.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
"Frenchy, you want me to help you?" she called.

Satan's Harvest ♦ 207
No answer.
"Frenchy?"
Nancy crossed the greenhouse to where she'd
heard the banging sounds. The greenhouse was
empty. There was no one there. And there was no
sign that anyone had been there. No hammer, no
nails. Just a pile of two-by-fours stacked in the cor-
ner where they had always been.
Oh, God, not another thing, Nancy thought. Step-
ping outside into the crisp March air she called for
Maurice again.
"Frenchy!"
As she stood there frantically scanning the fields,
Maurice's truck rolled up the gravel driveway with
a crunch of pebbles. She turned around, and out of
the driver's side popped Maurice, looking as if he'd
just come back from a pleasant drive around the
block.
"Maurice, where were you?" Nancy said, her face
drained of color.
"Down at the stand," he replied.
"Well, I was working in the greenhouse and I kept
hearing this banging and I was sure it was you."
"Oh, that son of a bitch again, eh?" Maurice said.
"I'll show him." Maurice had forgotten that one of
the strictest admonitions the Warrens had given
him was to avoid challenging the evil force that was
tormenting him. He raced into the greenhouse with
Nancy right behind him, clutching his arm.
"No, Frenchy, no!" she cried.
But Maurice broke loose and stood defiantly in
the middle of the greenhouse. "Come and get me
now!" he shouted at the top of his lungs.

208 ♦ Satan's Harvest
At that moment, as a horrified Nancy looked on,
one of the two-by-fours flew as if it had been hurled
fifty feet across the greenhouse and smashed Mau-
rice square in the head, knocking him to the floor.
Screaming, Nancy managed to grab her husband
by the collar and drag his dazed form out into the
light snow that still covered the path to the house.
The crisp March air seemed to revive Maurice. He
had a nasty bump on his head and blood was seep-
ing from a minor cut on his scalp, but miraculously,
he seemed otherwise unhurt.
Saturday morning Ed Warren couldn't sleep. He
couldn't stay beside Maurice and Nancy every min-
ute, yet he knew events were escalating and that a
final reckoning was still in the future. The best he
could do was make sure a team of researchers was
at the house every night and that he and Lorraine
visited almost every day.
On impulse, Ed decided to drive up to Warren
right away. Skipping breakfast, Ed covered the one-
hundred-twenty-mile distance between Monroe and
Warren in record time. Something was telling him
the situation was urgent.
When he pulled into the Theriault driveway, the
first thing he saw was Maurice sitting silent and im-
mobile in his running truck. Ed recognized the un-
natural stillness about Maurice and approached the
car slowly.
Peering in the window, he saw that the farmer
had tears streaming down his face. He tapped
lightly on the glass. "Maurice, what is it?" he said.
Maurice looked piteously at his friend, his eyes

Satan's Harvest ♦ 209
brimmed with tears. "Last night I wanted to hang
myself," he said.
Ed knew that one of the signs of possession is the
demon's desire to kill the body created by God in
His image.
"I was too scared last night," Maurice said. "But
then I was going to do it this morning. Just now I
was goin' to do it. I would have if you hadn't driven
up."
Ed could see a piece of thick rope beside Maurice
on the front seat. "You're going to come out of this
all right, Maurice," he said compassionately. "The
Church will save you."
"They already tried, and nuthin' happened!" Mau-
rice shouted. "You've got to stop this thing!"
"I promise you, we won't leave you alone," said
Ed. "I promise you help is forthcoming."
Ed's promise seemed to calm Maurice, and Ed led
him back to the house, vowing to himself that he
would redouble surveillance on Maurice by his
trained observers.
Sunday, Maurice followed Ed's advice and went
to Mass at St. Paul's in downtown Warren. Sitting in
the pew with Nancy as they listened to Father Boyer
intone the Mass, Maurice suddenly heard his name
called out in a deep and powerful voice:
"Maurice!"
And again:
"Maurice!"
Looking around to see who might play such a ma-
licious trick, Maurice saw nothing but the congrega-

210 ♦ Satan's Harvest
tion sitting silently with heads bowed. It was clear
that no one but him had heard the voice.
Chris Marshall kept notes on that night's events,
notes that give some idea of the atmosphere inside
the Theriault farmhouse during that terrifying pe-
riod:
10:30 p.m. Maurice's body aches all over. Every
muscle in his body hurts. There is a smell of dog
mess in the house. The room is so cold, and then
it is so hot that you feel sick to your stomach
. . . Maurice's son-in-law Roger said that each
time the family comes to the farm, something
happens. The family experiences tremendous
pains in their bodies, unnatural pains. The re-
searchers are also complaining of severe tooth-
aches or pains in their bodies.
As for Nancy, she didn't know what to do. Part of
her wanted to leave this whole thing behind, to be
with her children or just leave the state, maybe go
to stay with her father. But she knew in her heart
that she had to tough it out with her husband and
listen to what the Warrens told her to do. She did
have faith in God and believed that there had to be a
good outcome.
The Warrens had given her several prayers to say,
and she said them constantly as she walked around
the house. Before she'd sent the children from the
house, she'd said prayers over them, as well, to keep
them safe. On one occasion, after having experi-
enced a good night's sleep for the first time in many

Satan's Harvest ♦ 211
weeks, both Maurice and Nancy woke up to find
rosary beads clutched tightly in their hands. Neither
had any idea how they'd gotten there. Nancy was
seized by an overpowering conviction that the Lord
was trying to protect her and Maurice.
After the incident at the greenhouse Maurice and
Nancy were reluctant to venture out there again,
but there was no getting around the amount of
work that had to be done.
Because of the cold weather the greenhouse win-
dows were blacked out and wrapped in plastic, giv-
ing the structure a solitary and menacing atmo-
sphere.
The next morning an apprehensive Maurice went
down to the greenhouse to work, while Nancy bus-
ied herself with household tasks. The normal, ev-
eryday nature of sweeping the floors, making the
bed, and starting the laundry was reassuring.
Whistling to herself as she did the dishes, Nancy
could almost imagine that she was just like all the
other housewives caring for their families and that
her house was no different from theirs. She remem-
bered when she used to be bored and frustrated by
having to do the housework and shook her head.
Housework seemed like a pleasure now, she
thought.
Lost in her thoughts, Nancy failed to notice how
long Maurice had been gone. It was almost lunch-
time, but he hadn't even come back up to the house
for a cup of coffee. Suddenly she became worried.
Hoping for the best, Nancy ran down to the
greenhouse. The door jamb that Maurice had placed

212 ♦ Satan's Harvest
to keep the greenhouse door from flapping open
was still in place, indicating that Maurice must be
elsewhere, but Nancy was seized by a premonition
that he was in there.
"Frenchy!" she called.
No answer.
Removing the door jamb, Nancy entered the
gloomy greenhouse. Maurice was standing in the
middle of a long row of sawhorses, with a paper cup
in his hand.
"Oh, honey, you are in here," exclaimed Nancy.
Maurice didn't reply but bent over suddenly and
straightened up. His face was twisted into a sadistic
leer. His brow became distended, apelike. His eyes
were infernal. The greenhouse was filled with that
terrible odor.
Nancy gasped. Whatever was staring at her was
definitely not her husband. Instinctively she
reached for the cross she now carried at all times
and brandished it in front of her. "I command you
to leave in the name of Jesus Christ," she cried.
At the sound of the words "Jesus Christ" Maurice
grabbed his head and screamed in pure agony.
"Arrrrghh!"
His head drew back and he opened his mouth,
which to Nancy's horror, did not form a circle as
anyone's mouth would have, but made the form of a
square. Blood gushed forward out of this bizarre
opening, spraying the floor of the greenhouse and
splattering the sawhorses. Maurice collapsed in a
heap, shaking as if he had malaria.
Whatever had taken hold of him had let go. But
not for long.

Satan's Harvest ♦ 213
* * *
If others, including the police, now seemed to
shun the Theriault family, their relatives continued
to visit and to lend emotional support. They came
despite the fear that invariably gripped visitors as
soon as they approached the house—a house that,
in addition to Maurice, Nancy, and the Warrens'
team of investigators, now seemed to harbor an evil
presence. All who entered felt it. None of them
would have come again were it not for family loy-
alty.
The night after the second greenhouse incident,
Maurice's daughter Maureen, her fianct Roger, and
Maurice's three grandchildren had stopped by to
help create a family atmosphere they felt might
help distract Maurice. Worried about the children,
Nancy tried to dissuade them from coming. But
they insisted on showing their support. Maurice's
sister Diane had called and was also going to drop
in. Four of the researchers working with the War-
rens were staying at the house with Maurice and
Nancy. I hope there's safety in numbers, thought
Nancy.
Diane drove up the familiar driveway, parked,
and got out of her light blue Volkswagen bug. As
she approached the farmhouse she thought she saw
a large black form emerging from the shadows
around the side of the house. Diane laughed ner-
vously.
"Okay, Maurice, don't try to scare me," she said,
pulling her hat down over her ears.
But the form was not Maurice, and as it swept
over her Diane felt spasms of fear and nausea. She

214 ♦ Satan's Harvest
paused in the driveway for a moment, then sat on
the steps until she had collected herself.
The family was gathered around the kitchen ta-
ble, unaware that Diane was outside. Inside the liv-
ing room, at that same moment, the four research-
ers scrambled to start a tape recorder to capture
loud knocking and rapping noises that were rever-
berating throughout the house. As soon as Diane en-
tered the house, however, the noises stopped.
Later that evening, as they sat around the table,
the children chattered gaily about their friends and
their latest activities. But Maurice was silent and
morose. Picking up little Maureen, his granddaugh-
ter, he seemed to gaze into the distance.
"I'll be glad when this son of a bitch leaves, so I
can play with you," he said.
As the words came out of his mouth, Maurice's
body was rocked backward as if he had been dealt a
mammoth blow. The farmer landed on his back
with a thud, with little Maureen still cradled in his
arms, screaming in fright.
When Ed Warren heard the story he had little
doubt as to who the "son of a bitch" was.
Larry Elward was one of the researchers who
often spent the night with the Theriaults during this
time. A Bridgeport, Connecticut, resident who
worked in a convalescent home, Larry had been fas-
cinated by the work of the Warrens and eagerly par-
ticipated whenever they asked for help.
He now found himself seated at the Theriault
kitchen table with Maurice and Nancy as well as
another researcher, Danny St. Laurent. The slender

Satan's Harvest ♦ 215
Larry, who weighed just one hundred forty-five
pounds and stood five feet five inches, was only too
glad to have Danny with him.
Dan's hobby was weightlifting, and he looked it.
If anything was to go wrong, Larry would just as
soon have someone around who was capable of re-
straining Maurice.
Larry had never been this close to a preternatural
experience and he was very excited. Ed and Lor-
raine had given the young men strict instructions to
observe, to take notes, and not to share what they
wrote with one another or with the Theriaults.
But Larry couldn't resist a little experiment. He
had brought a bottle of holy water with him, and he
wanted to see if what Ed had taught in class about a
possessed person's reaction to holy water was true.
The short little farmer sitting before him certainly
didn't seem possessed.
"Hey, Maurice, let's see what happens when you
drink this," he said, offering the vial of holy water.
Maurice looked at him hard for a long moment.
Larry felt a chill go down his spine. Nancy started
to speak but stopped when Maurice's countenance
completely changed. With a grin, he obligingly took
a sip. In fifteen seconds he went stiff, his eyes rolled
back, he clenched his fist, and started to tremble. In
front of his stunned observers, his jaw sagged open
and he let out a mouthful of blood onto the yellow
placemat before him.
Scared and amazed, the two men had enough
presence of mind to grab their cameras and take
photographs of the scene. Moments later Maurice
revived. He looked tired and bewildered.

