Valak has become one of the most iconic figures in contemporary horror, a presence whose shadow stretches far beyond the confines of the Conjuring films that brought it into the popular imagination. The sinister nun with piercing yellow eyes, an expression of unholy mockery, and a quietness that chills as much as its sudden bursts of violence, is today recognised as the very embodiment of terror. Yet, the story of Valak is not simply a creation of Hollywood. It is a synthesis, drawn from the fragments of demonological texts, Catholic exorcistic traditions, and the deep reservoir of Western folklore. When James Wan and his team chose to weave Valak into the tapestry of the Conjuring Universe, they did more than introduce a frightening antagonist; they gave form to the unspeakable anxieties of faith, doubt, and evil.
The history of Valak begins long before cinema. In Johann Weyer’s Pseudomonarchia Daemonum, a sixteenth-century grimoire appended to his influential De praestigiis daemonum, Valak—sometimes written as Valac, Ualac, or Volac—is described not as a nun, nor even as an adult, but as a cherubic boy with angelic wings, astride a two-headed dragon. This Valak, catalogued as a “President of Hell”, commands thirty legions of demons and possesses the power to uncover hidden treasures. The picture is paradoxical: a childlike being vested with immense infernal power, whose innocence of form conceals the depths of its malice. Such paradox lies at the heart of all effective demonology, where contradiction enhances dread. Weyer's text, though scholarly and steeped in Renaissance occultism, left a legacy that resonated centuries later, waiting to be reimagined for a culture hungry for new expressions of old fears.
When The Conjuring 2 was released in 2016, Valak entered the popular consciousness not as Weyer's winged boy but as the terrible Nun. This was no accident of casual reinvention. James Wan, whose artistry thrives on transforming the ordinary into the monstrous, understood that the image of a nun, ordinarily associated with sanctity, chastity, and selfless devotion, could be inverted into something profoundly disturbing. A nun represents not just religious authority, but also the reassurance of order in the face of chaos. To witness that figure distorted into an avatar of mockery, where holiness is cloaked in demonic derision, is to experience sacrilege on a visceral level. The human mind recoils, precisely because the sacred has been profaned in the most intimate manner.
Valak’s cinematic history is carefully constructed. In The Conjuring 2, it emerges as the force behind the haunting of the Hodgson family in Enfield, London, manipulating the spirit of Bill Wilkins to torment Janet Hodgson. Lorraine Warren, the clairvoyant investigator, perceives its menace early on, experiencing visions where the name of the demon subtly appears in the environment—spelled across bookshelves, kitchen decorations, unnoticed by casual eyes yet insistently present. The revelation of Valak’s name becomes the climax of power: for in demonology, to know the name of a demon is to wield authority over it. Lorraine’s act of naming and condemning Valak back to Hell is less a simple exorcism than a triumph of knowledge and faith over the cunning ambiguity of evil.
But this was not the first step in Valak’s on-screen story. The prequel, The Nun (2018), explored its origins in a Romanian monastery scarred by centuries of dark ritual. Here the demon’s history is retold in gothic hues: summoned by a duke consumed with Satanic ambitions, sealed away by the power of Christ’s blood, then inadvertently released in the chaos of the Second World War. The choice of a monastery as the setting is profoundly symbolic. Monastic life, dedicated to ceaseless prayer and unbroken vigilance, becomes a stage where the relentless perseverance of holiness confronts the relentless perseverance of evil. Yet, as the film demonstrates, the prayers of the nuns ultimately fail, their unity shattered by Valak’s mocking violence. Sister Irene’s battle with the demon—culminating in her spitting the blood of Christ upon its form—becomes a tableau of faith weaponised into resistance.
This tale was expanded in The Nun II (2023), where Valak, tethered to Maurice (“Frenchie”), continues its rampage in pursuit of relics of power. The relic it sought—the Eyes of Saint Lucy—was not a mere plot device, but a carefully chosen symbol of sight, vision, and clarity. To a demon whose chief power lies in distorting perception and occluding truth, the acquisition of such relics represents the reclamation of its angelic potency. When Maurice’s body becomes the vessel of Valak’s vengeance, the story revisits one of demonology’s oldest motifs: the unwilling host, corrupted and consumed. The imagery of possession, where the body becomes both prison and battlefield, echoes theological debates about free will, salvation, and the corruption of flesh. That Sister Irene is able once again to defeat Valak through the transubstantiated blood of Christ underscores the recurring theme: no relic, no incantation, no human resistance suffices—only divine grace triumphs.
The films, however, are not content merely to scare. They weave Valak into the very fabric of the Conjuring Universe, linking it with Annabelle and other entities, suggesting a hierarchy of infernal powers with Valak near the summit. This is not accidental world-building; it mirrors medieval demonological systems, where demons were carefully catalogued and ordered. Valak, in this fictional universe, emerges not as a mere wandering spirit but as a commander, perhaps the leader of all Conjureverse demons, subordinate only to Satan himself. The implication is clear: Valak is not random evil, but structured evil, purposeful and strategic, its every appearance part of a grander campaign against faith and humanity.
