The faith that Shadrach, Meshach and Abednego showed inspired Robert. He realized he was not putting his complete confidence in God and that he needed to trust Him to work in his life. He had to remember, if God wanted him to work at the campus station nothing was going to stand in the way, especially not Terry Lubscomb.
He sat on his bed back at the dorm and began to file through some of the CD’s he had brought with him from home. He had bought a display rack at the local Wal-Mart and assembled it his first week here but he had had little time to sort the CD’s he wanted to put inside of it with his busy schedule and getting used to the way things ran around the university.
Robert had pretty eclectic tastes, and assumed that would be a benefit when he did make it into radio. DJ’s were often moving from city to city and station to station while dealing with format changes. One minute you could be working at a Christian radio station and the next, hip-hop was blasting through your headset. You just never knew. But it wasn’t a fear of a future station changing formats that had made him well versed in music. He had actually grown up listening to all kinds of music.
When he was young, maybe five or six, his mother would put him to bed at night while playing the local easy listening station. All night long the instrumental versions of everybody from The Beatles to Van Morrison would play from a small alarm clock radio. When he got older, about ten years old, he found himself listening to popular music and oldies. There had been something about oldies that seemed to grab him. He knew they were from his Dad’s generation but, for some reason, they spoke to him too. The Temptations could often be heard coming from his stereo in his bedroom as well as Elvis and The Beach Boys. It was also around this time that Robert discovered a Christian artist named tobyMac. He had never heard religious music that sounded so much like regular pop before and that had opened his mind up to a whole other genre of music to explore.
In high school he was introduced to the sounds of the sixties and seventies. He found the later works by The Beatles and began to hear the pioneering guitar work of Jimmy Page from Led Zeppelin. This was perhaps when his Dad became a little concerned about his listening habits. He found Robert with albums by Jimi Hendrix, The Rolling Stones and Aerosmith. The problem arose because his Dad had grown up with those bands playing on the radio and hearing about their various antics in the newspapers. Basically, his Dad knew all of the legends and stories about those groups and didn’t want his son listening to lyrics by bands that didn’t seem to live their lives in a very Christian manner. But Robert was naïve and this was his saving grace, oddly enough. Robert was listening to these bands to get to know different styles of music and couldn’t have cared less about how they lived their lives or what they believed. It was the guitar licks and the melodies that drew him to the music. Yeah, the lyrics certainly weren’t Christian—or even uplifting for that matter—but that was only part of what Robert was exploring. Eventually, after realizing his son’s genuine interest in not only the music but the history of the music as well, he backed off. He still wasn’t happy that his son was listening to what he often called trash but he trusted Robert to do the right things and had never been let down by him in that department.
A funny thing happened as Robert began to research songs and bands; he realized that many of the myths that he had heard about the bands he listened to were just that: myths. He was proud of the fact that he knew the real story behind the songs and the bands so that he wouldn’t have to feel as if the Devil was creeping up behind him as he listened to a hard rock band with his headphones on.
As Robert began to flip through his CD’s his roommate, Donald, a chubby guy about nineteen, walked into the room. He was wearing a white shirt with thick red stripes running across it from side to side. A little bit of his belly was peeking out from under his shirt and you could see a special belt buckle that looked like a scene from a rodeo was carved into it.
“What’s up, Rob?” Donald asked.
“Just going through some of my music. I’m trying to put that CD holder to good use,” Robert said, continuing to flip through the CD cases.
Donald walked over to Robert’s bed and looked at some of his CD’s. As he did, Robert flipped past an AC/DC album. Donald looked immediately thrown.
“Oh, man. You listen to AC/DC?” Donald asked, shocked.
Robert looked up at him.
“Yeah,” he said, nonchalantly and looking back down at his CD’s not even noticing the look on Donald’s face.
“Aren’t they Devil worshippers or something?” Donald asked, placing his hands on his hips.
Robert looked back up at Donald, noticing that there were sweat spots under the armpits of his shirt. He quickly looked away, not wanting to draw attention to them or embarrass Donald.
“No. That’s actually a misconception,” Robert said.
“I thought AC/DC stood for After Christ, Devil Comes,” Donald said.
“No. AC/DC actually took their name from the back of a vacuum cleaner. AC/DC refers to power, not the Devil,” Robert chuckled a little. “How much sense does ‘After Christ, Devil Comes’ actually make anyway? It sounds like a four year old talking.”
“But that name had to come from somewhere, didn’t it? Are you sure it doesn’t mean that? Maybe the band was just hiding their Devil worshipping to sell records.” Donald said, sitting down on the bed next to Robert and looking at a few more of the CD’s.
“Actually, that was the point. Back in the seventies and early eighties most bands exploited that fact to sell more albums,” Robert said.
“What?” Donald replied, shocked once more.
