The Real Story Behind The Exorcist: The Strange Case of Ronald Hunkeler
- dthholland
- Jun 1
- 13 min read
On a quiet suburban street in St. Louis, Missouri, a red-brick Colonial house on Roanoke Drive stands bathed in the mundane charm of mid-century Americana. Tall trees cast shadows over a neatly trimmed lawn, and the windows are framed with white shutters. It’s the kind of house that invites no second glance. Yet in 1949, this ordinary home became the epicentre of one of the most talked-about exorcisms in American history, the true story behind The Exorcist.
Known to the world as “Roland Doe” or “Robbie Mannheim,” the boy at the centre of the story was later revealed to be Ronald Edwin Hunkeler, a 13-year-old from Cottage City, Maryland. His chilling tale of alleged possession, witnessed by Jesuit priests and immortalised by Hollywood, has captivated, frightened, and divided opinion for over seventy years.
From Grief to Fear: The Early Life of Roland Doe
Ronald Edwin Hunkeler was born on 1 June 1935, the only child of a German-American Lutheran family living in the suburban enclave of Cottage City, Maryland. Situated just outside Washington, D.C., Cottage City was a quiet, tightly-knit community of modest homes and post-Depression optimism. Ronald’s childhood, by most accounts, was unremarkable. He lived with his parents in a tidy house on 33rd Street, not the often misreported Bunker Hill Road. His family were churchgoers and maintained a conventional middle-class lifestyle. But in a household without siblings, young Ronald relied heavily on adult companionship, and one adult in particular.
Ronald’s closest bond was with his Aunt Harriet, an eccentric and charismatic figure who dabbled in spiritualism. While such practices were far from mainstream in postwar America, they retained a certain allure for those drawn to the idea of communing with the dead. Aunt Harriet introduced Ronald to the Ouija board, a tool she claimed could be used to contact spirits. Though the game-like device was mass-produced and sold in toy shops, spiritualists considered it a genuine portal to the beyond.
It’s difficult to overstate how pivotal Harriet’s influence may have been. In a time before smartphones or video games, the Ouija board became one of Ronald’s favourite pastimes. It is said that he became fascinated with the idea of making contact with unseen forces, a fascination that would prove unsettling in the months to come.
Harriet died in early 1949. Her death seems to have been a profound emotional blow for the boy, who was just 13 at the time. Those close to the family would later note a shift in his demeanour. What began as quiet grief soon turned into something else, something far more disturbing.
Almost immediately after her passing, unusual phenomena began to plague the Hunkeler household. It started subtly. Ronald and his parents reported hearing scratching sounds coming from behind the walls and underneath the floors—noises that had no apparent source. Faucets began dripping for no reason. The family described seeing puddles forming under pipes that weren’t leaking. Still, these incidents were strange but not impossible to rationalise.
Then things escalated.
Furniture began to move on its own. A heavy armchair reportedly slid across the floor without any human assistance. Objects were hurled from shelves. A vase was said to have lifted into the air before smashing to the ground. Ronald himself appeared to be at the centre of it all. The closer he was to a room or object, the more likely something unexplained would happen.
Soon, the disturbances began to manifest in Ronald’s own body. By day, he appeared quiet, withdrawn, and seemingly normal. But by night, he underwent a terrifying transformation. He screamed uncontrollably. He threw tantrums with unusual strength. He entered trance-like states and spoke in what his parents described as deep, guttural tones—voices they did not recognise as his own. At times, he convulsed and contorted in ways that defied explanation. At other times, red scratches and welts would appear spontaneously on his skin, sometimes forming shapes or even words.
Alarmed and confused, the Hunkelers turned first to conventional medicine. Doctors examined Ronald and found no physical explanation. Psychiatrists were consulted, but no mental illness was diagnosed. With no medical answers, the family reached out to their local Lutheran pastor, Reverend Luther Miles Schulze.
Schulze, a minister with an interest in parapsychology, agreed to help. In one of the more curious chapters of the case, Schulze arranged for Ronald to spend a night at his own home so he could observe the boy firsthand. According to reports, he witnessed furniture moving and unexplained sounds during the stay. He later told associates he believed the case to be genuine and beyond his spiritual training. It was Schulze who first suggested that the family contact a Catholic priest—someone trained in the ancient rite of exorcism.
