“Right.”
“We’re supposed to have authority over demons, right?”
“Right.”
“Well, no offense, little brother, but you weren’t exactly the conquering hero this evening.”
Scott said nothing as he closed the refrigerator and crossed to the table. In his hands were a carton of milk, a jar of dill pickles, and some dijon mustard. Not exactly a gourmet meal, but it was the best he could come up with on such short notice.
He pulled a pickle from the jar and dipped it into the mustard.
Becka watched, trying not to retch as he crammed half of it into his mouth. She could tell he was as troubled as she was; he just expressed it differently … by becoming a human garbage disposal.
She turned and headed for the stairs. But just before she arrived, she heard a very quiet and very heartfelt “I’m sorry, Beck.”
She slowed to a stop and looked at him.
He continued softly, slowly, “I let you down … I let us both down. I’m sorry.”
Becka’s heart went out to him. “It’s not your fault.” She shrugged. “Things just aren’t making sense anymore.” He continued to look down, and she went on, “The Bible says there are no ghosts, yet we run into ghosts. It says to put on God’s armor, to use his shield and sword to beat demons. We do and we get clobbered.”
“But we’ve won before,” Scott said, looking up at her.
Becka nodded. “Not this time. This time … everything’s going haywire.” She paused a moment as they both thought through the evening. “Listen,” she finally said, “you don’t mind if I use the computer to talk to Z, do you?”
“I don’t know that you’ll get him,” Scott answered as he wolfed down the second half of his mustard-covered pickle. “I doubt he’ll be online, but you’re welcome to try.” Becka nodded and started up the stairs. Everything was unraveling: her confidence, her little brother’s strength, her faith in the Bible. Then, of course, there was tomorrow night … the infamous séance. Should she go? Was tonight a warning that they should prepare harder?
Or was it an omen of an even darker encounter, a showdown that would lead to even greater defeat?
Chapter 5
11:33 p.m.
It had taken Becka twenty minutes to log on to the computer chat room. It would have taken two minutes, but Rebecca’s computer skills were as bad as Scott’s eating habits. After five or six attempts, she finally got online. And to her surprise, Z was there waiting.
Good evening, Rebecca. This is our fi rst time alone, isn’t it?
Rebecca swallowed back her nervousness and typed:
Hi.
How was your evening?
She caught her breath. Did Z know about their visit to the house? Or was he just fishing? She thought about asking, then decided to skirt the issue and move on.
I know this isn’t your area of expertise, but is there a way, I
mean, what real proof do we have that the Bible is 100% true
100% of the time?
There was a pause. A moment later the following verse appeared:
“All Scripture is inspired by God …” 2 Tim othy 3:16 (New Living Translation).
You mean people got all worked up and inspired by God so
they started writing a bunch of —
No. In the original language
inspired
means “God-breathed.” So all Scripture is breathed by God.
Becka thought a moment, then typed:
But just because the Bible says it’s true … Just because
something says it’s true, doesn’t mean it’s true.
There is other evidence. Jesus believed the Bible was accurate. He quoted from it frequently. In fact, when he fought Satan in the wilderness, that was all he used.
Think about it — a battle between the most evil force in the universe and the Savior of the universe. They could choose any weapons they wanted, but instead of swords or guns or nuclear bombs, they used what both knew to be the most powerful force in the universe … God’s Holy Word.
Becka nodded. He had a good point. She typed back:
Everybody says it was written so long ago …
That is correct. But in all of history there is no other book that has been proven to be so completely reliable.
Again and again historians and archaeologists uncover other historical writings and ancient artifacts that prove the Bible’s accuracy.
Becka stared at the screen. She was relieved. Yet, how could the Bible be so accurate when everything she had experienced in the past twenty-four hours seemed to prove it was so wrong? She looked up as the final set of words appeared: It is late. I must sign off, but you must promise me one thing.
What’s that?
Whatever your decision may be regarding tomorrow night, promise me you will be very careful. There is far more danger than meets the eye.
