When the Day of Evil Comes

by Melanie Wells

  At least there were no flies.

  The next day was Sunday, and I was relieved to step into the auditorium at my church. Something about the daylight, the familiar faces, the music—it all felt safe, familiar, insulated. Surely God would show up and comfort me. Maybe He would give me a hint or two about what to do.

  I go to sort of a hippie church, so it’s not terribly churchy looking. It looks more like an office building, with an atrium and an auditorium instead of a lobby or sanctuary I greeted some friends and found myself a seat alone, hoping no lurking single male predators would home in on me that day. My church has a large single population, and any time I sit alone, I’m apt to have the seat next to me filled by some extremely awkward man desperate to make conversation for the sole purpose of scoring a date for the following weekend. No thanks.

  So when someone took the seat directly next to me, though several around me were empty, I stiffened. I resolved not to turn and acknowledge his presence.

  “Dr. Foster?”

  Rats. It was someone who knew me.

  I turned and saw Gavin sitting there.

  “Good morning, Gavin,” I said. I smiled, trying to be friendly. But in point of fact, I was feeling unfriendly, paranoid, and downright hostile that day. Great way to start out a Sunday, with a complete dearth of Christian charity.

  “You didn’t return my call.” His tone wasn’t accusatory. It was just a simple statement of fact.

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “Do you mind if I sit here?”

  “Nope.” Do lies in church count double? “I didn’t know you went to church here.”

  “It’s my first time. I don’t really know what to expect.”

  His rookie status appealed to my helping instincts. I felt my attitude soften.

  “Very few rituals here,” I said. “I think you’ll find it’s an easy place to fit in.”

  The band started playing and we stood up with the rest of the crowd. I sang, feeling my attitude shift from horizontal hostility to vertical need and gratitude. I love that about worship. It applies appropriate perspective to my life. I felt some of my tension slip away.

  Gavin didn’t know any of the songs, of course. He just stood there with his mouth closed and his hands jammed in his pockets. But I wasn’t going to allow my experience to be influenced by his. I have a terrible voice, but sang with abandon anyway, glad to get out of my head for a while and lift my mind and heart where they belonged. I felt much better by the time the sermon started.

  Gavin took in the entire experience exactly the way he sat in my class. Attentive without being eager, critical without being cynical. He was a smart kid with a good mind. I liked him.

  After the service was over, we walked out into the heat of the courtyard. I felt good for the first time in days.

  “Do you want to know why I called?” he asked.

  “I’d rather talk about it tomorrow at school.”

  “I think you’d rather know today.”

  Something in his tone stopped me.

  “Okay. I’m listening.”

  “I found something yesterday”

  I waited.

  “A journal,” he said.

  “Whose journal?”

  “Some kid named Erik Zocci.”

  I froze. “Where did you find it?”

  “On the floor. Behind my desk.”

  “Your desk. In my classroom?”

  “No. In my dorm room.”

  “Which dorm?”

  “Morrison.”

  I was pretty sure it was the same dorm. “Room?”

  “105.”

  I’d have to find out what Zocci’s room number was.

  “What did it say?”

  “See for yourself.”

  He handed me a thin notebook, little wads of dust still clinging to the edges of the pages. I looked inside the cover and saw that Erik had written his name there.

  “Who is Erik Zocci?” Gavin asked.

  I could barely speak. My heart was in my throat.

  “I can’t say.”

  “Something’s wrong, isn’t it? Really wrong?”

  “I can’t talk about this with you, Gavin. You’re a student of mine. The things that are happening don’t involve you.”

  “The white guy showed up in my dream again last night.” He met my gaze with steady brown eyes.

  “And?”

  “He told me to look behind my desk.”

  11

  I SAID MY GOOD-BYES TO GAVIN, raced home, and cracked the pages of that journal.

  There were dozens of entries, made between January and May of last-year. His words were vague, as though he were hiding even from himself. His handwriting was erratic, an indication to me of his fluctuating state of mind.