216 ♦ Satan's Harvest
"Maurice, do you remember anything that hap-
pened here just now?" Larry asked.
Maurice shook his head dumbly.
"You don't remember the holy water? Nothing?"
Maurice shook his head again. He seemed ex-
hausted.
Nancy was wiping up the pool of blood and spittle
from the placemat.
Larry looked at Dan. He was white.
"No more experiments tonight," Larry said.
Maurice decided he wanted to visit his father's
grave. Thinking that his torment was in some way
connected to his father and the cruel experiences of
his youth, Maurice believed that if he finally made
peace with the old tyrant, even forgave him for the
murder of his mother, he might gain a small mea-
sure of peace himself.
Ed was doubtful but didn't want to discourage
Maurice, especially in his fragile emotional state.
"Go ahead and go," he said. "But take some holy
water and take a camera. If something happens, I
want it documented. That will make it easier for the
Church to believe us and to help you."
So Maurice and Nancy, equipped with a vial of
holy water and a Polaroid camera, set off for Hol-
yoke, Massachusetts, the last resting place of
Maurice's brutal father and the woman he had vic-
timized all her life, even to her final moments.
The day was fine and clear, and a temporary
warming trend gave a small foretaste of the spring
to come. Maurice had rolled down the driver's side
window on the pickup truck and was enjoying the

Satan's Harvest ♦ 217
snap of the crisp air as it rushed by his ears. Nancy
was listening to country music on the radio and
humming along. Maurice's eyes began to tear as he
thought of the ordinary life he would like to lead,
like other people.
Looking compassionately at her husband, Nancy
spoke what was on his mind. "We should be goin' to
a nice restaurant or for a walk in the woods instead
of somethin' like this," she said.
Maurice could only nod his head. On such a beau-
tiful day it was not difficult to find their errand bi-
zarre. But for Maurice, the day and all its beauty
were an illusion. Reality was something darker.
Something unspeakable.
They arrived at the cemetery about two-thirty in
the afternoon and drove directly to the Theriault
tombstone. Maurice, dressed in a red hunting cap
and red plaid jacket, parked the truck on one of the
cemetery's small winding roads and sat with the
door open, staring across a small green expanse at
the block of granite bearing the word "Theriault."
The dates of birth and the identical date of death of
his mother and father were inscribed underneath.
Maurice's breath showed white in front of his
face, despite the relatively pleasant weather, as he
sat there in the driver's seat of the truck, trying to
muster the courage to cross the thirty yards be-
tween him and his father.
It might have been four years since Maxime had
died, but as far as Maurice was concerned he was
still alive. The terror in his own early life had al-
ways been authored by the brutal figure of his fa-
ther, and the farmer was sure that the torment that

218 ♦ Satan's Harvest
was haunting him now was, in some way, con-
nected to the cruel old man who lay buried here.
"Well, Frenchy, are you gonna go over there?"
Nancy asked.
"Yeah, I'm goin'," he replied, and got out of the
truck.
Shedding his jacket gnd hat, he approached the
grave dressed in a T-shirt and jeans. Nancy followed
with the camera.
When he arrived at the grave that contained all
that he had loved and feared as a child, Maurice
dropped to his knees in front of the tombstone and
began to pray.
Nancy stood beside him and to the side, feeling
uncomfortable, not wanting to impose on this pri-
vate moment.
Maurice, who had been silently mouthing his
prayers, now spoke out loud, addressing Maxime. "I
want to be a son to you," he said, "and I want you to
be a father to me. . . ."
But as he finished the phrase Maurice's body sud-
denly flew backward and up into the air. It was ex-
actly like the incident at the church door, or the
time he had been holding little Maureen. He had
simply been smashed by an invisible force.
Nancy ran toward him, then remembered what
the Warrens had told her. She quickly snapped a
photo, then ran to her husband. He was lying semi-
conscious, bleeding from the nose.
"Frenchy, Frenchy, are you all right?" she cried.
"Yeah," he said, groggily. "I'm okay."
But Maurice wasn't okay.

Satan's Harvest ♦ 219
That night, as Nancy sat brushing her hair in the
bedroom, she heard him call out, "Nancy, Nancy!"
She ran to the hallway. Gazing down its length—
some twenty feet—she saw Maurice lurching back
and forth, bouncing off the walls of the narrow pas-
sageway. He fell forward onto the floor and began
to roll and spin, his feet striking the walls.
"Leave me alone! Leave me alone!" he cried.
His body started to flop about like a fish pulled
out of the water and thrown on a dock.
Terrified, Nancy sank to her knees and began to
pray out loud. "In the name of Jesus, leave us
alone," she intoned. "In the name of Jesus, leave us
alone. In the name of Jesus, leave us alone. . . ."
Eventually the convulsions stopped. Maurice lay
there, struggling for his breath. He told Nancy that
he just wanted to rest there awhile. Inside, he was
afraid of another attack and felt he just couldn't
handle another. He lay on that spot the whole night.
A few days later Maurice and Nancy were outside
tending to the animals when they heard the crunch
of tires in their gravel driveway. Nancy was brush-
ing the dog and Maurice was taking the cow to the
barn. Nancy looked over at her husband. "You ex-
pectin' anybody?" she asked.
Maurice shook his head.
A white sedan came up over the rise and pulled to
within several yards of the house. Maurice and
Nancy could see there were several men in the car.
One got out on the passenger's side. He was a young
clean-cut man with aggressive, hawkish features.
He walked straight up to Maurice.

220 ♦ Satan's Harvest
"I feel I've been sent here to pray or to help you in
some way," he said.
Nancy didn't like the looks of the young man,
without being able to say why. She told him what
the Warrens told her to say in case they were both-
ered by publicity seekers or people with obscure re-
ligious motives.
"Look," she said. "We want everybody to just
leave us alone. We don't want any outside help at
this time. Thank you anyway. Now, please leave our
property."
As Nancy was speaking a second man got out of
the car on the driver's side. He had a Polaroid in-
stant camera in his hands. Before anyone could re-
act he had aimed it at Maurice and Nancy and
started to click off a shot of the beleaguered couple.
As the camera whirred and spit out a color photo,
Maurice exploded into action. He grabbed the man
with the camera and ripped the photo out of his
hands. "Now, you get out of here," Maurice shouted.
The men were already scrambling back into the
car. The vehicle was roaring in reverse back down
the driveway before the doors were even closed.
Maurice couldn't help laughing a little, despite his
anger. Phony faith healers were a lot easier to chase
off than raccoons, he thought. "Hey, honey, did you
see them take off?" he said, turning to his wife.
Nancy didn't reply. She was looking at the photo
that had fallen to the ground when Maurice had
torn it from the grasp of the intruder. "Frenchy,
look at this," she said, crouching over it, pointing at
it with the handle of the dog brush.
Maurice picked up the picture. He was afraid to

Satan's Harvest ♦ 221
look at it after seeing Nancy's face. Now what? he
thought. He forced his eyes to the little colored
square.
In the photo Nancy's mouth was open, obviously
in midsentence as she talked with one of the men,
and Maurice could be seen advancing toward the
camera.
"Yeah, so?" said Maurice.
"Frenchy, look at the ground!"
Maurice looked at the photo again. All around his
feet flames were leaping out of the ground.
Before he would consider a formal exorcism,
Bishop Harrington sent two Catholic lay healers to
meet with Father Boyer and the Theriaults. Maurice
and Nancy were eager to meet with anyone sent by
the bishop and anxious to show Father Boyer and
the two healers the remarkable photo.
Maurice and Nancy drove to the rectory and were
introduced to the two healers, whose names were
Ronald O'Connor and Robert Abruzzi.
"Maurice, Bishop Harrington asked us to come
and see if we could help you," said Ronald. "The
truth is, we have never experienced a case like
yours, as it has been described to us by the bishop
and Father Boyer. We're used to saying prayers for
those who are very ill, perhaps with cancer or an-
other life-threatening disease."
"Well, his life is being threatened," said Nancy.
"Here, look at this." She thrust the Polaroid photo
into Ronald's hands.
He glanced at the photo and quickly passed it to

222 ♦ Satan's Harvest
Robert, who blanched as he looked at it. He began
tearing it to shreds. "You don't want to look at that,"
he said, clearly frightened. "You don't even want to
think about anything like that."
Although Nancy was shocked by the action, she
reassured herself that these men had been sent, af-
ter all, by the bishop, and they must know what was
best.
"We'd like to say some prayers over Maurice
now," said Ronald. "Is that okay with you, Mau-
rice?"
Maurice nodded his head warily.
The two men assumed positions on either side of
the farmer, and each placed a hand on his head.
Robert began the first prayer.
Immediately Maurice's body stiffened completely,
as if his muscles were undergoing some sort of elec-
tric shock. Robert closed his eyes and continued the
prayer.
Laughter boomed out of Maurice in a deep, pow-
erful voice: "Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha."
The two healers were so startled for an instant
that their hands recoiled from Maurice's head, al-
though each quickly replaced his hand.
Blood and a substance that looked like yellow
glue was now pumping out of Maurice's mouth, and
Nancy ran into the rectory kitchen for a towel,
which Robert used to clean Maurice's shirtfront.
The two healers continued to pray for about fif-
teen minutes. When they were finished, they were
anxious to declare victory and go home.
Standing in the driveway as they were preparing

Satan's Harvest ♦ 223
to leave, Ronald tried to reassure Nancy. "I'm sure
everything's going to be all right now," he said.
But Nancy knew everything was not "all right."
Maurice was doing his best to continue farming,
although all semblance of normality in his life had
long since been stolen by the evil force that had
turned his existence into one long scream for help.
Sitting atop his tractor as it rumbled up and down
the long rows that he would soon seed with tomato
plants, Maurice thought back to the days when his
feet hadn't even reached the pedals, and his cruel
father had tormented him with his inadequacies.
What kind of world was it, he thought, that chose
some for a life of ease and education, and for others
poverty, ignorance, and torment?
Speaking aloud in his native French-Canadian pa-
tois, Maurice addressed the heavens. "Pourquoi le
laissez-Vous m'ennuyer comme qa?" he shouted.
"Why are You letting him torment me like this?"
As Maurice returned his gaze to the earth he saw
a stranger standing in front of him. The man,
dressed in normal winter clothes, wore his hair
long. His gentle face bore a look of compassion.
Maurice had never seen the man before, although
there was something familiar about him. Nonethe-
less, Maurice did not like intruders on his land.
"What are you doing here?" he said, in a none-too-
friendly way.
"Stop your laboring," said the man.
"What you are talking about?" Maurice replied. "I
still got one more turn to do."
"Don't you think you've done enough for today?"

224 ♦ Satan's Harvest
the stranger asked. The voice was oddly familiar.
Where had Maurice heard it before?
"I've got one more row to do and I want to finish
it," he told the man.
"You'll be coming into a lot of money soon, Mau-
rice," the stranger said. "Remember what has hap-
pened to you and help people with it. Now, stop.
You've done enough for today."
So many bizarre things had happened to Maurice
that he didn't know what to make of this man. He
might be real or illusion, he might be good or evil.
Maurice felt he had no way to judge. He didn't even
trust the evidence of his senses any longer.
The stranger's tone was comforting and what he
said reassuring, but the Warrens had warned Mau-
rice that evil might show itself to him in an attrac-
tive form.
He decided to ignore the man. He put the tractor
in gear and depressed the gas pedal, but the ma-
chine lurched crazily. Maurice put the tractor in
neutral and jumped down. Both front tires were
flat.
He was sure that only seconds ago both tires had
been in perfect condition! Spinning around to con-
front the stranger, Maurice saw nothing but the
empty field, freshly plowed. He felt the hair on the
back of his neck stand straight up.
Glancing down, Maurice noticed footprints in the
newly turned earth. He followed them along the
furrows for fifty feet and then stopped abruptly.
Staring down at the ground, Maurice could not be-
lieve what he saw.
The footprints ended in the middle of the field.

Satan's Harvest ♦ 225
Maurice surveyed the freshly plowed and soft-
ened earth in every direction, yet there were no
more footprints. It simply wasn't possible. It was as
if the stranger had disappeared into thin air. And
yet it couldn't have been an apparition. Here were
his footprints! It wasn't possible that the man hadn't
been there. But it wasn't possible that he had disap-
peared either.
"Frenchy! Frenchy!"
Maurice looked up to see his son Phillip ap-
proaching.
"Hey, what was that crazy guy doing out here?"
Phillip asked.
"You saw him?" Maurice asked.
"Yeah, I saw him. He walked right by the house."
"Why do you say he was crazy?"
"What would you call it," Phillip asked, "walking
around in March with no shoes on?"
That night, Maurice dreamed of his childhood, of
the time when he was twelve years old.
It was snowing. It was snowing very hard. He had
to get home to Maman. She would be worried about
him, and his father would beat him. But it was cold
and white, so white he couldn't see anything, and the
snow was stinging his face. It was so cold his tears
were freezing on his cheeks. Blinded and half hysteri-
cal he fell into a snowbank and lay there sobbing as
the snow soaked through his patched winter clothes.
Suddenly he felt someone pulling him up out of the
snowbank. It was a man with a kindly face. "Come,
Maurice, I will take you home," he said.
Maurice sat up with a start.

226 ♦ Satan's Harvest
That face! That voice! No wonder the stranger in
the field had seemed so familiar!
It had been more than forty years, but Maurice
had not forgotten. The man in the field was the
same man who had pulled him from the snowbank
when he was a little boy.
Sitting there in bed, Maurice began to cry.

