It had been a week since his last major encounter with the voices from hell, as he had come to consider them. But he was suspicious. Was it all a ploy? For some reason or another they seemed to be less effective in getting to him. It wasn’t that they had stopped their nightly visits. No, they still came, but just as quickly as he would hear one of those … those things, it would shut up and go away as if it had been muzzled.

This gave him a modicum of peace, but no true comfort. The fact that the voices still came, if only for a moment or two, was evidence enough that he was still in trouble.

Brent sighed.

He looked up into a near-cloudless sky and squinted; the intensity of the sunlight causing his blue eyes to water. It was probably just below freezing, even in the sunshine. The warmth and moisture of his breath caused puffs of white to float away in the morning air.

Looking down, he saw his shadow stretching down the driveway, causing his five foot, eleven inches to look nearly twice that. His thick, dark hair stuck out around the stocking cap he had pulled over his head, something his Grandma Lawton had made for him. It was an item that was worn in the daylight only when there was no one else around. He had a matching scarf and mittens that remained in the closet. He could wear them … one item at a time, perhaps, but after having seen what he looked like with everything on at the same time…

He laughed.

Yep, cap or scarf, but never both, and certainly never the mittens.

It felt good to smile. If nothing else, his grandmother’s amusing gift had provided the small lift that he needed right now. He knew it would be short-lived, though.

He desperately wanted to talk with someone. But who does one speak to about voices that no one else can hear—voices coming from some dark, wicked being-thing? All he could think of was a Catholic priest, and the only image that would form in his mind about priests and demonic voices was ‘The Exorcist.’ There was no way he was going to allow anybody to throw burning holy water on him!

Was he possessed? He didn’t think so. But things were definitely serious.

He almost produced a contemptuous laugh. Of course things were serious. He’d been trying to kill himself, for Pete’s sake! And that brought up another question…

Why had the compulsion to kill himself suddenly subsided over the past week? “Subsided” was probably the wrong word. Eased, maybe. He still wasn’t happy. He still wanted out of the existence called his life and rid of all the bad things that continued to happen. 

Case in point—last night. 

Brent had arrived at his school on time for warm-ups before the basketball game against rival Jackson High. He had entered the season as a starting forward, and he thought he was doing well…at least well enough, all things considered. But as soon as he was done suiting up in the locker room, Coach Chamberlin called out to him and waved him into his office.

“What’s up, Coach?”

“Brent, I’m sitting you down tonight.”

Stunned, Brent responded with, “What? I’m out?”

“Not ‘out.’ Sitting. You won’t be starting. Randall will be taking your place tonight.”

“Coach … I’m … Can I ask why?”

“Brent, have a seat.”

Brent remained standing.

Coach Chamberlin looked straight into his eyes, pointed to the gray, vinyl-covered office chair and again said, “Brent, have a seat.”

Brent complied. He hadn’t been trying to make a statement by his refusal; he’d just felt stuck in place.

“Brent, you know me. In the two seasons that you’ve played for me, have I ever been unfair to you, or for that matter, unfair to any of the members of this team?”

Brent hadn’t had to think about that. Everyone knew that George Chamberlin was a player’s coach. He was tough in practices, and he made sure that everyone pulled his weight, but he gave no one on the team a reason to dislike him for showing favoritism.

Brent liked the man. He had from the very start of his first practice with him. In fact, if it hadn’t been for this coach he would never have found himself as a starter.

In that moment, he had remembered the day that the coach had taken him aside in the midst of one preseason practice and told him he was going to feel a little extra pain in his legs over the coming weeks. When Brent had asked why, Coach Chamberlin had responded, “Because I’m going to stretch you. I see something in you that can help this team, but it’s going to take some extra effort on your part … and mine. Are you willing?”

Brent had exuberantly said yes.

“Well?” His coach’s voice brought him back to the moment.

“No, sir,” said Brent. “I’ve never seen you be unfair to any of us.”

“I hoped that was still the case. Brent, something’s wrong. I can see it in your eyes. I can see it in the way that you’ve pulled back from what used to be strong interaction with your teammates. And, I can see it in your game.

“I don’t have the luxury of waiting for you to pull yourself out of whatever’s been beating you down. Randall has been working as hard as anyone on this team, and he deserves a shot. And, right now—and maybe it’s only for right now—you are the weak link in my lineup.”

Brent tensed, clenching his jaw.

“Can you talk about what’s going on? Can I help you somehow?”

Brent wasn’t prepared for any of the conversation at hand, let alone such a direct question. “Umm … No, sir. I’ll be fine. Just haven’t been feeling well for a while, but I think I’m getting over it.” He got up. “Did you already tell Randall?”

“No, not yet.”

“I’ll let him know.” He had turned to go, and then hesitated. Turning back, he’d looked into Coach Chamberlin’s eyes and said, “I’m sorry I disappointed you.”

