The Frank Peretti Collection: The Oath, the Visitation, and Monster

by Frank E. Peretti

  But I felt as if I were somewhere else.

  How can I describe it? Jesus was in the Trooper with me. I would never presume to put words in his mouth, but I felt him saying, Could we take a moment to review?

  I let go of the steering wheel and listened.

  MORGAN SAT QUIETLY, praying only in her mind, her wrists anchored to the arms of the chair, her ankles taped together and immobile between the chair legs. Cantwell was sitting at the table, leaning on his left elbow, breathing hard, the knife dangling in his right hand. Though he looked fatigued, the vicious, animal expression never left his eyes. He had made no effort to clean any of the blood off himself. If anything, there seemed to be more blood than before. A pool of red was gathering in his chair and he was sitting in it.

  “So you’re one of them, aren’t you?” he asked.

  “One of . . . whom?”

  He leaned forward and held the knife under her chin. “You’re a church lady, aren’t you? One of the ‘reverends.’ Did Travis tell you what I did to a ‘reverend’?”

  His raging eyes were only a foot away. She could smell his breath, his sweat, the blood, now spoiling like meat left out too long. Near Eastern, the Angel, and the Hitchhiker were hovering, lingering, present in the room, sometimes visible, always felt. The house had become an outpost of hell.

  It made the peace she felt all the stranger to understand. She never would have expected this enveloping sensation of rest, as if she were somehow separated by a holy capsule from all that was occurring around her. It settled over her the moment her struggle was over and her options gone—the moment Cantwell’s last strip of tape went around her wrist and there was nothing more she could do but trust.

  Her voice was steady and gentle as she replied, “He mostly told me what the ‘reverend’ in your life did to you.”

  He leaned back, letting the knife rest in his lap. “Maybe he did find out everything.” He looked down at Henchle’s body. “Did he tell you who else was there?”

  Morgan thanked God as she recalled the name. “Uh, I think the name was Gallipo.”

  Cantwell looked pleased. “Conway Gallipo, Nechville’s permanent chief of police! Very good.”

  “Travis pieced it together, the part about Gallipo. He figured it would take two people: one to hold your arms, the other to drive the nails.”

  He waved his knife in her face as he lectured, “That should tell you a lot about me and why we’re sitting here right now.” Victoriously, he placed his foot on Henchle’s back. “This little act of God was for Gallipo’s sake.” He saw her grimace. “Hey, come on. You didn’t trust Henchle either—”

  He straightened and looked around the room like a guard dog alerted by a noise.

  Morgan felt a stirring in the room, a cold flutter in the air, a sense of alarm—on their part.

  Then she heard the slam of a car door.

  THE BUNGALOW LOOKED COZY and inviting. The porch light was on, and warm lamplight created a glow behind the drapes.

  But it felt cold and sinister, and I knew the devils were inside. I stood by the gate for just a moment, gathering my thoughts and reviewing what the Lord and I had discussed all the way down here, that he and history were on my side. There was never a moment or aspect of my life God didn’t have his hand on, and this little adventure was no exception. All I had to do was walk into the house and let him take it from there.

  I knew Kyle and the others were still praying. I said a last prayer of my own and stepped through the gate.

  I had never regarded myself as a man of keen spiritual discernment. Sure, I could usually get an inkling that something or someone wasn’t quite right, but it was Marian who could sense the presence of a demon and be correct every time. I used to wonder and even ask her how she did it and what it felt like. Tonight I didn’t have to wonder. I could feel a presence in my house as directly, as pungently, as any man could feel a hateful stare or a poisonous taunt. I gazed at the drawn drapes as if the spirits might be looking back at me from behind them. I glanced into the tops of the trees, a little surprised not to see some shadowy creature perched in the limbs.

  They were watching me, waiting for me, expecting to play the game by their rules. Come on in, they dared me.

  I continued down the walkway and stepped onto the porch.

  I heard some movement inside. The scraping of a chair. Morgan gasping. A muttered threat.

