by Mark Romang
Triplett smiled. “You’ll do just fine in your civilian life with an attitude like that. I know you will.” Triplett reached into the pocket of his medical smock. “Before you go I have something to give you.” He retrieved a small pill bottled and tossed it to Maddix.
“What is this?”
“Medicine for PTSD,” Triplett answered.
“But I don’t have any of the symptoms, sir. I’m not depressed. I’m not dreaming of my accident, and it doesn’t bother me to talk about it. And I haven’t had any flashbacks.”
“You may yet. Post-traumatic stress disorder is sometimes delayed and doesn’t start until many months after the initial trauma. So keep these pills handy. But don’t tell anybody you got them from me. This drug hasn’t been approved yet by the FDA,” Triplett explained. “So far it has outperformed lorazepam and phenelazine in clinical trials.”
Maddix shoved the pill bottle into the front pocket of his athletic pants. “Thanks, I guess,” he said as he rose to his six-foot-two height. “Is that it? Am I done?”
Triplett looked at a clock on the wall. He stood and extended a hand for Maddix to shake. “Yes, you’re done with me, Andrew. But if you ever need to talk, look me up. My contact number will be on your discharge papers. Don’t be shy.”
Maddix released the psychiatrist’s hand and smiled. “I’ll keep you in mind in case I go completely nuts.”
“Have you given much thought to what you’re going to do in your civilian life?”
Maddix nodded. “I’m thinking about enrolling in a seminary. If the hell I saw truly exists, I have to warn people about it,” he said right before raising his right hand up to his brow.
Major Triplett returned the crisp salute and watched Maddix limp out the door. I hope America treats you well, Petty Officer Maddix. You deserve it after the hell you’ve been through.
Chapter 2
Four years later
Like most mornings in Felicity, Utah, the sun rose bright and hot. The brilliant orb inched its way higher into a cloudless sky as blue as ripened blueberries and promised to bake the dusty resort town with unrelenting desert heat.
Andrew Maddix left his modest apartment above the town’s drugstore and began his morning run. His ritual always took him to Zion Baptist Church located near the town’s east end. The small church was a tick over a mile from his apartment, and Maddix usually covered the distance in five minutes.
Everywhere he went he ran. He wanted to retain as long as possible the rock-hard body he’d developed during his stint in the Navy SEALS. It wasn’t easy. The bi-monthly potluck dinners his congregation put on made it hard not to pack on flab. But his determination couldn’t be extinguished, and so far the running regimen was working. He only wished he could find a place to swim. He longed for the daily four-mile ocean swims he used to partake in while in the SEALS.
Maddix ran swiftly along the shoulder of Highway 9 and directly into the sun. Dressed in athletic pants and shoes, Body Armor shirt, and Rayban sunglasses, he looked nothing like a pastor. But then he had always bucked the trend. Things were no different now, even though he’d recently turned thirty-two.
Maddix settled into a consistent stride. His arms pumped evenly at his sides, and he hardly noticed the rhythmic impact of his feet impacting the ground. Today’s run was turning out to be one of the better ones of the week. He felt strong, could feel the runner’s high approaching.
Nearing the half-mile point, Maddix glanced at his watch. Two-minutes and twenty-one seconds had elapsed. If he kept this pace up he would shatter his pre-injury personal best for the mile run.
Sweat filmed on his body, cooling him from the sunbeams flooding the sky. He could see the church now—a humble yet quaint structure with a steeple and a few stained glass windows. Surrounded by enormous cottonwoods, the church looked innocuous enough on the outside, but a dysfunctional mess churned inside. The small congregation was at odds with most everything he did. The pews were too hard, the music too loud and his sermons too long. And on and on it went.
Two months on the job and he sensed that most of the members despised him. They didn’t like his take-charge demeanor and pointed sermons. Almost every day he got a letter or call from a disgruntled member, chastising him for the way he led the church. Their judgmental eyes disapproved everything he did.
