JONATHAN SIMS

Continuation of the statement of Father Edwin Burroughs, regarding his
claimed demonic possession. Original statement given May 30th 2011. Audio
recording by Jonathan Sims, Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute, London.
Statement begins.

JONATHAN SIMS

(Read a loud from the archived witness statement of Father Edwin Burroughs)

It was the first time I had experienced anything like that. By this point I was
starting to suspect that I may have been having hallucinations of some sort,
but I had never before felt a… a presence within myself, inside my being. It was
a feeling so utterly awful it’s hard to put it into words. Like a reflex reaction,
your muscles moving without any instruction from your mind, but rather than
a quick twitch of the leg, it’s a slow movement of your jaw, your lips, forming
your mouth into words. Worse things were to come, of course, but I don’t
think any of them were so profoundly unsettling as that feeling.

I only got a few streets away from Hill Top Road before I was no longer able to
maintain my equilibrium and fell to the floor, violently throwing up. I could not
deny then that there was something inside me, and I believed that whatever it
was had entered me from Bethany O’Connor. I tried to pray, tried to cast my
mind to G– I couldn’t. As I tried, my throat closed and I struggled to breathe. I
lay on the side of the pavement, and I wept. Wiping my eyes, I took out my
Bible, and looked desperately within it for comfort but when I opened it,
though the page was within the Gospel of Luke, the words were from Genesis:
“Behold, thou hast driven me out this day from the face of the earth; and from
thy face shall I be hid; and I shall be a fugitive and a vagabond in the earth; and
it shall come to pass, that every one that findeth me shall slay me.”

Around that passage the writing morphed and swam before my eyes. And
wherever there were words that might give me comfort, I found them
obscured by dark stains. The bile began to rise within my throat again, and I
desperately wanted to hurl the book away from me. I held it, though, for just a
moment before I placed the small volume once again in my jacket. It took
more willpower than I could have believed, but I kept it. I stood up shakily, and
staggered back to the presbytery.

I slept for a long time, and missed morning Mass, saying I was feeling unwell. It
wasn’t a lie, of course; I just lay there for hours. There seemed a safety in
stillness, as though inaction could do no harm. It was the first good decision I
had made, and there isn’t day goes by I don’t curse myself for ever rising from
that bed. Nobody bothered me – I think word had gotten round that I was
having a difficult time and they were almost certainly trying to decide who
would be best to talk to me, or even whether to ask the Bishop to intervene.
I decided that I needed to talk to Father Singh. I didn’t think that he would be
able to help me, but he was at least familiar with Bethany O’Connor’s case.

Perhaps he might have some insight into what was happening. I tried to find
him quickly – the faces on each crucifix and painting I passed seemed to twist
and sneer at me as I walked and my head was throbbing. The painted blood
glistened as though still wet. I’m glad I didn’t encounter anyone, for I was
staggering so much they would likely have thought I was drunk.

Finally I found Father Singh in the small chapel. He seemed surprised to see me
and as I approached, his face fell and he backed away ever so slightly. I can’t
imagine how bad I must have looked to get such a reaction from him, but I sat
next to him anyway. I began to talk, to tell him everything that had happened.
He remained silent as I spoke, until I began to talk about the exorcism I had
tried to perform on Bethany. He held up his hand, and asked if I’d prefer to
speak about it in confession. I was momentarily confused, and asked him what
sin he felt I had committed. He looked at me, and I swear there was almost a
smile on his face when he spoke. “Spiritual pride,” he said, “that has led to
quite a fall.”

Unsettled though I was at his attitude, I could not deny that he was right. I
agreed, and we left the chapel. Soon I was giving my account as a full
confession, and I could not keep from crying as I described what happened
when I attempted to lay a blessing upon that house on Hill Top Road. I finished
my account, and waited for Father Singh to speak of my penance or absolution.
Instead, he paused for a few moments, then said, “No, your sins are deeper
than that.” And he began to list them.

Every transgression I had made since I was six years old. The disabled child I
had bullied in primary school, the time I stole money from my mother’s purse
to buy cigarettes, the indiscretions I had had at the seminary. All of them. I had
confessed them each before and been absolved, but not to Father Singh, and
to hear them thrown back in my face as such a stark list of wickedness rattled
me deeply. I noticed something else as he spoke: Father Singh only emigrated
from Jaipur a decade or so before I met him, and he had always had quite a
strong accent but the voice that spoke now to read my litany of wrongdoing
had no trace of it. It was a clipped and crisp RP accent, though in tone it
seemed to match that of my friend.

