by J. S. Bailey
Graham couldn’t be possessed. He had no aura, shadowy or black.
“You were too good,” Graham said. A slight slur entered his voice. “I loved you but I had to get rid of you. If I couldn’t see you anymore, maybe it would have been easier to forget what it was like.”
Jack let out a melodramatic yawn. “Any day now.”
Graham snapped back to attention. “My mind wanders in my old age. Randy, I was going to tell you the rules of this game. I’ve always enjoyed games, you know.”
Randy narrowed his eyes. “Rules?”
“Yes. If you choose to die at my hand and let Lupe live, I’m going to cut you. Not all at once, though. That would be too easy. If I cut you and you scream, your dearly beloved will be shot by Jack.” He allowed a small smile.
Randy felt like he was going to throw up. “In the name of our lord Jesus Christ, leave him,” he said in the sternest voice he could muster. A demon may not have been influencing Graham’s behavior, but something certainly was.
A muscle twitched in Graham’s face. “What was that?”
Randy locked his gaze upon the old man’s. “Whatever you are, be gone from him.”
There. For a split second, something black seemed to flutter in the centers of Graham’s eyes. Randy had never seen anything like it before, and it was gone before he could get a better look.
Without warning, Graham’s arm lashed out, and he dragged the blade horizontally across Randy’s chest.
It wasn’t a deep wound, but it bathed Randy’s skin in fire and he let out an involuntary cry despite what would happen if he did.
“That was too bad,” Graham said. “Jack?”
Randy blinked back tears as Jack strode over to Lupe and raised his gun to her head. “No. No. Don’t hurt her.”
Jack shrugged, changed course, and aimed the gun at Randy’s leg.
The sound of the shot echoed throughout the room.
The pain was so great that the remains of Randy’s last meal came up his throat.
I’ve failed you, Father.
The Spirit whispered a reply. You have never failed me. You have done all that I hoped you would choose to do.
Randy didn’t understand. The ways of God were often strange to him, and this was no different.
He was crying now. Jack had returned to Lupe’s side and lifted the gun again.
He shot her in the head through the top of the cowl.
Randy lost it then. He flailed against his bindings, willing them to pull apart, to break, to let him be free so he could be at her side one last time. To hold her close as they both died together.
He let out a feral cry when the bindings wouldn’t budge. “Graham! This isn’t you! Can’t you hear me? Stop all of this!”
Graham’s only answer was another swipe of the knife, this time starting at Randy’s neck and traveling down to his navel. Randy’s mind went numb. Graham had carved a cross into his flesh, a crude mockery of all he’d once stood for.
His breath came out in ragged bursts. He couldn’t endure the pain for much longer. Father, please don’t let me die.
He started losing his vision, and now his eyes played tricks on him. He’d always thought he would see angels or the spirits of loved ones as he died, but there, in the corner by the steps to the loft, stood Bobby Roland.
Both Graham and Jack were too focused on Randy to notice that a visitor stood behind them. Unfortunately, Randy would have to bring Bobby’s presence to their attention in order to accomplish what he hoped to do next.
Randy opened his mouth and said something to the kid, hoping his voice was strong enough for Bobby to hear him.
BOBBY FOUND the house on Hidden Valley Road (or, rather, the driveway for it) and felt it would be prudent to leave the car parked along the shoulder so as not to alert his demented landlord to the fact he’d arrived.
He trudged through the trees, hoping to circle around to the house and come up from behind since Graham might have hired some eyes to watch out the front.
He gripped the knife. Terror had sent every droplet of moisture in his body straight to his bladder, and he knew that if anything startled him now, he would wet his pants.
The heroes in the stories he had loved as a child never had to go to the bathroom. They were too focused on saving lives to worry about anything as trivial as that. But it got so bad as he drew closer to the house that he could barely concentrate on his mission.
He gritted his teeth and relieved himself on a tree trunk. Some hero he was turning out to be.
