TWENTY-NINE

“STEPHEN, WHO’S THIS?” A STYLISH-LOOKING GRAY-HAIRED LADY ENTERED, FOLLOWED BY AN EQUALLY OLD MAN IN SLACKS.

My father kept blinking, eyeing the couple nervously. “Mom, Dad, this is Owen.”

My grandmother stood there with her mouth gaping open, while my grandfather looked away, avoiding my eyes. They knew exactly who I was, just like I knew full well who they were —the culprits whose manipulation had driven my mother to leave my father, sabotaging pretty much my entire life.

My father looked between his parents and me, sensing the awkward tension, I’m sure. But his mother went out of her way to keep him in the dark, forcing herself to smile and greet me. She motioned for my grandfather to shake my hand, all for show. I could have thanked them for my inheritance and busted them right then and there, but I didn’t want to drop any more reality bombs on my father.

They were both Lights, by the way, which seemed to me like God had mistakenly marked two evil people as righteous. As the four of us stood together, I sensed that one-of-a-kind, sweet scent —the fragrance that manifests only when a family of Lights gets together. As much as I resented my grandparents, the unfamiliar sense of belonging was reassuring.

“Owen is . . . um . . .” My dad couldn’t come up with a reasonable explanation for who I was or why we were both teary eyed —much less the resemblance between us. But I didn’t blame him. It was way too soon to expect him to introduce me to anyone.

I tried to smooth things over. “I’ve wanted to meet Stephen for a long time. I look up to him.”

“Well, we certainly understand your admiration.” His mother played along. “He’s a brave man.” She set some grocery sacks down, then told my dad she’d be back later with more toiletries. Then, thankfully, my grandparents left.

My father tried to apologize. “I’m not ashamed of you, Owen, I just —”

“No, I get it. This must be overwhelming for you.”

“Yes, it is.” We sat across from each other. “But it’s not a crisis. It’s more like a miracle. I mean that.”

From there, he asked me lots of questions, including how my mother was doing.

“Her alcoholism has caught up with her, and she’s very sick. She and I don’t talk much lately.”

He stared into space. “She never liked alcohol.”

I huffed. “I think it’s about all she does like.”

He gave a slow, dejected nod, then lightened things up by asking what sports I’d played growing up and what subjects I excelled at in school. I brought up his daughters, and he had a lot to say about them, all good, but then he informed me, “I love them like they’re my own, but they’re actually my stepdaughters.”

Turns out I was an only child after all, genetically speaking.

“How long have you been married?” I asked.

He lowered his head, and I knew that wasn’t good. “Fifteen years. But when I went missing, my wife . . .” He cleared his throat and paused. “At some point, she gave up hope and concluded I was deceased. My medical partner was there for her.”

Oh . . . “I’m really sorry.”

A nurse interrupted us and insisted my father get some blood work done. He invited me to go too, and I walked through the hospital with him. I took nothing for granted, even a short trip down a dingy hallway beside my father. To be clear, the hospital was clean; the spiritual atmosphere wasn’t.

I sat on a death-dust-covered bench outside the lab while my father had his blood drawn. Creepers crammed inside these walls just like at the hospital back home, so I leaned forward, unwilling to put my back against it.

The hallway was filled with sick, suffering people. I thought about Arthur’s prediction and also what the old man had said about how the outcome in Masonville would be far reaching. Did that mean these people, in an entirely different state, would somehow be affected? Arthur had gone so far as to say there would be a global impact. I couldn’t begin to comprehend that.

My flight home was scheduled for the following morning. I wanted to spend as much time as possible with my father, but I also felt the strong pull of responsibility to get back. The clock was ticking, and Molek’s throne was inching toward his coveted territory above Masonville High. Just thinking about it made me tap a nervous foot against the tile floor.

A pale boy who looked to be about sixteen made his way down the hall, shackle-free, casting a glow around his spotless Nikes. But he was as skinny as a skeleton and barely had the strength to lower himself onto the bench across from me. He was completely bald, eyebrows included —from chemotherapy, I concluded. It pained me to watch him wrap his bony arms around his gut and wince.

I tried not to stare, but I felt drawn to him, if that makes sense. And the longer I looked, the more I began to see something on his neck. It was like it faded into existence —a hellish strand of chain links, wrapped around his throat.

Ray Anne had said it was compassion that allowed her to see the burdens Lights carried, so I guessed that was the deal with me now too.

After a minute or so, the chain steadily disappeared so that all I saw was the boy’s neck again. But when I imagined what it would be like if it were me having to battle cancer, his chain came into focus again. I thought about how difficult it must be to endure rounds of treatment, and more chain links became visible. And when I considered how he must have felt sitting there alone, with no parent or friend beside him, I was able to see that the oppressive chain draped down his chest, all the way to the floor.