12
M aurice and Nancy were never alone in the house
now. Either Ed and Lorraine Warren, or one of
their team of observers, was with the beleaguered
couple at all times. They were used to being to-
gether, and the investigators had become a part of
the Theriault clan, even helping in the daily activi-
ties around the house.
Monday dawned crisp and cool. It had now been
two days since Maurice's moving encounter with
the mysterious and kindly stranger in the field. The
two Chrisses—Marshall and McKinnell—were on
duty at the Theriault house.
McKinnell, a six-foot, two-hundred-thirty-pound
college student, had worked on several cases with
the Warrens before. Marshall, a bearded Canadian,
McKinnell's classmate at the University of Connect-
icut, had been begging his friend to go along ever

228 ♦ Satan's Harvest
since he'd first heard about his work with the fa-
mous couple.
Everybody had gone to church together the day
before, and for forty-eight blessed hours nothing
had happened. None of the terrifying phenomena
that had turned the Theriault family life into a com-
bination of horror story, scientific experiment, and
tourist attraction had made a reappearance. For
two days Maurice had been himself, and the Ther-
iault home had settled into the rhythm of farm life.
It was now planting season and there was plenty of
activity on the farm.
Ed Warren called several times a day, and during
that Monday morning's call Chris McKinnell told
his teacher that he thought the siege might be over.
"The appearance of the stranger in the field might
have been a sign to Maurice that it's stopped," the
young man theorized. He had a degree in psychol-
ogy and thought that if Maurice had taken the appa-
rition in the field as some sort of benediction or
deliverance, his troubles might be finished.
"No, it's not over," replied Ed. "These kinds of
preternatural events don't just stop like that. I'd love
to think you're right, and for Maurice's sake, I hope
you are. But from everything I've seen, whatever is
possessing Maurice will have to be driven out. It
won't just leave."
It took only two hours for Ed to be proved cor-
rect.
After coffee and croissants and pitching in to
wash the morning dishes, the two observers split
up. Chris Marshall stayed in the farmhouse to help

Satan's Harvest ♦ 229
Nancy with the laundry. Chris McKinnell went to
the greenhouse with Maurice to help him plant to-
mato seedlings. McKinnell liked working with Mar-
shall, his classmate at the University of Connecticut.
For one thing, McKinnell had helped train his
friend as an observer. For another, Marshall was a
good photographer and that was always useful.
Every passing day was bringing the farmer closer
to planting the now sturdy tomato shoots. Maurice
was eager to turn out a good crop. He knew that to
most people the biblical injunction "As ye sow, so
shall ye reap" meant that they shouldn't cause dis-
cord or bad actions that would rebound on them.
But he also believed it literally, and he knew that a
good harvest would depend on, among other things,
strong seedlings, well planted in the earth.
He always loved this time of year. The new moon
was approaching, the best time for planting. Mau-
rice spent much of the morning showing his young
assistant how to care for the young shoots that
would later that year bear the ripe red fruit that
drew people from miles around to Frenchy's vegeta-
ble stand.
Frenchy poked a short finger into one of the
damp egg cartons that bore tiny shoots. The green-
house was a forest of fine green baby plants, neatly
planted in endless rows of cartons. Each plant had
two or three leaves on its fuzzy stalk. "You got to
give 'em just enough water and just enough sun so
they'll be strong enough to plant," the farmer ex-
plained. "Too much of either and they'll die."
McKinnell was less interested in the fine art of
tomato growing than he was in the extraordinary

230 ♦ Satan's Harvest
paranormal events that surrounded Maurice. Still,
he thought to himself, it's always interesting to lis-
ten to an expert talk about what he knows best.
So many of the students who studied with the
Warrens began by imagining that they would be
rummaging through romantic castles in the English
countryside, pursuing famous ghosts. They soon
learned, however, that manifestations of evil can
take place anywhere and are just as likely to appear
in a two-story suburban colonial home as in the
dungeon of a deserted chateau. Or for that matter,
in the simple life-style of a Massachusetts farmer.
Some castle, thought McKinnell, looking around
the plastic-and-Plexiglass greenhouse and smiling to
himself.
Despite the lingering winter weather, it was hot
inside the greenhouse and Maurice had stripped
down to a T-shirt. Chris decided that was a good
idea and did the same. When he was comfortable he
began watering the cardboard boxes of seedlings as
Maurice had shown him.
It was hard work. There were thousands of the
tiny plants and the process of filling the watering
can, bending over each plant, trying to give it just
enough water, and then after watering fifteen or
twenty plants, refilling the can and starting all over
again was maddening. Chris was on his third refill
when he was startled by a strange, menacing voice
behind him.
"You put goddamn ice cubes down my back," the
voice growled.
McKinnell whirled around to find Maurice, his
face contorted in an angry scowl, standing right be-

Satan's Harvest ♦ 231
hind him. He was breathing right into his face, and
Chris was sickened by the smell of his breath.
"Maurice! You scared the heck out of me," he ex-
claimed, keeping his cool. "Nobody put anything
down your back."
Maurice said nothing but glowered at the young
man. Then slowly he turned away from Chris.
McKinnell's eyes widened. The back of the farm-
er's T-shirt was laced with bright crimson lines,
some in the form of a cross, others spelling out
words McKinnell could not understand.
McKinnell quickly grabbed Maurice by the arm.
"Okay, Maurice," he said. "Let's go up to the house."
He began tugging the muscular little man out of the
greenhouse. "Everybody needs to see this."
Climbing the steep gravel slope up to the farm-
house, McKinnell called out to Chris Marshall and
Nancy, both of whom came running to the kitchen
door when they heard Chris's noticeably urgent
tone of voice. McKinnell pulled Maurice into the
house.
"Nancy, get a wet towel and another shirt for
Maurice," he instructed. She already knew what to
do and hurried off to get the supplies.
Then Chris Marshall began to quiz his partner.
"What happened down there?"
"I don't know," McKinnell replied- "One minute
we were watering the tomatoes, the next minute he
was accusing me of putting ice cubes down his
back. Then I saw this." He gestured at Maurice's
scarlet-streaked T-shirt.
"Let's get his shirt off" and see what's written

232 ♦ Satan's Harvest
there," Marshall suggested, still staring at the
bloody garment.
McKinnell nodded agreement. "Maurice, raise
your arms," he said.
Maurice didn't struggle, but he wasn't making it
easy for them to remove his shirt either.
The two men peeled the farmer's shirt up over his
head and stood rooted to the spot, staring dumb-
founded at his back.
There wasn't a mark on it.
"My God! Look at that!" Marshall exclaimed.
"How the hell did he do that? Let me see that
T-shirt."
McKinnell held it up. It was snow-white. No
stains. No lines. Not a trace of red. Nothing.
The two young men looked at each other without
a word as Maurice stood shivering between them.
Chris Marshall finally broke the silence.
"Ed was right," he said.
Ed and Lorraine arrived late that night. The two
Chrisses needed some time off and both were
shaken up by what they had seen that day. And
Nancy was especially relieved to have the Warrens
there now. She really wondered if soon it might not
be too late for Maurice.
"You guys go on home and rest," Ed advised Chris
and Chris. Danny is coming in the morning, and
we'll call you right away if we need you."
Sitting around the Theriault table that night, it
was clear to Ed and Lorraine that an alien presence
was not happy that they were in the house.
Throughout the evening the conversation was inter-

Satan's Harvest ♦ 233
rupted by the sound of car doors slamming right
outside. But each time Ed went to see what was
causing the noise, he could find no vehicle or any
other cause. And intermittently the lights in the
house would dim, then return to their original
brightness, then dim again.
After dinner Nancy swung open the door to the
dining room, excitedly calling Ed to the kitchen.
"Look," she said, pointing toward the ceiling.
Balanced on top of a curtain rod above the
kitchen window was a tray with four small cups on
it.
"What happened?" Ed asked.
"I don't know," said Nancy. "I was looking for
that tray so I could serve some cherry pie. I couldn't
find it anywhere. Then I walked in here and looked
up and there it was!"
Of course, Ed thought, it could have been put
there as a prank by anyone in the house, but he
doubted it. No one was treating the frightening
events of the past month as a joke.
Ed and Lorraine were ever more deeply involved
in the delicate negotiations with the Church that
might produce an exorcism for Maurice. There was
no question in Ed's mind that exorcism was the
only answer. But who would perform the rite? The
Warrens had some ideas, but the final decision
rested with the diocese of Worcester. One problem
was that the Church, historically, has been slow to
approve exorcisms. Another problem was that there
just weren't that many experienced exorcists
around anymore.

234 ♦ Satan's Harvest
The Warrens were keeping several priests in-
formed of the daily developments inside the Ther-
iault home. Sometimes the clergy offered advice,
and they always offered prayers. The Warrens wel-
comed both. But they knew what was really needed
was the direct intercession of a priest who was not
afraid to do battle with the demon that was af-
flicting Maurice.
Ed knew of one such priest. His name was Bishop
Robert McKenna. He also lived in Monroe, just a
mile or so from Ed and Lorraine's house. But
Bishop Harrington would have none of it. McKenna
was too controversial.
Although ordained as a Roman Catholic priest,
McKenna had been expelled from the Church be-
cause he continued to say Mass in Latin. He oper-
ated his own chapel in Monroe, with no help from
Rome. In the eyes of Bishop Harrington, he would
never do.
The negotiations with Bishop Harrington contin-
ued. It was a sticky political situation and Maurice's
case was in limbo because of it.
The day after the cups appeared on the curtain
rod, Ed and Lorraine returned home and Danny St.
Laurent came up from New Britain, Connecticut. It
was his shift of duty. A student at Central Connecti-
cut State College, St. Laurent was trying to study for
midterm exams at the same time he was working on
the Theriault case for the Warrens. He sat comfort-
ably spread out on the sofa with his Polaroid cam-
era, tape recorder, and a pile of textbooks. St. Lau-
rent knew from experience that he might need to

Satan's Harvest ♦ 235
record any unusual happenings and always kept the
camera and recorder within reach. In the meantime
he bent his head over an anatomy book and tried to
study. If anatomy were as exciting as life in the
Theriault farmhouse, he thought, he'd ace every
exam.
St. Laurent's thoughts were interrupted by
Maurice's heavy step at the front door as the farmer
came in from his work to have lunch.
"Whatcha readin'?" Maurice asked.
"Anatomy," the young man replied. "I'm supposed
to know how the muscles work, where strength
comes from and so on."
"Strength comes from the spirits," said Maurice,
with a wink.
"What do you mean?"
"Come on, I'll show ya." Maurice marched down
the hall and out the front door.
St. Laurent was about to follow when he remem-
bered his camera. "I'll be right there," he called, and
ran back to the living room. He hurriedly attached
the flash cube while running back. When he got to
the front door, he stopped dead in his tracks. Look-
ing out, he could see Maurice in front of the house,
and what he saw was hard to believe.
Several times, coming up the driveway, St. Lau-
rent had noticed a life-sized statue of a saint, al-
though Danny couldn't say which saint, leaning
propped against the house. Solid cement, enough to
withstand the winter and the high winds that blew
across the exposed hill, it must have weighed hun-
dreds of pounds, in St. Laurent's estimation.
What had stopped St. Laurent in his tracks was

236 ♦ Satan's Harvest
the sight of Maurice, his two hands delicately
wrapped around the base, holding the statue in the
air. What was even more shocking was the expres-
sion on his face. Maurice showed no sign of exer-
tion at all.
The Warrens' observer quickly snapped off a
photo and placed the camera on the kitchen
counter, then ran out to join Maurice, who was just
replacing the statue. The farmer straightened with a
little smile on his face. He wasn't sweaty or even
breathing hard.
Without a word, St. Laurent, whose weightlifting
had left him capable of bench-pressing one hundred
fifty pounds, grabbed the statue and heaved with all
his might.
It didn't budge.
"How'd you do that, Maurice?" he asked, after giv-
ing up on his own efforts.
"I just call on the spirits," the farmer said, looking
upward and chuckling. "I done that all my life, ever
since I had to lift heavy logs and sacks for my father
when I was a kid."
Two weeks had passed since Bishop Harrington's
spontaneous effort to rid Maurice of his torment,
and Ed Warren hadn't yet been able to arrange for a
formal exorcism. Finally the bishop and the War-
rens agreed on a man: Father Ralph DiOrio.
Although not an exorcist per se, Father DiOrio, a
faith healer, was no stranger to the power of prayer,
since he held regular healing services at his church
in nearby Worcester. He was a Roman Catholic in

Satan's Harvest ♦ 237
good standing, well-known to Bishop Harrington,
and a friend of the Warrens as well.
The Warrens had met him under unusual circum-
stances seven years earlier during a legendary
storm referred to throughout Massachusetts as the
"Blizzard of '78." They had been on a speaking tour
of New England and were on a stop at Keene State
College in New Hampshire when they saw a feature
on the television news about Father DiOrio, a Cath-
olic priest who performed faith healing. That got
their attention because they had not known many
Catholics who believed in the practice. It was usu-
ally more the province of fundamentalist Chris-
tians.
A few days later the Warrens arrived in Worcester
for a talk at Worcester State College. But along
came the "Blizzard of '78." It snowed for days. Peo-
ple were stranded everywhere. Drifts of six feet
were the rule. Travel was absolutely impossible. The
state of Massachusetts, in effect, had shut down.
Ed and Lorraine sat in their room in the Holiday
Inn in Worcester, waiting for the roads to be cleared
so they could return home to Connecticut. As they
sat on their bed reading, Lorraine turned to Ed.
"Honey, remember the report we saw on the news
the other day about that Catholic faith healer?"
Ed peered up from his book. "Yeah?"
"Well, I just remembered that he lives in Worces-
ter."
"So?"
"Well, why don't we give him a call?"
"We?"
"Okay, I'll do it."