He continued through the trees until he could see the rear of the house. Nothing about the structure indicated that Randy might be a prisoner somewhere inside. He couldn’t call the cops just yet because for all he knew, Randy might be here alone.
A loud crack came from the two-story barn. He could hear a man screaming in agony, and the sound made his blood run cold. Randy.
Two startled robins took off from where they’d been pecking for worms in the dirt and flapped out of sight.
He was glad he’d chosen to empty his bladder. It would not have been comfortable walking around with wet undergarments clinging to his skin.
He yanked out his phone and dialed 911; his mission of determining if Randy was here and in danger now complete. “There’s a hostage situation in the barn at 9632 Hidden Valley Road!” he blurted before the operator had the chance to ask what the emergency was. “I heard gunfire! You’ve got to hurry!”
The female operator squawked something in his ear, but he didn’t take the time to listen. Common sense told him he should stay put and wait for the cavalry to arrive, but something compelled him to move forward.
He shoved his phone into his pocket and ran toward the barn door. But no. He couldn’t go in that way. He had to be stealthier than that if he were to make it out alive.
The sound of a second gunshot nearly sent him into cardiac arrest. He shook off his brief paralysis and hurried onward.
He came up behind the barn, where two cars—a gray Nissan and a Chevy Cruze—had been parked beside a man-sized door fastened with a latch that slid over a metal loop, but no lock was hooked over it at the moment. Carefully, quietly, he swung the latch outward and cracked the door open, Randy’s screams growing louder as a result.
The sight Bobby saw upon entering the shadowy corner of the barn rendered him immobile. Randy was tied down to a piece of plywood propped at an angle against a table. Graham and the gunman from the priest’s house stood beside him, and a person wrapped up in a white hooded robe was tied to a wooden post that supported the ceiling.
The shape of a cross had been carved into Randy’s chest, and blood ran down it in rivulets. Randy caught sight of Bobby and stared, confused, as if he wasn’t sure that Bobby was truly there.
The things Randy had told him over the past few days whirled through his mind like debris in a tornado. Randy was the Servant. If the Servant died without a replacement, evil would reign unchecked because there wouldn’t be anyone with sufficient abilities alive to counteract it.
Randy had no replacement. The man hadn’t had enough time to find one.
Bobby gnashed his teeth together. Nothing that he could do would save Randy’s life at this point.
Randy had been sobbing, but now he grew strangely still. His eyes became filled with understanding. Very faintly he said, “Bobby, do you accept this mantle of Servitude and everything that is associated with it?”
Bobby felt faint. Was Randy mad? Of course he didn’t want to accept it. Accepting it would be akin to insanity.
But Bobby couldn’t let the man die knowing he had failed a task of such magnitude.
“Yes,” he said, certain he was about to vomit. “I’ll do it.”
Randy smiled, and his eyes closed.
Two heads swiveled in his direction. The gunman lifted his weapon, and the man Bobby had known as Dave Upton wore one of the most stunned expressions Bobby had ever seen. “Bobby Roland? What are you—”
The s
ounds all seemed to fade away. Something was changing. The gunman started toward him, but slowly, as if time itself had grown tired and was winding down to rest.
A light blossomed in Bobby’s mind. Something was in there. Inside of him. Reading him like an open book. It trickled into his veins and spread throughout his body with such a warmth that he felt as though he’d be able to set fire to objects with his very touch.
Suddenly a terror so great struck him that he knew he had to run. The presence—whatever it was—was looking into every corner of his being. It could see every negative thought that had ever passed through his mind. It brought forth memories of every fight, every transgression, every unkind word he’d spewed forth from his lips.
He felt like he was standing naked on a stage with every eye in the world watching him. He couldn’t do this. He was a horrible person. A sinner. He couldn’t let the presence glimpse who he really was inside.
He bolted out the door and into the woods. Maybe he could outrun it. But no. It was inside him. He couldn’t outrun the presence any more than he could outrun the blood flowing through his veins.
