Steve wiped the moisture off his damp forehead. A mosquito landed on his arm, probably the same one that had been buzzing in my ear. He smashed it, and even in the dim light, I could see the red stain. “Did you feel threatened in any way?” he asked.
“They were just little boys.”
“The scripture is clear that when the soul leaves the body, it moves on to its next destination. Good or bad.” Now he was looking into the party, avoiding my glance. “Spirits don't stick around, regardless of what popular television says.”
“But I saw the ghosts.”
“And ghosts beingâ¦?”
“The spirits of Jimmy and whoever was with him.”
“You know that's impossible.”
“What if it isn't? Can you prove that human ghosts don't exist?”
“Let me ask you this,” Pastor Steve said slowly, turning toward me. “Have you always believed the souls of humans can remain after death?”
“No, my upbringing was in a conservative Christian church.”
“Nothing wrong with that.”
“Except it stifles any thoughts outside a rigid framework of outdated beliefs.” Barbara's words. When had I decided to accept them? A burning pain stabbed between my eyes. My vision blurred, then clarity returned, visual and mental. Pastor Steve was messing with my mind. I would not let him control my thoughts.
“And when did you decide you were being stifled?”
I had told this man too much, and I wasn't ready to share anything else. He didn't need to know how far outside the traditional realm of faith I had drifted. He didn't need to know about Barbara.
“I had to make sense of the paranormal somehow,” I replied, “and I didn't find the answers in the Bible.”
“Maybe you looked at the wrong scriptures.”
“Maybe I did.”
Darkness began to settle in. Laughter mingled with conversation, the buzz of night insects, the howl of dogs.
Shadows from the trees lengthened, and stretched for me. I allowed them to caress my confused spirit. There was comfort in their darkness.
I ached to return to the safety of my room. A voice whispered deep within me. Pastor Steve was dangerous. Anxious to leave, I searched for Sandra so I could say good bye.
“You know,” Pastor Steve said, staring into the yard, “Satan uses any opportunity he can to pull us from God. He uses our circumstances to kill our faith.”
Don't listen to him!
“I still believe in God” My voice sounded jerky and halting.
“As do the demons, and they tremble. James 2:19.”
Beads of sweat formed on my face.
“Satan loves Christians to live in the shadows between truth and deceit.” I felt him turn toward me. “We have folks who attend our church every Sunday and still walk in the shadows. They like it there, where they can turn their faces from the light, and yet keep it close by, just in case they need God for an emergency.”
Bile filled my throat.
“Let me ask you one more thing: Have you participated in the occult in any way, ever, in your lifetime?”
My heart pounded so hard it sounded like thunder in my ears. “Of course not.” The occult? Satanism and tarot cards and things like that? Who did he think I was?
“Sometimes people get into occult activities believing they're meaningless fun. Like fortune tellers at fairs. Most of them are fake, but every now and then, you run across a real one. All of them are dangerous.”
Fortune tellers? Not the occult as I know it
. “And what's the harm in that?” The words croaked out of my constricted throat. “No one really takes what those people say seriously.”
“Satan does, and you can bet he has some of his henchmen assigned to the fortune tellers, watching who comes and might be open to having a demon-escort for a while.”
Is that what happened to me?
“Why would a demon follow someone who went to a fortune teller for fun?”
Don't listen, don't listen.
“To wait for the opportunity to enter him.”
My thundering heart lurched. I stared at the man, horror beginning to take root. Barbara had been possessed, for a short time, but it had happened. She had said she served as a conduit. Was it more than that?
“What do you think demons are?” Steve asked.
“I don't know. Satan's angels I guess.” Every cell in my body told me to run, but I was glued in place by the man's words. “Why would a demon want to enter someone?”
“Think about it,” Pastor Steve said. “Satan is pure evil. There is not one spec of kindness or light in him. He wants only to harm.”
Everything Pastor Steve said made sense. A finger of doubt stirred my reasoning. Had I accepted Barbara's explanations of lingering souls too easily?