238 ♦ Satan's Harvest
Lorraine pulled the Worcester phone directory
out of the nightstand and looked up Father DiOrio's
name. "Here it is!" she exclaimed.
Ed looked up from his book again. "And just what
do you have in mind?"
"I don't know. Maybe we can get together for a
chat. He seems like such an interesting man."
Ed chuckled. "Oh, and how do you plan on doing
that? The whole city is paralyzed."
"We'll find a way," Lorraine replied, dialing the
phone number.
And so began their friendship. Father DiOrio in-
vited the Warrens over to the rectory for a private
healing service. And it turned out, they needed it,
for by the time they had walked a mile through the
snow, Ed and Lorraine were exhausted. But it was
an afternoon to remember. Lorraine came away a
firm believer in the healing power of prayer and the
laying-on of hands.
So when Bishop Harrington suggested Father Di-
Orio for Maurice's exorcism, she and Ed approved
wholeheartedly.
Father DiOrio agreed to try it, but he refused to
call it an exorcism. He preferred to try what he
called a "deliverance."
Ed raised an eyebrow when he heard that but fig-
ured that if Father DiOrio was comfortable calling
it a deliverance, it couldn't hurt.
The deliverance turned out to be almost an exact
replay of the healing prayers performed over Mau-
rice. Done in the presence of Father Boyer at the
rectory of St. Paul's, the result was virtually identi-
cal. As soon as the prayers began, Maurice stiffened.

Satan's Harvest ♦ 239
Soon blood and a yellow substance began to seep
out of his mouth. Despite questioning by Father Di-
Orio, no sound came from Maurice during the ser-
vice. Afterward Maurice seemed exhausted and de-
pressed.
"I don't know how much longer he can go on,"
Nancy reported to the Warrens. She could have
been speaking for herself as well. She, too, was feel-
ing completely worn out and down. Maybe
Maurice's case was hopeless.
Still, the Theriaults continued to visit with Father
DiOrio, often having Sunday dinner with the priest,
then attending his prayer services afterward.
But the mayhem continued in the Theriault
house. Chris Marshall's notes reveal the atmosphere
inside where a small circle of people were sharing
an ordeal that none could explain and that none
would ever forget:
Fire in the greenhouse . . . Seems to be a car
coming . . . Dan and Roger went outside to in-
vestigate. Could not see or hear anything. Just
prior to Dan and Roger's coming back inside, it
happened again . . . Chris called from the bed-
room, stated that he was very dizzy in one cor-
ner of the room . . . Everyone is becoming
weak and light-headed . . .
Peter Walukiewicz and Marcella Leone were on
duty as observers. Marcella, more than a little
frightened by what she had seen and heard about
the Theriault case, asked her boyfriend Chuck to
come to the Theriault farmhouse as well. They were

240 ♦ Satan's Harvest
joined over the weekend by several more of the ob-
serving team.
Nancy had gone to bed early, but Maurice was
still awake. He and several observers, bound to-
gether by the extraordinary events of the past two
weeks, sat in the Theriaults' cramped living room
and tried to speak of inconsequential matters, of
school and farming and gossip about friends.
The two young men spent some time dissecting
the recent upset victory of the Villanova basketball
team over heavily favored Georgetown to win the
NCAA championship. Marcella was telling Maurice
why the recent announcement by the White House
that President Reagan would visit the war cemetery
in Bitburg, West Germany, was making so many
people angry.
Inevitably, however, the conversation turned to
the Warrens and their work with preternatural phe-
nomena. They were, at his very moment, back in
Tewksbury, where the haunted house of Lorraine
Malurba was proving more and more troublesome.
By this time the poor family had been driven from
their home by the unending barrage of unexplained
knockings, moanings, and flying objects.
Much as they wanted to help both families, the
Warrens were determined to see Maurice through
his ordeal before they took on another full-time
case. Still, they had visited the Tewksbury home,
and coming as it did on the heels of all the publicity
about Maurice, the media were in hot pursuit.
But none of this conversation seemed to be hold-
ing Maurice's attention. The frustration of waiting
was making him irritable, and as Peter, Marcella,

Satan's Harvest ♦ 241
and the others chatted away, Maurice began to pace
the room like a captured beast whose cage is too
small. Back and forth, back and forth he stalked,
his movements becoming more and more agitated.
"I'm telling you," Peter was saying, now back on
college basketball again, "Thompson isn't that great
a coach. It was Ewing who—"
Crash!
The noise made everyone jump and brought the
conversation to a sudden halt in midsentence. It
sounded as if somebody had thrown a rock into the
living room.
"What the hell was that?" someone shouted.
Marcella wore an amazed expression.
"L-look," she stuttered, pointing at the coffee ta-
ble.
Where a glass ashtray had rested only moments
ago, there was now a pile of cinders and broken
glass. The ashtray had literally exploded.
The three young people looked at Maurice, who
had stopped pacing. His eyes seemed to have gone
opaque, and it was as if he were no longer in the
room. A deep moan came welling out of his chest.
Marcella's boyfriend, Chuck, grabbed her hand.
"Come on," he said, almost shouting. "We're getting
out of here."
Chuck wound up doing exactly that, but Marcella
wasn't about to leave. She had always been fasci-
nated by psychic phenomena and working with the
Warrens had left her, if not fearless, at least more
familiar with the kinds of events involved in a case
of possession.

242 ♦ Satan's Harvest
Marcella was thirty-seven years old. Her one hun-
dred thirty-five pounds were well distributed on her
tall frame, and the blond, blue-eyed observer had
been drawing admiring glances from some of the
males in the group, even though most were much
younger.
Several times during her own life she'd had expe-
riences that were, she found out, extremely un-
usual. Starting when she was thirteen years old, she
would often have dreams foretelling events that
would then take place, often exactly as they had in
the dream. Wanting to learn more about such oc-
currences she enrolled in the Warrens' course and
began to discover that her gift, while unusual, did
not mean she was crazy. In fact, it was a gift shared
by Lorraine Warren.
The Warrens were delighted that Walukiewicz had
agreed to assist in this case. A twenty-three-year-
old worker in a Connecticut aircraft factory,
Walukiewicz had taken a course with the Warrens at
a local high school and had responded eagerly to
their request for volunteer observers. Lorraine told
the young man that she had been watching him
throughout the lecture. "You have the brightest aura
in the class," she said.
Walukiewicz was a meticulous note-taker and
brought his own recording equipment to the Ther-
iault home. He switched on the machine whenever
an unusual sound or event took place.
Neither he nor Marcella could sleep very much.
Marcella was telling Peter about an incident that
had taken place earlier that afternoon. One of the
observers had brought a friend along. After several

Satan's Harvest ♦ 243
minutes' conversation with the newcomer, it was
clear to Marcella that he had come neither to study
or learn nor to help Maurice. He was at the Ther-
iault home for a thrill, hoping something spectacu-
lar of a supernatural nature would take place.
Nothing occurred for several hours and the
young man, whom Marcella had already dubbed
"the Skeptic," lectured the others about all the possi-
ble scientific explanations for each of the events
they had witnessed.
After touring the house and meeting Maurice and
Nancy, the visitor became impatient. Marcella was
never sure afterward if he did it to show off for her,
but the young man announced that he wasn't wait-
ing anymore for these "spirits."
"Watch this," he said.
Walking into Maurice and Nancy's bedroom, he
hastily scribbled a note and dropped it onto their
bed. Marcella picked it up. She turned pale.
"You don't want to do this," she said.
"Yes I do," the young man replied.
The note read: "Spirits, if you are in this house,
show yourselves to me."
It was, as Chris McKinnell was to remark later, a
foolhardy and dangerous game. Ed Warren had
taught all the students that challenging a demonic
force—or any phenomenon beyond their under-
standing—was the worst thing they could do in
these cases.
Ten minutes later the reason for Ed's warnings
became clear, although it was almost as humorous
to the people in the house as it was frightening.
The arrogant newcomer was busy giving the oth-

244 ♦ Satan's Harvest
ers a lecture about not being afraid of "hocus-
pocus" when his belt buckle suddenly popped open.
He stopped in midsentence and gazed down with a
stupefied look on his face. He was still in that posi-
tion when his zipper broke and his pants began to
sag down around his thighs.
Marcella didn't know whether to laugh or cry as
the young man grabbed his waistband and fled the
house.
Hearing the story, Peter Walukiewicz did laugh.
"Some people really are crazy," he said.
It was then that the sounds started. Peter hastily
switched on his tape recorder. Directly under the
couch on which Marcella was lying came scratch-
ing sounds, as if hundreds of rats were scrambling
all over the floor. Peering under the couch, Peter
saw nothing. A quick check of the basement re-
vealed it to be empty. Just as suddenly as the noises
had begun, they ceased.
The pair looked in every room but could find no
cause for the mysterious scratching sounds. Coming
back to the living room, Marcella was surprised to
hear the television blaring. It hadn't been on when
they had left the room. She switched it off.
Peter and Marcella resumed their places on the
couch and chair and tried to talk. The silence was
frightening, even for people with their training and
experience. Each knew that the period between
nine p.m. and four a.m. is what investigators of the
paranormal call the "psychic hours," when preter-
natural events are much more likely to occur.
Shortly after one a.m. the observers heard several

Satan's Harvest ♦ 245
car doors slam in the Theriault driveway, only
yards from where they were seated. They ran to the
window, but despite a well-lit driveway, they could
see no vehicles. Stepping outside, they confirmed
that the driveway was empty. Just then, Marcella
heard what sounded like a police dispatcher's radio
squawking in the hall. The couple raced back in-
side, but the hallway, too, was mockingly empty.
"Whatever it is we're hearing, it doesn't seem to
want to show itself," said Peter. "I vote we try to get
some sleep."
Despite the excitement, they managed to fall
asleep eventually. Peter was in a deep, dreamless
slumber when he was catapulted out of his chair by
Marcella's screams. Bolt upright on the couch, she
stared with horror at a plaster statue of an Indian
that stood next to the Theriaults' television.
"What is it, Marcella?"
"He told me to get out, to get out of the house."
"Who told you?"
"The Indian."
"The statue talked?"
"And he hurt me. He hurt my legs."
"How'd he do that?" Peter asked.
"I don't know," Marcella replied. "All I know is,
my legs ache now and they didn't before."
"Shit," said Peter. "I think I'd better just stay up
with you the rest of the night."
In the morning Maurice's four-year-old grand-
daughter Carla came with her mother to visit. While
the adults chatted in the kitchen, Peter Walukiewicz

246 ♦ Satan's Harvest
did his best to amuse the child. "You want to draw?"
he asked.
Carla nodded solemnly.
Peter went off to the kitchen and returned in a
moment with paper and crayons.
Peter sat on the floor with the youngster. "What
should we draw?" he said.
Carla seemed to reflect for a moment, almost as if
she were deciding whether Peter could be trusted.
Finally she seemed to have made up her mind.
"Let's draw the monster," she said.
"What monster?" Peter smiled.
"The one in the house," the little girl replied.
Peter's smile vanished.
Without waiting for further encouragement,
Carla began to draw what she called the
"Geesemonster" that she said she saw often when
she visited "Papi Maurice."
When the drawing was done, it didn't look like
much to Peter. Maybe a child's idea of a ghost with
a halo around its head.
"Did you see the monster?" he asked the girl.
"Yeah."
"Where?"
"Lots of places."
"Can you show me where he hides?"
"Yeah."
Peter took the child's hand.
"Show me," he said.
Carla led him into Maurice and Nancy's bedroom
and pointed at the bed.
"He hides in here?"
The child nodded.

