Death Prophets

by Steve Armstrong

  Matt chuckled. “I am a firm believer that human beings are vile and brutal. But if there was someone else there, I want to know who it was.”

  “Why?” Felicia stared at him.

  “So I know if that person is a threat. Maybe that person could even be a danger to John.”

  “And what would you do if there was such a person? Hunt them down and kill them? Like you tried to do to Brad?” To say Felicia smiled would have been untrue, but her lips did curl up a bit, as though she enjoyed having this information on Matt.

  “What did you say?” Up until that point, Matt had absorbed Felicia’s combative tone. But her last remark begged a question.

  Felicia’s expression softened as if she had been caught doing something she’d rather have kept secret.

  “Did John tell you about that?” Matt demanded. To his knowledge, no one else knew about the time John followed Matt to the house of their dead sister’s emotionally abusive boyfriend. Matt was prepared to avenge the injustices committed against his sister, but John tackled him, taking away his gun. Even their parents didn’t know about that incident.

  “Yes,” Felicia replied, her voice now sounding apologetic.

  This revelation pushed Matt into a different line of thinking. “That’s funny. I wasn’t aware John went around exposing our family secrets like that. What exactly is the nature of your relationship with my brother?”

  “We worked together a few times,” Felicia said, her tone becoming defensive.

  “Really? I can’t imagine John collaborating with a reporter.”

  “It was only a few times.”

  “And how did that little tidbit about me trying to kill my sister’s ex-boyfriend come up?”

  “A vulnerable moment.” She glanced away from him toward the wall.

  Matt chuckled. “It’s funny how vulnerable moments tend to occur much more frequently when beautiful women are around.”

  Felicia looked back at him but remained silent for a moment before saying, “There’s nothing to see here, Matt. Not between John and me and not in what happened the night he was shot. So leave it alone.”

  Matt stood up. “If there’s nothing to see here, then why do I need to leave it alone?” He moved to the door and slid on his sneakers. Felicia stayed seated. “It was nice meeting you,” he said before letting himself out.

  He was not done looking, yet. At either Felicia or the details surrounding his brother’s shooting.

  9

  Grace entered the small, wooden cathedral, located along the winding road that led out of town into the green hills and valleys of upstate New York. Mr. and Mrs. Phillips greeted her at the door, smiling as they handed her a program. Since no one else arrived at the same moment Grace did, the middle-aged couple attempted to make conversation with her. But they never made it much past ‘how are you?’ before the exchange stalled.

  Most conversations Grace had in the church were like that. They reminded her of the semester she spent abroad in Costa Rica, where she knew just enough Spanish to be dangerous. After ‘Como estas?’, she never felt comfortable asking or saying more, devolving all such conversations into exchanges of awkward smiles. Finally, a young family approached the door, so Grace bowed out of the way so the Phillips could fulfill their duty to these new entrants.

  The young woman took her seat in a pew on the back right-hand side of the sanctuary. The mid-twentieth century cathedral’s hardwood floors and rich, paneled walls prevented it from feeling as dated as it probably would have if the floor was carpeted and the walls painted. She surveyed the crowd that more than half-filled the sanctuary. Most of the people present were regulars. About a half were families with small children. A quarter or more were the gray-headed folks who had run the church for the last few decades. The remainder were an eclectic mix of middle-aged empty nesters, older single folks, and a smattering of people Grace’s age.

  She leaned back in her pew and waited for the service to begin. Though the place was familiar, Grace didn’t feel a sense of belonging there. In the three years since she’d been attending after leaving her parents’ church, Grace had not forged any significant relationships. Her presence was accepted and on a few occasions people had invited her to dinner, overtures she had graciously turned down. But no one knew more about Grace than her occupation, where she lived and grew up, and how many siblings she had. Occasionally, people within the church hinted at setting her up with single friends, but she always turned that down, too. Grace was comfortable existing in the gaps of the congregation, mostly unknown and marginally ignored.

