by Bill Myers
“Yes,” Laura said.
“Then take my hand,” Sarina said reaching out to Laura. Their fingers entwined. Sarina lifted their hands just above the spilled salt. “Where two or more are gathered in your name, oh, goddess of the moon, so art thou.”
Becka cringed at the abuse of Scripture. She was tempted to point out the misuse when Laura began to speak:
“Speaker of evil, temptress of my dad,
I bind your tongue; I forever banish you
From this home, so you harm us no more.
May the spirit deal with you according to your evil intent.
May only love and positive energy encircle my home,
So mote it be!”
Sarina appeared solemn but pleased. She released Laura’s hand. “May spirit be pleased. So mote it be.”
“Okay, all right, there you have it,” Demi said, starting to rise. “Sarina, we really do need to be heading back to the hotel. Remember the photo shoot in the morning?” They exchanged an impatient look.
“She’s right. Enjoy the rest of your evening,” Sarina said as she stood. “It’s been a pleasure, especially being with a fellow true believer,” she said to Laura. They shook hands. Sarina leaned forward and started to shake hands with Krissi when a bloodcurdling scream caught everyone’s attention.
Becka’s heart tried to leap out of her chest.
The sound of breaking glass and dishes filled the air.
CRASH! SMASH! CRASH!!
It sounded as if a tornado had touched down in the middle of the restaurant.
BAMM! CRASH! SMASH!!
Becka and the other girls jumped out of their seats.
“Oh . . . my . . . word!” they heard someone screech.
“HELP! Can’t somebody help her?”
“Call 9-1-1!”
Becka and the others raced toward the source of the confusion, then froze as two dozen patrons pushed to get out of harm’s way. Becka stared, momentarily numbed by the surreal drama unfolding before her eyes.
The woman in the red dress was flailing around, clutching at her throat with both hands.
“Oh no, that’s Stacey!” Laura cried out.
“I – I . . . had no idea,” Krissi stammered. “The spell . . . it really worked fast . . .”
Stacey, driven by an unseen force, lunged headlong into another table. Plates, candles, and silverware flew in a dozen different directions. Shards of glass scattered into a million fragments as the dishes hit the marble floor.
Stacey’s eyes bulged as she gasped for air. Her face, drawn as tight as a drum, was turning blue. An instant later, she hit the floor, where she gyrated in convulsions. Her face started to bleed, cut by fragments of splintered glass. She staggered to her feet, still clawing at her throat as if trying to scrape open a passageway to breathe.
“What on earth is going on?” Les shouted. With arms outstretched, he reached to contain her.
If Becka hadn’t seen Stacey’s reaction with her own eyes, she wouldn’t have believed it. Stacey grabbed Les, throwing him against the wall with superhuman strength. He slumped to the floor. The next instant, Stacey threw herself face first against the table and then fell to the floor, where she flailed around like a wounded animal, knocking over chairs with her legs.
The crowd backed away as more tables and chairs were toppled.
As quickly as the confusion had begun, it stopped. Stacey’s body tensed. With a lurch, she stumbled to her feet. Her face, red and puffy, twisted into a ferocious scowl, and a thin trickle of blood oozed its way down her cheek from a cut above her right eye. Her eyes, blazing with rage, scanned the crowd.
She locked eyes with Laura and started to hiss. A deep, guttural hiss.
Becka’s skin crawled. She had an idea that the worst was yet to come.
Laura, who was just several feet from Becka, took a step backward. Then another. And another.
An agonizing scream escaped Stacey’s mangled mouth. “YOU! YOU DID THIS TO ME!”
Laura gasped. She took another backward step.
“Don’t think you can just walk away . . . ,” a voice from somewhere deep inside Stacey bellowed. She raised her arms as if ready to attack. Her fingers twitched with anticipation. She snatched a knife from one of the few upright tables. With a shriek, she thrashed at the air in front of her with the blade. “Now it’s my turn . . . witch!”
“Someone call the police!” a waiter shouted. “NOW!”