“You must be turning into a real Southerner.” Steve chuckled. “You just shivered, and it must still be eighty degrees outside.”
A force pulled me from one belief to another, moving me, shifting me. Was there a tug of war going on for my soul? Had I become a pawn more than a player?
Runâget away from Pastor Steve, from Sandra, from the south!
The plastic cup splintered in my hand.
Steve grabbed my arm. “I have friends with expertise in this area. Can I share your story with them?”
“Sure, sure. Go ahead.” I didn't care what he did; I just needed to leave.
Trying not to rush but wanting to run, I said a quick goodbye to Sandra and fled toward home.
As the noise from the party faded, the sound of crickets and bullfrogs mingled with my own pounding heartbeat. After a block, I stopped to catch my breath. Never in my life had I been this confused and unable to sort out my thoughts.
I glanced toward the darkened sky. Was God really up there? If He was, why didn't He care about me or Trina or little ghost boys?
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18
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For my own sanity, I needed to resolve the whole ghost thing. What had I seen in the attic? The spirits of two dead boys or something else? Vacillating back and forth was driving me crazy. But without Barbara, there was nothing I could do but wait for Pastor Steve to get back with me. It had been a week since Sandra's party, and I had heard nothing.
I needed access to Barbara's gift, but at the same time, I was repulsed by the memory of the demon using her body. She said she was a Christian, she said she could contact Jimmy, but the risk was too great that she might bring more evil to the house. Even though I was still unable to locate the demon, I knew he was there, somewhere, waiting. I could feel him, and now Ted sensed him too.
Adding to my internal tension, Mitch still hung around like a leech. I needed to figure out the kid's agenda before he hurt Trina.
Trina. The more I observed her, the more she reminded me of Nancy during the early days of her illness. Suspecting the truth about my daughter made everything else unimportant.
I was supposed to be rolling sunny yellow paint on the kitchen walls as a compromise for not tearing the room apart until next summer. Betsy hadn't called me since our last conversation. It was her turn. Our arguments had never lasted this long before. I pulled the cellphone out of my pocket and stared at it, willing it to ring.
Trina found me there, sitting on the back stoop. She had changed from her work clothes into a fresh pair of shorts and a clean top. “Dad, can you do me a favor? Will you take these cookies to Sandra? I need to return her plate, and I hate to send it back empty.”
The last thing I wanted to do was be alone with Sandra. Being with Sandra was tolerable if Trina was there. She could carry the conversation. Even the party had not been bad. But alone?
“I had planned to stop by her house on my way to Florence,” Trina said, “but I'm running late.”
“Running late for what?”
She placed a plate covered with plastic wrap into my hands.
Staring at the plate with as much enthusiasm as a hotdog approaching a bun, I burrowed deeper into my black hole. Ghosts and death. That's all the south had brought me. I no longer felt the sun, heard the birds, or smelled the fragrance from the flowering bushes that surrounded the house. I shoved the cellphone back into my pocket.
After changing into a clean shirt, I walked the short distance to Sandra's house.
As soon as I reached her door, my mood improved. It was as though a sign were suspended over her house that said “No Black Holes of Despair Allowed.”
Few people seemed to have their acts together as well as Sandra. It had only been a month since Jimmy's abduction, but she remained a loving and gracious woman. Instead of being irritated by her perfection, I found her to be an elixir, a healer of all that ailed meâas long as I could look at her from a distance.
Instead of a porch, a simple cement stoop graced the front door of Sandra's house. Every southern house should have a porch, and one could be added easily enough. I knocked on the door.
“Bill! What a surprise; come in. Actually, I was going to stop by your place later.”
I smiled at her lilting voice and soft southern accent. “Trina wanted me to return your plate.”
“Looks like you brought more than the plate.” Sandra sniffed at the cookies. “Mmm. They smell fresh. Come on in. I'll get us some iced tea and we can sample these.”