This suggestion would mark a critical turning point. Schulze’s account found its way into the hands of reporters, and anonymous stories began to surface in local newspapers. One article in The Washington Post mentioned that a Catholic exorcism had taken place in the region, but names and locations were kept vague. Nevertheless, the story was out there, and whispers began to spread.
Soon after, the Hunkelers reached out to the Catholic Church, and Ronald’s case was brought to the attention of Father E. Albert Hughes, a young priest based in Washington, D.C.
The First Attempt: Georgetown Hospital
By February 1949, the Hunkeler family had exhausted the usual routes. After months of bizarre behaviour and disturbing nightly phenomena, their Lutheran pastor had handed the case off to the Catholic Church. Ronald’s parents, increasingly desperate, approached Father E. Albert Hughes, a 29-year-old priest serving at St. James Church in Mount Rainier, Maryland. Hughes was young and relatively inexperienced, but after reviewing the family’s account, he sought permission from the archdiocese to perform an exorcism, an ancient rite rarely invoked in modern America.
Permission was granted under strict conditions. The ritual would take place under clinical supervision at Georgetown University Hospital, a Jesuit-run institution in Washington, D.C. The location was chosen for its discretion and proximity to ecclesiastical authority. Ronald was admitted to a private room, where the windows were barred, and medical staff were instructed to monitor his condition.
According to later accounts, Hughes began the ritual with the standard prayers and readings. Ronald, who had been restrained to the bed, remained calm at first. But as the prayers intensified, so did his resistance. During one particularly violent episode, Ronald allegedly freed one of his hands, reached beneath the mattress, and tore away a metal bedspring. He used it as a crude weapon, slashing Hughes across the shoulder. The wound was severe enough to bring the exorcism to an immediate halt, and the hospital discharged Ronald soon afterwards. Father Hughes, shaken and injured, was said to have withdrawn from further involvement in the case.
There is some historical dispute over this event. Researchers like Mark Opsasnick later questioned whether the exorcism ever occurred at Georgetown Hospital at all. Hospital records and contemporary evidence are sparse, and some claim Hughes was neither injured nor present in the way popular accounts suggest. Still, for those who believe the traditional story, this aborted ritual marked a dramatic first confrontation between the Church and what they believed to be a demonic force.
Shortly after the failed rite, more scratches began appearing on Ronald’s body—words and symbols etched into his skin as though clawed from within. One mark in particular stood out. As Ronald’s mother watched, the letters “L-O-U-I-S” appeared in jagged red lines on his rib cage. For her, this was more than coincidence. She had been raised in Missouri, and she interpreted the message as a supernatural instruction: their deliverance would be found in St. Louis.
With few alternatives and a growing sense of dread, the family packed their bags and headed west, seeking out relatives and, they hoped, divine intervention.
A New Chapter in St. Louis
The Hunkelers arrived in St. Louis in early March 1949, settling into a relative’s home in the quiet residential neighbourhood of Bel-Nor. The area, characterised by its tree-lined streets and modest brick homes, seemed a world away from the disturbances they had fled. But the calm wouldn’t last long.
Ronald’s behaviour resumed almost immediately. Reports from the period describe the same nocturnal pattern: wild outbursts, guttural voices, and physical phenomena that defied explanation. Beds shook violently. Chairs toppled without touch. Ronald screamed in Latin and Aramaic—languages he had never learned. At times, he recoiled from crucifixes and religious medals as if they burned his skin.
A family cousin studying at nearby Saint Louis University contacted the clergy on their behalf. The case quickly reached Father William S. Bowdern, an experienced Jesuit priest and former Army chaplain. After initial consultations and observations, Bowdern brought in another Jesuit, the younger and more sceptical Father Walter H. Halloran. Together, they witnessed the boy’s disturbing behaviour and physical reactions. They were joined later by a third priest, William Van Roo.
What the priests reportedly observed convinced them that formal intervention was warranted. They requested and received permission from Archbishop Joseph Ritter to perform an exorcism according to the Roman Ritual.
The exorcism began in the Bel-Nor home but was soon relocated to the more controlled environment of Alexian Brothers Hospital in South St. Louis. There, in a room within the psychiatric wing, they conducted the rite nightly over a span of weeks. The rituals followed a strict script: recitations, holy water, prayers, and direct commands for the possessing entity to depart.
