Tucker Carlson Tells The Story of The Night He Was Attacked By a "Demon" in His Sleep

"Something Unseen...Left Claw Marks On My Sides...They Were Bleeding."

There’s a new documentary called “Christianities?” coming out soon, though the release date has apparently not yet been announced.

A clip from the film was put up on YouTube today, and in it, Tucker Carlson tells the story of the night he was attacked by some unseen being in his sleep, which left bloody claw marks on his sides. The story is extraordinary, and best told by the video:

It reminds me of the stories of St. Jean Marie Vianney, the Cure d’Ars, who, it is said, was attacked viciously in his bed by Satan on a number of occasions. From Abbé Francis Trochu’s biography, The Cure D'Ars : St. Jean-Marie-Baptiste Vianney:

Once resolved upon upsetting M. Vianney’s outward tranquility, the devil began with some rather trivial vexations. Every night the poor Curé heard the curtains of his bedstead being rent. In the beginning, he imagined that he had to do only with common rodents. He placed a pitchfork near the head of his bed. Useless precaution: the more he shook the curtains in order to frighten off the rats, the louder became the sounds of rending, and in the morning, when he expected to find them in shreds, the curtains were undamaged. This game lasted for quite a while.

[…]

Soon, in the silence of the night, blows were struck against doors, shouts were heard in the yard in front of the presbytery. Perhaps they were the act of thieves, who were after the rich offerings of the Vicomte d’Ars, which were kept in the large cupboard in the attic! M. Vianney boldly came downstairs, but saw nothing.

I took this image of Vianney’s bedchamber when I visited Ars in 1999:

A visiting missionary recounted a story of Vianney’s bed being set on fire while the priest was preparing for Mass:

The bed, the tester, the curtains of the bed, and everything near — everything had been consumed. The fire had only halted in front of the reliquary of St. Philomena, which had been placed on a chest of drawers. From that point it had drawn a line from top to bottom with geometrical accuracy, destroying everything on this side of the holy relic and sparing all on the other. As the fire had started without cause, so it died out in like manner, and it is very remarkable, and in some ways miraculous, that the flames had not spread from the heavy serge hangings to the floor of the upper storey, which was very low, old, and very dry, and which would have blazed like straw.

At noon, when M. le Curé came to see me at the Providence, we spoke of the event. I told him that it was universally looked upon as a bad joke of the devil, and I asked him whether he really thought that the evil one had something to do with it. He replied very positively and with the greatest composure: ‘Oh! my friend, that is plain enough. He is angry; that is a good sign; we shall see many sinners.’ As a matter of fact, there followed an extraordinary influx of people into Ars, which lasted for several days.”

I have my own stories about such things.

I don’t talk about it much, because I don’t really know the right way to approach it, but when I was in college, I accidentally walked into the world of the demonic, and it changed me forever.

I was working for the pastor (now deceased) of my rural norther Pennsylvania parish, doing groundskeeping and administrative work.

Father X, as I’ll call him, was the man who came to me after daily Mass one day in December of 1996, and told me that he needed to talk to me about something important, and asked if he could take me to breakfast.

I didn’t know Father X. He was new at the parish, the third pastor in the decade or so my family had been crossing the state line from Upstate New York to attend Mass there. I was home on Christmas break from my year of volunteer work with the Legionaries of Christ, which, at the time, was considered the fastest growing order in the Church, and had the very public favor of Pope John Paul II.

At breakfast, I told the priest about the work I’d been doing, and the vocational pressure I felt, and how it was just ramping up my anxiety. Multiple Legionaries had told me they knew I had a vocation to the priesthood, but everything in me wanted to get married and have a family, so I was resisting what I had begun to believe, resignedly and unhappily, was God’s will for me.

As I told him about this, a relieved smile crossed Father’s face.

“This is what I wanted to talk about with you!” he said, growing animated. He was a big man, not just tall, but very heavyset, and he had a deep voice and a serious demeanor. But the look that came over his face was innocent and kind, and I was surprised by it. “I don’t know how to explain it to people who are not in religious life, but I get these inspirations sometimes from God to talk to people, and as I was trying to leave Mass today he was telling me I needed to tell you that you need to get out of the Legion. I’m glad you brought it up, because I didn’t want to do that. I don’t really know you, and all I know is the little your parents have told me about your situation.”

I, too, felt flooded with relief. I had been agonizing over my vocation for months, and I was miserable. Every day, my stomach was in knots. I couldn’t accept the idea that I was supposed to be a priest, but I couldn’t let go of the fear that I was defying God, either. Father X’s intervention, at long last, gave me the courage to send a letter of resignation to my superior in the house of apostolate in Atlanta, where I’d been since the previous summer, to let him know I was really struggling with the pressure and had decided not to go back. (This communication initiated a public smear campaign against me within the Legion, through which they tried to alienate me from all my friends within the movement, and led to me fighting a years-long battle against their recruitment efforts when I eventually went to Franciscan University of Steubenville.)

Later, when I needed a summer job that paid more than the pizza shop I’d been working at during college, Father had offered to hire me to help out at the parish. He paid me two dollars more an hour, and gave me cash (in retrospect, likely out of his own personal funds) to offset my tax withholdings. His generosity made it possible for me to have an enjoyable semester abroad during my junior year.

One day, when I was mowing the lawn, I stopped to head inside the rectory for a drink of water. Father’s office was by the front door, and as I entered, I noticed that a woman was sitting in his office, in the chair across from his desk, so I attempted to hurry past and mind my own business. Whatever he was counseling her about, I didn’t need to know.

But then he called my name.

“Stephen,” he said, in a tone that I had never heard before from him, “can you please go to the living room and get me the bottle of holy water and the crucifix that are on the table near the TV?”

I looked in the office again. I took in the woman, sitting in a blue satin jacket, her body slumped, her head bowed, her hair hanging limply, hiding her face, and in that instant, I knew.

She’s possessed, I thought. I had never seen a person under the influence of demons, but somehow, without any additional context or information, it was crystal clear to me.

I quickly hurried to get the items he requested, and he asked me to stay and pray, telling me that it was actually helpful to have a witness and an assistant in case anything went wrong and we needed to call an ambulance.