“Yep. Most parents were dead set against rock bands for the reason of ties with the Devil. Well, let’s face it rock n’ roll is pretty rebellious stuff. Kids would go out and buy music in droves if they thought their folks wouldn’t want them to have it. That made it more appealing.”
Robert noticed that Donald was looking right at him, hanging on every word.
“So,” Robert continued. “To sell even more records the bands began to write songs that were even more ambiguously evil sounding. Some bands were even forthright about the subject in their lyrics. An example would be ‘Highway to Hell’ where the lead singer Bon Scott, in a very sarcastic way, sings about having all the prerequisites for going to Hell—the main one: being in a rocking band.”
Donald sat back a little, impressed.
“Wow! Where did you learn all this stuff?” he asked.
“I’ve studied it since I was little.”
“Dude, you are completely amazing.”
“No, I’m not. These musicians, now they’re amazing,” Robert said, smiling.
Suddenly, Donald’s tone changed and he sat up.
“Well, I don’t want to spoil the fun but, if the R.A.’s catch you with an AC/DC CD they probably won’t take the time to listen to your vast array of knowledge, my friend. There’s no secular music allowed on campus,” Donald said.
“What? That’s ridiculous!”
“It may be, but you better hide those things. Only Christian stuff is permitted around these halls.”
Donald got to his feet, his hands once again on his hips.
“But don’t worry. I’m not going to tell anyone. In fact, if you get a chance I’d like to hear more stuff sometime. It’s not everyday you get to live with a musical encyclopedia.”
They both laughed as Robert began stashing some of his CD’s in a box under his bed.
CHAPTER 6
High above the campus, and about a mile from The Bald Spot, there was a dilapidated old church. It was Carver’s Mountain’s best kept secret—at least, that was what the few who remembered it said. Most of its steeple had rotted and fallen off, becoming a permanent part of the old soil the church rested on. The wood that was once painted so bright white that when the sunlight hit the building on Sunday mornings it was as if God, in physical form, was inside, was now deteriorated beyond repair and had turned an odd black.
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sp; From outside, standing in front of it, you could see through the rotten holes in its front doors. The pews, vacant and falling apart, were still inside. It was as if someday, somehow, people would return to the church and find their place among the pews while waiting patiently for the service to begin. Some of the pews had been uprooted, either forcefully or by means of nature’s wrath. Several of them looked as if they were trying to climb what was left of the walls to get away from something.
The entire church seemed to be sitting on a graveyard, perhaps more ancient than the building itself. Graves littered the earth around the church, each tombstone unique to the others. Most of them were falling apart as well, their stone broken or crumbling. A traditional cross, perched above one of the grave markers, had lost most of its left wing and several of the angels carved into another marker were missing an arm and their facial features.
The last time the church had actually had service had been in July of 1978. The pastor there, a tall and thin man named Thomas Williams, had stood at his podium and announced his resignation. The attendance wasn’t quite what it used to be and Williams felt it was time for him to move on, fearing that the loss was his fault. No one in the congregation had been too shocked because the few that were still left had known about it, informally, for weeks prior.
As he stood there, towering over the small group that was sitting in the pews, sweat began to form on his brow. At first no one seemed to notice, but Williams began to constantly wipe the sweat from his forehead and it became impossible not to see that something was wrong. Williams took off his coat and laid it across the back of a nearby chair as he pushed on, attempting to go through what was to become of the church. The congregation watched intently, at first because they needed to know whether they were going to have to find another church or not and then because the pastor was not looking good at all.
What happened next is where the accounts differ, depending on whom you talk to. Some say that Williams began to suddenly speak in tongues, which most agree is a misconception because the church did not believe in such a thing happening in present day nor were they a spirit filled church. Some say that Williams was simply mumbling angry and bitter words and that the faster he did so the more his voice raised, giving off the appearance of someone who might be speaking another language. In fact, about the only thing most agree on is that whatever Williams was saying, they didn’t understand it and it terrified them.
Williams spoke to a scared and confused congregation for about fifteen minutes like that, pounding his fist into the podium near the end. When he finished, the room was completely silent; only the dissipating echo of his voice remained. He looked at the people in the pews, his face completely drained of all of its color and sweat stains covering his most of his shirt. He had the look of a man who had just said something he regretted and had no idea what to say next—although Williams didn’t take long before he spoke again. This time his words were plain, clear English in their entirety and his tone was that of his former self.
They all looked at him, wide eyed and in shock, as he told them that this was going to be his last Sunday. That afternoon, when the service was over, there was no one waiting around to talk to the pastor or fellowshipping in the parking lot before they went home for their early dinners. Instead, the sanctuary emptied out immediately and within minutes of the final prayer the parking lot was completely barren except for the pastor’s car.