  I called through the door, “Justin. It’s Travis. I’m coming in.”

  There was no reply, although I did feel a painful twist in my gut as if I were stepping off a cliff. I took hold of the doorknob.

  We’re ready, they seemed to say. Come on in.

  Well I’m ready too, I thought, and we’re coming in.

  I turned the knob and opened the door slowly.

  The first thing I saw was Justin Cantwell in my dining room, streaked and stained with red, gripping Morgan by the hair and holding a knife to her throat. The second thing I saw was the tape that bound her to the chair. The third thing was Brett Henchle, dead on the floor. I was sickened but not shocked. I remained still.

  Cantwell was breathing hard, shaking—and desperate.

  “Hi there.” I thought my voice would crack or quiver, but it didn’t. “It’s me.”

  “Close the door!” he hissed.

  I closed the door.

  “You weren’t here for the first part of our meeting!” he said, nodding at Henchle’s body. “But you can see who’s in charge!”

  I raised my hands so he could see them, then went slowly to the chair by the door and sat down. “I’m all ears.”

  The ceiling felt low, as if the joists were supporting a mountain.

  Breathable air seemed scarce. Though I had just come through the front door, I felt it would not open again. The house, with only three living people in it, felt suffocatingly crowded.

  Cantwell released his grip on Morgan’s hair and she shook the kink out of her neck. By leaning shakily on the back of her chair, he made it to the table. By steadying himself against the table, he worked his way back to his own chair and sat down.

  “Justin,” I said, “you’re hurt.”

  He ignored me. “You see, Travis?” His voice was weak. “I’ve played a better game. I’ve healed more sick, fed more hungry, brought hope to more hopeless, and now I even decide who lives and who dies. People are afraid of me!” He slumped forward, his elbow on his knee, his head drooping. “And that makes me God!”

  I shrugged. “If you can’t trust him, be him. Is that how it works?”

  “It works.”

  “So I see. I can also see you need a doctor.”

  He raised his head and grinned at me. “I got what I wanted ever since my back yard.”

  “What was that, Justin?”

  His head sank again and he spoke to the floor. “Not to be nailed to the fence anymore.”

  I hurt for him, even in the midst of the terror. “I hear you.”

  “You’ve been there. You know what I’m talking about.”

  I had to set the record straight. “Justin, I haven’t been hurt nearly as much as you have. I was discouraged, I was fed up—”

  “But you know what I’m talking about!”

  “Yeah. I do.”

  “So where do you stand?”

  “Justin,” I said, staring at his abdomen, “you’re bleeding.”

  He leaned toward Morgan, brandishing the knife. “Don’t change the subject, Travis!”

  “Okay. Easy.” He relaxed and I continued. “Listen, we were both angry. We were both fed up. We both had wounds and questions. But Justin, my problem was with the church, with all the church stuff. Your problem is with God. There’s a difference.”

  His eyes bored into me as he displayed the scars on his arms.

  “I’m perfectly willing to blame them both.”

  I pressed it, hoping I wouldn’t set him off. “But your father wasn’t speaking for God, and Jesus didn’t nail you to that fence.”

>   He grimaced as if feeling the pain again, then wagged his head.

  “The point is past arguing!”

  I argued anyway. “Remember when your mother came home and got the hammer and pulled the nails out? Remember when she held you and sang to you? That was Jesus. He took the nails.

  He doesn’t drive them.”

  For the briefest moment, his face softened as if he were recalling the moment.

  “I met your mom. I can see Jesus in her.”

  The hardness and loathing flowed into his face again. “She’s the one who got beaten, torn down, and pushed around every day of her life.”

  “It wasn’t Jesus who—”

  “It was Jesus who let it happen. Don’t tell me you can’t see that.

  You’ve had forty years to see it.”

  I wasn’t going to lie. “Justin, after forty years of knowing Jesus and just a few months watching you, I’ve decided I can trust him.”

  He absorbed the blow, then snickered and shook his head.

