Oh, the cacophony of voices, the static!
“What?”
“What are you talking about?”
“How do you know?”
“I just do, for God’s sake . . . pardon the term!” The House shook, a familiar sensation. “Go!”
I shoved and herded them, surprised at my strength, ashamed of my manners, and got them through the door. The latch fell into place and I caught my breath.
The quiet brought no comfort; a lull before a storm. Once again, I was afraid.
I felt a chill behind me and turned.
There stood Van Epps, ghostly white, eyes pasty, blood streaking his clothes, the knife in his hand.
CHAPTER
17
A Hero
The knife came down. I dodged it. Van Epps lunged for me; I leaped, tumbled over the back of the couch, got to my feet, and ran across the room—where he met me, plunging the knife again. I dodged again, and must have struck him with an elbow—he took a blow, jerking sideways, off balance. I put out my foot to kick him but missed; he fell anyway. When he came at me again I had a lamp in my hands, but didn’t have to swing it. Inches from me, his body and face flattened as if he’d struck a thick pane of glass between us. He fell back and nearly tripped over something.
It was his own body, dead on the floor, the knife protruding.
From his guttural gasp and the way he wilted, I had a fair idea the fight was over. He teetered there, gawking, horror stretching his veiny face, a ghostly copy of himself, complete with a bloodstained knife. He dropped the knife—it dissolved before touching the floor—looked at me, looked at himself . . . then around the room.
His silence spoke though he could not. No arguments remained, no rationales. I could see he knew.
The House had him.
And as quick as that thought, three guests appeared, seated at the dining table: Clyde Morris, hunched and worn, resigned to his fate; Gustav Svensson, bitterness tightening his face, eyes glaring; Earthsong, her beauty fading even as she sat there, her eyes showing the wounds of betrayal.
I could not, I dared not move or speak. I could only hope, foolishly, that they could not see me, that I wasn’t really standing in the same room, the same House, with the man now facing his accusers.
Van Epps and I had long assured and supported each other in our opinions. We had mocked those who believed in a God and any day of reckoning. In anger, in bitterness, I had killed God long ago and ever after wished Him dead. Though all appearances suggested it was Van Epps on trial, was I not partly responsible for his being there?
Clyde Morris seemed interested only in Van Epps as he produced a pillow—Van Epps’ instrument of murder—and laid it on the table.
Gustav Svensson followed, producing a bloodstained rock.
Earthsong, saddened, produced the syringe used to kill her and set it beside the pillow and the rock.
Van Epps didn’t speak. What was there to say?
A door in the hall answered, its hinges creaking, and immediately a wind moved through the House, swaying and jangling the chandelier, rustling the curtains. Van Epps’ eyes rolled toward the hallway as if he knew what the sound was. The three accusers simply turned their heads; they already knew what it was.
True to the widow Morris’s account, a powerful body of air hit me in the back and sent me reeling in the direction of the hall. Van Epps, caught in the same rush of air, stumbled and staggered ahead of me, arms fighting off flying newspapers, serviettes, doilies, a tablecloth, any and all things the wind could carry. I grasped a dining room chair but it only came with me. I could hear Van Epps screaming over the gale.
Just ahead of me, the three accusers, Morris, Svensson, and Earthsong, walked into the hallway even as their images dissolved into particles like sand before the wind. The doorway—yes, the House’s precise copy of Van Epps’ basement door—stood gaping, the glow of a furnace pulsating upon the opposite wall. Like specks of dust drawn into a vacuum, what was left of the three shot through.
Van Epps dropped to the floor, grabbed for the carpet, a server, a hutch, to no avail as the wind carried him—and me—toward that door. I could feel the heat.
It was not a thought, for there wasn’t time. It was a knowledge: I’d been on trial with Van Epps. Hope as I might, argue as I might, the House was good with its promise: it knew all about me.