Satan's Harvest ♦ 247
"Where else?"
Carla covered her mouth and giggled.
"Show me," said Peter.
Carla led him by the hand to the toilet and
pointed to the toilet bowl.
It's just a kid's game, Peter thought. A variation of
boogie man and pee-pee, ca-ca.
Carla must have seen the look on his face. Tug-
ging his hand, she led him to the cellar steps and
pointed.
"He hides in the basement?" Peter said.
"Yeah, he lives down there."
Peter switched on the lights inside the stairwell,
picked the child up, and carried her down the steep
two-tiered steps into the basement. Looking around,
he could see nothing except piles of boards, a cou-
ple of sacks of potatoes, and shelves containing
boxes and wooden stakes used to grow the tomato
seedlings.
"There's nothing down here, honey," he said.
But just then, Carla pointed at the farthest corner
of the cellar and began to scream.
Peter swiveled around but couldn't see anything
frightening. Carla, still screaming, bolted from his
side and scrambled up the stairs on her hands and
knees.
She was halfway up before Peter thought to go
after her.
The next day, the Theriaults' son-in-law Keith,
married to Nancy's daughter, Cheryl, came to visit.
He didn't do that often. Too many strange occur-
rences took place around Maurice, and Keith didn't

248 ♦ Satan's Harvest
mind admitting that he was terrified of the farmer
and his bizarre behavior.
But he couldn't very well keep his wife from visit-
ing her mother, and as long as that was the case, he
felt better if he went with her. Given the wild nature
of the tales Nancy had been recounting to Cheryl
over the phone, Keith's fear of what might happen
to his wife if she went to the farmhouse alone was
only slightly worse than his idea of what might hap-
pen to him if he went with her.
But it seemed to him as he sat rocking on the
farmhouse porch that his fears had been exagger-
ated. The family meal together had been without
incident, and everyone was enjoying a sense of
closeness that had been too often missing of late.
Content with the enormous meal of fresh farm
food tucked safely inside him, Keith took a deep
breath. He was imagining a moment very soon
when he could go into the kitchen and say, Honey,
don't you think we ought to be hittin' the road? Pull-
ing his down jacket more securely around him
against the chilly April afternoon, Keith continued
rocking and idly watched Maurice working to sepa-
rate a huge tractor tire from the metal rim of its
wheel. He marveled again at the muscles on his fa-
ther-in-law. He's just a little guy, Keith thought, but
I'll bet he could take me.
Just then the young man heard the swinging door
to the kitchen slam shut. Glancing up casually over
his left shoulder, Keith almost fell over backward
with fright. He leapt to his feet as Maurice brushed
by him! Swiveling about, Keith watched dumb-
founded as the second Maurice walked up to the

Satan's Harvest ♦ 249
first one, who was still changing the tire, and
seemed to walk into his body.
The two Maurices had become one.
That was plenty for Keith. Like Marcella's boy-
friend, Chuck, he wanted out of the house, and now.
Within three minutes he had Cheryl in their
pickup and could be seen raising a cloud of dust as
he got away from Maurice Theriault as fast as his
truck would carry him. Cheryl cast him a stricken
look, but Keith was in no mood for a reproach
about their sudden rude departure.
"We'll go back there when he gets his exorcism or
whatever the hell else it takes," he said. "Because I
ain't lettin' you go back there again. Not while he's
like that!"
Peter Walukiewicz got a phone call from Ed War-
ren two days later. He had sent Ed the cassette tapes
from the weekend he and the others had spent at
the house. Ed wanted to use them to help convince
the Church authorities of the seriousness of
Maurice's plight.
"I thought you said there were all kinds of strange
noises that you heard that weekend," Ed said.
"Yeah, that's right," said Peter. "Sounds like rats
scratching and car doors slamming and the televi-
sion and radio. All kinds of stuff."
"Well, there's nothing on these tapes besides peo-
ple having normal conversations," Ed told him.
"Nothing?"
"Nothing."

250 ♦ Satan's Harvest
* * *
That night the wind howled as in an old-time Hol-
lywood movie. Outside the Theriault home the ani-
mals seemed agitated, the dogs barking continu-
ously as soon as darkness fell.
Ever since the publicity about Maurice's ordeal,
the couple had been plagued by anonymous phone
calls and visits from jeering curiosity-seekers who
would drive by and shout epithets at all hours. But
that didn't seem to be the case that night. Each time
the dogs began barking, Maurice or Nancy would
go out to investigate only to return moments later
with a quizzical expression and shrug. Despite his
fears of an intruder or perhaps a New England fox,
Maurice could find no sign of trespassers, human or
animal.
"I dunno what's got 'em going like that," he told
his wife.
An hour later, with the dogs still barking, the cou-
ple decided to go to bed. It would be difficult to
sleep. Between the dogs' howling and the shrieking
wind, Nancy saw that Maurice was becoming more
and more nervous. She knew she had to do some-
thing.
"Frenchy," she said softly in the dark.
"Yeah?"
"How'd you like to learn the Hail Mary in En-
glish, and then We could say it together?"
"Okay" came the reply.
To Nancy's practiced ear, her husband sounded
depressed and listless. She said a silent prayer that
an exorcism would be granted soon, then embarked
on the task of teaching Maurice the Hail Mary in

Satan's Harvest ♦ 251
English. Saying it out loud would reassure her as
much as it would Maurice.
She began: "Hail Mary, full of grace . . ."
"Hail Mary, full of grace . . ." Maurice repeated.
"The Lord is with Thee . . ."
"The Lord is with Thee . . ."
Nancy continued the prayer to the end, with Mau-
rice repeating after her, then began again. She was
on her seventh repetition of the holy words.
"Hail Mary, full of—"
Nancy sat up straight, her words and breath cut
off by a strong hand that was clamped around her
throat like an iron fist.
"Urgh . . . urgh," she gasped as she struggled to
find the chain on her bedside table lamp, finally
finding it and giving it a quick jerk.
The room flooded with light, and through the red
cloud that was forming in front of her eyes, Nancy
could see Maurice, also sitting up, wearing a
strange grin on his face but with both hands folded
in his lap.
Maurice faded from her sight as black spots took
his place. Her last thought before she lost con-
sciousness was, Too late. Too late for the exorcism.
But as suddenly as it had come the mysterious
hand around her throat let go, and Nancy dragged
air gratefully into her rasping lungs. Running to the
bathroom, she retched for several minutes. After
cleaning her face with a towel, Nancy looked at her
face in the mirror over the sink. There were livid
finger marks around her throat. She looked back in
the bedroom. Maurice, now lying down, was sleep-
ing soundly. It hadn't been he who had tried to
strangle her.

252 ♦ Satan's Harvest
Now, she said to herself, sobbing. It has to be
now. We can't wait any longer or we'll all be dead.
Ed and Lorraine Warren had come to the same
conclusion. It was clear that Father DiOrio's deliver-
ance had been about as effective as Bishop Har-
rington's impromptu exorcism. He knew now that
he needed an experienced exorcist. Ed informed
Bishop Harrington that he was going to ask Bishop
McKenna to do it. He knew that Bishop Harrington,
bishop of the diocese of Worcester, could never as-
sign an expelled priest, and he was surprised that
Bishop Harrington didn't try to talk him out of it.
But he also knew that Harrington didn't have any
alternatives.
Ed called Bishop Robert McKenna that same
night. McKenna was aware of the Theriault case, of
course, and had been praying for Maurice for some
time, but until then he had not been asked to inter-
vene directly.
Ed said he needed to talk with the bishop, but
wanted to do it in person. McKenna, whose Our
Lady of the Rosary Chapel was only a mile or so
away from the Warrens' home, invited Ed and Lor-
raine over for coffee the next morning. But the wise
bishop knew instinctively what Ed was going to ask
him to do.
Lying in his bed that night, McKenna could feel
the approach of an enemy, an enemy as old as man.
Tenderly holding the rosary beads around his neck,
he began to pray silently. He was asking for
strength in the ordeal that he now knew was at
hand.

13
Bishop Robert McKenna of Our Lady of the Ro-
sary Chapel in Monroe woke early. He had a lot on
his mind. The fifty-eight-year-old priest had exor-
cised evil spirits from houses before but had never
performed an exorcism on a person. A sense of
foreboding gripped him.
The bishop's approaching confrontation with the
dark force that held Maurice Theriault in thrall did
not, on the surface, look like a fair fight. McKenna
was a frail wisp of a man, standing five feet eight
inches tall but weighing only one hundred thirty
pounds. His graying brown hair was thinned out.
Behind his thick, dark glasses fatigue as well as wis-
dom were etched in his eyes.
Contributing to his frail appearance was the fact
that McKenna had been fasting for days in prepara-
tion for the confrontation. It should have made him
feel weak, but he didn't feel weak at all. He had

254 ♦ Satan's Harvest
prayed long and hard during his fast and he felt
strong. Fasting made him feel mentally, physically,
and spiritually prepared. An air of isolation and
holiness seemed to radiate from the priest.
McKenna was not one to back down from a fight.
He hadn't backed down when Rome ordered priests
to change many of the holy rituals the Church had
always observed. In the 1960's, after Vatican II, the
language in which the sacraments was delivered—
Mass among them—was required to be the vernacu-
lar.
McKenna believed it was wrong to change the
way things had always been done, and he, like a
small cadre of other priests around the world, re-
fused to go along. For them, Latin always was and
still is the proper language for the Holy Mass. They
simply would not accede to the order to change.
As a result, McKenna's order—the Dominican Or-
der of Preachers—was no longer recognized by the
Vatican. Convinced he was following the path God
had ordained, McKenna continued to chant the mu-
sical magic of the Mass in Latin. For him and for his
congregation, the ancient words had never seemed
so precious, so full of meaning.
When Rome declared it would no longer fund
their church, McKenna's parishioners paid the bills
themselves. Their Mass, and their bishop, were cer-
tainly worth the sacrifice. To them, Bishop Mc-
Kenna was a hero in a time when there were too
few heroes. He was following Jesus, not Rome. That
took courage.
But the frail prelate had no illusions. He knew

Satan's Harvest ♦ 255
that he'd need more than courage to meet Satan
head-on.
Earlier that morning, at dawn, there had been a
spring shower. It had looked as if it was going to be
a gray, gloomy day, but now the sun was shining
and reflecting dazzling morning light on the dozens
of wet dogwood petals that the rain had pelted to
the ground. Bishop McKenna hoped the sun would
continue shining for the rest of the day.
Walking to the chapel that morning, he concen-
trated his thoughts toward God in heaven. He felt
strength coming in to him in return; he could al-
most see it, like a shaft of light shining around him.
God's love came through the soft grass and was evi-
denced in the sweetness of the spring air. He had
been repeating a prayer and could still hear the
prayer echoing in his head, and echoing in nature,
as he walked toward the stone chapel. Kneeling be-
fore the altar in the cool stillness, he prayed for
God's help.
After an hour, he returned to his office to collect
the items he would need for the exorcism, the arms
he would wield in the battle to come: the official
Ritual Romani prayer book, a brass crucifix, an as-
persorium used to shake holy water, relics of sev-
eral saints, and of course his religious habit, includ-
ing a white waist-length surplice, or loose robe, and
a purple stole that would hang around his neck and
reach down to his knees.
McKenna packed the items into a small black
leather bag and calmly walked over to his desk to
phone Ed and Lorraine Warren, who lived only a

256 ♦ Satan's Harvest
couple of miles away. "I'm about ready to leave,
Ed," he said.
"We're just about ready too," Ed replied. He
thought about asking Bishop McKenna if he wanted
a ride but remembered that the priest had said he
would prefer to drive alone—so he could have more
time to pray.
"We'll swing by in a few minutes and you can fol-
low us," Ed said. "We'll have a caravan. We've got a
devoted group of helpers coming with us. And
they're a great group, rest assured. They're not
afraid of anything."
Roger Coyle and A1 Vogel would drive up in a van
with Larry Elward and Charles Carvatas. Then
they'd all meet up with Chris McKinnell and Ray
Jefferson at a rest stop off 1-84, near the exit for the
University of Connecticut.
The date was May 2. The sun was still shining
brightly. Every cloud had disappeared. Lorraine
hoped that was a good omen. She said so as they
backed the Chevette out over the bump at the end of
their driveway. A red cardinal had been watching
them from its branch in a birch tree, and swooped
down in front of the car as they began their drive to
Warren, Massachusetts.
Ed and Lorraine didn't say much as they drove
the now familiar route to Warren. Lorraine thought
to herself how much prettier the drive was now that
it was spring than when they had first made their
way up there in the dead of winter. She mentioned
it to Ed, but he barely responded. He was deep in
thought. He was often this way right before an exor-
cism. It wasn't hard to understand. He was scared,

Satan's Harvest ♦ 257
as anybody would be. She knew he was calling on
Jesus to help them through whatever was going to
come later that day.
"Don't worry, honey," she said, taking his hand.
"Everything's going to be fine."
All was quiet when the caravan pulled into the
driveway to the Theriault farmhouse just over two
hours later. As the crew made its way to the door of
the house, Nancy popped her head out and then
turned back to Maurice. "They're here, honey," she
said. She went over to him and gave him a hug.
Maurice, who was sitting at the kitchen table,
looked up but didn't say anything. He wore a white
T-shirt and jeans and was sipping a cup of coffee.
When Ed and the others came through the door, he
nodded to them and even engaged in a bit of small
talk about the weather.
"Well, we better get started," Ed said quietly, rub-
bing his palms together briskly. "Let's do it in the
living room. There's more room there. We'll go in
and set up and then we'll call you in when we're
ready, Maurice."
From behind the swinging door, Maurice could
hear their muffled voices and the sounds of furni-
ture being rearranged.
Roger Coyle had brought along his Camcorder to
tape the proceedings and began to set it up across
from the chair where Maurice would sit during the
exorcism. Bishop McKenna followed Roger into the
room to put on his vestments and set up a little table
next to the chair where he could place the items he
would need to perform the ritual.
When everything was ready, the group fell silent.

258 ♦ Satan's Harvest
Ed and Bishop McKenna stared at each other si-
lently. For Maurice Theriault and the force that pos-
sessed him, the climactic moment had come. By the
time it was finished, everyone in the living room of
this modest farmhouse would be changed forever,
and one person would have come close to death.
Ed called Maurice into the living room. The ten-
sion was building. Maurice's mouth was dry and he
was nervous, but he tried not to let it show.
"Maurice, why don't you sit down here," said
Bishop McKenna, pointing to the chair that had
been set up for him.
Maurice walked over without saying a word and
sat down. Roger and A1 stood to one side and Chris
and Ray stood to the other, ready to restrain Mau-
rice. Well versed by Ed in the literature of exorcism,
they knew that possessed persons could show the
strength of ten, cause objects to move about the
room, even levitate straight up in the air.
Nancy stood behind Maurice, next to Larry and
Charles, who were there for her in case she needed
comfort or support.
Bishop McKenna stood in front of Maurice, his
back to him as if he were facing an altar, and began
to pray out loud. Everyone was still.
Almost instantly Maurice's eyes began to drip
blood. The bright red drops at first seeped slowly
from the corners of his eyes but within a few min-
utes were gushing down his cheeks in a steady
stream.
Ed and Lorraine looked at Maurice and then at
each other.
It had begun.