I leapt to my feet and ran from the room, and towards the front door. I needed
to get out, to get somewhere I could breathe. In the hallway I ran past two
other priests, who looked more worried than ever. One of them was Father
Singh.

It was dark when I left the presbytery. I had no idea where I was going or why; I
just had the desperate need to be somewhere else. The streets of Oxford
should have been full of drunken students at that time on a Sunday night, at
least, I thought it was Sunday, but they were almost deserted. Occasionally, I
would see figures standing or walking at the end of the narrow streets, but
they were shadowy, silhouetted against what little light there was, and were
always gone when I approached. I tried once again to pray but the words died
on my tongue. I have never felt despair on the sheer scale I did at that
moment.

The streets of Oxford are winding, and speak to the age of the place, but I had
lived there for no small amount of time and knew them well. That night,
though, it was as though I had never walked them before. I saw roads that I
had travelled a hundred times, but they seemed different, my eyes focusing on
details I had never before marked, and at each turn I found I did not know
where I was going or what place it would take me to. The world I knew had
become alien to me, and I simply didn’t know what to do.

Finally, I found myself in front of The Oratory on Woodstock Road. The
church’s large round window shifted as I watched, as though it were a
tremendous eye that were turning to focus upon me. The door was open and
from within, a warm light spilled out. Even in the depths of my – I suppose you
could call it mania – there was something comforting about that light. A man
appeared at the door. He was tall and pale, and dressed as an altar server.

I walked up to him. My vision was blurred, though I could not tell you whether
it was my state of mind at the time or simply that I was crying. I should have
known that something was wrong. I did know that something was wrong, but it
didn’t matter. I had no fight left within me, so when he told me that it was
time for Mass, I simply nodded and followed.

He led me through the church. It was bright, so bright. Candles covered every
surface, each glowing so powerfully that I could barely look directly at them.
The layout was how I remembered, but the pews were all empty, and I could
see none of the statues or crosses that I expected. The man led me unresisting
into the vestry, where I found my cassock and stole laid out in front of me. The
stole was not green as I would have expected for a normal Sunday mass, nor
was it violet or red or any other liturgical colour. Instead it was a pale, sickly
yellow. I felt the eyes of the altar server upon my back, and dressed quickly.

At that moment the bell rang to mark the start of the mass. It was a single,
jarring tone that cut through the air and made me almost double over in pain,
so badly did it pierce into my pounding skull. I regained myself, gripping the
thin, bony arm of the altar server, and walked out into the church. The pews
were full now. Row upon row of people, far more than had ever before
attended a mass that I had said. Each was dressed in black from head to toe,
and their skin was fevered, jaundiced yellow. The eyes of every man, woman
and child stared blankly forward, and their mouths hung open, wide and
smiling, like their jaws had locked in silent rictus.

I could have left. I know that now. I know that my will and my actions were my
own, and even at the time I knew that what I was seeing was so wrong. So very
wrong but… it didn’t feel like at the time I could have made any other choice.
Even in that strange place, stared at by hellish parishioners I must have known
weren’t really there. G–… Forgive me, even then, I thought to find some
comfort in the liturgy. The odd smelling incense swirled about me from the
altar server’s brazier and my head swam with a scent that felt so familiar, yet
so foreign.

Finally, I stood before the altar and began the mass. I was surprised as I spoke,
and the holy names slipped from my mouth without hesitation, but the
congregation I addressed were quiet, and each pause for a response was met
with only that oppressive, wide-mouthed silence, a jarring void that tightened
the fear I felt gripping my soul. When the Liturgy of the Word began, I watched
in silent dread as the altar server stepped to the pulpit to deliver the first
reading. He stood there, dark eyes scanning the open bible, before he raised
his head and looked up as though to speak, but all that came from his throat
was the single tolling sound of that bell, and my head pulsed in pain. The same
thing happened for the second reading, that long, drawn out chime.

Then came the reading of the Gospel. I walked to the pulpit myself, and saw
the passage indicated was Mark, chapter 9, verses 14-19. I began to try and
read it, but my voice was gone and from my own mouth came the sound of
that bell. I fell to the floor, but no-one moved to help me.

Eventually I was able to stand again, and a dull panic began to rise within me as
I realised that next came the liturgy of the eucharist. The thought of these
people, these things, taking the body of J– taking the sacrament of holy
communion felt like the direst of blasphemies. I didn’t stop, though. I didn’t
know what else to do, and my mind was swimming with the sound of the bell
and the collective horror of all the things that I had seen and felt.

