DO IT, YOU WORTHLESS PIECE OF CRAP!
“No…”
“IT’S THE ONLY WORTHWHILE THING YOU COULD EVER DO TO SAVE YOURSELF. PICK UP THE GUN. KILL YOURSELF. THAT’S YOUR PENNANCE!”
Though she shook her head from side to side, the guilt and self-hatred within her drove her to her knees. The Bible fell to the ground and flipped open, its pages flapping in the wind. The horrible feelings about herself began to swallow Abby’s will to live. On all fours, she crawled over, dropped the crucifix, and grabbed the gun.
Crying uncontrollably, her mind a garbled mess of rampant emotions, she backed up and sat on the ground. The pages of the Bible continued to flap in the wind blowing around the room.
She lifted the gun to her lips. I’m sorry Mama. I was such a disappointment to you.
YOU DON’T DESERVE TO LIVE. DO IT NOW!
It was true. Every accusation, every sin. She was indeed guilty. Amazing how free a person can feel when they are not aware of the entirety of their sins. We can’t handle seeing them all at once. It was now easy to see how, when presented with the facts like this, anyone—trained policemen, EMTs, hardened convicts—could yield to this inevitable urge to purge the universe of the human disease that was oneself.
Lights flashed like lightning in the room. Thunderclaps nearly deafened her ears, and the wind howled.
Tears fell from her chin. Smacked down heavily on the thin pages of the Bible, over which she hung her head. She wrapped her lips around the cold, bitter muzzle of the gun. Slid her finger over the trigger. She had to do it.
Had to.
YOUR GOD IS DEAD, ABBY. I KILLED HIM TWO THOUSAND YEARS AGO ON THAT CROSS. NOW GO AHEAD, SWEETIE. DO WHAT YOU KNOW YOU MUST.
She pressed against the tension in the trigger.
Tears streamed from her eyes, rapidly striking the pages beneath her.
She glanced down and saw that the pages had stopped flipping, though everything else in the room continued to blow in the wind. The Bible was open to the red letters, the spoken words of Christ in the book of Mark. She recalled this story, of the boy who had been possessed by a violent spirit, which none of Jesus’ disciples could exorcise, though He had given them the authority to do so.
If you can believe, all things are possible.
She pulled the gun from her mouth and uttered the same words the demon possessed boy’s father spoke: “Lord, I believe! Help my unbelief!”
And she heard a voice in her spirit: You have been forgiven of all sin, once and for all. By the power of My blood, you are Holy and accepted.
With that, she threw the gun down. The words resounded in her mind, clearing the clouds like the sun cutting a swath. By the power of My blood.
Abby stood. Wiped her eyes so she could see clearly.
The creature stumbled back. “You…You’re going to have to kill me. Pick up the gun and shoot me. It’s the only way.”
Abby rushed at it until its back slammed up against the wall. She wasn’t going to fall for its deception and kill Cheryl. “You’re the liar!”
It reached out and put its hands on Abby’s neck. But it didn’t have enough strength to do any harm now. Abby grabbed its wrists.
She understood.
She knew.
“In the name of Jesus Christ…”
The creature started shaking, as though in an epileptic fit. Tried to use its foot to reach for the gun on the floor. Tried to free its hands, but Abby would not let go.
“…and His blood…”
“NOOOOOOOO!” Cheryl’s eyes rolled all the way back till nothing but their whites could be seen. Every limb jerked violently, but Abby somehow found the strength to keep her in place.
“…I command you…”
In one final perverse rally, the creature spat on Abby, hurled hundreds of simultaneous curses in English, in Latin, in Greek, in Hebrew, and possibly Hittite, for all Abby knew.
“I command you to leave this body! By the name and blood of Jesus!”
Echoing like a bottomless chasm, hundreds of voices—horrendous men, women, boars, crows, and wolves—cried out in great pain.
Cheryl’s body writhed, twisted into nearly impossible angles. Stared into Abby’s eyes.
Mocked her.