  Most of the entries were about his father, whom Erik had never mentioned to me in therapy, but who was obviously a central figure in this tortured boy’s life. He talked of wanting to love him, but of hating him instead. And hating himself for hating his father. He anguished over his mother. Worrying for her, but asking himself time and again why she wouldn’t do anything. He never mentioned exactly what he wanted her to do something about. He wondered if some day he’d have to do it himself. Whatever “it” was.

  And over and over he mentioned the white man. The nameless white man who was gradually convincing him of his worthlessness. Of the futility and purposelessness of his life.

  My newfound but fleeting, as it turned out, peace of mind evaporated. Anger took over. One kid had died. Another had caught the attention of the same freak that spooked the first one. And now it seemed that said freak, weirdo Peter Terry, was directing the entire show.

  One thing was abundantly clear. It was time to find Peter Terry.

  I put the book down and logged onto the Internet. White pages search for Peter Terry. Hundreds of Peter Terrys across the nation. Narrowed my search to Texas. Down to seventy-six. Narrowed my search to Houston. No Peter Terrys in Houston. Which was where he’d said he was from.

  I thought of the cancer center. There had to be some way to find out whether he was a patient there.

  Time to make peace with my dad. I dialed his cell number.

  “Dylan?” he said. No hello or anything. “Where have you been? Do you not answer phone calls from your father anymore? I hope you don’t treat your patients this way.”

  “Sorry, Dad.” I tried to sound sincere. “It’s been an extremely busy few days. I’ve got a lot going on. Lots of emergency calls this week. You know how that is.”

  “Crazies getting to you? Flying off the bridges this week?”

  I winced. The image of Erik Zocci flying off the balcony at the Vendome became instantly vivid in my mind.

  “Actually, yes,” I answered.

  “Oh. Sorry. I was just making a joke.”

  “Don’t worry about it. You know how it is to lose a patient.”

  “Lost one Tuesday. Forty-seven years old, congenital heart disease, smoked like a chimney, ate like a farm-raised hog. Guy had no shot. They’ll sue me for it. Families like to blame everyone but the patient.”

  Who was this man and what had he done with my formerly likable father?

  “I’m overwhelmed by your compassion, Dad.” Before he could defend himself, I cleared my throat. “Hey, sorry about the confusion with Mom’s ring.”

  “You upset me very much with that phone call, Dylan. You know I don’t like to think about your mother’s death.”

  “I know. Neither do I.”

  I debated whether to tell him about the ring. I decided to lie. That was twice today. Maybe this was why God was withholding peace and direction. Maybe my sorry spiritual state and pathological lying were blocking Him.

  “I found a ring in an estate store that looked like hers. I got a little spooked. I thought maybe something had happened I didn’t know about.”

  “Are you accusing me of taking her ring off her finger?” The other side of narcissism—paranoia.

  “
Did I say that? Calm down. I thought maybe someone else had stolen it before she was buried and sold it or something. I didn’t know what had happened. I just wanted to check with you about it.”

  “Well, your mother was buried with that ring on her finger. I know that for a fact.”

  “Okay, okay. I believe you. Probably the other one just looked like hers.”

  “You know, we first saw that ring in Italy I had it made for her. That’s how much I loved your mother.”

  I was silently singing “It’s All About Me” as he talked. I made a mental note to work on my attitude toward my dad.

  “Hey,” I said. “I need a favor.”

  This perked him up. He loved being asked for favors. Made him feel like Marlon Brando or something.

  “I have a patient”—lie number three—“that’s lost track of his brother. He thinks his brother may be a patient at the cancer center in Houston.”

  “M.D. Anderson?”

  “I think so. I think the brother may be dying, and my patient wants to mend their relationship before his brother dies. Do you know any way to track him down?”