Van Epps blurred through the door with a shriek. The rectangular frame of fire filled my vision, I flew helplessly, headlong—
My body slammed against an unseen barrier stretched across the door, and I hung there, a gale force pulling my arms, legs, and hair into the throat of a flaming, roaring tunnel. Far ahead of me, Van Epps, a rag doll in silhouette, tumbled, kicked, screamed, shrank into oblivion.
How might I escape? How? I looked away from the fiery maw that would swallow me, desperate to know my situation. What held me here? How might I work my way to safety?
Only in that tiny and panicked measure of time did I realize my body had come up against another—I felt the shape of a powerful chest against mine and, on further groping for escape, I discerned what could have been huge arms. I looked up.
I saw the glow of the fire on the lintel of the door, the wall, and the ceiling above, but somehow, in the light of the flames and the shadows cast, I saw the outline of a face: the shape of a jaw, a brow, the crown of a head. Although I could not see the eyes plainly, I could feel them watching me. I looked where I knew them to be, and . . .
I could not plead. No words would come.
The huge arm to my left reached out; the door swung shut with a clamorous bang!
And I came to my senses on the floor, my body in a heap against the basement door in the home of the late A.J. Van Epps. His body still lay where it fell, a dim and crumpled shadow against the sweep of red and blue lights that came through the front windows.
CHAPTER
18
Reflection
The fire crew grumbled a little, trying to understand why they’d been called to a fire when now, search as they might, there was none to be found. There wasn’t even a burning House to be found, only an old field with a long defunct chicken coop. I think some of them knew, but they weren’t going to say anything.
The police had plenty to do, stretching their yellow ribbon around Van Epps’ home and beginning the long process of piecing together his death, his basement prison, the prisoner, and three murders. According to their instructions, I waited with my friends on the front steps, shakily sipping from a cup of water. Along with our debriefing each other, we discussed lodging; getting everything explained was going to take a while.
Faithful Andi reported, “The phone number on Daniel’s shirt got me the Norquist Center for Behavioral Health—it’s a home for the insane. They’ve been looking for Daniel. Daniel’s uncle and aunt came to take him for a few days but never brought him back, and as it turns out, they weren’t his real uncle and aunt.”
I nodded, theorizing. “Our charming couple from that Institute, no doubt. Van Epps had friends he wouldn’t talk about—friends wanting ‘power.’”
Brenda draped a blanket over my shoulders. “I’ll bet they were tracking little Daniel the same as they were tracking me and Tank for our ‘special gifts.’”
“And brought him here to help them . . . what? Make contact with the House? Well, what he provided was not to Van Epps’ liking.”
“Hey,” said Tank, “it was God talking. You want to hear from God, you better be ready for the truth.”
God. So many issues there. Such a long history. Such a long, long journey back should I even desire to make it. I didn’t care to rebut Tank’s faith, not today. I only asked him, for the record, “Did you really see heaven?”
Tank grinned. “Jesus was there. It couldn’t have been anything else.” Then with a sober, thoughtful air he added, “The House only tells the truth. For some it’s good news; for others . . .”
Brenda put an arm around Daniel and drew him clos
e. “I’ll tell you something. Daniel’s not insane. He’s like anybody else folks don’t understand.”
I reached and touched the boy’s cheek. “I’m glad you’re all right, son.” Then I added with a wink, “That’s quite a protector you have.”
Daniel replied, “Yes, sir,” and smiled up at his invisible friend.
“So what do you suppose, Daniel? You heard the House’s message. You wrote it on the wall. Did the House take Dr. Van Epps because he killed those people and almost killed you?”
“No, sir.”
We waited for more.
“The House took him because he was the kind of person who would.”
I could still see myself hanging in that doorway. There, but for the grace of God . . .
“It could have been me,” I whispered.
I saw the same look I’d seen in Daniel’s eyes the last time he said it: “Not yet.”
Selected Books by Frank Peretti
Illusion: A Novel
This Present Darkness
Piercing the Darkness
The Oath
Prophet
Tilly
The Visitation
Monster
www.frankperetti.com
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The Haunted Page 6