I followed her into the small living room. The only time I had been in Sandra's house had been the time I told her Jimmy was dead. The room was small, with a dining room off the back to the right, and a door to the bedroom hallway on the left side wall. She had placed a couch against the back wall. Two chairs flanked the front window. A large bookcase covered the right wall. The room felt warm and welcoming, the kind of place one could come and relax.
“I remember where I saw you from,” she said, motioning for me to sit on the couch. Open on the couch laid a photo album. “That's why I was going to stop by.”
Setting the plate of cookies on the coffee table, she sat beside me, and picked up the photo album. Flipping through the pages, she stopped about half way.
“Here, look at this.”
She pointed to a black and white photo of a man sitting on a porch swing. Dressed in trousers with suspenders, and a dress shirt, he appeared to have been focusing on something beyond the range of the camera lens.
“Looks like this must have been taken about fifty years ago,” I stated.
“It was, but take a good look. Do you notice anything?”
I studied the picture. A feeling of recognition tickled my brain.
“It's an old picture of Uncle Carl.”
I looked again, more interested in what the house had looked like fifty years ago than the person. There was a swing on the porch, and a window off to the side. The photographer had caught a corner of the steps leading into the yard. Not much to see.
“You look enough like Uncle Carl to be his son.”
I turned back to the grainy picture, this time examining the man.
“It isn't real clear,” she said, “but the resemblance is there. I was looking through the album this morning at⦔
Her voice caught, and I glanced up to see her blinking back tears.
I wondered if I should offer her my handkerchief. I wanted to put my arm around her, but hesitated. What if I was being impulsive again, and would regret it later? Where was Trina when I needed her?
“I was looking at pictures of Jimmy. I appreciate what you saw in the attic, Bill, but I still think he's alive. I don't know what your vision meant, but perhaps someday we will understand.” She pulled a tissue out of her pocket and wiped her eyes. “Here I am blubbering all over. I'll get us some iced tea.”
“Really, I don't need to stay⦔
“Of course you do. I'll just be a second.”
Sounds came from the kitchen--glasses rattling and the refrigerator door opening then closing. I looked again at the man in the picture. In a way, he resembled my father.
A thought hit me. I glanced toward the kitchen, and then flipped through the album's pages. I had only seen one picture of Jimmy; maybe in other pictures he would not look as much like my ghost boy. Maybe I hadn't seen Jimmy Roberts after all!
Nothing would make me happier than to tell Sandra I had not seen her grandson, and her hope that he was still alive was not unfounded. I skimmed the pictures; most were scenes with happy people I didn't know. But there were a few I recognized, all of Jimmy.
I had wanted to be wrong, but there was no doubt. Jimmy was one of my ghost boys.
Not a ghost. Spirits of humans do not remain. Jimmy is either my imagination or a demon. Spirits of humans do notâ¦
The room began to spin. Caught in a vortex, I gripped the arm of the couch to keep from falling. Glimpses of the attic pushed through: scenes with the two boys.
The attic faded and the room settled back into normalness. My heart raced as I searched for papers tossed around, furniture out of place, anything that would validate what I had just experienced, but the room was tidy just as before.
A cloak, invisible but heavy, fell over my shoulders. Muscles contracted under the deathly cold. As I tried to shake off the unearthly force, it settled more firmly around me.
My special room at Trina's would have protected me. This wouldn't happen there. I clenched my jaw to prevent my teeth from chattering as the invisible fabric hugged me tighter and tighter.
I sensed Sandra's return. She started talking about Jimmy, how he liked to visit his uncle, how he loved to explore Williamson Park, how he ate whipped cream on his pancakes instead of syrup. The more she talked, the more tightly the black cloak pulled around me until I could barely breathe.
Panic grew, but knew I had to stay focused. I couldn't succumb to whatever was happening to me.
Shivering under my invisible cloak, I centered my thoughts on Sandra. I liked the woman. But my attraction to her was different than Barbara, different from any woman I had known lately. However, a barrier loomed between us. She wanted her grandson to come home, and I knew it would never happen. Sitting in her living room, struggling with a blackness that was freezing my soul, I understood what Judas Iscariot must have felt.