  “Confidentiality requirements are tight now, Dylan. Congress just passed a new law …”

  “I know all about it. I’m subject to the same rules, remember? I’m asking for a favor, Dad. Surely you know someone who can help in a sort of unofficial way. My patient’s really freaking out about this.”

  “I could make some calls.”

  “I’d appreciate it, Dad.”

  “What’s the guy’s name?”

  “The brother’s name is Peter Terry. Seems like he might be in stage four cancer. I don’t know what type of cancer he has.”

  “Won’t get any help on Sunday. I’ll make some calls tomorrow.” He hung up without saying good-bye.

  My next phone call was to Tony DeStefano, my friend from the seminary I looked up his number and dialed. His wife answered.

  “Jenny,” I said, “it’s Dylan Foster. I hope I’m not catching you at a bad time.”

  “Dylan!” She sounded genuinely happy to hear my voice. “How are you? Tony said he’d seen you last week.”

  “I’m doing okay. I’m not sure if he told you my situation—”

  “Of course not. The man never tells me anything. I think he believes his wedding ring is a mind-reading device that transmits his thoughts through the airwaves.”

  “Does your ring receive?”

  “Absolutely not. I’m old-fashioned. I like to use words.”

  We both laughed. I could hear kids screaming in the background. Fifteen seconds with other people’s children usually cured me of any impulse to have a family of my own.

  “Is he around? I have a quick question for him.”

  “Sure. I’ll rescue him from the kids. They’ve got him pinned to the living room floor. I blame you for all three kids, you know. If it hadn’t been for you, I’d be a single career woman right now with no grape jelly stains on my clothes.”

  “Maybe you could name the next one after me,” I said. “Just as a little reminder.”

  She came back to the phone a minute later. “We want to have you over for dinner soon,” she said. “Here’s Tony.”

  “Dylan. How’s your demon situation?”

  Tony was a get-to-the-point sort of guy. I wondered how his half of the conversation would sound to Jenny.

  “Heating up, actually. Do you have a minute?”

  “Yeah. What’s up?” I heard a chair scrape the floor as he sat down.

  I brought him up to speed. Told him everything. And felt like an idiot doing it, by the way. The whole thing sounded so ludicrous when I told it in sequence. I was actually suggesting to this man that I was being stalked by a demon who was trying to ruin my life.

  Loony bird. I felt like a total loony bird.

  “You got a problem on your hands,” he said.

  Something about talking to Tony was already settling me down. Maybe it was that New York accent again.

  “You think? You went to graduate school for how long in order to come up with that assessment?”

  “Eight years, I think,” he answered. “I’m what they call an expert.” He was laughing now.

  I wasn’t.

  “Tony, I’m freaking out here. What am I dealing with?”

  “I think you’re dealing with some serious spiritual warfare. I told you that a week ago.”

  “You really think so? You don’t think I’m crazy?”

  “You might be crazy. You’re the expert on that, not me. But you got some weird stuff going on. Only explanation that makes sense to me. What’s your radar telling you?”

  “Same thing. I just don’t want to believe it.”

  “It’s better than the alternative.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean,” he said, “that if it’s spiritual, you got Yahweh, Elohim, Adonai—all that Hebrew stuff—on your side. He’s been in this fight for a while. On the winning side, if you get my point. Which is a distinct advantage in my book. Better than a hired attorney if this Terry guy is just a troublemaker.”

  I kept forgetting that I might actually be equipped for this fight. I vowed to myself to study Ephesians 6 before I went to bed tonight. I should muster some actual spiritual weaponry if this was what I was dealing with.

  “What do you think of Peter Terry?” I asked. “What’s he up to? And do demons regularly show up in bodily form to people? I mean, I had an actual conversation with the man … or demon … or whatever. It wasn’t a dream like the other encounters.”

  “Hebrews mentions that angels show up in bodily form. Not much Scripture about this, though. Your guess is as good as mine.”

  “What does your experience tell you?”

