SIX

YOU WOULDN’T THINK STARING at something fiery bright in the spirit realm would create a need for physical eyes to adjust to the darkness of earth’s night, but that’s exactly what happened to Ray and me. We stood a short distance from the Caldwell cemetery, blinking and blinking. We’d had no time to process all we’d just witnessed, and already we were being confronted with another mystifying scenario.

Little by little, as my eyes adjusted to the moonlight, I spied what looked like people climbing and hopping over the rundown fence into the graveyard. They spoke in hushed tones as their spirit-realm chains clanged against the iron bars—an audio overlap of dual realms that I always found disorienting. The silhouettes clustered in front of the two arched tombs, by the Mary statue.

“What are we supposed to say?” A giddy young voice. A girl, from the sound of it.

“I’m scared!” someone else said, provoking satisfied cackles from the onlooking Creepers.

“You should be.” A boy, for sure.

I could see five people now: two ponytails, one head of long hair, and two ball caps. No Light aura around any of them. They were all wearing dark pants and long sleeves.

“Say it, Gentry!”

Ah. Gentry—and Zella too, I figured—plus three of their friends. They stared up at the stone-carved Mary and used their phones’ lights to illuminate her face and one another.

A kid wearing a hoodie and a backpack—Gentry, I was pretty sure—stepped close to the sculpture, tilting his head back like he wanted to make eye contact with her. The gawking Creepers looming overhead all leaned in.

“Mary, Mary, there’s a secret only a few do know. If we ask you kindly, you’ll let your real tears flow.”

“Now, watch this!” one of them announced. Zella, I think.

There was a silent pause, followed by gasping and muffled screams as they took pictures with their phones.

“You see anything?” Ray Anne whispered to me.

We were too far back. I took her hand, and we marched toward the spectacle, refusing to slow our pace as Creepers swooped down and lurched at us. I found myself stomping unnecessarily hard, still simmering with aggression left over from that Cosmic Spirit of Strife.

A girl spun around and faced us. “Who’s there?”

“It’s okay.” I tried to act normal and collected, even though I didn’t feel like myself. “We just want to know what you guys are doing.”

I hopped the fence without Ray Anne. She couldn’t risk agitating her injuries.

They all had their flashlights aimed at me now. “Are we in trouble?” a trembling girl with glasses asked.

“No.” I glanced up at the Mary statue. Thick cobwebs draped down her veiled head like feeble strands of hair, though I couldn’t tell if they were physically there or a spiritual reality. “What’s the deal?” I asked.

Zella stepped beside me and pointed up, sober tonight, it seemed. “See her tears?”

A dark streak lined the statue’s left cheek. I reached toward it.

“Don’t!” Zella swatted my arm. “You’ll make her mad, and she’ll haunt you.”

“Enough, Zella.” Gentry spoke up. “It’s none of his business.”

I crossed my arms. “Uh, this is my property. Everything that happens out here is my business.”

There was a collective oooh—the overly dramatic, immature kind.

I sighed. “What grade are you guys in?”

Zella pointed to herself, then Gentry. “Ninth.” The other two girls and the remaining boy were sophomores. “We’re in a group together at school,” Zella said. Whatever that meant.

I refocused on the stone-carved Mary. I swiped her cheek, unafraid of any supposed retribution for touching her.

“You shouldn’t have done that.” Zella shone her light on my finger, damp and dark red now. “It’s blood.”

“Well?” Ray Anne called from the other side of the fence.

I made a closer examination of my fingertip. There was no denying it. “It does look like blood.”

“Isn’t it the coolest thing ev-ver?” a smiling girl with braces said. The surrounding Creepers stirred.

“No, it’s not cool. It’s evil.”

They all rolled their eyes like I was old and lame.

I turned to Gentry. “Where’d you learn that chant?”

He took a big gulp and hesitated. “Just some girl . . . my brother dated a few months ago.”

I didn’t know Lance had had a girlfriend after Meagan, but then again, how would I? Our friendship hadn’t survived past high school. It was hard for me to picture him with anyone except Meagan, but she’d been dead for over a year. Even so, I still suffered from agonizing memories of her . . .

My hand unable to make contact with hers as her petrified soul reached for me in anguish.

Don’t think about it.

“Who’s Lance’s ex-girlfriend?” I wanted to know.

Gentry gave me a lopsided grin. “A hot blonde that drove a red BMW.”

It was like I could feel the synapses firing in my brain, connecting seemingly random bits of information to form a clear picture. There was only one young blonde I knew of who’d driven a red BMW around Masonville. “Veronica?”