Satan's Harvest ♦ 259
Surveying the room, Ed and Lorraine saw that
some of their assistants had horrified looks on their
faces. Ed put his hands up in a gesture of reassur-
ance. It wouldn't help to have somebody panic at
this point.
As for Nancy, she appeared remarkably com-
posed. Ed figured she had seen Maurice's eyes bleed
before and had gotten used to it. But despite her
outward calm, she was spinning in turmoil inside.
She knew that this was probably Maurice's last
chance.
Hovering over Maurice, the priest chanted his
preliminary prayers: "Our Father Who art in
heaven, Hallowed be Thy name . . ."
Lorraine was praying along with Bishop Mc-
Kenna, but her prayers were interrupted by a dark
tingling at the edge of her consciousness. It had al-
ways been like that when she was about to see
something that ordinary people—people who did
not possess the gift, and the curse, of clairvoyance—
could not see.
She began to discern evil spirits in the room, first
just a few, then a few dozen. Before long, her sec-
ond sight felt the presence of hundreds of devils and
demons. There's a whole legion of them here, she
thought.
Lorraine shuddered and tried to return to her
prayers. With the evil forces this strong, Maurice
would need every prayer he could get. And so
would Bishop McKenna, Ed, Nancy, and all the as-
sistants. Everybody was in jeopardy today.
Bishop McKenna continued to pray. As he did, a

260 ♦ Satan's Harvest
banging noise could be heard coming from
Maurice's bedroom. It was as if the headboard of
his bed was being slammed repeatedly against the
wall. At first the banging was just a minor nuisance.
But it kept getting louder, louder, filling the room
with what sounded like the blows of a giant jack-
hammer.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
Abruptly it stopped. But that sound was soon re-
placed by the unnerving drone of what sounded like
human voices coming from the kitchen. The voices
were whispering, but nobody could understand
what they were saying. It was eerie. Then the voices,
too, went silent.
Bishop McKenna, focusing all his force and con-
centration, had attained the trancelike state the ex-
orcist must reach in his battle, and had not stopped
his prayers and invocations, even as the frightening
phenomena took place. These were Satan's tricks,
he knew, meant to distract him from his holy task.
He recited the Lord's Prayer and the Apostles'
Creed three times each before going through the
traditional litany of the saints:
"St. John, pray for us. St. Peter, pray for us. St.
Paul, pray for us."
The priest continued through the entire list of
apostles and a long list of martyrs, confessors, and
saints.
He picked up the book entitled The Roman Ritual
of Exorcism, which would lead him through the ex-
orcism rite and opened the page at the cross book-
mark. He began by asking God for His help:

Satan's Harvest ♦ 261
God, it is an attribute of Yours to have mercy
and to forgive. Hear our prayer, so that this ser-
vant of Yours who is bound with the chain of
sins, be mercifully freed by the compassion of
Your goodness.
"Holy Lord! All-powerful Father! Eternal God!
Father of our Lord Jesus Christ! You Who des-
tined that recalcitrant and apostate Tyrant to
the fires of hell; You Who sent Your only Son
into this world in order that He might crush this
Roaring Lion: Look speedily and snatch from
damnation and from this devil of our times this
man who was created in Your image and like-
ness. Throw Your terror, Lord, over the Beast
who is destroying what belongs to You. Give
faith to Your servants against this most Evil Ser-
pent, to fight most bravely. So that the Serpent
not hold in contempt those who hope in You,
and say as it said through the Pharaoh: I do not
know God, and I will not let Israel go. Let Your
powerful strength force the Serpent to let go of
Your servant, so that it no longer possess him
whom You deigned to make in Your image and
to redeem by Your Son, Who lives and reigns
with You in the unity of the Holy Spirit, as God,
forever and ever. Amen.
It was time to summon the evil spirit. Bishop Mc-
Kenna turned to face Maurice.
Unclean Spirit! Whoever you are, and all your
companions who possess this servant of God. By
the mysteries of the Incarnation, the Sufferings
and Death, the Resurrection, and the Ascension
of our Lord Jesus Christ; by the sending of the

262 ♦ Satan's Harvest
Holy Spirit; and by the Coming of our Lord into
Last Judgment, I command you: Tell me, with
some sign, your name, the day and the hour of
your damnation. Obey me in everything, al-
though I am an unworthy servant of God. Do no
damage to this creature or to my assistants, or
to any of their goods.
The banging began again, louder and still louder.
Ed, Lorraine, and the others could barely hear the
bishop.
The unholy din suddenly ceased only to be fol-
lowed by a loud thud that appeared to come from
outside the house. It sounded as if a car door had
been violently slammed shut. Ed moved toward the
window, but there was nobody near any of the cars.
He shook his head and returned to his spot by Mau-
rice.
Maurice began to bleed profusely from the nose.
His face was a mask of blood.
Even Bishop McKenna, who had come prepared
to see almost anything, had to look twice as he saw
the blood running down Maurice's face, staining his
white T-shirt. He blinked, but he kept on reading:
I exorcise you, Most Unclean Spirit! Invading
Enemy! All Spirits! Every one of you! In the
name of Our Lord Jesus Christ: Be uprooted and
expelled from this Creature of God.
Sweat started dripping from Maurice's forehead
as he twitched in his seat. It wasn't long before his

Satan's Harvest ♦ 263
entire shirt was drenched in a foul-smelling combi-
nation of sweat and blood.
The bishop glanced up at Maurice again and this
time saw that crosses had appeared as if burned
into the palms of his hands.
Bishop McKenna was trembling a bit, but contin-
ued to declaim the ritual in a strong, powerful
voice:
He who commands you is He Who ordered you
to be thrown down from the highest heaven into
the depths of hell. He Who commands you is He
Who dominated the sea, the wind, and the
storms. Hear, therefore, and fear, Satan! Enemy
of the Faith! Enemy of the Human Race! Source
of death! Robber of life! Twister of justice!
Root of evil! Warp of voices! Seducer of men!
Traitor of nations! Inciter of jealousy! Origina-
tor of greed! Cause of discord! Creator of agony!
Why do you stay and resist, when you know that
Christ our Lord has destroyed your plan? Fear
Him Who was prefigured in Isaac, in Joseph,
and in the Paschal Lamb; Who was crucified as
a man, and Who rose from death.
As Bishop McKenna continued the exorcism ad-
dress, Ed leaned over and whispered to Roger to try
and remove Maurice's boots. Maurice was begin-
ning to shake and Ed feared he might kick the
bishop. Roger whispered the message to Al, and as
if on cue, they dropped to their knees and each
yanked off a black cowboy boot.
Their eyes bulged when they saw his white socks

264 ♦ Satan's Harvest
drenched in blood—from stigmata wounds on his
feet. There was a pool of blood in each boot.
Nancy wept, desperately wanting to go to her hus-
band's aid. But Larry and Charles, on Ed's orders,
firmly told her not to move toward him. She sobbed
quietly, with her clenched fist to her mouth.
Larry asked her if she wanted to go into the
kitchen for a while, but Nancy just shook her head.
"I'm not leaving Maurice," she said.
Her husband, transformed into a frightening bun-
dle of bloody clothing, had fallen into a kind of
trance. He slumped back in his chair, and his eyes
rolled back into his head so that only the whites
were showing. The putrid smell of the blood was
stifling.
Roger's hands were sweating profusely and he
shook as he tried to capture the scene on videotape.
Al steadied him as he moved the camera to film
what was happening from different angles. But Al
was shaking too.
Lorraine glanced over at Ed and noticed that he
was looking unusually pale. She whispered to him,
"Honey, why don't you go into the kitchen and sit
down. You look white as a ghost."
Ed felt nausea welling up inside, but he wasn't
going to leave now. He could tell that things were
starting to heat up.
Bishop McKenna made the sign of the cross on
Maurice's sweaty forehead and continued to read:
Retire, therefore, in the name of the Father, and
of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Give way to
the Holy Spirit, because of this sign of the Holy

Satan's Harvest ♦ 265
Cross of our Lord Jesus Christ, Who lives and
reigns as God with the Father and the same
Holy Spirit, forever and ever. Amen.
Right before everyone's eyes, Maurice's face be-
gan to change. Heavy, animallike groans came up
from his throat. His face got redder, then brownish-
gray. His nose got wider and flatter, and deep lines
—more like crevices—formed across his forehead.
It was almost as if his forehead had swollen and
split in two. His brow seemed to expand and hang
over his eyes, which were becoming slits. In a mat-
ter of a few seconds he'd been transformed. The
reptilian face that now regarded the bishop with
twisted malice did not look like any human being
Ed had ever seen.
As Ed and the others looked at Maurice in horror,
he started to get up out of his chair.
"Stop him!" Ed shouted. "Grab him!" Then Ed re-
coiled, grabbing his chest. He suddenly felt as if he
had a one-hundred-pound weight on his breast. He
was breathing with difficulty.
Quickly, Roger and Al, who were standing to
Maurice's left, grabbed one arm, while at the same
time Chris and Ray, who were standing to his right,
took hold of the other.
Maurice struggled, grunting and kicking violently
as Ed, Larry, and Charles grabbed hold of his shoul-
ders from the rear.
For a moment it looked as if Maurice was going
to break free. But the seven men struggled with all
their might and pushed him back down into the

266 ♦ Satan's Harvest
chair. As he fell backward, Maurice let out a hid-
eous groan and seemed to go limp.
Roger looked over to Ed as if to ask whether it
was safe to let go his grip. Ed just shook his head.
"Okay, I think he's calmed down, at least for now,"
Ed said. "Let him go, but remain on guard. He
could try it again. And if he does, he'll probably go
right for the bishop."
As Ed finished speaking, a lamp, which had been
sitting on a table on the other side of the room, fell
to the floor and shattered. Ed looked around to see
if any other objects might be about to take flight. A
painting on the side wall began to rattle. And the
hallway light began to flash on and off. But nothing
more happened.
McKenna had continued praying throughout
Maurice's struggle to get out of his chair and didn't
stop even when the objects started to move. If he
was frightened, he didn't show it. He knew he had
to concentrate on the task at hand. He couldn't
show fear.
The bishop called out to Maurice by name. "Mau-
rice," he said. "Maurice, can you hear me?"
But Lorraine knew that the man before them was
no longer Maurice Theriault.
"Father, Maurice is no longer here," she said.
McKenna knew it. He knew that an evil presence
was now in their midst. He put down the book.
"I abjure you in the name of God to tell me your
name!" he boomed.
The creature that had been Maurice looked up
and smiled wickedly at the priest. "I am what I am."
The words boomed across the room. The voice

Satan's Harvest ♦ 267
was deep, guttural. Sinister. Several in the room felt
their flesh puckering into goose bumps.
Bishop McKenna repeated his command. "I ab-
jure you in the name of God to tell me your name!"
"I am what I am " came the frightening reply.
The priest tried it two more times, but each time
got the same cryptic answer. He decided to try a
different question.
"How many of you are there?" asked the priest.
"I am the only one."
The creature's voice seemed strained, but the
message was clear. Bishop McKenna knew what he
was dealing with. But he wanted to hear a more
direct answer.
He asked again. "What is your name?"
"Dicis supercilius."
Roger looked at Al with raised eyebrows. A1 just
shrugged.
But Bishop McKenna recognized it as Latin. The
rough translation: "You say I'm proud."
He's still playing games, McKenna thought. Of
course he's proud. The devil is the king of pride.
"Why are you here?" The priest asked.
But Maurice didn't answer.
"Why are you here?"
Again no answer.
"How did you enter?"
Still no answer. Maurice appeared to have gone
back into his trance.
Bishop McKenna again picked up the exorcism
book. As his words swelled out over the room, the
listeners were moved by their simple majesty and
by the power exuding from the frail priest.