  “It happens. I seen it lots in Central America and Haiti.”

  “You’ve actually seen the demons? Or people told you about them?”

  “I never saw them myself.”

  “So you don’t know,” I said.

  “I heard lots of stories. Lemme ask you this. Anyone else see him? While you were talking to him?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “Might be worth finding out. Answer to that question could be pretty useful. Nobody else saw him, you got a freaky situation on your hands. Demon-dudes don’t like to make public appearances. At least what I hear.”

  “What about the slash on his back? Did anyone ever describe anything like that to you?” Picturing it still made me nauseous.

  “I been thinking about that. I got a theory. Want to hear it?”

  “No, Tony. I’m calling you because I have nothing else to do on a Sunday afternoon. That’s how bad my social life is.”

  “You used to be nicer.”

  I hoped he was kidding. I didn’t want to have to revamp my entire personality. I was sliding down the slope of bad attitude. I squared my shoulders and tried to behave myself.

  “Sorry. Let’s hear your theory.”

  “Wings,” he said triumphantly.

  “Pardon?”

  “Wings. Think about it. What are demons? Fallen angels. Angels have wings. Maybe the demons, when they fell, they got their wings ripped off. Maybe they have to run around without them now.” He sounded pretty pleased with himself. “What do you think? It does fit, doesn’t it?”

  “It does,” I said. I tried to picture the confiscation ceremony. “I feel like I need to talk to this dude. I need to get some answers out of him. Am I playing with fire?”

  “Yes. If you’re thinking of some sort of séance or anything, put that idea right out of your head. People get sucked into the dark by sheer curiosity and it’s hard to get out. Bad idea. Very bad idea.”

  “I didn’t say séance. I never said séance. I just said I think he’s the one with the answers.”

  “My thing is,” Tony said, “this guy wants to talk to you worse than you want to talk to him. He’s been pretty persistent up to this point. You ain’t seen the last of him. You wait it out, you’ll fi
nd out more than you ever wanted to know.”

  “That’s a scary thought.”

  “Maybe. But here’s something to remember. Demons, they’re just created beings. They’re not omniscient or omnipresent or any of the stuff God is. They’re … finite, is a good way to put it. And they’re obviously emotional and impulsive and make bad decisions or they would’ve kept the angel thing going in the first place.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “Dead.”

  I’d heard that word too many times lately.

  “I’ll keep that in mind. Thanks for your time, Tony.”

  “You bet. And Dylan?”

  “Yes?”

  “We’re praying for you.”

  “Good.”

  We hung up.

  I called Helene immediately.

  “Strange question for you,” I said when she answered.

  “Okay.” She sounded wary.

  “That day at Barton Springs. Did you see me talking to anyone at the rope swing?”

  “I don’t think so. Why?”

  “You would probably remember this guy. Bone white and bald. Real sickly looking. Looked like he was about to keel over.”

  “I never saw anyone like that. Every time I looked up at you, you were alone. I kept wishing I was alone. Better company.”

  “So you don’t remember seeing him anywhere?”

  “No.”

  “Okay. Thanks.”

  “Is that all you wanted?”

  “For now, yes.”

  12

  FEW PLACES ARE LAZIER than a college campus on a Sunday. I don’t know if it was the sleepy, hungover students or the serenity of empty sidewalks, but the whole SMU campus just had a slow, easy vibe to it that day.

  My stress and anxiety level stood out in sharp contrast to the repose of that hot, still afternoon. I parked my car, very cleverly I thought, in commuter parking rather than faculty parking. And walked fast, head down, bag slung over my shoulder, keys wadded in my fist. Suspiciously purposeful. To anyone watching I’m sure I stood out like a powerboat on a stagnant pond.

  I made it to the counseling center and walked around the building to the back door, stopping for a moment to catch my breath and quiet my heartbeat. Obviously, I was not cut out for espionage. All the more reason to hang on to my day job.