8
I’m not so sure I agree,” Darryl said with a generous sniff. “With what part?” Scott leaned away from the computer, where they had been communicating with Z for several minutes.
Darryl blinked. “I . . . I can’t say for sure, but . . .”
Scott jumped in. “Don’t forget, Z’s an expert in this stuff.”
Darryl pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “Okay, so I’m not an expert. But still . . . maybe I don’t see what the big deal is if someone wants to pursue a ‘higher level of God consciousness’ — or whatever Z called it — and they, like, use Wicca to get there.”
“So you agree with Wiccans who think all that chanting, using herbs and incense, and setting up altars and shrines to channel the energy of the universe is the way to get to God?”
“Maybe. I don’t see why not.”
Scott reached for his soda. “Let me ask you this. When it comes to God and the supernatural world, you’d agree with the saying ‘Whatever works for you,’ right?”
Darryl took off his glasses and cleaned them with the end of his shirt. “I guess. Sure. Whatever floats your boat. I mean, I haven’t really studied all of this God stuff . . . like you guys. It just sort of makes sense.”
“Okay, look at it this way,” Scott said, remembering something his dad used to say on the mission field. “If there are a bunch of different ways to get to God, why did God bother sending Jesus?”
Darryl shrugged. “Hey, maybe we should just forget about it and see what’s on TV.”
“Or not,” Scott said. “Come on, this is important, Darryl.”
“Maybe I don’t want to argue about — ”
“Who’s arguing? We were just talking, at least the last time I checked.”
Darryl sniffed.
“Think about it,” Scott said. “The Bible says that Jesus was God’s only Son . . . and that his mission was to die on a cross for boneheads like you and me. Jesus even said he was the only way to God.”
“Your point?”
“Jesus and Wiccans can’t both be right, that’s all.”
“How can you be so sure there aren’t other, well . . . options?”
“You’re a logical kind of guy,” Scott said.
“I am?”
“I think so,” Scott said. “So look at it logically. If there’s more than one way to get to God other than Jesus,” Scott said, scratching the back of his neck, “then I guess I could stand on my head . . . or click my heels together three times . . . or eat a pizza a day . . . or do just about any other crazy thing I want to do and still get to God.”
Darryl reached for the remote control. “You’re losing me.”
“Hold on,” Scott said. “What I’m saying is that if clicking my heels together worked, then there wasn’t a need to send Jesus. Get it?”
“I guess I see your point — kind of.”
“My dad used to say that Jesus came because we were out of options. Nothing we do, except to have faith in him, works.”
“Let’s say I were to agree,” Darryl said.
“Okay.”
“Then what do you think happens when those Wicca girls do their thing?”
Scott cleared his throat. “I’d say they’re opening themselves up to demons. And demons don’t mess around. Sooner or later they’ll destroy you.”
Careful not to trip in the darkness, Claire hurried toward the lodge, carrying her conference notebook and Bible. As she had suspected, there wasn’t cellular coverage in the remote location of the camp, but she remember
ed seeing a pay phone outside the front doors near the base of the steps. The uneasiness in her spirit was almost overwhelming. She started to pray with every step.
Jesus . . . Jesus . . . be with Becka. Protect my daughter. Put your guardian wings around her. Help her faith to remain strong no matter what comes her way. Give her the wisdom to rely on your power — not her own.
Claire was torn. On one hand, she realized that God had called Becka to be in the thick of spiritual warfare — especially since their move to Crescent Bay. On the other hand, she desired for Becka to be kept out of harm’s way. Especially now.
Lord Jesus, Claire continued as she approached the phone, she’s my only daughter . . . I’ve already lost my husband. I know you’re sovereign. You promised not to give us more than we can handle . . . but the thought that Becka may be in danger is really weighing on my heart. Be my peace too.
Claire reached the phone, set her Bible and notebook on a bench to the left, and fished out her calling card from her pocket. She squinted at the small print. The yellow bug light overhead did little to help her make out the number.
She snatched up the handset and discovered that the pay phone had probably been installed around the time Christopher Columbus discovered America. At least that was her guess. As she punched in the numbers, some of the buttons on the keypad stuck. She hung up and tried again. This time more slowly.