  The song leader took the stage as the pianist sat in front of the piano. After a brief prayer, the congregation rose and sang from the red hymnals shelved in the back of each pew. As Grace sang “A Mighty Fortress is our God”, her eyes gravitated to the large wooden cross behind the empty choir loft in the front of the church. What did God have to do with the dreams of the man across the street? Did they originate from Him? Could He tell her their meaning? What if God had nothing to say about them? What would that mean? The world felt so predictable within this sacred space—contained and explained. But could this faith she had clung to since she was a child explain her present tension?

  These questions distracted her as she sang the next two songs. When the time came for the sermon, she still wrestled with those questions. She hoped the Pastor—a slight man with a balding head and glasses—would touch upon her questions. But no, he expounded on the parable of the good Samaritan. Grace should have known. Pastor Wesley was a careful exegete who had no patience for idle speculation. He spoke only about what the scriptures made clear and stayed safely away from the mysteries that lurked inside the pages of the church’s ancient authority.

  But Grace knew that dreams cropped up every now and then in the Bible. As Pastor Wesley exhorted his congregation on the need to love their neighbors—even their enemies—Grace flipped through a Bible, searching for stories she remembered from childhood.

  First, there was Joseph, a man whose entire life was marked by dreams. In the beginning, the dreams were his own, and they told of his eventual supremacy over his brothers and the ways that God would bless him later. But later on, Joseph listened to the dreams of others, like the Pharaoh and his officials. God granted Joseph the ability to understand these dreams. Maybe God could do the same for her.

  Grace also reviewed the story of Daniel, a sage who experienced many of the same things Joseph did. Daniel interpreted the dreams of kings, which seemed to be warnings from God. He even saw a troubling vision of his own, though it didn’t seem like he was supposed to do anything about its terrifying details.

  Grace lay her open bible flat against her lap and glanced up at Pastor Wesley. He stood behind the pulpit, gripping it with both hands. He was pontificating on the different “enemies” that his congregation faced. Once again, his voice faded out as Grace returned her attention to the Bible in front of her. This time, she looked up the word ‘dream’ in the back of her bible. Grace located several verses that intrigued her. She flipped back and forth through her Bible, drawing a few glances from the people sitting in front of her. Desperately, she searched for commonalities between the narratives and her own life, but the two threads never tied together. Even as the final song played around her, she sat in her pew, tearing through the bible.

  Now that the service had ended, people around her stood and moved toward the door. Several smiled politely at her or wished her a blessed week, but no one confronted her regarding her scriptural scavenger hunt. Some in the congregation gathered together in small groups to chat. No one paid much attention to Grace. Usually, she was out the door before anyone could commandeer a conversation with her. However, that day she lingered, watching Pastor Wesley shake hands with his church members. Once Pastor Wesley stood alone, Grace made her move.

  “Pastor Wesley?” Grace asked, her voice nearly trembling.

  The man of God rotated toward her. A curious look came over his face.

&nb
sp; “Grace, good afternoon. What can I do for you?” he asked, sounding as earnest as ever.

  Grace folded her hands together beneath her waist. She had never sought the reverend’s private counsel before. He knew her equally as well as the rest of the congregation. She hesitated to reveal more.

  “Can I speak to you for a few moments? If you’re too busy or this isn’t a good time, that’s okay.”

  “No, it’s fine. Would you like to talk in my office?”

  A few clusters of churchgoers still congregated around the sanctuary. Grace nodded.

  “Follow me, then.” Pastor Wesley led the way back to his office, which was located in the back of the church, near the back doors. Several men and women said goodbye to the reverend or complimented his sermon; they mostly treated Grace as though she was invisible. But once Grace and Pastor Wesley cleared the sanctuary, no one was around to disturb their progress. Wesley produced a key from his pants pocket as he approached the solid oak door of his study. He turned the key and pushed the door open so Grace could walk through. She remained standing as she surveyed the limited confines of the minister’s office. Multiple levels of bookshelves lined each of the walls, and each shelf was jammed full of books.

