THIRTY

A FULL ARM’S LENGTH BELOW THE EARTH’S SURFACE, the ground gave way, and my hand slipped into chilled air. I pulled my arm back and peered into a dim underground hole. The cold air reeked of death and decay.

From my vantage point, prostrate on the pavilion floor, I stared down into a small underground cavern, the edges dim with green-tinted light. The space was as long and narrow as a grave, walled in by soil. I spied the back of a Creeper’s battered head and shoulders protruding from the dirt, occupying most of the space. The demon shouted in English.

“You’re supposed to be dead!”

“Do your family a favor and end your misery!”

“Death is your only way out!”

“You can’t live like this much longer!”

On and on the instigator spewed suicidal insults, and having no need for breath, didn’t even pause between sentences. The Creeper’s foul mouth faced away from me, yet its hatred rose up like lethal fumes, its murderous words provoking me to give up.

The Creeper jerked backward, disappearing underground. That’s when I saw the shadowy form of a stiff body wrapped in what looked like thin layers of gauze, encircled in chains and cords from the shackled neck down. The only skin visible in the mummified shroud was the pale face of a young man, his eyes shut.

I shuddered. “It is a grave.”

The old man patted my back, but it didn’t take away the dread.

“Why was that Creeper bullying him to kill himself when he’s already dead?” I asked.

“Keep watching.”

Now a different kind of light filled the grave, pure and soothing. The young man’s eyes opened, blinking, as he began to breathe, slow and steady.

“He’s alive!” But as the color returned to the boy’s face, I slapped a hand over my gaping mouth. It’s Gentry.

A robed Watchman pressed his glorious head through the side of the underground chamber, resting his left cheek against Gentry’s chest, his gaze fixed on Gentry’s face. The Watchman was so enormous, the distance from his dark hair to his perfectly defined chin stretched the entire width of the grave. He spoke, his voice youthful, yet deep and assertive.

“You’re meant to live, Gentry.”

“God willed that you be born.”

“He has a meaningful future planned for you.”

“God loves you and longs to heal your pain. All of it.”

I inhaled an incredible aroma, like fragrant incense, overpowering all stench of death.

Gentry’s face was dormant and expressionless, yet a tear trickled from his eye. I watched in stunned wonder as the Watchman’s hand breached the soil wall, clutching a glass bottle the size of a salt shaker, as ornate as Mrs. Greiner’s crystal vases. There was shimmering liquid inside. The heavenly giant touched it to Gentry’s cheek, guiding his tear into the bottle.

The Watchman backed out of the claustrophobic space, and instantly, the harsh green light returned, along with the rancid smell of death. Even worse, Gentry stopped breathing. It was a helpless feeling, looking down on him as all color left his face and his eyes collapsed shut. That Creeper shoved itself back into the grave, assaulting Gentry with the same cruel remarks as before.

I scrambled to sit upright. “What’s happening to him?”

The old man exhaled a heavy sigh. “This is the state of the human soul when a person attempts suicide, yet survives.”

“I don’t understand.”

The man stood, then gripped my arm, helping me to my feet. “The moment Gentry set out to kill himself, the demonic world dug a spirit-realm grave and trapped his soul inside. Night and day, they call to him, accosting his mind and emotions, seducing him to murder himself again—to finish the job this time. But the voice of hope calls to him as well.”

I stepped back, afraid that my foot might slip into the grave.

“So, Gentry’s soul is stuck out here, on my land?”

“No.” The old man used his work boot to slide dirt into the hole, covering the nightmarish spectacle. “Gentry’s soul is inside his body, but wherever he goes, his soul remains trapped in a spiritual grave, battling conflicting voices. Despair versus destiny.”

The duality of realms was an abstract concept to grasp, but all that really mattered was Gentry’s survival. “How can we get him out of there?”

“Only he can.” The old man stomped the pile of dirt, now level with the earth’s surface, and the pavilion’s wood floor returned—a spiritual phenomenon as seemingly natural as the rustling of the leaves on the trees surrounding us. “It’s Gentry’s choice.”

For once, I didn’t need the mysterious man to elaborate. I understood: if Gentry chose to believe and side with God’s voice of truth—take the loving hand God was reaching out to him and refuse to listen to the enemy’s lies any longer—his soul would escape that grave. And given my experience breaking free of chains and cords that, just months ago, had me bound, I was sure it would go a long way for Gentry to ask God’s forgiveness for having tried to murder himself, as the old man had phrased it. I knew better than anyone that forgiveness causes major chain reactions in the spirit-realm. The good kind.

Most importantly, Gentry needed to be liberated from his shackle, and I knew the solution for that too. But I couldn’t share it with Gentry if he wasn’t willing to listen.

“Owen.” The old man called to me, but I was lost in thought, staring at the lone rope dangling from the rafters. “Don’t try to intervene alone tomorrow. You need another’s help. Don’t be too proud to ask for it.”

Naturally, I thought of Ray Anne, but she was out of commission.

I turned to face the old man, eager to ask more, but he was gone.

Abandoned again. It was such an intense thought, I scanned the dark pavilion and surrounding woods, questioning if it came from me or . . .

An unmistakable sewage smell wafted my way. I knew who was there, stalking me and launching that depressing statement at my mind. An old nuisance, back again. “Demise, you have no permission to speak to me.”

The sewage smell faded into the night air.

I lingered under the pavilion, sickened by the thought of the horrific, unjust acts performed here, under this very roof. The pleas for mercy that had gone unanswered. The innocent lives lost at the hands of humanity, received by Molek as a reverent offering.

Like the final pieces of a puzzle snapping into place, as I stood there pondering the pavilion’s gruesome history, the Rulers’ deadly plan for tomorrow night suddenly became clear to me—as obvious as the stench of death that engulfed Gentry’s spirit-world grave. It was an unthinkable maneuver, a tragedy the people of Masonville had yet to suffer. So atrocious, the whole nation would be stunned.

I took off running as fast as I could in the dark woods back toward the Caldwell Cemetery so I could find my way from there to my motorcycle, praying the whole time. “Please, please, God, help me find Gentry.”

It was 10:55 p.m. when I arrived at his house. Eleven o’clock by the time the door finally opened to my knocking. I was prepared to face his stepdad and insist I speak with Gentry. If Gentry wasn’t home, I’d plead for his stepdad to tell me where I might find him. But it wasn’t the stepdad at the door.

“Lance.” I gulped. “You’re back.”