268 ♦ Satan's Harvest
I enjoin you under penalty, Ancient Serpent! In
the name of the Judge of the Living and the
Dead! In the name of Him Who has power to
send you into hell! Depart from this servant of
God, Maurice, who has recourse to the Church.
Cease to inspire your terror in him. I again en-
join you solemnly, not because of myself, who
am weak, but because of the strength of the
Holy Spirit: that you go out from this servant of
God, Maurice, whom the all-powerful God made
in His own image. Surrender, not to me, but to
the minister of Christ. His power forces you. He
defeated you by His Cross. Fear the strength of
Him who led the souls of the dead to the light of
salvation from the darkness of waiting. May the
body of this man be a source of terror for you.
May the image of God be a source of fear for
you.
As Bishop McKenna chanted the ancient and holy
formula, he picked up the crucifix and waved it in
front of Maurice, making the sign of the cross. As
he did, Maurice stirred. He sat up slowly, as if he
were Rip Van Winkle coming out of his long sleep.
McKenna put the book down, but continued with
his commands. "I said in the name of God, in the
name of Jesus Christ, in the name of the Blessed
Virgin Mary to depart," he said. "Stop tormenting
this creature."
McKenna picked up the aspersorium and sprin-
kled Maurice with holy water. Then he took the cru-
cifix and again made the sign of the cross with it in
front of Maurice's still contorted face.
Instantly Maurice's face started returning to nor-

Satan's Harvest ♦ 269
mal. His nose unflattened and took its former
shape, and the deep lines etched across his forehead
disappeared. Slowly he sat up in his chair. Within
moments he had come completely out of his trance.
Ed, Lorraine, and the others looked at him with
expectant silence.
Maurice wiped his face with a wet towel and
scanned the room. When he spotted Nancy he got
up slowly, walked over to her, and put his muscular
arms around her. As they embraced, Nancy broke
down. Tears streamed down her face, but for the
first time in a long time they were tears of joy. She
couldn't remember the last time Maurice had
hugged her like that.
As they unlocked from their embrace Maurice
looked around the room until he saw Ed. Then he
broke into a half grin. It was the first time Ed had
ever seen Maurice smile.
"It's over, Maurice," Ed said. "You're finally free."
Maurice felt it. Euphoria swept over him as
Bishop McKenna read the final psalm readings and
a concluding prayer of thanks:
We pray You, all-powerful God, that Evil Spirit
have no more power over this servant of yours,
Maurice, but that it flee and not come back. Let
the goodness and the peace of our Lord Jesus
Christ enter him at Your bidding, Lord. For
through Jesus we have been saved. And let us
not fear any ill, because the Lord is with us, He
Who lives and reigns as God with You in the
unity of the Holy Spirit, forever and ever.
Amen.

270 ♦ Satan's Harvest
* * *
Ed was quiet as he and Lorraine drove back to
Monroe that afternoon. His silence puzzled Lor-
raine. Although he was often quiet on the way to an
exorcism, afterward Ed would always be jabbering
on about each and every little detail. And today's
went so well that she figured he'd be talking from
the minute they left the farmhouse to the minute
they pulled into their driveway at home.
She was so excited about what had just happened.
Her heart was still racing, but she felt lifted by the
awesome power of the Lord. From the looks of
things, the exorcism had been a success. Of course,
it was too early to be certain, but indications were
good. Maurice had looked like a man who had been
reprieved from a death sentence. Just as important,
from Lorraine's point of view, was what she had
discerned during the exorcism by her powers of
clairvoyance. Lorraine could tell when an evil spirit
was present and when one was not. At the outset of
the exorcism she could feel the spirit's presence
very strongly. By the time it was over, she knew that
it was gone.
"I think this one's going to take, honey," she said.
"I've got a good feeling about it."
Lorraine knew that Bishop McKenna had been
the key. Bishop Harrington, she realized, was not
really the right type of priest to succeed as an exor-
cist. An exorcist must be a pious, holy man. Har-
rington, in charge of the diocese of Worcester, had
become more of an administrator than a priest in
recent years. And Father DiOrio, for all his good
work as a faith healer, plainly had not been pre-

Satan's Harvest ♦ 271
pared. Lorraine figured he was too busy with his
popular healing services to devote the needed time
to fasting and prayer in anticipation of the battle.
Besides, she knew it was unusual for an exorcism
to succeed the first time around. For that to happen,
the exorcist had to be very special—like Bishop Mc-
Kenna.
She was certain it had been McKenna's piety and
holiness that had kept this exorcism from getting
out of control. She thought back to an exorcism of a
teenage girl she had attended in New Jersey. That
one had gotten really violent. The girl had uttered
the vilest string of obscenities Lorraine had ever
heard. Furniture had gone flying around the room.
It was lucky no one had gotten killed.
Lorraine knew that today's exorcism could have
gotten violent too. She had feared that would hap-
pen when Maurice tried to bolt from his chair. For-
tunately seven strong men were there to stop him.
But she knew that even they would have been no
match for the devil that had taken over Maurice if
Bishop McKenna had not been up to the task. Yes,
she thought, God had protected him. He had let the
bishop get on with his work.
"Yeah, honey, we sure got the right man for the
job when we got Bishop McKenna," Lorraine said.
Ed just nodded.
Lorraine looked over and saw that he still looked
pale.
"Honey, do you feel okay?"
"I'm just a little thirsty," he answered. "Let's pull
over and get a soda."
After the drink Ed said he felt a little better, but

272 ♦ Satan's Harvest
when they got home he announced that he was go-
ing straight to bed.
The next morning, he again had little to say. He
didn't even bother to review his notes as he usually
did. When he complained about his lunchtime ham-
burger having no taste, Lorraine didn't know what
to think. That wasn't like Ed at all. And besides, she
had one, too, and it was perfectly delicious.
Had something happened to Ed during the exor-
cism?
After lunch Ed decided to turn on the television,
but before he went into the living room he called
out to Lorraine, "Honey, is there any of that straw-
berry shortcake left?"
"Sure is, honey," she answered. Well, that's better,
she thought. He couldn't be feeling too bad.
Ed opened the refrigerator and took out what re-
mained of the cake. He carried it to the counter and
sliced off a good-sized piece. As he walked out to the
living room, it hit him: His chest felt as if it were
being crushed. He began to sweat profusely. He felt
a sharp pain in his left arm. And it became increas-
ingly difficult to breathe.
He placed the plate of cake down and leaned
against the counter for support. "Honey, I think you
better get me to the hospital," he said. "I think I'm
having a heart attack."
Ed Warren did have a heart attack, a severe one.
He spent seventeen days in St. Vincent's Hospital in
Bridgeport, where doctors said he'd been having the
attack for at least twenty-four hours—meaning that

Satan's Harvest ♦ 273
it had started shortly after the exorcism had gotten
under way.
Word got around the hospital about Ed and the
circumstances under which he'd suffered the heart
attack. Several doctors and nurses—even the hospi-
tal chaplain—came by his room to ask about it.
They wanted to know if the devil had caused the
attack.
It was a question that was on Ed's mind too. But
he was unable to answer it. In all his years of fight-
ing demons and other evil spirits, nothing this seri-
ous had ever happened to him. He wondered
whether his faith was strong enough. Or whether he
had just finally met his match.
Ed decided to leave the answer up to Lorraine.
She went downstairs to the hospital chapel to pray
and meditate. She stayed in there for hours, looking
for an answer. Had Satan finally gotten the better of
her husband? Finally she came to a conclusion. She
went back up to Ed's room to tell him what she
thought.
"Well?" he asked, peering up from his newspaper.
"Honey, I've given this a lot of thought, prayer,
and meditation," she said. "And I've come to the
conclusion that God caused your heart attack,
honey. He caused it to slow you down. You've been
working way too hard. We both have. I think we
need to take a rest. Then, if God sees fit to heal you,
we'll continue our work. If not, then our work will
have to stop. We'll leave it up to God."
Within a week Ed was discharged from the hospi-
tal. His doctors told him he would have to curtail all
his activities for at least six months. It wasnt easy

274 ♦ Satan's Harvest
for him, since there were new cases being reported
and old cases to follow up. But he had no choice. He
had to confine his professional activities to reading.
It was a very difficult and frustrating time for
him. He felt he was letting people down. But he
tempered those feelings by remembering what Lor-
raine had told him about God's plan.
When the six months were up, Ed's doctor gave
him the good news: He had healed sufficiently to
return to work. Ed reacted as if he had been given a
new lease on life and returned to his duties with
renewed enthusiasm. He and Lorraine decided to
return to the college lecture circuit and to begin
some preliminary investigations into new cases. But
first they wanted to check up on some of the old
cases. The first one he wanted to check on was Mau-
rice Theriault.
What Ed learned was enough to have sent a
weaker man back to the cardiac unit.

14
Chief Sean LeBoeuf sat back in his chair with his
hands folded behind his head and his big black
boots on his desk, staring up at the ceiling. He was
trying to decide what to do about Frenchy Ther-
iault. It had been more than two months since the
final exorcism. While there had been no more
strange incidents that had come to his attention, he
had not forgotten about Frenchy. As he proceeded
with his investigation into the mysterious fires at
the Theriault farmhouse, he had discovered some-
thing much worse than possible arson.
LeBoeuf had uncovered evidence that Maurice
Theriault had raped his own stepdaughter, not once
but probably a dozen times. A tip from a state child-
abuse investigator led him to the thirteen-year-old
girl's natural father in upstate New York and then to
the girl herself. What she told him sent shivers up
his spine.

276 ♦ Satan's Harvest
She said she had engaged in sexual activities with
Maurice many times over the course of the previous
few years. If that had been all there was to it, then
LeBoeuf wouldn't have been sitting here pondering
what he ought to do. But like everything concerning
Maurice Theriault, this was complicated.
According to the girl, it wasn't really Maurice
who had raped her. No, she claimed it was some-
body else who looked just like Maurice.
The police chief didn't have to ask who that might
have been. He had heard enough by then about de-
monic possession and dopplegangers and all that
bullshit. Now he's got her thinking she was raped by
the devil. What next? he thought.
LeBoeuf knew this was going to be a tough case to
prosecute, especially with all the publicity in the lo-
cal papers and national tabloids about Frenchy's ex-
orcism.
Although he was a Catholic and of French-Cana-
dian descent, LeBoeuf thought exorcism was
strictly for the movies. Sure, there was about fifteen
percent of him that thought the possession business
might have been true—maybe. After all, he had seen
Frenchy gyrating and his eyes bleeding and a few
other strange occurrences—but the other eighty-five
percent of him, the logical, police-officer part of
him, thought otherwise.
Down deep, LeBoeuf thought the demonic-posses-
sion stuff was just a crock of shit, albeit an unusual
crock of shit, devised by Maurice to cover up the
fires—which LeBoeuf figured he had set to collect
on his insurance—not to mention the sexual abuse
of his own stepdaughter. Father Boyer and the War-

Satan's Harvest ♦ 277
rens, he figured, had just been suckered in by
Frenchy, who was not as dumb as he appeared.
No, Frenchy was quite clever, LeBoeuf thought.
He'd proved that the time he'd been called to the
state fire-marshal's office to take a polygraph test.
Just as the test was about to begin, Frenchy began to
go into convulsions. He shook and twitched and fell
to the floor, moaning and groaning. When he finally
came out of it, Frank Moore, the fire investigator,
decided there was no way Maurice could undergo
the test. His heart was racing, he was sweating pro-
fusely, and he was still shaking like a leaf. Even if
Moore had given him the test, the results would
have been suspect. So he sent Frenchy home.
LeBoeuf had been furious when he heard about
it. That bastard, he thought. He did it again. What a
convenient time to throw a fit.
So he knew that to pin a rape or child-abuse con-
viction on Frenchy was going to be tricky. But he
was determined to do it. There was no doubt
Frenchy had done it. The girl had told LeBoeuf that,
even though she was convinced that it wasn't really
Frenchy. And her natural father had said he would
allow her to testify against the farmer. If there was
anything LeBoeuf hated, it was a child molester. He
wasn't going to allow Frenchy to get away with this
one. No way.
He sat straight up in his chair, dropping his boots
to the floor with two clunks. He had made his deci-
sion. He was ready to bring the matter to the dis-
trict attorney's office. He had a tape of his interview
with the girl. That ought to be enough to get an in-
dictment before a grand jury, he thought.

278 ♦ Satan's Harvest
He showed Jim Lemire, the assistant district at-
torney at the Spencer district court what he had, but
the young prosecutor said he'd have to take it to the
main office in Worcester. Days went by. Then
weeks.
LeBoeuf started to get the sinking feeling that the
DA's office wasn't going to take the case.
"Come on, Jim," LeBoeuf said. "This thing is big-
ger than I am. I want to take this thing to a grand
jury. I need some help."
But he couldn't seem to get anywhere. Finally Le-
Boeuf decided to call the office of District Attorney
Don Conte in Worcester himself. When he did he
was put on hold for twenty minutes. When he fi-
nally got through to Conte's secretary and explained
what he wanted, she put him off. He was being
stonewalled. Nobody appeared willing to meet with
him.
LeBoeuf called the DA's office repeatedly, but he
couldn't seem to get an answer., He knew it would
be a tough case to prosecute, but he had the evi-
dence. Yet they didn't seem to want to touch it.
By now it was July. Still no answer from the DA's
office. LeBoeuf had a problem. He had never faced
anything like this before. He had a decision to
make. He was mulling it over in his office at home
one steamy night when his wife, Lynnda, came in
carrying a bag of groceries.
"I got a couple of steaks, Sean," she yelled from
the kitchen. "Want to put them on the grill?"
But he didn't answer.
"Honey?"