  “You’re just like Mom. You love losing.”

  “No. I love winning. It just takes longer.”

  He jolted, his eyes darting about the room as if watching a frightful vision. I figured his invisible henchmen weren’t too happy by now. When his gaze finally returned to me, he was weaker.

  “Well, I love winning too. Daddy found that out.” He waved his knife at the body on the floor. “And . . . and Gallipo. He found out. And God’s finding out!” He stared at me a long moment, his body swaying like a drunkard. “And you’re going to find out too, Travis! Just you wait!”

  “Oh, I’m waiting, all right. After forty years of serving the Lord, you learn to do that.” I relaxed and slouched in my chair.

  “But if we wait much longer, it’ll be too late to help you. Let me call the paramedics.” I didn’t get out of my chair. I only leaned toward the telephone.

  He held the knife out, showing it to me, sending me a message.

  Blood was dripping steadily from his chair to the floor. “You should have joined up with me when you could.” I could barely hear him.

  “You could’ve beaten God, just like me.” His hand went to his abdomen and he winced in pain as fresh blood oozed through his fingers. “I am he. I’m the one.”

  He pitched forward suddenly, sooner than I expected, one hand on his stomach and the other still holding the knife. For a long moment he lingered there, head close to his knees.

  “Justin . . .” I got up.

  With a groan, and before I could catch him, he slid off the chair and flopped over Henchle’s body, his head hanging loosely above the floor. He still held the knife.

  Morgan cautioned, “Wait, Travis.”

  I stopped a few feet short of Cantwell’s dying body. Morgan was looking at something—or someone—across the table from her and directly in front of me. There was no fear in her eyes.

  “Do you see them?”

  I looked around the dining room and kitchen. I saw nothing but the walls and cabinets, but I could feel my skin crawling. “Who are they?”

  Morgan looked from one to the other as she named them off.

  “The Hitchhiker, and Sally’s angel, and I suppose this one here is Elkezar, the one who appeared to Adrian Folsom.” Now she appeared angry. “They’re laughing at him.”

  Just as they’ve been doing all along, I thought. “The party’s over,”

  I said. “Get out of here.”

  It felt like a puff of wind, but it wasn’t. Morgan gave a little gasp and I could sense what she was seeing.

  Evil was leaving the house like a receding tide. The weight I felt, the suffocating closeness of the room, lifted from me. Pain, bitterness, hatred, arrogance—they’d all had their season, but now it was over.

  It was time.

  I reached for the light switch and flipped the living room light off and on again, twice. We heard shouts and footsteps at both the front and the back door, and then Mark Peterson and four sheriff’s deputies stormed in like commandos, guns drawn, fanning out, hollering to intimidate, positioning, crouching, covering Cantwell from every angle.

  The swarming and clatter became a silent tableau.

  “Oh my God . . .” said Mark, sinking to his knees beside his fallen boss. “No. No, no . . .”

  I knelt by the Messiah of Antioch. His eyes were half-open, half-alive, but not watching me. They were looking into the distance, filled with dismay and the pain of betrayal. I knew he was watching the retreat of his minions, the evaporation of his power.

  I took the bloodied blade of the knife between my index finger and thumb, and lifted it from his hand. By the time I stood to my feet, the eyes bore no expression at all.

  Two deputies moved in, checking both bodies for any sign of life. One deputy stood up, said simply, “That’s it,” and it was over.

  He spoke into his radio, “Sheriff, this is Jones. We have Cantwell.

  Repeat, we have Cantwell. He’s dead from a gunshot wound. Officer Henchle is also dead.”

  “Michael!” Morgan cried as I cut her loose with my pocket knife. “We have to find Michael!”

  “He’s outside,” said Mark. “We picked him up. He was walking to your place to find you!”

  “Mom?” came his voice. “Mom, you okay?”

  Morgan ran out the door. “Michael!”

  “Hey,” Jones said, “don’t leave! You’re a witness!”

  “Don’t worry,” I assured him, stepping around all the officers and getting out the door.