Tears streamed like two rivers from his eyes. He had made a terrible mistake. He had become possessed, not with something evil, but something so holy and pure that he felt like a worm in comparison.
When he judged that he was far enough away from the barn, he sank to the ground beside a massive, moss-covered tree and hugged his arms to his chest. “I’m sorry!” he whispered. “I’m so, so sorry. I’m not worthy of any of this. Please forgive me. Please.”
You are forgiven.
Bobby blinked as the memory of his past failings faded from his consciousness. He felt a new lightness in his chest, and his fear ebbed enough that he was able to think more clearly.
He glanced around the forest as if seeing it for the very first time. Wind rustled the branches overhead. Rays of sunlight fell through gaps between them, illuminating the brown bed of needles that lay upon the forest floor.
More tears came to his eyes. Bobby no longer felt alone. God was with him now—but God had always been with him. He just had the senses to feel it.
He stood up on wobbly legs as sirens wailed in the distance. He couldn’t just stay here. He had to move. Do something. Anything.
The approaching sirens grew louder and then ceased. Flickering blue and red light danced over the trees. As happy as he was that Graham Willard would finally be apprehended, it still grieved him knowing Randy was gone.
A twig snapped behind him. Bobby whirled.
The gunman stood no more than fifteen feet away, grinning like the Cheshire Cat. “Hi, Bobby,” he said. “Remember me?”
He nodded. The fellow before him had come to the bungalow to help Graham with some repairs a couple of months ago. He’d said he was Dave’s grandson, John.
A shadowy aura like a gray storm cloud pulsed inside Bobby’s head, and Bobby knew it held some significance that he could ponder at another time.
“I was going to ask you how in the world you became involved in this,” the man continued, “but I decided I don’t really care.”
Bobby knew the man would point the gun at him before he even lifted his hand. He dropped the knife and barreled at him, letting out an animal yell that might alert the authorities to their position.
The gunman lost his grip on the weapon the moment Bobby collided with him. They fell to the ground in a tangle of limbs, and even though the other guy was somewhat meatier than Bobby, he seemed to be sufficiently pinned for the time being.
Bobby kneed him in the crotch just to be on the safe side, but suddenly the gunman wrenched one of his arms out of Bobby’s grasp and a fist collided with the side of his head so hard that an entire galaxy of stars danced in his vision.
“Hold it right there!” a stern voice called to them.
Bobby wanted to say that he was doing his best to hold it, he really was, but the stars faded into grayness and the grayness turned to black, and he remembered nothing more.
GRAHAM WILLARD was more confused than he’d ever been in his life. First Randy seemed to think that Graham had a demon in him (which was preposterous), and then the boy who rented the bungalow in Autumn Ridge appeared in the barn like a ghost. He didn’t understand. Bobby wasn’t one of them. Graham would have known if he was.
But no matter. Jack had gone after him like a good boy, Randy was dead, and now he needed to leave and finish off the Sanchez woman so he could kick back and relax for the rest of the day.
It had been his original intention to reunite Randy and Lupe at the very end, but then that coward of a priest had given him a better idea. Split them up, Father Laubisch said. That way you’ll torment Mr. Bellison by thinking you’re killing his girl in front of his face, and you’ll be tormenting Miss Sanchez just as much when she realizes she’ll never see him alive again.
At first Graham hesitated. The joke with Trish Gunson had already played out—what better way to give Randy a complex than to have a girl with a heart disorder willingly allow herself to become possessed? A demon invited in like that would be incredibly difficult to drive out, and the strain on the young woman’s body would undoubtedly be too much for her failing heart to handle.
She had agreed to do it, though, and for that Graham harbored no guilt. But when Father Laubisch suggested they could use Trish’s frozen corpse as a stand-in for Lupe Sanchez and explained the rationale behind it, he decided to agree.
Graham laid his knife down on the table and wiped his hands on his slacks before coming around to stare at the Servant’s face. Randy’s eyes were closed in quiet repose, and the blood on his chest had begun to scab over.