Ronald’s reactions were unpredictable and violent. At one point, he struck Halloran in the face with such force that the priest’s nose was broken. At another, he tore his mattress loose from the frame, flinging it across the room. Witnesses claimed his strength was far beyond what would be expected of a 13-year-old. On his skin, fresh scratches and welts would appear without warning—some taking the form of crosses, others as words. A particularly chilling episode involved a large red “X” forming across his chest. The priests took it as a sign—possibly of the number ten, indicating the number of demons believed to be within him.
These events continued for more than a month, with Ronald showing no signs of improvement. Yet the priests pressed on, undeterred. Halloran later said the boy’s condition followed a near-clockwork rhythm: calm by day, chaos by night. Throughout it all, Ronald never exhibited the more dramatic behaviours later made famous in The Exorcist, his head never rotated, nor did he levitate or spew green vomit. But what was reported was disturbing enough to leave a deep impression on all involved.
Eventually, the spiritual battle appeared to reach its crescendo.
The Final Night: April 18, 1949
Monday, 18 April 1949 (Easter Monday) dawned like any other, but by nightfall, the tone had shifted. Ronald had experienced another fit, complete with convulsions and curses hurled at the priests. This time, however, the language was different. He reportedly shouted that Satan would never leave him, that his soul was already lost.
The priests, now physically and emotionally exhausted, made one last effort. They laid religious relics around Ronald: crucifixes, saintly medals, rosaries. At 10:45 p.m., they began invoking the name of St. Michael the Archangel, the divine warrior who had cast Lucifer from Heaven. With urgency and force, they commanded the demon to leave Ronald and warned that Michael himself would now fight for the boy’s soul.
The room reportedly fell into silence. Then Ronald’s body arched upward. He convulsed once more and then collapsed into stillness.
Seven minutes passed. Then, unexpectedly, he opened his eyes and spoke clearly.
“He’s gone.”
Later, Ronald described a vivid vision: a brilliant white figure—St. Michael, sword in hand—standing victorious over a black, writhing shape. The battle was over. The evil, whatever it was, had been vanquished.
From that moment, the phenomena ceased. The fits ended. The scratches stopped appearing. Ronald no longer reacted to holy objects. The boy who had terrified his family and exhausted an entire clergy team was quiet once more.
He would never again experience the strange symptoms that had plagued him for months.
Faith and Belief
While many observers, particularly in modern academic and medical circles, lean toward psychological or behavioural explanations for the case of Ronald Hunkeler, others continue to interpret the events through a spiritual lens. For those in religious communities, the story remains a compelling—and cautionary—account of how unseen evil can take hold of the vulnerable.
Christian academics such as Terry D. Cooper, a professor of psychology, and Cindy K. Epperson, a professor of sociology, have explored this dichotomy in depth. In their collaborative work, Evil: Satan, Sin, and Psychology, they argue that while mental health frameworks provide valuable tools for understanding human behaviour, they fall short in addressing what believers recognise as genuine manifestations of evil. In particular, they point to possession cases like Ronald’s as instances where the supernatural breaks into the natural world—rare, but undeniable.
In their view, exorcisms are not medieval relics but necessary pastoral tools—especially when confronting what the Catholic Church defines as malefic influence. These are situations where individuals present symptoms that defy psychiatric diagnosis, exhibit knowledge or languages they were never taught, or react violently to sacred symbols. For those who accept this view, Ronald’s case is not just a historic curiosity but a spiritual battle between good and evil, visible for a brief moment through the cracks in the modern secular world.
Some theologians have also noted the symbolic weight of the story: a child, grieving and isolated, caught in a struggle far greater than himself. The presence of faith—through priests, rituals, relics, and the figure of St. Michael—offers resolution and redemption. From this perspective, it is not simply a tale of horror, but of spiritual warfare and divine intervention.
The broader public remains divided. On one side are those who see Ronald as a deeply troubled boy whose behaviour can be understood through psychology and adolescent trauma. On the other are believers who see the signs of possession as real and the outcome of the exorcism as miraculous. Between them lies a contested middle ground: individuals who may not believe in literal demons but acknowledge that certain human experiences resist easy classification.
This unresolved tension—between science and religion, doubt and belief—is arguably what keeps the story alive. It asks more questions than it answers. And in doing so, it holds up a mirror not just to the individual at its centre, but to the societies that have tried to make sense of him.