  “Won’t you have a seat?” Wesley asked as he sat in his own swiveling leather chair. Grace sat down on a padded chair. She noticed the door to the office remained open but decided not to point that out. Now possessing the reverend’s audience, she waited for him to push the conversation forward.

  “So, what’s on your mind, Grace?” Wesley asked, his voice serious.

  As she fidgeted in her seat and pressed the wrinkles in her plaid skirt flat, Grace wondered what Wesley thought she would say. Did he expect her plight originated from her being an unwed, single woman? Or did he expect a theological query? Or some kind of emotional turmoil?

  “I was wondering about dreams,” she ventured uncertainly.

  “Dreams?” Wesley nearly frowned as he repeated the word.

  “Do you think God speaks to us through dreams?”

  “Hmm, I suppose he could. What kind of dreams are you talking about? Are these your dreams?”

  Grace sidestepped the latter question for the moment. “What if someone had a dream that seemed to come true?”

  “Well, I guess I’d think that was interesting but probably more likely to be some sort of anomaly.”

  “So you wouldn’t think it was a message from God?”

  “Maybe. Again, it depends on what kind of dreams you’re talking about. But God has lots of other ways to reveal things to us, like scripture and listening to biblical teaching. I don’t think dreams would be his first choice.”

  The minister seemed to be tiptoeing around the issue, waiting until Grace played her hand before revealing what he really thought. And that was actually a wise maneuver. But Grace wanted answers without requiring revelation, so his actions proved frustrating.

  “Do you think God could warn us through dreams?”

  “You mean, not to pursue a certain course of action?” He nodded. “I suppose so. I can think of several scriptural examples of that, including when God warns the Magi not to go back to Herod.”

  “But what if the dreams were about someone else? Do you think He could use the person who had the dream to warn the person they dreamed about?”

  Wesley rubbed his bald head. “Again, I suppose He could. People like Daniel and Joseph warned other people about what their dreams meant, so there is precedent.”

  Grace nodded and looked down at her hands, tracing the long line that ran along her left palm with her right index finger. She could feel the minister sizing her up as she did so.

  “Grace, are you sure there isn’t something else you’d like to talk about with me?”

  She looked Wesley in the eye. One person already knew about the dreams that stalked her. Did she dare risk another person knowing? Wesley was different than his brother’s girlfriend. Grace’s existence at Community Bible Church in part was predicated on her anonymity—that she could pass into and out of the church without being known, without being labeled. She wanted the answer to the meaning of the dreams, but at what cost?

  “No. There’s nothing else,” Grace said. She stood up. The potential knowledge the pastor might offer failed to justify the risk; Wesley would dance around the notion of dreams as communication from God and push Grace to the more mundane forms of divine expression—scripture and prayer.

  “Thank you for your time.” Grace turned to leave.

  Wesley grimaced, perhaps aware that his counsel had disappointed her. “Grace, I don’t know the particulars of this dream you’re talking about, though I can see it means a great deal to you. I’d be remiss if I didn’t say that sometimes dreams in the scriptures aren’t warnings—they’re just predictions of future outcomes. The future has already been determined and there’s nothing about it that can be changed.”

  Grace swiveled back toward Wesley, wounded by his words. “Why would God do that?”

  Wesley drew in his lips for a moment. He seemed uncomfortable to be in this situation. “I think sometimes it’s just to demonstrate that He is God and is sovereign over our lives. Of course, I can’t say for sure. Perhaps this dream you’re asking about was given to you to warn someone else and there’s something about their life that needs evaluation. Even if it’s not, a little self-reflection never hurts, right?”

  “No, I guess not. Thank you.” Grace turned to leave again.

  She swept the hair from her forehead and traversed the empty corridors of Community Bible Church. As much as Wesley’s counsel had disappointed her, it rang true in this case. If God had been sending her a warning to someone else, the connection had failed. How could she warn someone she didn’t know? So maybe this was only a small reminder from God that He was ordering the cosmos and the lives of everything in it. But the idea that everything had been preordained and nothing could be altered felt oppressive to Grace. She feared living in such a world.