Insulted her.
Despised her.
But it was merely the final parting shot of a defeated demon. Abby ignored her apprehension and held her ground.
The back of Cheryl’s head hit the wall repeatedly until Cheryl put her hand behind it and held it gently. The fiendish cry continued until finally, at the end, it faded into the solitary sound of Cheryl Morgan’s voice, moaning in relief.
Her entire body went soft.
Fell into Abby’s embrace.
One final rush of wind blew all the windows and curtains open. Bright golden sunlight filled the room. The house stopped shaking. And for the first time since Abby encountered Legion; stillness.
Then the sweet song of sparrows singing.
A cool, natural gust brought the fragrance of jasmines from the outside. Abby leaned forward and lay Cheryl down on the bed, where the sunlight illuminated her face.
Before Abby’s eyes, the rosy complexion returned to Cheryl’s face. The puss-filled, crucifix shaped wound faded until all that remained was a very faint, white outline of the symbol, which Abby thought quite becoming.
“Doctor Lee?” Cheryl whispered, as she opened her eyes. Those lovely brown eyes.
“Oh, thank God.”
Cheryl sat up, looked around at the bodies, the devastated windows, and walls, then threw her arms around her, burying her sobs into her shoulder.
“It’s okay now, Cheryl. You’re going to be okay.”
She nodded, hot breath and tears penetrating Abby’s shirt.
“Do you remember any of it?”
Cheryl lifted her face, sniffed wetly, and nodded. “Everything.”
Out in the backyard, Father McGhee stirred. Disoriented, he sat up, rubbing his neck. In the distance, the sound of police sirens approached. In her rational, scientific mind, Abby thought for a moment about the difficulty she’d have explaining what had happened.
“Thank you, Doctor Lee.”
“Call me Abby. Please.”
“No one else really believed. Not Teddy, not my doctors. Not even Father McGhee, until it was too late. But you did.” She pulled Abby close and held on for a long time.
The squad car doors opened and thunked shut. The feet of the officers pounded toward the house. Father McGhee also stumbled back into the room.
It would take a good deal of time and therapy for Cheryl to heal from the trauma. But Abby knew everything would work out.
She had faith.
FROM THE DESK OF JOSHUA GRAHAM
Dear Reader,
I’d like to take this opportunity to thank you for reading THE ACCIDENTAL EXORCIST. It means so much to me.
Did you know that you as the reader are the reason we writers write? Sure, we write to make a living, but most of all we write to entertain and take you places you might not otherwise go in “real” life.
As writers, we owe such a great deal of our success to you, for it there were no readers, there would be no way for a writer’s career to succeed. Yes, I am stating the fairly obvious, but what you may not know is that you hold the power to turn your favorite authors into bestsellers. That’s right, you.
How, you may ask?
It’s a simple thing you do all the time without even thinking about it. It’s called “word of mouth.”
If you have enjoyed any of my work, please recommend my books and stories to your friends. One day, you can say with pride that you helped me become a bestselling writer! Wouldn’t that be fantastic?
Here are some other ways you can support your favorite authors:
1. Send a note with your feedback! You can reach me at: www.facebook.com/j0shuaGraham
2. Leave a glowing review wherever you can.
3. Keep reading! The more of an autho
r’s work you read, the more it encourages him/her to continue writing.
Thanks, and I look forward to “seeing” you in my next story or book.
Best wishes,
Joshua Graham
PS: Be sure to check out my debut novel BEYOND JUSTICE, available at all major online retailers. Please enjoy the sample chapter immediately following this letter.
EXCERPT from the #1 bestselling Legal Thriller and winner of the 2011 International Book Awards
BEYOND JUSTICE, by Joshua Graham
PART I
The descent into Hell is not always vertical.
— Bishop Frank Morgan
Chapter One
The question most people ask when they first meet me is: How does an attorney from a reputable law firm in La Jolla end up on death row? When they hear my story, it becomes clear that the greater question is not how, but why.