Graham started crying again, and for a moment he wondered why he had chosen to do this. Randy had never done him wrong. He was a friend. His friend. And what was it he had told Randy before killing him? He couldn’t remember. Words had just started pouring from his mouth in a torrent, and he had been unable to control them.
He glanced at Randy’s body again but cast his gaze away, gripping his head suddenly with both hands. Something was wrong with him. Something horrible. Lord, he needed a cigarette, but he’d left the pack out in his car and didn’t want to walk that far to get them. He just wanted to curl up and cease to exist, because if he did he might find peace at last.
When the police barged their way into the barn minutes later, they found an old man sobbing on the floor. He didn’t even put up a fight when they hauled him away.
BOBBY WAVERED in and out of consciousness, catching disconnected fragments of images. He seemed to be in a moving vehicle accompanied by a pair of young men. He started to ask them what had happened, but then he was out again.
Next he lay in a room with walls that matched the color of the sky. Someone spoke to him but it seemed to be in a foreign language for all the sense it made.
Ordinarily he would have been scared, but God was there with him, and everything would be fine.
Finally his eyelids fluttered open and stayed that way. He remained in the blue room, only this time he was alone.
He glanced down at himself and felt the heat rise in his face when he saw he wore only a white hospital gown, since that meant somebody had removed his clothing for him. A clear IV line snaked along his arm and ended at the crook of his elbow, where it had been taped into place.
He quickly diverted his gaze to a pair of vacant chairs pushed along one wall so he wouldn’t be sick.
What was he doing here, anyway? The last thing he could remember was seeing Randy bleeding like a slaughtered sheep.
A sob rose in his chest. No. Not Randy. He couldn’t die. He was the Servant.
Bobby felt cold as more memories rushed back to him.
No, Randy wasn’t the Servant anymore.
Bobby was.
Or had he imagined it?
No. All that was very real.
Goosebumps spread down his arms and across his neck.
Don’t be afraid, Bobby, for I am with you.
A fist rapped on the doorframe across from him, and he lifted his head to see a squat, middle-aged doctor standing in the entrance wearing her dark hair back in a ponytail. “Robert!” she said, stepping up to him with a smile. “It’s so good to see you’re awake.”
He didn’t bother telling her that nobody had ever called him by the formal name printed on his birth certificate. “What . . .” He licked his lips, which were as dry as his tongue. “Happened?”
She glided over to his bedside. Her warm demeanor made him relax. Her name tag said Dr. Tammy Nguyen. “First off, you can call me Doctor N. Are you feeling okay right now?”
He started to nod but then shook his head instead. “Thirsty.”
“I’ll have a nurse bring you some water. But what about your head? Is your vision blurry?”
His head did hurt some, come to think of it, but the pain wasn’t anything he couldn’t handle. “I’ve got a headache,” he said. “And I can see just fine.”
Dr. N. proceeded to shine a light in both of his eyes and listened to his heart through a stethoscope. “All seems to be in order here. Do you hurt anywhere else?”
“Just my hand and elbow. I tried to break a window with them the other day.”
The doctor raised her eyebrows. “You’re going to have to take it easy for the next few days, okay? No sports, no fights, and definitely no breaking windows.”
“I’ll do my best. How long have I been here?”
“You were admitted about six hours ago,” she said. “You were in shock and have a mild concussion, so we couldn’t give you any sedatives. You fell asleep after we ran some tests and have been out ever since.”
The news surprised him. “I was in shock? What was I doing?”
Dr. N. took a few moments to respond. “When you were brought here, you wouldn’t respond to any questions and kept calling for someone named Charlotte. Is she a friend of yours?”
“My stepmother,” he said, marveling at the fact that he had been unaware of all of this. The combined stress of seeing Randy bleeding to death, being possessed by the Holy Spirit or what have you, and getting the daylights punched out of him must have been too much for him to handle all at once, but thankfully it was all coming back to him now.
