For the Smurls, Pennsylvania Avenue was just the address. Hell was the passenger.
The Warrens performed a "progressive blessing" of the home. For a few weeks, the violence stopped. But then it returned, worse than before. The Church was hesitant to authorize a full Exorcism of a place (rather than a person). The Vatican’s position was that buildings cannot be possessed, only oppressed. Here is where the story takes its strangest turn. The Catholic Diocese of Scranton initially dismissed the Smurls as hysterics. But after a bishop secretly visited the home and witnessed a crucifix spinning upside down on the wall, the Church relented. They did not perform an exorcism. Instead, a priest came to the house, blessed every room, and performed a "Supplication of the Laity." the smurl family
That changed in 1985.
This is where the Smurl case diverges from typical poltergeist lore. Janet claimed she was attacked physically and sexually by an invisible entity. She reported being pinned to the bed by a crushing weight, unable to scream. According to the Warrens, this was not a ghost. It was a demonic presence—specifically, a low-level demon posing as a deceased relative to gain trust. For the Smurls, Pennsylvania Avenue was just the address
In the mid-1980s, the Smurls—Jack, Janet, and their three daughters—became the epicenter of one of the most documented, divisive, and terrifying poltergeist cases in American history. It wasn’t just a ghost that rattled chains; it was a multi-layered siege involving psychic phenomena, demonic oppression, and a legal battle with the Catholic Church. For a few weeks, the violence stopped
For a year, the Smurls lived upstairs, terrified of the door at the bottom of the stairs. The activity died down significantly. But the curiosity was too much. Jack, wanting to retrieve Christmas decorations, eventually opened the door. According to his testimony, as soon as he stepped onto the top stair, the lights exploded, and he was hurled backward into the kitchen, landing with a broken wrist. The Smurls eventually moved out in 1988. They sold the house at a massive loss. The new owners? They reported absolutely nothing unusual for decades. The house on Pennsylvania Avenue stands today, quiet and unassuming, with a basement that is now a finished game room.
The priest famously took a piece of chalk and drew a line across the threshold of the basement door. He then placed a blessed medal of St. Benedict on the frame. His instruction was simple: "Do not open this door. Do not go into the basement. Ever."