No one ever showed up for service on Sunday evening, nor did the pastor’s secretary make it into work the following Monday. To this day no one knows what happened to Thomas Williams. Two days after that service his house was completely empty. Even the potted plants that usually hung from the front porch had been removed. The locals likened it to the old story of Ichabod Crane; only there was no Headless Horseman and no bridge to cross for safety—at least not physically.
Several years later stories began to spread that Williams had been arrested somewhere in Ohio for performing strange rituals and sacrifices. While no one ever had proof that that was the case, many found it at least plausible if not slightly absurd. Thomas Williams, up until July 1978, had been mild mannered and soft-spoken. In those days churches didn’t have the kind of regulations on their ministers that most try to maintain today. They were careful whom they chose as their pastor, of course, but it was possible—just like today—to have someone who isn’t quite right slip by the system every now and again.
As time went on and the story was passed down to other generations who were more tapped into horror films and darker tales it took on several spiritual and gothic turns. One had Williams—who was incidentally being called Wingams by this point in the evolution of the story—rising from the grave to haunt the church grounds. This particular spin on the original, more factual account seemed to stick in the minds of many of the college students that had attended Mountain Valley University over the years. Around Halloween some of the students would gather together up on the mountain and dare each other to head back in the woods after dark, looking for the old abandoned church. Thomas Williams had become a legend. He was a ghost story to tell others who wanted to be scared late at night. Williams had more than likely had some issues going on in his personal and spiritual life and had lost it that Sunday morning. In some strange twist of fate, he had ended up being the source of college student’s—particularly young women’s—nightmares.
But now, as the sun went down on present day Carver’s Mountain, the belly of the old church began to fill with shadows. What was left of the crumbling tombstones and grave markers created odd stretched reflections of darkness on the ground. Soon the sun would set, filling the horizon with beautiful hues of orange and purple as it gave way to the night.
But as nightfall steadily approached, something within the earth began to move. The sounds of soil being pushed away filled the woods and were replaced by footsteps, slow and deliberate. The remaining sunlight fell on disturbed graves as creatures, like no one in the small town of Mountain Valley had ever seen, clawed at the soil. Dirt fell off of their withered bones as they climbed out of the ground, their jaws falling open in a terrifying, silent scream. Their lungs, what was left of them, heaved air through their throats and the forest was now filled with the sounds of hundreds of these creatures moaning from high atop Carver’s Mountain.
The dead were rising.
CHAPTER 7
Ewen spent the rest of his afternoon on cloud nine. The unfortunate event that had occurred between himself and the R.A. was now a distant memory—except for the pink slip, of course. He lay on the top bunk, the fading sunlight filtering through the blinds in his dorm room window. He couldn’t remember the last time he had been this nervous or excited. His lack of any real self-esteem kept interrupting his pleasant thoughts of Jennifer, making him wonder if she would really show up to meet him. It only took a split second for him to remember what she had said to him when they had gotten back inside of the Romero Center earlier that afternoon.
They had found a nearby section in one of the rows and had sat, together, this time. They listened to the guest speaker, although neither of them could calm down enough to really focus on the content of his message. After he was through, the chancellor approached the podium and thanked the guest.
The chancellor was an intimidating looking man with gray hair and, despite his age, a muscular build. He was at least in his mid-fifties but if it hadn’t been for the gray hair he wouldn’t have looked to be even approaching forty. He addressed the crowd with his typical deep and commanding voice. He was the type of guy that had such incredible charisma that he could probably talk anyone into just about anything.
“I’d once again like to remind you of the revival meeting tonight. The MVU worship team will be here to get the event started at seven and Reverend Dotson will be back tonight with another fantastic message to share. I want you all to come out after dinner and be prepared for the wonderful things that I believe God will be doing in this place
tonight. First, feed your body and then come on out at seven o’clock and feed your soul. I assure you it will be a time of great change in your lives.”
The chancellor prayed over the congregation and then dismissed them. As the crowds stood up and made their way out of the building, the inherent chatter rising once again to incredible levels, Ewen and Jennifer stayed seated. Ewen looked over at Jennifer, his face serious.
“Are you going to be coming back tonight?” he asked, unsure.
Jennifer shook her head.
“I’m going to dinner with a campus rebel tonight,” she said, coyly.
Ewen laughed, a little embarrassed.
“I just thought you might need to cancel or something.”
Jennifer’s smile quickly faded and she looked at him, concerned.
“I mean we can if you were really going to be coming to the revival meeting,” she said.
“No. I just wanted…” he trailed off, trying to think of what to say as he looked at the floor for a second.
Though he wanted to be careful what and how he said certain things he remembered the feeling outside, only moments ago, when his true self broke free. With that, he looked back up at her. Their eyes met as he spoke, gently.
“Look, to be completely honest, I love God with all of my heart but I’m not into these services they have here too much. I hope you don’t think I’m a horrible person for that,” he said.
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