Satan's Harvest ♦ 279
Lynnda walked into his office and found her hus-
band deep in thought. He hadn't even heard her.
"I said I bought us a couple of nice steaks," she
said. "And I got a six-pack of Michelob. How about
firing up the grill?"
LeBoeuf looked up from the papers spread out on
his desk. "I'm sorry, baby," he said. "I got a serious
decision to make here. I got to think."
"Want to tell me about it?"
LeBoeuf frowned. He didn't usually involve his
wife in police-department matters. Of course, she
knew about the Frenchy Theriault case. It seemed
as if the whole world did. But he had kept his rape
investigation secret. Not even his patrolmen knew
about it. That's why he had the paperwork on the
case at home.
He decided to break with tradition. He told his
wife all about the new developments in the Frenchy
Theriault case.
"I've been trying to meet with the DA's office for
more than a month," he said. "I know I've got prob-
able cause. But they're stalling. I don't think they
want to handle it. I guess there's just been too much
publicity. So they're backing off and I'm stuck with
a problem. I could arrest him and take him to court,
but I'm going to get no help. It's all on my shoulders
now."
Now that he had started talking about it, his frus-
trations were all coming out. He paced the room as
he talked. "The DA has the prosecuting responsibil-
ity," he said. "But they just refuse to prosecute. Nor-
mally, I'd have options. Present it to a grand jury or,

280 ♦ Satan's Harvest
based upon probable cause of his committing a fel-
ony, arrest him. I can't go to a grand jury without
the DA, so the only thing left to do is arrest him on
my own."
His wife had been sitting on the couch while she
listened. She got up and went over to his desk to
lean on it and gently put her hand on his shoulder.
"The way I see it, sweetie, is that you've got no
choice. You've got to arrest him. You can't let him
go free if he raped a little girl. If he gets off on this
devil thing, he gets off. But at least you'll have tried.
I know it's weird, but you've got to do it. What are
you afraid of?"
LeBoeuf drummed his fingers on the top of his
desk for a moment and then looked deeply into his
wife's eyes. "What if this stuff's true?"
She raised her eyebrows and shook her head. "I
thought you didn't believe in that stuff," she said.
"I don't," he said. "It's just that . . . well, you
never know, do you?"
Lynnda gave him a sideways look and folded her
arms. She wasn't going to let him off the hook that
easily. "Don't take the easy way out, Sean," she said.
"You're a cop. A good cop. And you've got to do
what's right."
LeBoeuf knew it. He'd known it all along. He'd
just had to share some of his doubts with someone.
And his wife was the only one he could trust. He felt
better for having talked to her.
"I know," he said. "I'm going to arrest him tomor-
row. Now, what was it you were saying about some
steaks?"

Satan's Harvest ♦ 281
* * *
The next morning, as it turned out, LeBoeuf ran
into Nancy Theriault at the post office. She tried to
avoid him as she left the lobby, but LeBoeuf came
right up to her. "Morning, Nancy," he said.
"Morning, Chief," she said nervously, trying not
to look at him. She still hated LeBoeuf for going
after Maurice on the arson charges and for the way
she felt he had mistreated her husband during a
very difficult time. But she tried to act civil toward
him. "Nice day, isn't it?" she said.
"Uh, Nancy," LeBoeuf said, not wanting to beat
around the bush. "I've got to talk to Frenchy. Could
you ask him to come around to the station this af-
ternoon? If he can't, I can come out to the house,
but I'd prefer it if he came to me."
Nancy Theriault didn't like the sound of
LeBoeuf's voice. "What's the matter now?" she mut-
tered with a half-sneer. "Haven't you caused enough
trouble for Maurice?"
"I'm sorry you feel that way, Nancy," he replied.
"But I just need to talk with him. Will you please tell
him?"
"Yeah, yeah," she said flatly, turning to go. "I'll tell
him."
Later that afternoon Maurice Theriault walked
into the tiny police station in downtown Warren.
Chief LeBoeuf was the only one there. He was sit-
ting at his desk, doing some paperwork.
"You wanted to see me, Chief?" Maurice said as he
strode through the door.
"Yeah," LeBoeuf answered. "Have a seat."
Maurice was wearing his work jeans and a white

282 ♦ Satan's Harvest
T-shirt. His hands were still dirty from working
around the farm. He was smoking a cigarette.
"Maurice, I'm placing you under arrest," LeBoeuf
said. "I'm going to read you your rights now."
Maurice was taken aback. "W-what's the charge?"
he demanded. "I thought I was cleared on that ar-
son thing."
"Yes, you were," LeBoeuf replied. "But this is a
much more serious charge."
When LeBoeuf told Maurice what he was charged
with, he seemed puzzled. "I don't know what you're
talking about," he said. "I never touched that girl."
LeBoeuf began to pepper him with specific ques-
tions, but Maurice clammed up. "I think I better
talk to my lawyer," he said.
That said, LeBoeuf knew he couldn't pursue his
line of questioning any further. He began to fill out
the arrest forms.
As he filled in the blanks, he asked Maurice for
some basic information such as the proper spelling
of his name, his date of birth, and so on. He was
lousy with a typewriter, so he was taking care to fill
in the information on the arrest card without er-
rors. He typed out the letters in a slow, halting
rhythm.
Finally, with most of the questions answered, Le-
Boeuf glanced up at Maurice, who was sitting in a
wooden chair about five feet away. LeBoeuf's jaw
dropped when he saw him.
The farmer was sitting motionless, his eyes star-
ing transfixed on the chief, as if he felt he could
control him simply with his eyes. Blood was seep-

Satan's Harvest ♦ 283
ing out the corners of his mouth. Bubbles of blood
were popping out of his nose. He looked dazed.
"Jesus!" LeBoeuf whispered.
Then Maurice began to speak in a low, hissing
voice that did not sound at all like his own, or like a
human voice at all. He said something that scared
the shit out of the normally unflappable LeBoeuf.
"You and I are going to be together a long, long
time."
LeBoeuf could hardly believe his eyes and ears.
He had convinced himself that Frenchy's claim to
having been possessed was nothing but a fraud. And
now the little bastard was vomiting blood and
sounding like something right out of a horror
movie!
The part of LeBoeuf that believed that maybe, just
maybe, what Maurice and the Warrens had said was
true now seemed to overrule the skeptical, rational
police-officer side of him.
Just then he got an idea.
LeBoeuf got up and walked into a back room. He
remembered that he had put away a bottle of holy
water that had been given to him by Father Boyer.
He didn't know what he'd been thinking when he
accepted it. Maybe he'd just been humoring the old
priest. Maybe he'd thought that someday he might
need it. Whatever, he had stashed it in a file cabinet
next to the washroom. He fished it out and carried
it back into the front part of the station.
Maurice eyed him suspiciously as he approached
with the bottle of clear liquid.
"I've been waiting for this for a long time," Le-

284 ♦ Satan's Harvest
Boeuf said, unscrewing the cap with shaking hands.
"I've been waiting to see something."
LeBoeuf was shouting now, almost out of control.
It was as if every emotion that he had experienced
through this strange, sordid ordeal was coming out
at once.
He took the cap off the bottle and began splashing
the water all over Maurice. "See how you like this,"
he shouted as he doused the dazed farmer with the
holy water.
Immediately Maurice began to shake and shiver
and wriggle all over the chair as if he were having
convulsions. He began moaning and groaning and
then fell to the ground.
LeBoeuf was frightened, there was no question
about it. He was caught off guard and he was alone
with Maurice—if this was Maurice.
He had to know the truth. As a police officer he
was used to thinking on his feet. He decided to try
the plan that had been brewing in his mind for the
past few minutes. Maybe, he thought, he could trip
Maurice up if he was faking.
"You asshole," he shouted, pointing a meaty index
finger at the writhing farmer. "I've been waiting for
a chance like this, a chance to prove that you're a
fucking phony!
"That's not holy water," LeBoeuf boomed, scared
stiff but feigning laughter. "That's nothing but tap
water. And you're nothing but a fucking fake."
He looked at Maurice to see his reaction.
But Maurice didn't react.
He just lay there on the floor, calming down some
but still appearing dazed and confused.

Satan's Harvest ♦ 285
"Huh? What are you talking about?" he mumbled.
"Where am I? What's going on?" Blood continued to
seep from his mouth. He wiped his face with the
bottom of his T-shirt.
LeBoeuf sat back down in his chair and placed
the bottle on his desk. His plan hadn't worked. Ei-
ther Maurice was really possessed or he was too
smart to fall for his bluff. Either way, his lie about
the water in the bottle's not being holy water hadn't
proved a thing.
He took a deep breath, picked up the phone, and
called the district court. "I've got one coming over,"
he told the clerk. "Rape of a child under sixteen."
Then he pulled his handcuffs off his belt and got up
to put them on Maurice. But first LeBoeuf dipped
his index finger into the bottle, wet it, and made the
sign of the cross. He wasn't going to take any
chances.
He cuffed Maurice's hands behind his back and
led him to the cruiser. Maurice didn't say a word as
they drove the fifteen miles to the courthouse in the
town of Spencer. LeBoeuf drove with one eye on
the road and the other on his rearview mirror. He
didn't know what to expect out of Maurice, but he
didn't want any surprises. Fortunately Maurice just
sat there, dazed, as if he didn't understand what was
happening to him.
LeBoeuf led him into the courtroom and cuffed
him to a special bench where he was to await an
appearance before the judge. Then the chief went
into another room to talk with some friends who
worked at the courthouse. They all wanted to hear
about the farmer who was possessed by the devil.

286 ♦ Satan's Harvest
LeBoeuf hadn't been in there five minutes when a
very pale court officer rushed into the room looking
for him. "Sir, you better come in here quick!" he
said.
LeBoeuf hustled back into the courtroom. He
stopped dead in his tracks when he spotted Mau-
rice.
"Oh, Christ, not again!" he said.
There was Maurice, cuffed to the bench, in the
throes of another convulsion. As he twitched and
shook, blood seeped from his mouth and his eyes.
"Let's get this guy to a hospital," one of the court
officers said. "Call an ambulance."
Chief LeBoeuf sat in his cruiser and watched as
Maurice was placed into a straitjacket and loaded
into an ambulance for the ride to the hospital in
Worcester. He shook his head as he noticed that
none of the paramedics would ride in the back with
Maurice. Everybody knows about this guy, he
thought, and they're all scared shitless.
He wondered how he was ever going to get a con-
viction.
As LeBoeuf headed back toward Warren, he
thought long and hard about the Maurice Theriault
case and wondered if he had done the right thing.
He realized that he was as confused as everyone
else.
Driving down Main Street, LeBoeuf passed St.
Paul's Church, and he realized that it had been a
long time since he'd been to church. He made a
U-turn at the next intersection.
LeBoeuf pulled slowly into the church parking

Satan's Harvest ♦ 287
lot, turned off the engine, and sat there in silence
for several minutes. Then he folded his hands,
bowed his head, and began to pray:
"Our Father, Who art in heaven . . ."

Epilogue
Chief Sean LeBoeuf never did get a conviction
against Maurice Theriault. Although the farmer was
judged competent to stand trial, the charges against
him were ultimately dropped when the district at-
torney's office got a look at the shocking videotape
of the final exorcism. The decision was cemented by
the girl's reluctance to testify. LeBoeuf later quit his
job as Warren's police chief, although he claims the
decision was unrelated to the Maurice Theriault
case. He still lives in Warren, works for the National
Guard, and is moonlighting as a private investiga-
tor. He still carries a medallion given to him by a
psychic investigator who told him that it would pre-
vent him from ever coming under possession.
Maurice and Nancy Theriault lost their farm as a
result of the arrest. They had to sell it to pay their
lawyer. They are now renting a farm in another
small central Massachusetts town where they grow
pumpkins, squash, and tomatoes. Maurice has not
had anything unusual happen to him since his ar-
rest and is considered free from the demonic pos-
session that had made his life a living hell from the
days of his youth. Although he experienced a few
strange occurrences after the final exorcism, includ-

290 ♦ Satan's Harvest
ing the incident when he was arrested, such re-
lapses are not unusual, according to demonologists,
and taper off in time, as they did in Maurice's case.
According to Ed Warren, it was not Maurice who
repeatedly had sexual relations with his stepdaugh-
ter, but an incubus, a diabolical spirit that had
taken the image of Maurice. An incubus is a spirit
of lust that sexually oppresses women. Maurice ab-
horred the very thought of his stepdaughter being
molested, according to Ed. "If you knew him, you'd
know he could never do anything like that," Ed
said. Maurice himself has no memory of any sexual
encounters with the young girl.
Ed and Lorraine Warren continue to practice de-
monology from their home in Monroe, Connecticut.
Ed has fully recovered from his heart attack, and he
and Lorraine have resumed a full schedule of inves-
tigations, lectures, and classes. They have investi-
gated several cases of possession since the Theriault
case, although to this day they say they have never
seen one as frightening.
Father Homer Boyer has retired to a trailer park
in western Massachusetts.
Bishop Robert McKenna continues his pastoral
duties in Our Lady of the Rosary Chapel in Monroe,
Connecticut. He has been involved in several exor-
cisms since the one involving Maurice Theriault.

About the Authors
Michael Lasalandra is a veteran reporter who has
worked for the Boston Herald, Miami News, and
Palm Beach Post. His articles have also appeared in
numerous other publications, including South Flor-
ida magazine.
Mark Merenda has been a professional journalist
for fourteen years, including five years with The
New York Times Regional Newspaper Group. His
work has appeared in numerous magazines.

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