“That’s what they called her on the news, but her real name is Eva,” Gentry said.

There was no telling how many names she’d gone by. She was a fraud, like the rest of her occult colleagues. And now I realized my suspicion about Lance was spot on. He had been one of the masked security guards at the human auction, no doubt inducted into the secret society by his then-girlfriend.

“She brought you out here and showed you this?” Ray Anne asked Gentry. He nodded. “When?”

He shrugged. “Before she got locked up.”

“Wait a minute.” The girl with glasses pushed her friends aside to get to Gentry. “Your brother dated that gangster girl that got arrested for kidnapping a baby?”

After Veronica had been hauled to jail for abducting Jackson, Detective Benny had released a cleverly spun web of lies to the public, saying that the abductions were gang related. But Elle had determined to report the truth, supported by evidence—until a man in a ski mask rose from the backseat of her Audi one night and held a knife to her throat, vowing he’d come after her husband and their little boy if she dared challenge the detective’s statements.

But this sophomore girl with glasses and a shackle had no clue about any of that, and naturally, she’d believed what she’d seen on the news. Like most people do.

Gentry looked past her, at me. “We’ll leave, Owen.” He tugged anxiously on the straps of his backpack looped around his shoulders. “Please don’t call the cops.”

This time I understood why they dreaded involving the police. I didn’t want Detective Benny coming around anymore than they did. “I won’t,” I said, “but you guys can’t come back here. Understand?”

All five of them nodded.

I had no clue how the statue was crying bloody tears, but it was obviously a paranormal trick intended to captivate, then somehow trap and torment young, ignorant souls. I’d never once seen or heard of God performing a meaningless miracle just to draw a crowd.

The students climbed back over the fence and began the trek toward the main street beyond the woods. I followed, walking next to Ray Anne and behind Gentry, shining my flashlight and working to ignore the commotion of Creepers moving through the trees in all directions. “What’s in the backpack?” I asked Gentry.

He sped up his already-hurried pace, and so did his friends. I caught up to him and asked again. This time, he stopped and faced me, his eyes plastered wide. “Um, just matches and outdoor stuff.” He took another big gulp as the others rushed ahead—except Zella, who stopped to wait for him.

“Tell me the truth, Gentry.” I stepped close, realizing now how much his facial features resembled Lance’s. There was no sign of the horrible mask—the Spirit of Addiction’s influence. I assumed it was because Gentry wasn’t high tonight. At least not yet. That or I lacked compassion for the guy at the moment.

I nodded toward his backpack. “Whatever you’re doing or dealing, just say it.”

He rubbed his tongue in circles against the inside of his cheek and averted his eyes—the same thing my mother always did whenever I ventured to bring up her issues with alcohol.

“You don’t know what things are like for me.” He spoke so softly now, I barely heard him.

“So tell me.” I leaned in, already aware of some things about his life. His overly demanding mother. His quick-tempered stepdad. “You and me, we go way back, Gentry. You know you can trust me.”

He sighed. “I gotta go, okay?”

It dawned on me that he’d probably heard Lance talk all kinds of trash about me. No wonder he didn’t trust me.

I thought about reaching and unzipping his backpack—what could he do to me? But once his dope or JUUL or whatever was in there was out in the open, all I could do was lecture him about it like some overbearing parent, and I knew that was useless. So, I stood there, shining my flashlight at him, hoping the weight of my gaze would at least make him think about things.

That’s when I spotted a black horizontal streak in the crease between his chin and his neck, above his shackle. It was like a thin, sloppy tattoo that ran the length of his throat.

Ray Anne obviously noticed it too. “Do you have a mark on your neck?” she asked him.

She and I both knew it was there. The issue was, did he?

He shook his head with a crinkled nose, rubbing back and forth on his neck—over his shackle, but it’s not like he could feel the freezing metal. “Can I go now?”

He caught up with Zella, and Ray and I trailed them out of the woods. They all refused a ride home. Ray Anne and I knew the risk they were taking walking the streets of Masonville, especially at night, but it’s not like we could force transportation on them.

I hurried to the church on my motorcycle, hoping no one had broken in while I was supposed to be on night duty. Most nights, I stayed up until at least 1:00 a.m., listening, just in case. All the while enduring that unnerving sense I was getting in my room lately.

I took a shower in the tiny bathroom attached to my claustrophobic space, the cinder block walls painted a warm vanilla color that still didn’t make the room cozy. I collapsed onto the uncomfortable bed—the only place to sit other than the floor—bored and restless and seriously homesick for my apartment. My 55-inch TV and king-size mattress were in storage, along with nearly everything else I owned. But this church-guard gig was the closest thing I had to a witness protection program.