Yet the fascination with Valak is not limited to horror enthusiasts. From a theological and cultural perspective, its character raises significant questions. Why does the figure of the Nun, in particular, strike so deeply at our collective fears? Why does the inversion of holiness disturb us more than the overtly monstrous? Part of the answer lies in the psychology of the uncanny. The nun is familiar, recognisable, and safe—until she is not. The sight of Valak’s habit-clad form in a dim corridor, silent save for the creak of wood or the whisper of air, unsettles precisely because it is simultaneously ordinary and alien. Freud’s analysis of the uncanny—where the homely becomes unhomely—finds vivid expression here. The Conjuring films transform the sacred into the uncanny, a violation that is not only visual but spiritual.
Moreover, Valak as Nun can be read as a commentary on faith itself. In a secularising world, where religion is often questioned, the image of faith corrupted or mocked resonates as both fear and allegory. To believers, Valak represents the ultimate test: can faith endure when evil wears the mask of holiness? To non-believers, Valak may represent the darker underside of institutional religion, a symbol of hypocrisy or hidden corruption. In both readings, the figure retains its power, reminding us that horror, at its best, transcends the screen and enters the realm of cultural critique.
The cinematic craft behind Valak cannot be overlooked. Portrayed with haunting precision by Bonnie Aarons, whose gaunt features and expressive physicality lend the demon its terrifying presence, Valak lives in the interplay between human performance and supernatural suggestion. The practical effects, the elongated shadows, the careful restraint in its appearances—often glimpsed rather than shown—demonstrate an understanding that true terror lies in anticipation, in what might happen rather than what does. In this way, Valak joins the pantheon of horror’s greatest monsters, alongside Dracula, Freddy Krueger, and Pennywise, each embodying different aspects of fear, but few achieving the same fusion of theological dread and visceral terror.
Beyond film, Valak has seeped into popular culture, becoming a staple of Halloween costumes, internet memes, and haunted attractions. The demon’s face adorns posters, merchandise, and fan art, its popularity ensuring that it is not merely a creature of fleeting cinema but a cultural icon. The paradox here is deliciously ironic: a figure meant to terrify becomes commodified, sold in plastic masks and Funko Pop figurines. Yet perhaps this too reflects something of demonology’s history. For centuries, grimoires catalogued demons not only as threats but as curiosities, knowledge of them granting scholars a sense of mastery. Today, consumers purchase their likenesses for a similar reason: by owning the image of Valak, one feels less at the mercy of its terror.
The mythology surrounding Valak also raises questions about continuity. In The Conjuring 2, Lorraine Warren triumphantly condemns the demon back to Hell by invoking its name. Yet subsequent films demonstrate its return, tethered to Maurice or re-emerging from infernal depths. This cyclical defeat and resurgence reflects a truth embedded in religious cosmology: evil is never fully banished, only restrained, always awaiting its chance to rise again. Valak’s repeated resurrections serve as a reminder that the battle between good and evil is never final, but perennial, echoing through history, faith, and art.
From an academic perspective, Valak represents a fascinating fusion of folklore, theology, and modern storytelling. The Conjuring Universe does not simply adapt a historical demon but reinterprets it, layering medieval descriptions with gothic imagery and contemporary fears. In doing so, it participates in a long tradition of demonological reinvention, where each era reshapes the figure of evil according to its own anxieties. The Renaissance feared hidden treasure-seeking demons, the nineteenth century feared possession and spiritualism, the twentieth century feared corruption of the innocent, and today we fear the collapse of faith in an uncertain world. Valak, ever adaptable, becomes the mask for each of these terrors.
It is this adaptability that ensures Valak’s endurance. Whether as a boy on a dragon in sixteenth-century texts, or as a mocking nun in twenty-first-century cinema, the demon remains a mirror to human fear. Its essence is not bound to one form but to the function it serves: the embodiment of evil as that which perverts, distorts, and mocks the good. This is why Valak remains so deeply unsettling, for it is not simply a monster but an anti-sacrament, an inversion of grace into blasphemy. Where the nun once symbolised salvation, Valak transforms her into damnation.
In conclusion, Valak is more than the terrifying antagonist of a series of horror films. It is the inheritor of a demonological tradition, a cultural icon that reflects our deepest fears, and a theological provocation that asks uncomfortable questions about faith, evil, and perception. Through the artistry of cinema and the resonance of centuries-old texts, Valak has become a figure both timeless and timely, rooted in the lore of Hell yet alive in the imagination of the living. To encounter Valak on screen is to feel the chill of sacrilege, the thrill of fear, and the uneasy recognition that evil, in whatever form it takes, is never far away. In the end, whether cloaked in wings, riding dragons, or hiding beneath a nun’s veil, Valak endures because it embodies that most primal of human terrors: that what we trust most can become what we fear most.
Written by- Akash Paul
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