  10

  October 17. Matt Harrison saw the date everywhere he went and looked. He saw it on the calendar at the gas station, behind the register—the one with women in swimsuits. That day, the scantily clad model with the pouting lips and come-hither stare barely registered, crowded out in his mind by the once random date now seared into his consciousness. He saw the dreaded combination of month and day when he glanced at his phone. In fact, the date forced him to forget the reason he had looked at his phone in the first place. By lunchtime, Matt surrendered, boarded his car and began the half-hour drive to Pine Lawn Cemetery in Woodside.

  Once he arrived at the cemetery, Matt parked at the tall, wrought iron gates in front of the burial grounds. He got out of his car and started to hike up the cemetery’s sloping paths. Matt had to admit that Sarah had chosen a fitting day for her death. Though the sun reached high into the sky, its warmth felt muted and distant. A cold late autumn wind ripped what leaves remained in the trees and swept them across the grounds. This day felt like death.

  As he trudged up the cracked asphalt path, Matt surveyed the various graves he passed. Some were empty and unadorned, their occupants seemingly forgotten amidst the onslaught of time. But many other graves were not ignored. Flags marked the headstones of those who served their country in war. Other sites were decorated with flowers and balloons, solar lights designed to turn on at night, or seasonal items like pumpkins and corn stalks.

  Finally, he reached the tell-tale Japanese maple—its branches bare, save for a few shriveled and desiccated leaves—that served as a landmark for his sister’s final resting place. But Matt stopped behind a row of evergreen shrubs to the right of the tree. Two figures stood over Sarah’s grave. They were older, gray-haired, but still very elegant. The woman wore a full-length coat to keep out the cold and the man sported a wool jacket. Matt should’ve known his parents would be there on that day. While Sarah’s birthday was a family occasion still celebrated, the anniversary of her death passed quietly. B
ut October 17 haunted Jack and Laura Harrison, too. John would probably come by later, holding hands with his fiancée.

  Matt waited for his parents to depart before he approached Sarah. His mom bent down, placing the bouquet of flowers she had been clutching in front of Sarah’s marker. Her hand moved across her cheek, undoubtedly wiping tears away. His dad stood stock still, his hands stuffed into his pockets. After his mom presented her gift to her departed daughter, she stepped backward and leaned against her husband, who placed his arm around her.

  Matt’s parents remained like that for a few more minutes. But you could only stand above a grave for so long before the emptiness threatened to consume you. Matt knew that from experience. So eventually, the couple said their goodbyes and trekked down the hill in the opposite direction from where their son watched them. The coast now clear, Matt approached Sarah’s burial site.

  For a moment, he stared at the glossy, dark-gray granite stone. Sarah Anne Harrison. September 21, 1983—October 17, 2014. Beloved daughter and sister. A gust of wind tossed a cluster of dead leaves into the air, some whipping into the stone and covering the bouquet his mom had just left: gladiolas, Sarah’s favorite.

  “You won’t get any flowers from me,” Matt said. “You don’t get flowers for leaving us.” He crouched down and held himself upright, his knees cracking as he did so. “But if you were alive, I’d bring you flowers.” Matt brushed the leaves off the tall spikes of blooms.

  The term is over: the holidays have begun. The dream is ended: this is the morning. That was the inscription on the stone. It came from C.S. Lewis, from the last book of the Narnia series. Though perhaps not Sarah’s favorite book, she did like C.S. Lewis. And it fit Sarah’s life in other ways.

  When Sarah started college, she began to suffer from schizophrenia. Imaginary voices stalked her, whispering the evil intentions that others—even her own family—harbored against her. For a while, the real became blurred. But when the medication and therapy kicked in, Sarah became more like herself again. She returned to the childhood faith her parents had instilled in her, the same belief system that motivated and guided so many of John’s choices, though had somehow skipped over Matt without taking root. She spoke about C.S. Lewis often. His writings about Christianity made sense to her.