Z
Becka’s mouth dropped open. Quickly she reached for the keyboard and typed:
Z? How do you know these things, Z?
But there was no answer. Only the last set of words: Be very careful. There is far more danger than meets the eye.
**********
12:11 a.m. FRIDAY
Scott hadn’t bothered to tell Rebecca about the little breaking-and-entering routine he and Darryl had cooked up for that night. He figured she had enough on her mind. Come to think of it, so did he. But a promise was a promise. And revenge was sweet no matter what time of day … or night.
“Give me a boost,” Darryl’s screechy voice whispered.
Scott laced his fingers together and held open his palms.
Darryl stepped into them, and Scott hoisted him up to the tiny bathroom window at the back of the Ascension Bookshop.
Darryl had gone into the bookstore a few hours earlier, when it was still open, snuck into the bathroom, and unlocked the window. “I saw this on an old
MacGyver
episode,” he squeaked,
“or was it
Matlock?
Come to think of it, maybe it wasn’t either.
Maybe it was — ”
“Just push open the window and get inside,” Scott whispered.
“I can’t reach it. Let me stand on your shoulders.” Before Scott could protest, Darryl scrambled out of Scott’s hands, up his chest, and onto his shoulders — leaving plenty of greasy tread marks along the way.
“Oh, man,” Scott whined as he looked down at his T-shirt.
“I still can’t reach it. Let me stand on your head.”
“Do what?!”
“I’m too short to reach the window. Let me stand on your head.” Again Darryl’s little feet scrambled, and again Scott wound up with tread marks — this time across both ears and his forehead.
Suddenly a voice demanded, “Whad — whad’re you doin’ down here?”
The boys froze. Because of Darryl’s weight on his head, Scott couldn’t turn, but he shifted his eyes as far to the right as they would go. It was Mr. Leery, the town drunk, staggering home after another long night of tipping brews. Mr. Leery continued his stumbling approach until he was staring directly up at Darryl, who was towering a good five feet above him.
“S’not right, you boyz bein’ here.”
Scott’s mind raced. Mr. Leery was right, of course. Standing in a back alley and breaking into a bookstore at midnight was not exactly the role of a model citizen. So what was this old man going to do? Blow the whistle on them? Call the police? And what was Mom going to think when she came home and had to bail her son out of jail?
“Great,” Scott moaned silently, “just great.” Mr. Leery wagged his head from side to side. “S’not at all right.
You — you shudn’t be here,” he repeated as he continued staring up at the giant before him. “The Lakerz are playin’ tonight — you should be with the res’ of yer team, gettin’ thoze rebounds and makin’ them fanzy bazkets … they need you, boy.” Mr. Leery threw a look up to Darryl. The little guy nodded down at the man but said nothing.
Mr. Leery nodded back, pleased that he’d made his point.
“Go — go get sooted up then,” he ordered and held out his hand, waiting for a high five.
Darryl reached out and obliged. Of course Mr. Leery didn’t quite connect with his hand, but it was close enough. The old-timer turned and staggered away, pleased that he’d done his part to help the L.A. Lakers toward another championship.
Scott stared after him. He knew his mouth was hanging open, but he didn’t much care.
As soon as the man staggered out of sight, Darryl burst out laughing.
“Come on,” Scott ordered, “you’re killing my head.” Darryl resumed twisting and turning atop Scott’s skull (grinding in any grease he hadn’t already wiped off on Scott’s face and T-shirt) until he finally pushed open the bathroom window and squirmed inside.
“How long will it take?” Scott whispered up to the window.
“Just long enough to get her computer up and load in the program. Ten minutes max.”
Scott breathed a sigh and threw another cautious glance up the alley. He looked down at his stained T-shirt and began rubbing the top of his head. This revenge business sure could be painful. He glanced at his watch. They still had to run over to Hubert’s and get him to reprogram the astrological charts. But with any luck, they’d have the Ascension Lady making a major fool of herself by morning.
**********
12:54 a.m.
Earthquake!