His professors at Dallas Theological Seminary warned him about taking on a small church reeling from a catastrophic split. But like a fool, he didn’t heed their sage advice. Now he had serious doubts as to whether he was the right man for the job. Discord bled so freely that he didn’t know if the flow could ever be staunched. Like a plate of broken glass, disharmony fractured the church into a thousand pieces.
But more sinister than backbiting conversations and a clash of wills was something that a degree in divinity hadn’t prepared him for.
Paranormal activity haunted the church.
The occurrences were too plentiful to explain away as coincidences, and happened to trustworthy people he knew would never fabricate such disturbing events.
The bedevilments ranged from deacons shoved down flights of stairs by invisible attackers, to the church pianist being struck in the face by a flying hymnal. Even Maddix himself had a run-in with a poltergeist. Two weeks ago he had been in his office, working late on a sermon outline. After finishing he had walked back through the sanctuary and happened to look back toward the pulpit. That’s when he saw the heavy wooden cross over the baptistery hanging upside down.
He had personally locked all the doors before retiring to his office that night, and had heard no unusual sounds that could be associated with vandals. The cross was constructed of burr oak and would take a couple of lumberjacks to heft it into a different position. But in his opinion, the cross had been moved into its blasphemous position by something lacking human hands.
One-hundred more meters to go. Maddix looked at his watch. His run just eclipsed four-minutes and twenty-five seconds. He dug down deeper, ignored his gasping lungs and pushed his legs to their absolute limits.
He could see the ghost hunters’ GMC Yukon parked in front of the church. The black SUV’s back hatch hung open. Last night he followed around the paranormal investigators as they set up their motion sensors, digital voice recorders and digital cameras in different areas of the sanctuary and in various classrooms. He even helped them hang wind chimes from light fixtures. After setup, the ghost hunters left the church, promising to return after midnight to begin their investigation.
Maddix sprinted the last twenty yards into the church parking lot. He stopped and looked at his watch. He completed the run in four minutes and forty-two seconds. Not bad for a man with only one leg, he thought.
With hands on hips, he walked up to a cottonwood tree and sat down in the shaded grass. He looked at the church as he reined in his racing breath. I wonder what they found.
He didn’t have to wait long to find out. The front doors of the church suddenly burst open. The two ghost hunters, their arms laden with equipment, ran out of the church and up to their vehicle.
Maddix got up and hurried over to them. “Hey, what did you guys see in there? How many ghosts do we have?” he asked, trying his best to sound cheerful, as if pastors ask this sort of question all the time.
The ghost hunters ignored him and began dumping their equipment into the Yukon’s ample storage area.
Maddix touched the shoulder of the man closest to him. “So how did it go last night?”
The man turned to face him. His wild eyes bugged out from an ashen face. “Preacher, you don’t have ghosts in there,” he said as he jerked his thumb back towards the church.
“Then what do we have?”
The ghost hunter tossed an EMF meter onto the equipment pile and slammed shut the hatch. He ran around to the driver’s side door and hopped in. Maddix followed him. He rapped on the window until the driver put the window down.
“Can you please answer my question?” Maddix said firmly.
<
br /> “Preacher, you and your congregation need to clear out of that building,” the man said, his voice quivering. “And you need to do it fast.”
“Why?”
“Because you don’t have ghosts in there, you have demons! And you have lots of them!” the driver hissed just before backing up out of his parking stall.
Slack-jawed, Maddix watched the ghost hunters speed away, tires squealing down the road. He watched the retreating vehicle until he could no longer see its taillights. He sighed and looked back at the church. Nestled among soaring cottonwoods and a babbling creek, the church complimented the bucolic setting, yet inside its walls it had become a haunt for demons. Maddix could hardly believe it. What have I gotten myself into? What in the name of Heaven do I do now?
Chapter 3
Zion National Park
Her legs feeling as if they were made up of curing concrete, Sara Kendall turned and looked down the steep gully filled with sun-tortured sand and withered brush. Her clients lagged behind again. They plodded through the parched bunchgrass and squawbush like overburdened pack mules.
