The Exorcism of Nagahawatta
The Exorcism of Nagahawatta
Ceylon, 1975
The house smelled of incense and sweat, of candle wax and something darker — something that slithered between the whispers of prayer. Rienzie’s home was a stage, and tonight, the devil had the starring role.
Dalugama had raised its children on fear. Shadows were never just shadows; faith was never just faith. It needed teeth. So when Rienzie called them — his friends, the curious, the thrill-seekers — they came not to worship, but to witness.
The boys from Nagahawatta arrived first, their grins wide, restless energy in their eyes. Then Cyril, Edward, Suneth, Leonard, Mahinda, Nelum, and Denzil, the church gang, drawn like crows to garbage. Even Merril and Shirley, who usually haunted the junction with their lazy mischief, pushed inside, their eyes alight with hunger.
Then — the house erupted into chaos.
Swarna, Rienzie’s sister, tore through the lace curtains like a storm, her eyes wild, fingers clawing at her dress — until Rienzie’s voice sliced through the chaos: “Don’t tear off your clothes today.”
She froze. The defiance in her flickered, then died.
“My only vices,” Rienzie muttered, smoke curling from his lips, “I only smoke. Then I box at the club”
Swarna said nothing. Beside her, Shiromi, Rienzie’s other sister, crouched on the floor mat, her rosary pressed so tight into her palm it left marks. Their mother wrung her hands, voice trembling in the thick air. “Devils are following my daughters.” Her eyes locked onto Rienzie — not pleading for salvation but for his nod.
The room held its breath — the boys leaned in. The sisters braced themselves, eyes darting to Rienzie, waiting.
And then — the exorcism began.
Women from the neighborhood filed in, prayer books clutched to their chests, rosaries clicking between their fingers. They knelt. The lads watched half in awe, half in boredom. Hunger gnawed at some; one boy scaled the coconut tree outside, hacking down its fruit with a bored glance, while another cracked them open, the sweet water dripping slowly onto the dirt floor.
A veiled woman — face hidden, voice a low drone — began to chant. “Oh Jesus, Oh Mary — “
The girl’s mother turned to her daughters, her voice sharp with desperation. “Do you believe in our Savior, Jesus?”
The girls nodded — lifeless, hollow.
The veiled woman tilted her head. “I don’t think they truly believe.”
“She says you must believe,” the mother urged, her fingers digging into their shoulders.
The chanting grew louder, the words ringing in the thick air: “You must believe. You will perish if you do not believe in Him completely.”
The girls screamed.
Darkness swallowed the house swiftly, consuming everything in its path, leaving only the flickering candle flames beside the statue of Jesus, unnaturally steady and untouched by the void.
“I believe in Him! We believe in Him!” the girls shrieked, their voices raw.
The veiled woman didn’t stop. “You have to be strong. Strong enough to rip the devil from your flesh. Give everything to Him.”
The girls collapsed, writhing. “We don’t doubt Him!”
But the air was thick with lies — and something far worse.
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