“Brent, you’re not a disappointment to me. I can see that there’s something internal going on that’s had a negative effect on you and your game. Once it’s behind you, you can earn your starting position back. But it’s not a given. It will have to be earned again. You okay with that?”

“Yes, Coach. Thanks.”

With that, Brent had walked back into the locker room and informed Randall that he was about to have his first-ever start in a basketball game; their biggest game.

On the way home from their biggest loss, his parents had apparently decided not to prod him with the why-didn’t-you-start question. That was appreciated. In the midst of all the other stuff that happened at home, he still found evidences that his parents cared.

He had spent a restless, and somewhat silent, night in bed. He slept in until about 9:45 a.m.; then he got up, ate a bowl of Frosted Mini-Wheats, and headed outside. He didn’t know what he was going to do with his day, but he didn’t want to stay inside to figure it out.

In the light of day, with the sun shining down on the snow-frosted lawn, he felt like he could think about his life situations without the fear he dealt with at night. He knew he didn’t have any choice but to start trying to think things through.

To what end? He couldn’t fathom.

He reached into his left coat pocket and pulled out the tiny book he had found in the attic Thursday after school. His mom had asked him to take the rest of the Christmas decorations that she had just packed and put them with the others that his dad had put away the evening before.

After the struggle of getting those awkward boxes into the attic, which really wasn’t much more than a crawl space, he had noticed his dad’s old military duffel bag. His dad had been in the Navy, and every once in a while, as a kid, Brent would rifle through it and try on his dad’s old uniforms and medals. He’d also examine the little trinkets that had been collected during his dad’s tours of duty abroad.

Brent pulled the bag over into an area where a single 60- watt bulb suspended in the rafters could shine down into its contents. It had been several years, so he opened it and stuck his hand in, looking for evidence of happier times. He felt his way down toward the bottom, looking for what he used to call his dad’s “Popeye hat.”

As a little boy, he couldn’t believe that his dad had Popeye the Sailor’s hat. He remembered the awe that he had felt. What had he been, six, maybe seven, years old?

Brent found it again and pulled it out. He knew that it used to be snow white in color, but it had yellowed a bit with the years. Staring at it, he recalled that it was because of this funny-looking hat that he had first tried spinach. Big mistake. Wrong thing to ask for. That experience had been so bad that he never wore Popeye’s hat again.

The memory brought another smile to Brent’s face.

Putting the hat back into the bag, his hand hit something that felt too hard to be clothing. As he turned his hand to grip it, he realized that it was a book. Pulling it out, he saw that it was a United States Department of the Navy-issued New Testament. He sat in the cold and just stared at it. It stirred something within him, and he couldn’t bring himself to put it back into the bag. So, it had come down the ladder with him and into the warmth of the house.

He slept with the little book lying beside him on his night stand. There was a slight feeling of comfort knowing that it was close. Because of that, he had decided that the next morning he’d do some reading.

Walking down the length of the driveway he looked at the New Testament that he grasped in his right hand. It felt as though he held some sort of small weapon. Odd. Even if it were true, he still didn’t have a clue as to how it could be used.

He walked a few blocks up the street to a neighboring park where he knew there was an area of picnic tables. There wouldn’t be anyone crazy enough to be sitting around in this weather, so despite the chill, there, he would begin reading.

SUNDAY,

JANUARY 18 – 12:35 A.M.

BRENT LAY IN bed thinking about how he’d failed yet again. My lot in life, he reflected. Early in the day, he had sat in the cold for nearly half an hour trying to figure out what to read in that tiny book. When he finally settled on starting at the beginning, he was faced with a litany of unpronounceable names. Every name “begat” another name.

Determining that there would be little help from the “begat”-ting chapter, he had skipped ahead. He’d found some areas where Jesus seemed to be talking, text that was printed in red. He’d figured that maybe reading Jesus’ words would bring the answers that he was seeking. After all, the founder of Christianity should know the most about spiritual things, including unseen evil beings.

He had come upon a couple passages where Jesus dealt with possessed people and cast the demons out; which strangely unnerved him. However, seeing as how Jesus didn’t seem to be all that interested in showing up with him at the park, Brent couldn’t see how this man would be able to tell his demons to depart.

They are demons, aren’t they? I’ve got demons in me.

Searching further in the small black book for answers, he’d become frustrated with words that he didn’t understand. And the uncommon words that he was able to figure out were foreign in today’s world. What he would do for a little modern English.

I’ll never make sense of this, he’d determined. When had the book been written? He looked at the copyright page of the book and saw that it was originally published in 1611. No wonder he couldn’t understand half of what he read. With another sigh, he closed the book and treaded back home.

With his harassing spirits having paid their very brief and, again, restrained visit for the night, Brent waited for sleep to overtake him. He whispered a small prayer before drifting off…

“God, where are you? Do you even care? I need help.”