Near the ridge of the gully, Sara stopped climbing and waited for the family of four to catch up. She removed an insulated water thermos from her backpack’s webbing and took several swigs.
A lethal combination of hot sunshine and exertion from scrambling up sandy terrain had worn down the city dwellers from Chicago. The Larson family hired her to guide them on a three-day backpacking trip through Parunweap Canyon.
As far as slot canyons go, Parunweap Canyon is rated 2CIV on the Canyon Rating System. Rappelling isn’t necessary, and a person in decent shape with good backpacking skills can easily walk the 18.5 mile route in two days.
The most difficult aspect of the canyon is that the trail isn’t marked very well and requires wading through chest-deep water for several miles.
Today marked the third and final day of the trip. Sara had pushed her clients hard this morning. She wanted them out of the canyon. Thunderheads building in the west promised to dump heavy rain later on in the day.
Flash floods in slot canyons have killed many unsuspecting hikers over the years. The shallow pools and tributaries of the Virgin River fill up quickly with rain and become lethal torrents in slot canyons.
Sara removed her backpack and set it on the ground. She rolled her bronzed shoulders several times. The fifty-pound backpack she wore chaffed her back muscles. She grinned as she watched the squabbling Larson kids maneuver the ascending trail. Nine-year-old Jacob Larson was having a ball, while his fifteen-year-old sister acted as if she were being tortured by Attila the Hun. Katy Larson had been acting like a spoiled prima donna since day one of the trip. She still seethed from the loss of her iPhone. She accidently dropped the phone in the river while trying to text, and now her young life lay in absolute ruin.
Two years ago Sara gave up her corporate accounting job to start her own guide service into the slot canyons of Zion National Park. The money wasn’t very good, but the perks were excellent.
Instead of stagnating in a tiny cubicle, staring bleary-eyed at a computer screen, she rappelled down 1000 foot palisades, past sandstone grottoes and hanging gardens wet from the mist of nearby waterfalls. Her descents into the giant earthen cracks took her into a whole new world. And exploring the canyons and guiding people through the mystery of their wind-and-rain-chiseled passageways exhilarated her.
But lately she found contentment hard to come by. Since a young age she felt like God sanctified her to do something spectacular. But now she was pushing thirty and still hadn’t figured out what grand thing God wanted her to accomplish.
There was a time not so long ago that she felt like she was on the cusp of achieving the spectacular. Ten years ago she competed at the U.S. Olympic Trials as a kayaker. Her event was the K-1 500 meter slalom. She was expected by many to make the team, but nerves unraveled her in the final heat and she finished fifth.
Four years later she continued her quest to make the Olympic squad. She easily finished in the top three of the various qualifiers leading up to the final selection heat. But once again nerves killed her chances. She missed a gate in her final heat.
Despite the boneheaded mistake, her run had been so fast that she missed making the team as an alternate by only one spot. But that was all behind her now. She no longer competed against world class kayakers. She eked out a living like everyone else now.
Maybe my biological clock is making me restless, she thought. The prime of her childbearing years had come and gone, and marriage was not even a blip on her radar. The selection of eligible men in Felicity was downright laughable, and she hadn’t been on a date in months.
There was only one man in Felicity she truly found intriguing. But after the last pastor at Zion Baptist Church ran off with the organist, creating a split in the church, she didn’t think it wise to pursue Andrew Maddix. Besides, Maddix had an intense way about him she found a little unsettling.
She supposed his time in the Special Forces brought about much of this intensity. Whatever the cause, Pastor Maddix seemed to have a single-minded focus about him that couldn’t be tamed by the likes of her.
The bickering Larson kids reached her first, followed soon after by their weary parents. “I want everyone to take a big drink of water,” Sara instructed them. “We have about four miles to go before we reach the trailhead, and we’ll be out in the sun the whole time. You’ll each need to drink about three liters in the next three hours to stay hydrated.”