I have found it difficult at times to forgive myself for what happened. But a significant part of the answer involves forgiveness, something I never truly understood until I could see in hindsight.
Orpheus went through hell and back to rescue his wife Euridice from death in the underworld. Through his music, he moved the hearts of Hades and Persephone and they agreed to allow Euridice to return with him to Earth on one condition: He must walk before her and not look back until they reached the upper world. On seeing the Sun, Orpheus turned to share his delight with Euridice, and she disappeared. He had broken his promise and she was gone forever. This failure and guilt was a hell far worse than the original.
My own personal hell began one night almost four years ago. Like images carved into flesh, the memories of that night would forever be etched into my mind. The work day had been tense enough—my position at the firm was in jeopardy because of the inexplicable appearance of lewd internet images in my folder on the main file server.
Later that night, as I scrambled to get out the door on time for a critical meeting with a high profile client, my son Aaron began throwing a screaming fit. Hell hath no fury like a boy who has lost his Thomas Train toy. In my own frenzied state, I lost my temper with him. Amazing how much guilt a four-year-old can pile on you with puppy-dog eyes while clinging to his mother's legs. His sister Bethie, in all her seventh grade sagacity, proclaimed that I had issues, then marched up to her room, slammed the door and took out her frustration with me by tearing though a Paganini Caprice on her violin. All this apocalypse just minutes before leaving for my meeting, which was to be held over a posh dinner at George's At The Cove, which I would consequently have no stomach for.
I couldn't wait to get home. The clock's amber LED read 11:28 when I pulled my Lexus into the cul-de-sac. Pale beams from a pregnant moon cut through the palm trees that lined our street. The October breeze rushed into the open window and through my hair, a cool comfort after a miserable evening.
If I was lucky, Jenn would be up and at the computer, working on her latest novel. She'd shooed me out the door lest I ran late for the meeting, before I could make any more of a domestic mess for her to clean up.
The garage door came down. I walked over to the security system control box and found it unarmed. On more than one occasion, I had asked Jenn to arm it whenever I was out. She agreed, but complained that the instructions were too complicated. It came with a pretty lame manual, I had to admit.
The system beeped as I entered the house, greeted by the sweet scent of Lilac—her favorite candles for those special occasions. So much more than I deserved, but that was my Jenn. Never judging, never condemning, she understood how much stress I'd been under and always prescribed the best remedy for such situations.
From the foot of the stairs I saw dimmed light leaking out of the bedroom. It wasn't even date night, but I had a pretty good idea what she was thinking. So before going up, I stopped by the kitchen, filled a pair of glasses with Merlot and set out a little box of chocolates on a breakfast tray—my secret weapon.
As I climbed the stairs I smiled. The closer I got, the more I could smell the fragrant candles. From the crack in the door classical music flowed out: Pie Jesu from Faure's Requiem. Must've been writing a love scene. She always used my classical CDs to set her in the right mood.
A beam of amber light reached through the crack in the doorway into the hallway. The alarm system beeped. She must have shut a window. It had just started to rain and Jenn hated when the curtains got wet.
Kathleen Battle's angelic voice soared.
Pie Jesu Domine,
Dona eis requiem,
Requiem sempiternam.
Jenn didn't know a word of Latin. She just liked the pretty tunes.
I nudged the door open with my foot.
"Honey?" Caught a glimpse of a silky leg on the bed. Oh, yes. I pushed the door open.
Shock ignited every nerve ending in my body like napalm. The tray fell from my hands. Crashed to the ground. Glasses shattered and the red wine bled darkly onto the carpet.
Jenn lay partially naked, face-down, the sheets around her soaked crimson. Stab wounds scored her entire body. Blood. Blood everywhere!
"Jenn!"
I ran to her, turned her over.
She gasped, trying to speak. Coughed. Red spittle dripped from the corner of her mouth. "The kids..."
I took her into my arms. But her eyes begged me to go check on them.
"You hang on, honey. With all you've got, hang on!" I reached for my cell phone but it fell out of my belt clip and bounced under the bed.