  Mother and son were embracing just outside the front gate. She was a small woman and he towered over her, but she was still his mother and acting like it. “You had me scared to death. I thought something terrible had happened to you. Why didn’t you call before you left? Are you sure you’re all right?”

  “I went over to your place,” he tried to explain. “I guess we missed each other.”

  I glanced back into my house. Mark Peterson and the others were just beginning to clean up what Michael had barely avoided.

  It made me think of Kyle Sherman and the other ministers praying in a circle. When I looked back, Morgan was finally convinced of her son’s safety enough to let go of him.

  She looked at me. I could read in her eyes what I knew in my heart, but there was no way either of us could say it. We just ran for each other. She put her arms around me and clung to me tighter than would normally be considered a sisterly hug. I returned her embrace, and I wouldn’t say I was careful or socially self-conscious, either.

  We just had to hold each other, that’s all.

  Epilogue

  THE “SIEGE” at the Macon ranch didn’t last long enough even to justify the name. The motor home crowds wanted no trouble and most of them had already cleared out. The wanderers and seekers in pickups and old cars had already taken their kids and dogs and hit the highway again, looking elsewhere. The reformed and visionary work crews who spruced up the town had long since lost their vision when they ran out of money, and moved on. When the police finally entered the Macon house, they encountered no resistance and found only two people inside. Matt Kiley was lying by the telephone in the living room, crestfallen to hear of Cantwell’s death and unable to move his legs. Mary Donovan was in her room, still convinced she was the Blessed Virgin and praying for deliverance. They later found Melody Blair hiding in the barn.

  BY THE FOLLOWING SUMMER, Antioch was a different town. Don Anderson had a new furniture and appliance store, and this one wasn’t pink. Kiley’s Hardware was now a True Value under new ownership. Nancy Barrons had sold the Antioch Harvester and married the columnist in Spokane. Our Lady of the Fields got a whole new set of pews, a new altar, and a new crucifix.

  Some remnants of the previous summer remained. The white line Michael Elliott helped paint down the center of the street was still there, along with the heads of wheat to mark the intersections and the rain clouds to mark the fire hydrants. The trees planted along the street were growing quite well, and the
townsfolk had pitched in to add some more.

  But there had been no further sightings of Jesus or Mary in the clouds, in the highway signs, in the hedges, or even in the mildew on the shower tiles, and none were expected. The townspeople had undergone a notable change of mind: They were looking forward now, and saw no need to dredge up and relive the past.

  I never thought I’d say that about Antioch.

  By the following summer, I was a different man too. I didn’t fully realize it until I set foot inside Antioch Pentecostal Mission for the first time in over a year. The place was packed, and I was deluged by the same smells, sounds, and sights that had been a regular part of my fifteen years of pastoring. I was a little worried that the old symptoms would return: the upset stomach, the scrambled thoughts, the swelling tongue, the fear of being trapped.

  But none of that happened. It was actually good—no, I’ll say it was wondrous—to be in that building again, standing before all those friends and family. When my time came to enter from the right and stand on my little “X” of masking tape, I could have remained in that spot for hours, as long as it took to read back from each face a portion of my life.

  The mandolin player from my band. My old buddy Vern, with his second wife. Al and Rose Chiardelli, my “other parents,” who would always love me and consider me as their son. Some of the old youth group from Northwest Mission, with their wives and husbands and children, so grown and changed that I hardly recognized them. Joe and Emily Kelmer—Joe still healthy, and his family all saved. Bruce and Libby Hiddle, the only ones who could truly understand our shared tragedy, and our shared joy. Jim, Dee, and Darlene Baylor, sitting together as a family.

  To my left stood my brother, Steve, living proof that a man doesn’t have to enter the ministry to honor God in every aspect of his life. Behind me stood Dad, decked out in his tuxedo. Tradition did not dictate that he wear one, and he never did for the hundreds of other weddings he had performed. But when he married his own kids, he put it on. That was his tradition.