The Cultural Legacy: The Exorcist
Ronald Hunkeler’s story might have faded into obscurity had it not been for a Georgetown student named William Peter Blatty, who came across the case while studying at the university in the early 1950s. He later revisited the material after reading references to it in a 1949 Washington Post article and in the diary of one of the attending priests. Blatty was captivated by the strange mixture of religion, fear, and moral ambiguity—and the idea of a child tormented by forces unseen.
In 1971, Blatty published The Exorcist, a novel that fictionalised Ronald’s ordeal, reimagining it through the lens of a young girl named Regan MacNeil who becomes possessed by a demon named Pazuzu. The narrative changed the setting to Georgetown, and altered many details, but the emotional and theological core remained. The novel was a sensation, selling millions of copies and spending over a year on the New York Times bestseller list.
Two years later, it was adapted into a film directed by William Friedkin, which quickly became one of the most iconic and controversial horror films of all time. Audiences reportedly fainted in theatres. Lines stretched around city blocks. Religious leaders both condemned and praised the film, and it sparked a national conversation about evil, faith, and the limits of rational explanation.
Though The Exorcist took artistic liberties—Ronald’s head never rotated, he never levitated, nor did he vomit green bile—the film drew heavily on details documented in Ronald’s exorcism: the scratched messages, the guttural voices, the violent reactions to holy items. It also captured the moral weight felt by the priests involved, who struggled not only with the demon but with their own doubt and fear.
In time, The Exorcist became more than a novel or a film. It became a cultural touchstone, a symbol of how the supernatural intersects with the everyday. It helped reshape horror cinema and remains a defining example of how folklore, faith, and fear can blend to powerful effect.
Importantly, it also tethered Ronald Hunkeler’s legacy to fiction. Even as scholars and sceptics tried to uncover the real boy behind the story, the myth had already taken on a life of its own.
What Happened to Ronald?
In the years following the exorcism, the Hunkeler family quietly returned to their lives on the East Coast. Ronald enrolled in school, finished his education, and eventually built a life far removed from the events of 1949. For decades, his identity was closely guarded, protected by priests, relatives, and researchers who knew his name but chose to shield him from public scrutiny.
He went on to have a successful career in science and engineering, reportedly working for NASA. Colleagues described him as intelligent, diligent, and modest. According to several reports, he contributed to the development of heat-resistant tiles used on the space shuttle programme—a far cry from the terrified teenager once believed to be haunted.
He married and had children. In a quiet, symbolic gesture, he named his first son Michael—perhaps a nod to the Archangel he believed had fought for him in that hospital room. Those who knew him later in life say he rarely, if ever, spoke of the exorcism. And for years, his name remained unknown to the public.
That changed in December 2021, when The Skeptical Inquirer published an article naming Ronald Edwin Hunkeler as the boy once known as Roland Doe. He had died in May 2020, aged 84, just months before the article’s release. The piece revealed that he had lived in fear of exposure for most of his life, worried that if his colleagues ever learned about his past, it would tarnish his professional reputation.
The room at Alexian Brothers Hospital where the final exorcism took place was sealed shortly after the ordeal. The hospital itself was demolished in 1978, and nothing remains of the building today. The house in Cottage City where the disturbances began was abandoned in the 1960s and later demolished. The home in Bel-Nor, however, still stands. It was sold to new owners in 2005 for $165,000—an unremarkable transaction for a property believed by some to have once hosted a cosmic battle for a child’s soul.
In the end, Ronald Hunkeler did not become a prophet, a priest, or a lifelong sufferer. He became an engineer, a husband, a father. He lived quietly and died quietly. And though his story inspired one of the most influential horror films ever made, he never stepped into the spotlight.
His was a life that began in terror and ended in anonymity—fitting, perhaps, for someone whose story was always more famous than he was.
Sources:
Allen, Thomas B. Possessed: The True Story of an Exorcism, 1993
Opsasnick, Mark. “The Haunted Boy of Cottage City”, Strange Magazine
Nickell, Joe. The Skeptical Inquirer, December 2021
Washington Post, August 1949
History Uncovered, Episode 95
Discovery/Getty Images, 2015 archive of St. Louis property
The Haunted Boy: The Secret Diary of the Exorcist, 2010 documentary
In the Grip of Evil, documentary film
Warner Bros., The Exorcist, 1973