“This stinks. I was freezing cold slogging through the canyon. And now I’m burning up in this heat,” Katy complained as she dabbed at her forehead.
“Would you like some cheese and crackers to go along with your whine?” Jacob asked his sister while he serenaded her with an imaginary violin.
“Shut-up, Creep! You’re too dumb to realize you’re miserable,” Katy fired back.
“Guys, that’s enough. Try your best to be civil with each other. One day you’ll both look back on this trip and marvel at what you’ve accomplished,” John Larson said. He turned to Sara. “I’m sorry you’ve had to listen to them argue for the last three days, Sara. I thought going on an adventure like this might bring us all closer together as a family.”
“It’s been great, Dad. I love the slot canyons. But I still want to rappel. And I still want to find some quicksand,” Jacob said.
Katy rolled her eyes. “I wish you would find some quicksand, too.”
Sara grinned. “The quicksand was there, Jacob. I just took you around it. Sorry.”
“Me, too,” Katy echoed.
“I also apologize for making you guys take the exit route out of the canyon during the heat of the day. I usually wait until the evening to make the trek. But there’s a thunderstorm coming in and I didn’t want us to get caught in the canyon. Flash floods in slot canyons are very dangerous. Two scout troop leaders drowned in Kolob Canyon several years back. Some of their gear is still there.”
“No need to apologize, Sara. I’m glad you’re taking such good care of us. We want to be able to come back to Zion for more adventures. Don’t we, kids?”
Katy frowned. “Are you serious, Dad? We’re going to vacation here again?”
“There’s a lot we haven’t seen yet, Katy. We could hike the Zion Narrows. It’s ranked as one of top 100 hikes in the world.”
“Can’t we just be a normal family and vacation at Disney World?”
“Disney World is lame,” Jacob piped up. “It’s for wimps like you, Katy.”
“That’s okay. Disney World doesn’t allow cave boys like you in the park. You have to have an IQ higher than 20 to get in.”
“What do you guys plan to do with the rest of your time here?” Sara asked, hoping to diffuse the sibling tension building to a molten level.
John Larson looked at his wife. “We thought we’d rest up tomorrow. And then hike up Angels Landing sometime before we head home.”
Sara nodded. “Sounds like a good
plan. You won’t need me for Angels Landing. Just follow the herd of people up the well-worn trail. You’ll enjoy it. The view at the top is heavenly.”
“Do angels really land there?” Jacob asked. Sara thrust her arms through the straps of her backpack. “I’ve never seen any angels there. But who knows, Jacob, maybe you will.” She took another swig of water from her insulated thermos. “Come on, guys, let’s push ahead while the sun is still behind the clouds.”
Chapter 4
“Thank-you for seeing me so quickly, Father,” Maddix said to William Grady, the revered priest of St. James Catholic Church.
“It’s my pleasure, Andrew. I’ve wanted to meet you for some time and welcome you to Felicity. I’ve heard so many positive things about you,” he said as he wiped the altar surface with a bacterial wipe.
“That’s funny. I thought most of the town, or at least my church congregation hated me,” Maddix said. He still wore his standard running attire and felt worldly in comparison to Father Grady, dressed in his liturgical vestments: alb, stole, and chasuble.
Maddix arranged this meeting with Father Grady shortly after receiving the bad news from the ghost hunters. He arrived an hour before the Saturday night Mass and sat quietly in the back of the church, biding his time until the priest could talk with him.
“It may appear that way to you now. But I think they’ll eventually come around. Every congregation is resistant to change. It is only natural to settle into routines and ideology, no matter how misguided.”
“I hope you’re right, Father,” Maddix said as he looked around at his surroundings. St. James wasn’t much bigger than the church he led, and shared many of the same architectural features as Zion Baptist Church: vaulted ceilings, golden maple pews, stained-glass windows, and a small lectern. But unlike his church, St. James didn’t have an evil cloud hanging over it. Maddix didn’t feel any dark energy, or sense that unclean spirits inhabited this building like they did at his church.