I glanced obsessively at the awesome red-glowing symbol on my arm while researching the phases of the moon. I quickly discovered that the next new moon was just ten days away, which meant that, unless evil’s plan was interrupted, the thirteen people marked to die—whoever they were—would surely be dead before then. Maybe even in the next day or two.

Don’t get me wrong—I cared. But ten days or less? That was hardly enough time to figure out who the targets were, not to mention coming up with a game plan to protect them from the Cosmic Rulers’ death plot.

Facing impossible situations was getting old fast.

I found a pen in the nightstand and used the blank space on the back of a Chinese take-out menu to make my best sketched replica of the supernatural imprint on my skin: מגן. I snapped a pic of the drawing and texted it to my father. Any idea what this could mean?

For reasons I still didn’t understand—and that still irked me—he’d warned me not to risk texting or saying anything personal, even on the burner phone he’d given me, for fear it could be intercepted. Of course I’d asked, “By who?” He’d said it was safer for me that I didn’t know. So, I didn’t mention the symbol being on Ray Anne and me.

I strummed my guitar a little while, my go-to diversion when I needed to chill out, then lay down and stared at the tacky speckled ceiling, rehearsing the assignments of the four overlords—Slumber, Addiction, Despair, and Strife. And I speculated about the assignments of the remaining three, contemplating dysfunctions common across America. I also replayed the bats’ instructions—Molek’s malicious plot . . .

“We’ve marked all thirteen. Every one of them must die.”

“Kill them at once!”

I tried to piece together who the thirteen might be, and also why the kingdom of darkness wanted them dead so badly and so quickly. And I imagined ways the Rulers might go about it.

Another school shooting by a demon-possessed gunman?

My stomach churned. I hoped not.

“Lord . . .” I worked to keep it a humble request instead of an impatient complaint. “Help me understand.”

It took a minute, but I paused breathing in the middle of an exhale when a connection registered: Gentry had a paranormal mark on his neck. Was that it? Was he one of the thirteen people on Molek’s hit list, marked to die? Yeah, I had a new supernatural mark too, but mine was born of Light. Not at all like Gentry’s jagged black streak.

Thinking to the monotone soundtrack of the spinning box fan in the corner of my room, I tried to come up with another explanation for the mark on Gentry, but I only became more convinced he had to be a target. I still had no clue why, though.

I shoved my pillow over my head, like I could actually smother the disturbing mental image of Gentry’s black line, as if his throat was scheduled to be slit. I remembered the way he used to be, when he was younger. He’d looked up to me and trusted me enough to tell me what Lance never dared: that behind closed doors, his stepdad drank all the time and was brutal toward all three boys in the house. And his mom did nothing about it.

Of all people, I could relate to having an alcoholic parent. Also one who refused to confront reality.

Right now, I needed a break from harsh realities. I flipped on the 1990s television set and tried to get interested in some lame Western, but I was still plagued by intruding cosmic feelings of strife-filled hostility. I decided to mute the TV and focus on God, desperate to know what he wanted from me, especially concerning Gentry. So I asked him out loud. Then I lay there, honestly not expecting any response. Yet an internal whisper came. More like an inner knowing.

FIGHT FOR HIM.

It was so subtle, I could have dismissed it as a coincidence—my mind merely recalling the old man’s advice that I help people. But I knew better. Although I didn’t hear it often, I was starting to recognize that inner voice. All peace. Zero hostility.

“How, Lord?”

I waited and waited but heard nothing but the box fan. I sat up and clutched a pillow against my chest. This wasn’t the first time I’d felt the overwhelming responsibility to save someone’s life, to protect a person from diabolical forces that he—or she—never suspected existed. But when it came to rescuing lives, I’d lost more times than I’d won—an undeniable fact I couldn’t escape, even after I unmuted the TV.

God, help me.

I wondered what other forms of witchcraft Eva (aka, Veronica) had introduced Gentry to and how they related to his mark for assassination. There are no coincidences in spirit-realm operations on either side of the kingdom equation, light or dark.

It was late, so instead of calling Ray Anne, I texted her, explaining what I believed about Gentry’s mark.

I got out of bed and was brushing my teeth, hoping I’d be able to fall asleep soon, when there was the loud sound of glass shattering somewhere beyond my room. I slammed my hand down on the faucet and turned the water off, standing at attention. Then came another noise . . .

A baby crying?