The altar server brought me the communion wafers and the wine, and I took
them. My hands felt strange and clammy as I held them, but I brought them to
the altar and began to speak. This time my words came out crisp and clear, and
as I said them I noticed fewer and fewer of the parishioners seemed to be in
the pews. Hope began to rise within me as it seemed the words would work to
banish these jaundiced watchers and I pressed on. Finally, the pews were
empty, and my heart soared as I turned towards the tabernacle to retrieve the
rest of the host.

It was strange, the rich cloth curtain that covered that ornate metal box
seemed stuck, so I pulled and pulled and eventually it came free. I opened the
door and retrieved the Host, returning it to the altar. Then I… I lifted it to my
mouth, and I ate. It did not taste as I expected.

I’m sure you’ve guessed the reality of what it was I was eating. I don’t even
know where I was, some dingy basement from what it seemed when the light
fell from my eyes and I returned to reality. At least, I assume this is reality. I
dream, sometimes, that perhaps this is the illusion – my arrest and
imprisonment merely a hallucination. That I’m not a murdering cannibal.
It doesn’t matter. At that moment, seeing those bound corpses before me, I
made the decision to take no action ever again. I will not commit the further
sin of ending my life, but I sat there until the police came. I pled guilty to all the
charges they laid before me, and now here I am, doubting everything I see and
hear. I do worry about the state of my soul, of course, but there is little to be
done. My old colleagues have come by on occasion, and even the Bishop once,
but it doesn’t help. Whatever they may be actually be saying, all I can hear is
the sound of the bell.

Thank you for your time.

JONATHAN SIMS

Statement ends.

As it turns out the second part of this statement was simply misfiled in the next
folder, which was useful, although it does beg the question of who was reading
it last? Martin is still absent, but Tim and Sasha both swear they haven’t seen it
before. Was my predecessor reading it at some point? That seems unlikely
given the state of the place; I find it hard to credit the idea that Gertrude
Robinson actually read any of these files. Still, it’s hardly our biggest concern.
It’s difficult to know where to begin with a statement like this. If the person
giving their testimony is unable to distinguish the real and the unreal, that
doesn’t usually bode well for anyone trying to find evidence. Let us begin with
Bethany O’Connor. From what Sasha could find in the records of St Hugh’s
College, she was indeed a student with them, studying archaeology,
matriculating in 2008. Everything Father Burroughs says about her faith, her
hospitalisation and her death appears to match up with official records.

However, college records appear to list her as one of the students living in halls
during her second year, rather than in an off-campus house, and it was a
porter who she attacked with a kitchen knife, rather than a housemate. In fact,
according to the letting agent, there was no-one living at 89 Bullingdon Road
that year, so whatever Bethany was doing in that house, it wasn’t living there
legally.

Father Burroughs’ old colleagues from the Church certainly remember his
falling apart following the failed exorcism. They were apparently in the process
of talking to the Bishop to get him some help when the ‘culminating incident’
occurred that led to his incarceration. Prior to meeting Bethany O’Connor,
none of them had anything but the highest praise for the man.

As for the incident itself, Father Burroughs was found in one of the back rooms
of 89 Bullingdon Road. He was wearing a butcher’s apron and sat in front of
two students, Christopher Bilham and James Mann. They were both tied to
chairs and quite dead. Cause of death was listed as blood loss from multiple
lacerations all over their legs and torso, as well as removal of both their faces
with a sharp blade, possibly a scalpel. The face of James Mann was found to
have been partially eaten by Father Burroughs. He pled guilty to all charges
brought before him and is currently serving two life sentences at Wakefield
Prison, though HMPS refused our request for a follow-up interview.

What interests me is the paralleling of Father Burroughs’ climactic
hallucination with reality, and the fact that at no point did he perform any
actions that might be analogous with the binding and actual murder of the
students. Also, it strikes me that the altar server he described seems out of
place with most of his other delusions, in that he appeared to have active
agency, which is uncharacteristic for these visions the priest describes. Finally,
there is the small detail mentioned in the police report that none of the tools
used to kill or mutilate the victims were found at the scene. This all leads me to
believe that there may have been a second person there that night, although
from talking with the police, I get the impression that there is little appetite for
re-opening the case, considering how successful the initial prosecution was.

There’s one other detail Tim uncovered that sticks out to me. It’s a name I
recognise, though I have no idea what it could mean. The Oratory was
obviously not the actual scene of Father Burroughs’ crimes, but there was one
strange thing that happened a few days prior. They received delivery of a pale
yellow stole, which apparently vanished less than a day after they signed for it.
This would be unusual, but not necessarily noteworthy, if it wasn’t for fact that
one of the deacons recalled the package was handed to them by a company
called Breekon and Hope Deliveries.

Recording ends.

written by Jonathan Sims