Several people walked out of the lodge as she brought the cracked earpiece to the side of her head. The phone rang.
Once. Twice.
According to Julie’s mother, Becka would be at dinner right about now.
Five rings. Six rings.
Why wasn’t she answering? “Jesus . . . Jesus . . . be with Becka,” she prayed under her breath. The static on the line added to her growing sense of anxiety. It was then that she heard Becka’s voice.
“Hey, it’s Becka!”
“Oh, sweetie, it’s Mom — ”
“ . . . leave a message and I’ll get back to you.” Claire’s heart dropped, disappointed she couldn’t get through. She heard the tone and then started to speak, her voice heavy with emotion. “Oh, Becka . . . I just . . . well . . .” She swallowed. “I really wanted to hear your voice . . . to know you’re okay . . . I’m praying for you, baby. I’ll try again soon.”
As she hung up, a chill swept over her. Her fingers lingered on the handset. “Jesus,” she whispered, “be her protection.” She leaned over, picked up her Bible, and clutched it to her chest. Behind her, the lodge door closed with a bang. Claire’s heart jumped. She turned around as Susan Murdock, Becka’s youth pastor, bounded down the steps.
“Hey, Mrs. Williams.”
Claire wiped a tear from the corner of her eyes.
Susan studied her face. “You okay?”
Claire shrugged. “Mostly.”
“That is so not the truth. What’s up?”
Claire looked toward the moon. “I can’t shake this feeling that Becka may be in real danger tonight.”
Susan slipped her hand around Claire’s arm and walked her to a nearby bench. Susan pulled her hair back over her shoulders as they sat. “You wanna talk about it?”
A nod. “Becka’s at Julie’s for the weekend,” Claire said softly. “Tonight they went to a bookstore to meet that actress Sarina Fox.”
“She’s in The Hex, right?”
Claire nodded. “So you can imagine why I’m concerned.”
“I can. And get this,” Susan said, crossing her legs. “Most of the girls in youth group are all into that show.”
Claire raised an eyebrow. “Really? Christian kids?”
Susan sighed. “You have no idea. I mean, Todd and I are having such a hard time getting them to see how dangerous the Wicca belief system really is. They say it’s no big deal. It’s just a TV show. But it’s not. Wicca is another counterfeit that opens people up to the occult.”
Claire took a deep breath. “Which is probably why I can’t shake this heavy feeling inside.”
“Maybe this will help,” Susan said, reaching for Claire’s Bible. “May I?”
Claire handed her the Bible.
“I read this in Psalm 121 this afternoon.” Susan flipped to the passage. “Here it is: ‘My help comes from the Lord, the Maker of heaven and earth . . . The sun will not harm you by day, nor the moon by night. The Lord will keep you from all harm — he will watch over your life; the Lord will watch over your coming and going both now and forevermore.’ ”
A smile found its way to Claire’s face as the weight of the burden she was carrying began to lift. “Thanks. I needed to hear that.”
“You want to know something else?” Susan said, handing the Bible back. “I’ve watched Becka. She’s different. She takes her faith seriously. I wish more kids were like her. What I’m trying to say is that she’s well grounded in the Word.”
Claire searched her eyes. “I’ve seen that too. But I guess I’m praying Becka doesn’t get arrogant and make the mistake of facing spiritual warfare without relying on the Lord. Not even for one second.”
9
Becka’s eyes snapped back and forth between Stacey, whose freakish ranting held everyone captive, and Laura, who would be the next target of Stacey’s wrath if she wasn’t stopped. Stacey’s chest heaved. Her eyes bulged with a crazed intensity, and she waved the knife wildly.
Although Becka stood her ground, most of the patrons scrambled away from Stacey’s menacing threats to the far recesses of the restaurant. Even the busboys, waiters, and cooks huddled behind the now-closed kitchen door.
No one moved. No one dared to attract Stacey’s attention.
Somewhere along the edge of Becka’s hearing, she picked up another drama unfolding not far from her. Keeping an eye on Laura and Stacey, Becka forced herself to tune into the heated debate behind her.