Daisy’s nails tapped the dilapidated wood floor as she paced in front of the locked door of my room, her gaze fixed toward the hallway on the other side, ears raised like she heard the crying infant too. Or some intruder.

I grabbed my flashlight and my Louisville Slugger, then stood poised by my door. It occurred to me to call 911. The problem was, I didn’t know which realm the crashing sound or whimpering had come from. A squalling baby made no sense in either dimension.

I clung tightly to my trusty baseball bat and opened the door ever-so-softly, flipping on the hall light before beginning my cautious descent down the hallway. I made it to what was becoming my familiar stakeout—the second-story choir loft. I leaned forward against the waist-high balcony and shined my flashlight down, scanning the sanctuary. None of the stained-glass windows were broken, but the infant’s cries were so loud now, I was convinced someone had abandoned a baby in one of the pews.

I charged down the stairwell and flipped light switches on the panel at the back of the sanctuary, illuminating the whole sanctuary and stage. It was clear the cries were coming from my left. I hurried over there, my heart racing, convinced that any second now, I’d find a newborn. The distinct sound led me down the aisle of the second-to-last pew, where I stood looking down at the precise spot where, based on everything my ears were telling me, a baby should have been.

But there was nothing there.

I lowered to one knee and searched the floor. Just gray tiles.

Surely this blindness had nothing to do with me lacking compassion.

I rose to my feet and scanned the surrounding pews but was quickly drawn back to the original spot—the unmistakable source of the crying. It was so real, I reached down, as if I could touch the child. But my hand only brushed the tan pew cushion.

I felt the uneasy sense all over again that someone was looking at me, spying on me from behind my back. I spun around and eyed the center aisle near the stage—the exact location where I’d sworn an invisible stalker had loomed the night before.

I was already questioning my sanity when the freakiness escalated to a whole new level. As if some sort of frequency was vibrating against my chest, I could physically feel the presence across the sanctuary now—so tangible I knew it was moving up the aisle, headed in my direction.

I wanted to sprint out of there and speed away on my motorcycle, confident my dog could fend for herself for the night. But no. That’s not how faith responds.

“God hasn’t given me a spirit of fear but of power and love and a sound mind.”

It didn’t take long before I felt the unseen threat looming at the end of my row, undeterred by my use of Scripture. I stood facing it, sideways between two pews, the mystery baby still crying hard. When I sensed the presence advancing, coming directly toward me, I gripped the back of the bench on my left and balled my right hand into a fist.

Lord, help me!

I stood my ground with every shred of courage I had. Every ounce of bravery God provided.

For a single, agonizing second, I felt something horrific pass by me—more like through me. It was like my old stalker, that Creeper named Murder, was back, invading unseen and breaching my aura.

Believe it or not, the situation actually got worse. From the sound of things, the invisible baby fell off the pew onto the cold tile, then its cries moved away from me along the floor until they grew faint—seemingly outside the building, fading into the night.

I didn’t move for a while. Just stood there wondering if, God forbid, I was losing my spiritual senses, then second-guessing what I had or hadn’t just experienced. I wished this was just another vivid nightmare.

Needless to say, I didn’t sleep well. At 8:00 a.m., Ray Anne called, out of breath and begging me to come over. It wasn’t until I turned onto her street that I spotted a black Suburban in my rearview mirror. I pulled over in front of a random house, unwilling to lead them to Ray Anne’s. The vehicle, with its dark-tinted windows, passed me and kept driving, but I still found it suspicious.

The SUV didn’t circle back, so I went ahead to my girlfriend’s.

Mrs. Greiner had taken Jackson for a walk in his stroller, so Ray Anne and I sat alone in her garage apartment, side by side on her futon. It was awesome to have her all to myself, but she was anxious and fidgety. I put my arm around her shoulders, but she stayed tense.

“Something happened this morning,” she said, “while Jackson was sleeping.”

“Okay?”

She pulled her knees into her chest and rocked back and forth. “I was watching a YouTube video—some man talking about spiritual symbols—and I felt a blast of cold air, then saw something out of the corner of my eye. I looked up, and just like the other day, a hooded Creeper was hovering over Jackson’s crib, peering down at him. Its back was to me, but I could tell this time, it wasn’t built like a normal Creeper. And there was no odor.

“I commanded it to go, and it groaned—not in pain, but like it was really furious—and balled its fists, but get this: the hands looked normal, like a human’s. Then it turned and glared at me. I got a clear view of its face before it vanished, and Owen, I’m telling you . . .”

She was trembling now. I pulled her close, into my side. “Go ahead.”

“It was Veronica.”