I had a good idea now of what I must look like through Ray’s eyes, only I had more chains than this kid. Plus cords.

A nurse called for a patient, and the boy managed to stand. I tried not to stare as he struggled to walk past me, and I wondered if it would make him uncomfortable if I, a complete stranger, offered to let him lean on me. But then I caught a glimpse of something horrible. There was a Creeper’s hand in the cuff at the end of his chain, on the floor, and the boy was dragging it along, pulling the underground assailant so that the chain stretched between his legs and behind him.

Then the hallway lit up like Christmas. A robed Watchman stepped into the atmosphere and wrapped his arms around the ailing boy’s waist, supporting him so he could keep walking. It was a heart-wrenching scenario. An unnatural mix of horror and glory.

I spent the rest of the day talking with my father in his hospital room. He didn’t bring up his experiences in captivity, so neither did I. Instead we discussed his life before that, including his faith and how he felt compelled to serve and help people, especially children. “You wouldn’t believe the atrocities kids are suffering,” he said, “in Africa and all over the world —including here, in the United States.”

I told him about the suicides in Masonville, and he shook his head. “It’s an assault that has to be stopped. Do you know what I mean by that, Owen?”

What a relief. My father understood the invisible roles of good and evil and wanted to be sure I did too. Before long, I got the impression he had as much understanding of Scripture as Pastor Gordon. Maybe more.

From that point on, our conversation grew more intense as we went back and forth about the supernatural, religion, and social injustices. With each passing hour, I let my guard down a little more until, by nightfall, I’d told him way more than I ever thought I would . . .

About my spiritual sight.

About the Creepers and Watchmen and Molek.

About Arthur’s letter.

I even spilled my guts about his wicked impostor. “What kind of evil do you think I was dealing with?” I asked him.

“Demonic spirits that know you well. Familiar spirits, you could call them.”

According to my dad, Satan had deployed some special ops to study me and work to deceive me by whatever means possible. No doubt these were more specialized than the typical chain-chasing Creepers. They possessed the twisted ability to take on human form, mimicking the appearance of loved ones we know and trust. I could only imagine how hideous their true, unmasked form must be.

My father was a great listener and asked insightful questions. He even paced the room for minutes at a time, Ray Anne–style, content to give me his undivided attention. But there was something I couldn’t put my finger on. It was like he wasn’t as surprised or intrigued as he should have been by my outlandish accounts. Finally I asked him, “You don’t see the spirit world too, right?”

He told me he didn’t.

“Then . . . is there something you’re not telling me?”

He froze, then peeked out into the hallway before closing the door again. We were the exact same height, and he stood eye-to-eye with me, unflinching. “Owen, I would never keep information from you without cause. That said, I need you to trust me when I say there are certain things I cannot tell you —at least not now. To do so would only put you in danger.”

Another person warning me of danger. “I don’t understand.”

“I know. But please, this is how it has to be until . . .” He looked away and closed his eyes. I got the impression he desperately wanted to keep going, but he forced himself to hold back. He gripped my shoulders. “I’m on your side, and I’m so proud of you.” He squeezed harder. “You have my word, I’ll do everything I can to help you. Everything.”

“Wait —are you saying you’re coming to Masonville?”

He shook his head. “I can’t. But you have to go back and keep fighting. Expose evil and stand strong against the opposition. And remember, Son . . .”

My breath caught. He called me Son.

“Justice is rarely won without sacrifice. But be careful, and count the cost before you go running into battle.”

I had so many questions, it was hard to know where to start or which ones he’d even answer. But our time was up. The door swung open, and in walked his parents. There was an instant strain in the room, and I knew the best thing for me to do was leave. I said I’d be back first thing in the morning to say good-bye before my flight.

From the time I slid into the backseat of my app-fetched ride until I finally drifted to sleep at some point at the hotel that night, I was consumed with analyzing my time with my father. Information flipped and twisted in my mind like a Rubik’s Cube.

My whole life had been marred by secrecy, and now my father was holding out on me too. And hadn’t Elle also been vague with me? Add the old man’s mysterious comments to the mix, and it seemed like more than coincidence at work here. It was like they were all willing to drop some insightful bread crumbs, but the path to full discovery was something I had to pioneer for myself.

My father seemed to believe his confidentiality was for my own good —and maybe it somehow was —but it still made me want to explode. At the same time, I was relieved to have him in my corner, a man who seemed vastly knowledgeable about . . . spiritual matters, yes, but what else? I couldn’t figure it out, but whatever it was, I got the impression it was important.

The next morning, I had only about a half hour to visit with my father before heading to the airport. He was dressed in jeans and a button-down shirt, and there was a packed duffel bag on his bed. “Are you going home?” I asked him.

We sat across from each other in the same uncomfortable wooden chairs as yesterday. “Just moving to a different room,” he said. “Once I get my strength back, I have a few things to take care of in the States, then I’ll return to Africa.”