Krissi cried out, “Do something . . . anything, Sarina!”
“Sarina, the car is waiting,” Demi said, her voice strained but firm.
“What in the world?” Krissi said. “You can’t just leave . . . not now. We need you.”
“Sarina, I’m telling you, don’t get mixed up with this,” Demi said, the impatience in her voice growing.
Becka’s head spun around to steal a look. Sarina stood midway between the main exit and the standoff. Her eyes, wide as saucers, filled with indecision.
Or is it fear? Becka thought.
Krissi was all arms, waving and pleading. “Pleeease . . . I’m begging you. Stop her. She’s gonna hurt Laura.”
Demi, no longer holding the front door ajar, stomped to Sarina’s side. She grabbed her arm. “Are you hearing me, Sarina? The car. Let’s go. You don’t need this.”
Sarina blinked as if having made up her mind. With a yank, Sarina freed herself from Demi’s hold. Her eyes narrowed, filling with white-hot rage. She strutted toward Stacey, stopping ten feet short of the knife-wielding monster.
For her part, with the speed of a rocket, Stacey raced to Laura’s side. Faster than light, Stacey’s arm shot out. With one hand, she grabbed Laura around the base of her throat and then dragged her to the center of the room. The harder Laura resisted, the tighter Stacey’s grip around her neck became.
Becka’s heart drilled against her rib cage with the force of a jackhammer. She knew exactly what was going on.
She had seen this behavior before.
Stacey was possessed.
Becka also knew what she should do to stop it. But for an instant, she hesitated. She couldn’t help but think back to the way Laura, acting on orders from Brooke, had held a knife to her throat several months ago, just as Stacey was currently doing to Laura.
Turnabout was fair play, right?
Why should Becka stop what Laura and Sarina had started? After all, everyone had spent this evening tossing their little jabs at her for confronting Sarina at the bookstore. Why get involved now? Sarina was a big-time TV star, right? And when it came to being a Wiccan, she talked a good game. Why not let her handle
things her way? They’d just get what they deserved. Here was Becka’s chance to be rid of at least one of her antagonists.
As if in answer to her questions, a single word surfaced in the back of her mind: earplugs. Becka sucked in a quick breath. Z had given her earplugs with a note. What had Z written? She strained to remember. Not five seconds later, it hit her.
Be careful little ears what you hear.
Z must have known that the devil would try to fill her mind with doubt. Maybe even with the idea of revenge — of getting back at Laura for all the pain she and The Society had caused Becka ever since she and her family moved to town. The earplugs suddenly made sense. They symbolized her need to block out the lies of the enemy.
Becka closed her eyes for half a second and prayed, Forgive me, God, for letting my guard down. I’m embarrassed to think I actually listened to the voice of the devil and considered letting Laura get hurt. You love Laura . . . and Stacey too. Be with me now, Lord, and may you have the victory here. In Jesus’ name. Amen.
Becka was about to swing into action when Sarina waved her arms through the air.
“RELEASE HER,” Sarina commanded, her voice resonating as in an echo chamber. “By the power of the lord and the lady, I command you to cease your attack of darkness in this place.”
For a quick moment, Stacey locked eyes with Sarina. Stacey’s upper lip curled into a snarl. A low, hollow growl escaped her twisted mouth. “SILENCE! This is not your fight.”
Sarina took one step forward, her eyebrows knotted into an angry line. Her right arm shot out. A long, slender forefinger jabbed at the space between them. “I call upon the air, the earth, the sea, and the fire to banish you — you spirit of barbarity — to outer darkness.”
That brought a long, wicked laugh from the depths of Stacey’s being. Still holding Laura by the neck with a viselike grip, Stacey placed the knife on a table and, with inhuman strength, seized a chair with her free hand and hurled it at Sarina.
Sarina brought her arms up to cushion the blow. On impact she yelped like a wounded puppy. The force of the airborne chair knocked her back several feet. Staggering, Sarina reached out to steady herself against a table. A vase of flowers toppled and crashed against the floor.