On my knees now, I groped wildly until I found the cell phone. Dialed 9-1-1. Barely remembered what I said, but they were sending someone right away.
Jenn groaned. Her breaths grew shorter and shorter.
"Bethie... Aaron."
Her eyes rolled back.
"I'm going. Hang on, baby. Please! You gotta hang on!" I started for the door. Felt her hand squeeze mine twice: Love-you.
No.
Tears streamed down my face. As I began to pull away, she gripped my hand urgently. For that split second, I knew. This was the end. I stumbled back to her. Gathered her ragdoll body in to my arms.
"Jenn, oh God, Jenn. Please don't!"
"Whatever it takes," she said. Again, she squeezed my hand twice. "Mercy, not...sacrifice.” One last gasp. She sighed and then fell limp in my arms, her eyes still open.
Holding her tight to my chest, I let out an anguished cry.
All time stopped. Who would do this? Why? Her blood stained my shirt. Her dying words resonated in my mind. Then I remembered. The kids. I bolted up and ran straight to Bethie's room.
Bethie's door was ajar. If my horror hadn't been complete, it was now. I found her exactly like Jenn—face down, blood and gashes covering her body.
Though I tried to cry out, nothing escaped the vice-grip on my throat. When I turned her over, I felt her arm. Still warm, but only slightly. Her eyes were shut, her face wet with blood.
"Bethie! Oh, sweetie, no!" I whispered, as I wrapped the blanket around her.
I kissed her head. Held her hand. Rocked her back and forth. "Come on, baby girl. Help's on its way, you hold on," I said, voice and hands trembling. She lay there unconscious but breathing.
Aaron.
Gently, I lay Bethie back down then got up and flew across the hall. To Aaron's door. His night light was still on and I saw his outline in the bed.
Oh God, please.
I flipped the switch.
Nothing.
I dashed over to the lamp on his nightstand, nearly slipping on one of his Thomas Train toys on the carpet. Broken glass crackled under my shoes.
I switched on the lamp on his nightstand. When I looked down to his bed, my legs nearly gave out. Aaron was still under his covers, but blood drenched his pillow. His aluminum baseball bat lay on the floor, dented and bloodied.
Dropping to my knees, I called his name. Over and over, I called, but he didn't stir. This can't be happening. It's got to be a nightmare. I put my face down into Aaron's blue Thomas Train bl
anket and gently rested my ear on his chest.
I felt movement under the blanket. Breathing. But slowly—irregular and shallow.
Don't move his body. Dammit, where are the paramedics?
I heard something from Bethie's room and dashed out the door. Stopping in the middle of the hallway, I clutched the handrail over the stairs. Thought I heard Aaron crying now. Or maybe it was the wind.
My eyes darted from one side of the hallway to the other. Which room?
Faure's Requiem continued to play, now the In Paradisum movement.
Aeternam habeas requiem.
Something out in front of the house caught my attention. The police, the paramedics! Propelled by adrenaline, I crashed through the front door and ran out into the middle my lawn which was slick with rain. I slipped and fell on my side.
Nobody. Where were they!
Like a madman, I began screaming at the top of my lungs. My words echoed emptily into the night.
"Help! Somebody, please!"
A dog started barking.
"Please, ANYBODY! HELP!"
Lights flickered on in the surrounding houses.
Eyes peeked through miniblinds.
No one came out.
I don't know if I was intelligible at this point. I was just screaming, collapsed onto the ground, on my hands and knees getting drenched in the oily rain.
Just as the crimson beacons of an ambulance flashed around the corner, I buried my face into the grass. All sound, light, and consciousness imploded into my mind as if it were a black hole.
Chapter Two
It's never been clear to me when my neighbor, Pastor Dave Pendelton scraped me off the lawn and brought me back into my house. Outside, neighbors all gawking through the blinds in their windows, not one of them had come out.
THE ACCIDENTAL EXORCIST Page 4