The thought exploded in Becka’s mind and sent her bolting upright in bed. Having moved to California, she figured she’d eventually experience some rocking and rolling from Mother Nature. She just hadn’t planned on experiencing it quite this soon. But here it was.
Or was it?
Her room was lit by only an outside streetlamp that shone through the window, but even then she could tell that nothing else in the room was moving. Not her bookshelves, not the lamp on her nightstand, not even the water in the fishbowl on her dresser. Only her bed.
She laid her hand on the mattress. It wasn’t her imagination — the bed really was vibrating. Not a lot, but enough.
Next she noticed the cold. Saw it, really. White puffs of breath coming from her mouth … exactly as they had in the mansion.
She threw a look to the window. It was closed. Even if it had been open, it was spring outside. And spring in this part of the coun-try did not mean this type of cold.
The shaking increased. Soon the headboard started banging against the wall. But there was another sound too. A buzzing — faint at first, then it grew louder and louder with the shaking. Becka pulled the blankets up around her. Part of her wanted to leap out of the bed and run for her life. And part of her was too frightened to move. For the moment, the “too frightened” part was winning.
She shivered. But it wasn’t from the cold or even from the fear. It was something else. She couldn’t put her finger on it, but there was something even icier, even more frightening, in the room. Something she’d felt before …
Her heart pounded. It was the same cold dampness that had brushed against her in the hallway of the mansion. And now it was touching her face.
The shaking of the bed turned to violent lungings. The buzzing sounded like a thousand flies circling her head, like a chain saw roaring. She opened her mouth to yell to her brother in the next room, but no sound came. The cold dampness had wrapped itself around her throat and was quickly tightening its grip. She tried breathing, but her air was being shut off. It was strangling her, suffocating her.
It was trying to kill her.
She reached to her neck, clawing at it, trying to peel whatever it was away. But there was nothing to grab. Just icy dampness.
Her lungs pleaded for air. She twisted and struggled, trying to draw in the slightest breath. No air would come.
The bed was bouncing out of control, its headboard crashing into the wall with every leap. Becka’s lungs burned, screaming for air. The outside edges of her vision started to grow white. She was going to pass out; she knew the signs. She had to do something, and it had to be fast. Mustering all of her strength into one final act of defiance, she lunged forward and —
Becka bolted awake in bed.
It had been a dream! She sat on her bed, gasping for breath, filling her lungs with precious oxygen and her mind with blessed reality. Strange. Everything had seemed so true, so real. It was definitely not your average nightmare. But she was awake now.
She was safe.
Yet, even as she sat there, catching her breath, forcing herself to relax, she noticed something that sent another chill through her body. Small white puffs of breath were coming from her mouth. The same chill she had felt in her dream was there, in her room. The same cold dampness. And this time it was for real. She looked at her window and sucked in her breath. A thick layer of frost had formed … on the inside.
“Scott!” she called. “Scotty!” There was no response.
She threw off the covers. She was getting out of there. She was not falling victim to this thing a second time.
Her feet barely touched the f loor before she stopped.
The skin on her arm prickled as something icy touched it. The sensation traveled up her arm and across her body, making her give an involuntary shudder. Then it was gone. Almost. Whatever it was, it was still in the room.
She’d had enough. This was her bedroom — she wasn’t about to be driven out of her own room. She cleared her throat and demanded, “What … who are you?” There was no answer, but she would not be put off that easily. “I said, who are you?” Still no answer.
Then, remembering all that she and Scotty had learned about spiritual warfare, Becka tried again. “In the name of Jesus Christ, I order you to reveal yourself.”
Becka watched and waited in speechless anticipation. Soon the air began to ripple. In the middle of the room an image wavered and slowly formed. At first it appeared to be a darker version of the darkness that already filled the room. A shadow within a shadow. But gradually it took shape. Features slowly formed. Becka gasped. Although it was still transparent, there was no mistaking who it was. Little Juanita.
Becka tried to swallow, but her mouth was as dry as cotton.
“What … what do you want?” she demanded.