I gasped. “Why would you go back?”

“For the children.”

I searched his face. “I know they have medical needs, but aren’t you afraid of being captured again?”

And don’t you want to spend time with your son? I thought it but didn’t say it.

He ran a hand through his hair, then popped his knuckles —mannerisms that reminded me eerily of myself. “I do provide medical services, but there’s much more to my mission over there.”

“Like what?”

He fidgeted with his shirt collar like he was weighing what he was and wasn’t willing to disclose. “I’m sorry to share something so heinous with you.” He took a deep breath. “It’s not uncommon for witch doctors in Africa to tell locals they can be healed of painful diseases and hardship if they’ll . . .”

He held back.

“I can take it,” I assured him.

He looked me in the face, man-to-man. “If they’ll participate in the ritualistic sacrifice of their children.”

I pressed a balled fist against my lips.

“I’m leading an underground movement to stop that practice, among other gross injustices,” he said, “but it’s a highly specialized, strictly confidential operation. There’s intense opposition from powerful parties —people you’d never suspect are involved. It’s a risky battle fought on physical and spiritual planes, all at once.”

I spoke as thoughts registered. “Child sacrifice . . . that’s what Molek’s all about too.”

My father slid to the edge of his chair. I did the same. “It’s part of a bigger, global agenda to exterminate children,” he said.

Call it a divine revelation, but the instant he said that, a sudden, unsettling, undeniable awareness came over me. I was so overcome, I had to stand. So emotional, my voice shook with each realization . . .

“Human sacrifice. Student suicides. School shootings.”

“Child trafficking,” my father interjected.

“It’s all part of a demonic mission to kill off the next generation.” I could hardly fathom the download hitting my soul. “But why? What is it about today’s kids that’s so —?”

My father stood. “Today’s young people are called and destined to overcome the power of evil like no generation before. The kingdom of darkness knows it and is targeting young souls, working to end their lives before they get the chance to live out their destinies.”

My knees felt weak, and I sank into my chair as my father kept explaining. “Now’s the hour to expose the evil plots and atrocities —to engage in the battle on behalf of your peers and children everywhere, the unborn included.”

Abortion. One more symptom of the generational genocide.

I exhaled into my hands, cupped over my mouth. “Where do I start?”

He knelt in front of me and placed his hand on my shoulder. “Your town. Take a stand against the attacks in Masonville.”

“Stop Molek,” I said.

He nodded.

A nurse entered the room, informing my father it was time to change rooms.

“I need a minute,” he told her.

We both stood, and he made a point to tell me again how thrilled he was to have met me. Then he gave me a cell number but asked me to memorize it instead of storing it in my contacts. “It’s safer if you call me on that line.”

Safer? I went ahead and asked him, “Are you in the CIA?”

“No.”

That was all the explanation I got.

He leaned and spoke close to my ear. “Whatever happens when you get home, whatever you face, don’t panic. That only makes things worse. And don’t get tangled up in distractions that steal your focus.”

“I’m in chains now,” I admitted.

He didn’t look at me like I was strange. “You have to let it go.”

“Let what go?”

“Whatever’s binding you.”

He made it sound so simple.

He stepped back, looking deep into my eyes. “Owen, freedom from man’s oppression brings great relief, as I can attest. But freedom of the soul is something else entirely. A man doesn’t know freedom until his soul is liberated.”

I nodded, beaming with admiration.

“And never forget this. The enemy’s desire to intimidate and trap you comes from his own agony over the certainty of his demise. Darkness launches its fiercest attacks against those with the potential to do the most damage to his kingdom.”

To this day, those are among my favorite truths.

I had a plane to catch, but I wasn’t ready to leave him. Maybe I was being irrational, but I feared I might not ever see him again.

“Owen, there’s something I want to give you, but it’s at my home. I’ll arrange to have it delivered to you. For now . . .” My father began untying a leather band from his wrist. “Do you know there are places in Africa and around the world where people are killed just for getting baptized?”

I shook my head. “So why do it?”

“God’s put an end to their old, shackled life, as you put it, and given them a new, eternal one. A free one. They’d rather die than keep that to themselves.”

The old life of bondage is buried under the water. The new, liberated life comes up for air. I’d never thought of baptism even remotely like that.

My dad reached for my arm and tied the leather strap around my wrist. “Where I was in Uganda, persecuted Christians wear these as an unspoken sign of their faith. They’re encouraged when they see others with them.” He let go of me but kept eyeing the unique bracelet. “I want you to have mine.”

It was the most sentimental thing I owned now. By far. I ran my finger over tan letters that looked like they’d been hand-stitched into the brown leather —Mimi ni bure.

“It’s Swahili,” he said.

“What’s it mean?”

He smiled, then gave me a final, firm hug. “I am free.”